Showing posts with label Fish on. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fish on. Show all posts

Tuesday, August 25, 2020

Get To The Point

The point? The point of what, so-called "LSP"? The point of the marina where I like to fish, and it may seem counter-intuitive to go fishing in the heat of a noonday Texan sun in August because, wisdom says, the fish have got heat stroke and aren't biting. That's right, they're lying low in the depths like some vast silent majority. But not today.

I got to the water only to see my usual spot at the cleaning station taken by a guide cleaning striper, so I drove down to the point looking for piscine adventure. Would there be fish, against all the heated Augustan odds? 

There were. Within seconds of setting up you could hear the crackle of ferocious young bass blitzing on shad and minnows. Quick, rig up! Get on it fella, and I went topwater with an oversized something or other, thinking "big lure = big fish." 

Sound logic but the trebles were too large for the voracious sandies, who swarmed the lure, snapping, thrashing and carrying on like the fierce beasts they are. Still, I closed the deal on a few and what a lot of fun, first time I'd fished topwater in a while. Twitch the fakey, rattling, floating, silvery plastic fish and then boom! down it goes. Great result.

Topwater blitz over, it was time to go to the cleaning station for some shady fishing in the furnacelike heat of the day. Would there be action? There was.

Black drum and untold blue gill hit my worms like they were going out of style and I lost count. Good sized fish too, which put up a lot of fight. Perhaps I should've kept a few but, to be honest, I wasn't in the mood to eat them and didn't want the hassle of filleting. So these fellas lived again to fight another day. Well done, fish.

So there you have it. Point being, try not to sit staring at your computer screen in slack-jawed consternation as Marxist Gibbsmedat goons rampage, loot and burn; get outside instead, even if it is 100* in the shade.

Tight lines,


Thursday, July 2, 2020

Fish On, Commies

Do you feel our nation's at a turning point, a crisis, an existential decision which freedom-loving patriots have to make against God-hating, freedom-despising Marxists? Feels that way, at least to me, so to get some air I went fishing.

Nothing fancy, just the marina on Lake Whitney, and lo and behold, caught a good Bass, a junior Cat, and a handful of Perch. Big fun and I lost count. But all of this action was on a casting rod armed with worms, it produced, obviously.

The second rod was equipped with a Perch head, cast into the depths and left there. I was hoping it'd attract the BIG FISH. You know, leviathan cats, monster bass and on. 

Sure enough, the Perch head magic started to work and the rod twitched, bobbed, went double and on more than a few times. But I didn't close the deal.

In fact, the fish closed the deal, stealing one perch head and one perch tail, leaving the hook to fend for itself. Huh. Next time I'll cut the bait up into smaller chunks, easier for the predatory, cannibalistic fish to get their mouth around.

Is there a moral in this? Quite possibly. Would it be better in a boat? That's another question again.

Your Old Pal,


Thursday, May 21, 2020

Fishing Ascension

It's important to have a plan, and this one was elegant in its simplicity. It went like this, drive to the marina, catch small fish and then use those very same fish to catch large fish. Compelling, eh?

And it worked well, initially. Cast into the depths with a small hook, a chunk of worm and pull out a little perch. Circle hook the perch under its dorsal and cast it out into the wider deep, and while you wait for a monster strike have fun catching more perch as you look at all the boats you don't own.

So far, so good. But the monster never struck, except once, when the light rod bucked and jumped as some ferocious predator snatched at the hapless baitfish. Big excitement, drop your amusement rod and head over to the real deal, which I did, and foolishly in the heat of the moment tried to reel in too aggressively. The big fish sensibly dropped the little fish.

Still, I lost count of the bluegill and kept a few to use as bait. If they'd been a little bigger I'd have kept a few for dinner too; so tasty, fresh bluegill out of Lake Whitney. I like them beer battered and served with fries, but pan fried's good too. Delicious.

Well, that'll come in a week or two. In the meanwhile, every blessing for the Feast of the Ascension and remember, plans are all very well but as with the apprehension of truth itself, rise and fall to the extent they're in harmony with that which is. The equation of mind to thing, say the philosophers. In this case, Leviathan Bass, maybe stripers, striking small perch at the marina, or not.

Fish on,


Monday, March 9, 2020


Guess what, there's precisely zero reports of Covid-19 on Lake Whitney, Bosque County, Texas. No, not one. That in mind, I put some rods in the back of the rig and headed for water.

The dam spillway was churning, so I headed to the marina cleaning station. Perhaps there'd be piscine action off the still waters of the pier. And sure enough there was. A tug, hookset, and there it was, fish on, and a good one too.

I figured it was a catfish and sure enough it was. A decent fighter and all the more so for a light rod; had to tighten up the drag. Still, it was slow going until an off-chance cast from the side of the pier caught a rumble on the retrieve. 

Snap that rod to! Then BOOM, what a fight. Line out, rod double, calisthenic action. What was this thing, some kind of shark? No, just a monstrous carp. Seriously, a good five minutes fight to bring her in. Thought the line'd snap, but it didn't, fortunately.

Then a boat turned up full of kids, parents and a guide. Great result, they'd been out on the lake to catch striper and had a good cooler full. The little guys were especially proud and excited, which I loved. Kids with a fish, one of the best things. 

The guide, Clay, who's a jovial fellow, agreed, "Man, I just love it when kids get fish. They get to go free." Clay's a good man with a good setup, and when I told him I used Pat as a guide he said, " A fine guide and a fine man." I liked that, all true and then some.

Unlike, say, politicians, with the exception of Eva Peron and 45, who are loved by the people because they have the peoples' interests  at heart. 

As opposed to the ruling oligarchy's transnational, globalist elite, corrupt, asset-stripping, lying, pugnacious, venal, satanic get rich scheme masquerading as politics with you as the beneficiary.

Wake up and drive a stake through the heart of that beast.

Fish on,


Monday, September 3, 2018

Labor Day Fishing

It was beautifully cool at a refreshing 27 degrees, clouds were rolling in with the promise of blissful rain and the time seemed right to go Labor Day fishing.

So cast off into the depths with a tried and tested worm rig, twitch it along and wait for action. But there was no action, just the occasional turtle diving about and one or two sluggish, non-committal tugs at the line. 

A couple of boats pulled into the cleaning station and they hadn't done well either, not a good day for the guides, and taking that as an omen I upped rods and headed to another spot. Maybe that would produce the goods.

It didn't. The fish were obviously on strike, swimming out in solidarity with international labor. OK, several refused to be brainwashed by Boshevik agitprop and took snatching runs at the hook but only to fall back in red cowardice to the aquatic barricades. I couldn't close the deal.

Then it began to rain and catching fish didn't seem to matter any more. God had sent life giving water from the sky to ease and refresh spirits parched and arid from the never ending funeral rites of the most heroic patriot that ever lived anywhere in the world ever.

Uplifted by this gift from heaven, I left the piscine Marxists to their aquatic skulduggery and headed back to the Compound. But not to worry, this match ain't over.

Fish on,


Wednesday, July 18, 2018

Striper! No, Not Stormy


Fishing wisdom says there's not much point trying to catch fish mid-afternoon when the sun's high in the sky, it's roastingly hot at 106* and the fish are stunned into stasis by the heat. They just lay there, suspended in a kind of piscine daze, not biting. 

So don't bother fishing in these conditions, runs the wisdom, it's about as pointless as trying to get Anderson Cooper into conversion therapy.

Moral Arbiter

All this ran through my mind as I loaded up the rig and headed for water. Why am I doing this, I wondered. Because I had to get out and tilt my lance at fishing wisdom, I wanted to catch fish against the odds. 

A challenge, sort of thing. Not unlike trying to convince a Democrat that peace with Russia isn't treason, or even Pearl Harbor cubed.

A Perch

Whatever. By some miracle of modern technology I reached the lake without the truck melting into the asphalt and surveyed the scene. No one was there and who can blame them? They didn't want to be baked into an early Brennanlike senescence. 

Undaunted, I cast off with a split shot, small hook worm rig and was getting bites from the get-go, but couldn't close the deal. Small perch were obviously on the scene so I switched out the hook for something even smaller, miraculously the mono didn't ignite, and result, caught 5 perch.


They weren't large and the last was perhaps the smallest. Put him to work! I thought, like Trump trying to cure our urban hellhole inner cities. Still, I wasn't counting on anything, it was the last cast. But what a cast. 

After a minute or two, the mouth-hooked perch seemed to get vigorous in the water and  I loosened the drag, instinctively. Good intuition because the line started playing out like fury, a fish was on as opposed to the perch playing around. So tighten it up, set the hook and reel it in.

Eye of the Beholder

And out came a voracious Striper who'd pretty much swallowed the perch whole. He went back to fight again another day and I went back to the Compound in the searing heat of the afternoon.

Reward. The Compound's Finally Getting Painted...

Moral of the story? Hungry Stripers, don't say Stormy,  will eat pretty much anything.

Tight lines,


Saturday, July 7, 2018


The sun loomed large and fiery in the rear view mirror and with it the promise of fish, the mighty Striper; and thanks to a friend's generosity we had a guide to put us there. Great result and a morning full of promise. Would it deliver?

It did, though it took a while, perhaps because the thunder, lightning and torrential rain of the night before had stunned the fish. After all, they're not used to Texas paying its weather tax.

Still, within a short blast across the lake we were getting results. Watch that rod go double and double again, as the ferocious predators tore into live shad. Big fun and a taste of things to come.

After an hour of scudding across the water from spot to spot, worth it for the ride alone, we ran into a school of Striper. There we were, waiting, when all of a sudden the bite switched on. 

Brisk action, as rod after rod twitched and was pulled down into the water; it was fish on and make no mistake, right on the stroke of 11 am.

We limited out shortly and headed back to the marina after a friendly chat with a game warden, who floated over to say hi. 

He has his hands full, dealing with lake riff-raff, clowns on speed boats and ne'er do wells up to aquatic skulduggery. Good guy. Then it was time to leave the lake, mission accomplished.

Big thanks to Pat and S.O. for a great day out on the water and a freezer full of Striper.

Fish on,


Wednesday, June 27, 2018

Burn Ban Fishing

There's a burn ban in effect because even a spark, just one tiny spark might well be sufficient to set the air itself ablaze. No foolin', it's hot, like an oven.

With that in mind, it made sense to head off to the water where it's marginally cooler. And who knows, maybe even catch some fish if they weren't suffering from heatstroke.

Simon Weisenthal

I cast off into the furnace expecting nothing. Perhaps it's a character flaw; worst case the scenario and be happily surprised as opposed to hideously let down. Whatever, the line was out and there I was, waiting for fish.

"Nothin's biting, man," said the resident gap-toothed fish head, and he'd know. All he does, every day, is fish, right from the spot I was on. I looked him straight in eyes of his neon orange sunglasses and grinned. Out whirred the line.


Tug, thump, hookset! Out came a small fighting perch. Hey, nothing shabby when you're expecting exactly nothing. Then out came another and another; I started a game, how many Bluegill can you catch with the smallest fraction of worm. Lots, as it turned out.

Then, halfway through this childish exercise, KABOOM, something hit the hook like Simon Weisenthal on the trail of Mengele. Rod double, drag out, I thought I'd caught a cat. But no, after a few minutes of fight I saw a carp, a massive, monster, outrageous carp.

Ye Gods

We fought for ages, huge great fish on a light bass setup and make no mistake, the Leviathan Carp pulled every trick in the book. But, like Strozk's lies, it didn't work, the carp came in and was brought to account.

So what's the verdict? A heckuvva fish to catch, fight and land, no doubt about it, but bass offer more ferocity and so do gar. Carp don't leap, thrash and run with the same hectic frenzy; still, they fight like a force of nature, which in a sense they are.

Gar! Note Line...

Whatever the case, they all went back to fight again another day.

Fish on,


Friday, May 25, 2018

Pier Pressure

The pier was deserted, no pressure. And yes, this is Texas, not Aberystwyth.

Right away the fish were biting, small catfish and perch. Pretty much every cast a catch.

I lost count as the sun set over the glassy waters of the lake.

Two older gentlemen turned up and I gave them a small perch for bait. They were going after catfish.

And pulled out a MONSTER.

Good work, team.

Fish on,