Showing posts with label Lake Whitney Dam. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lake Whitney Dam. Show all posts

Friday, June 19, 2020

Friday Fish

Sure, you can be a miserable Marxist Determinist, go right ahead and choose to leave your free-will behind. Or, on the other hand, you can make like a free agent and go fishing on the mighty Brazos. I chose that path.

It was a little slow at first, but that was alright. Patience, LSP, wait for the bite to switch on and enjoy the big birds casting fierce eyes for targets of opportunity. The one above swooped down on a perch I'd hooked, a first for me. Hey, my fish!

Then things started to roll and it was pretty much a fish with every cast, big Bluegill, decent Drum, and a scad of ferocious junior Striper. Back they went to fight again another day. Big fun, I tell you, and a welcome change from watching fauxtrage commies pull down statues.

I mean really, pulling down statues of Christopher Columbus, George Washington, Jefferson and General Lee is going to transform America into a genderless rainbow no-police utopia, and get Biden elected? Really? No, of course not, it's just a dropped-on-head-as-infant Marxist spasm.

Pseudo-Tet aside, I cut out while the catch was good and headed for home, the big Texan sky reflecting off the water of the river. And there it was, good action met tranquility.

Tight lines,


Friday, May 15, 2020

Birds And Fish

It was like a scene from a Hitchcock movie, walk outside into the overcast light of a Texan spring morning and what happens, a bird screeches defiance. 

No matter, just a bird, then it swoops down on your head like a feathered Stuka in the skies of Crete. I somehow made it to the rig and back again, dive bombed by the avian terrorist.

And good thing too, because I had to load up for a trip to the dam and  fish, winged predators notwithstanding.

Now, some of you fish for relaxation and quiet reflection on the water. I do too but more so for action, which means catching, otherwise I grow bored. That in mind, I tend to put out a static line, perhaps on a bobber, and keep myself occupied with a casting rod, armed, usually, with worms.

The combo can produce great results.There's that Gar bait doing its thing on the one line and there you are, casting for opportunity. Than BAM, rod #1 goes double and so does rod #2.  Makes you leap about. Big fun and there was a bit of that at the dam spillway, fast action.

Several drum, bass, junior striper and perch later, I was back at the Compound, and so was the bird. It screeched, enraged, as I got back home, mission accomplished. Moral? Fishing's better than staring in boneheaded, slack-jawed, blank-faced consternation at your screen.

Tight lines,


Tuesday, May 12, 2020

Fishing & Antedeluvia

It was an overcast Spring morning in rural Texas and Soldiers Bluff looked beckoning, "Come on down and fish," it seemed to say. Which is what I did, but the fish weren't having any of it, they were lying low and didn't want the juicy, tempting, delicious worms I was throwing in. 

Still, there were a few fossils, rocky remains of ancient crustaceans embedded in the limestone and clay bluff above the lake. To be honest, there's fossils everywhere here, a tangled  mix of roots, branches, shells, and who knows what else, the set in stone remains of ancient cataclysm. I always hope I'll spot something useful, like a T Rex tooth, but not today, just a couple of shells.

Now, some who read this lighthearted mind blog believe fossils like these are at most 6000 years old. If that's the case, what about structures like Gobekli Tepe, which date back to at least 9000 BC? Remarkably ancient and advanced to boot, all at a time when humans were supposed to be grubbing about for nuts, berries and the occasional bit of unfortunate wildlife. 

Two things don't add up here. Firstly, the Word of God in Scripture isn't supposed to be read with a kind of boneheaded, blank-faced literalism. Read it for its truth, for sure, but know this involves poetry, symbol and metaphor as well as literal reckoning. Note, to think this doesn't make you a useless, pathetic, scornworthy, lib heretic. 

Secondly, mankind is very old, with Homo Sapiens appearing earlier and earlier in the fossil record as new discoveries are found. All this in our own century, to say nothing of ignored and anomalous finds in the last two hundred years or so, and the witness of ancient records.

It would be odd, don't you think, if people as intelligent as us remained at the hunter gather stage for several hundreds of thousands of years. Which is exactly what orthodox archeo-anthropology teaches; finds like Gobekli, water erosion on the Sphinx, and on, challenge the narrative. 

That in mind, I decided to challenge the piscine narrative of "no catching" by moving over to the other side of the dam. At first nothing, so I changed rigs in hope of having some sport with the Gar, who were gliding about the pool like deadly, prehistoric submarines.

Good call, LSP, but no Gar. Instead, a fierce  Crappie followed by a ferocious Bass, and a large Bluegill. Result. Then it began to rain and it was time to head for home, mission accomplished.

Fish on,


Tuesday, March 3, 2020

Super Tuesday

Go to the dam and fish, what a great plan, elegant in its simplicity. But how did it work out? Slowly, to be honest, with the slipway waters churning and surging and the fish not biting. Who can blame them, they were surely shell-shocked by the current.

Pedro wasn't having any luck either at the other end of the pier, so I watched the mighty Brazos for a meditative moment or two then headed over to Soldiers' Bluff. Maybe the bite'd be on at the Bluff, which isn't a bluff anymore since it was flooded by the dammed up river.

Reflections on Brazos and Bosque County history aside, the waters of the lake were still and tranquil under the big sky and the bank was empty, peaceful. It had that topwater feel, but I went with worms instead.

Nothing, then a chime on the phone, a text, "I'm hoping for Sanders with plurality, a contested convention at which they hand it to Biden, and then RIOTS." This obviously worked as some kind of trigger because there was vicious tug on the line and out it played.

Up came a predatory socialist bass who was clearly in the business of snatching up free stuff. I put him back to find some other means of production to appropriate, before going berserk when Comrade Bernie's cheated of the nomination yet again. 

One more bass later, a baby, it was time to head for home, mission accomplished. And that, fellow adventurers on the roiling seas of life, is the story of that.

Fish on,


Tuesday, January 14, 2020

First Fish Of The Year

As the morning's evolution drew to a close and sun shone through the mist like the warming hand of God, it seemed right to test the waters and fish. So I climbed in the rig and headed out to the dam in search of action, first time this year.

I wasn't expecting much, to be honest, it being deep Texas winter January and solidly off-season, so having the pier to myself wasn't unsurprising, pleasant though. Regardless, I cast off in search of fish, steeling myself for disappointment. As in "hey, it's really good to be outside in the clean air of the Brazos even if nothing bites" type of deal.

But no, they were on, and on and on and on. I stopped after three perch, three cats, two striper and one crappie. OK, they weren't huge but they weren't shabby either, especially the striper which put up a good fight.

So that was that, first catch of the year and it augurs well, I think, for 2020. Plenty of fish, Mini Mike B spends all his cash on a futile bid for power, hypersonic tech goes mainstream and 45 steams into the White House on a landslide of shattered liberal dreams.

Tight Lines and Full Disclosure,


Monday, February 25, 2019

Illuminati Elite Wreck Monday Fishing

Lake Whitney dam's a pretty good place to fish, unless our elite Illuminati overlords steal all the fish, like they did today.

The sun was shining, it wasn't too hot, it wasn't too cold, and the air smelled of spring and new life as the mighty Brazos stretched out into the distance, towards Waco and beyond. Beautiful, no doubt about it, but where were the fish?

Normally you can see them gliding about like submarines; not today, not a fish in sight. I cast off into the pool regardless, which had obviously suffered from some kind of failed green new deal, and guess what? Nothing.

A Typical Illuminati

No bass, no perch, no drum, no catfish, not even a gar. Nothing. They'd obviously been shipped off to China by Illuminati globalists, like all the rest of our assets. Thanks a lot, New World Order.

I reflected on the iniquity of it all in the cab of the rig and ate a fried cherry pie. It was delicious, that part of the mission was a triumph.

With this in mind, you better put the fish back, Illuminati tyrants and globalist stooge dupes of the NWO, or there'll be trouble.

Big time,


Tuesday, January 1, 2019

New Years Eve Fish

Thanks to our old friend Climate Change, New Years Eve dawned pleasantly balmy and it seemed like a good idea to drive over to the dam and try our luck against the aquatic adversary. To be honest I wasn't expecting much, but nothing ventured, nothing gained. So off we went.

The pier was empty, the water murky and the mighty Brazos flowed east towards Waco. "Let's try the famous Texan worm rig, kid," I told junior LSP. And that's exactly what we did, casting off with small baitholders weighted with split shot.

Lo and behold, we were getting tugs on the line within minutes and before long up  came a Black Drum. Result. The young 'un took a little longer to get started  but soon he was on the drum like a yellow vest storming Bregancon. Well done!

Then the bite switched off as the Drum went downstream; similar, when you think about it, to the FISA drop. You could see the fish jumping just out of reach,  tantalizing as the prospect of Lyin' Comey & Co. in Gitmo.

Undaunted, resolute, we fished on and were rewarded by a couple of catfish. They were small but so what, a fish is a fish. Then it was time to head back to the  Compound. 

And I tell you, it was good to get out in the country air and even better to catch something when you weren't expecting to.

Let's hope this augurs well for MAGA 2019.

Tight lines,


Tuesday, May 29, 2018

I Fought The Gar And The Gar Won

Keen-eyed readers of this popular international mind blog will know that Gar fishing is in the air like some kind of obsession. One of the best things out there, get on the Gar.

Which I did, fishing for Gar and Gar only. It started off well, with the Triassic beasts taking shad baited hooks and running around the spillway pool. Big excitement, well done, then they'd drop the bait in disgust, just as you're about to set the hook. 

This went on for hours; moments of intense excitement followed by let down as the Gar swum off.

Some Guy With A Gar

I tried all kinds of presentations and half the time the dinosaurlike fish were receptive. They'd pounce on the bait, play with the bait, chew on the bait, snap their jaws on the bait and run with it, and then drop it after five or so minutes of surging around.

Neat to watch, less neat to see the shad dropped right at the moment you're about to close the deal. And that's just it, all I caught was an accidental Bluegill, no Gar.

The Bush War

So what went wrong? The bait was right, the hooks were right and the Gar were taking them. The failure, surely, lay in the hookset. Perhaps I waited too long, erring on the side of caution, afraid that the fish would drop their delicious shad if I moved too soon.

Well I didn't and they did anyway. Obviously a more aggressive approach is called for.

A Gar

Next time, allow the Gar to move into its second run and while its powering forward like a torpedo, lift the rod hard, driving the sharp hook into the Gar's teeth. Then you'll have a fish on and no mistake. It's doable, I know this from experience.

Saying that, why not rig up a tiny fly hook and tempt topwater? Therein, perhaps, lies madness.

I tell you, Gar, this isn't over. Not by a long shot.

Fish on or off,



It's official, I'm obsessed with catching these ferocious fighters.

See you on the other side.


Thursday, May 24, 2018

Fishing Isn't God But I Still Love It

"Man," reminds Archbishop Fulton Sheen, "is engaged in a threefold quest for life, truth and love." Would I find that after Evening Prayer, fishing? Only imperfectly. Fishing, you see, isn't God.

Still, I won't deny that the sport's up there, especially when the watery beasts are switched on, for real and love what you're throwing in the water, which is pretty much the way it was yesterday evening.

The pier was empty, no pressure, and the spillway pool beckoned with submarine life. You could see it gliding about the water in search of prey. Big Gar, Catfish, a few Bass and a lot of Drum, some large; time to cast off.

Out went line #1 into the middle of the pool and stayed there, a stationary rod, then out went line #2 for casting. And sure enough, the fish wern't only live but loving the bait, with both rods popping. And that meant a bit of running around. 

There you are, reeling in a fish when the other rod starts jumping, bends double and off you go. Quick, sort that fish out and get on the other rod!

Big fun, I tell you, and while it's not God it does  make for a better evening than staring in slack-jawed consternation at some computer screen.

So get out and fish. Shoot and ride too, but those would be different stories.

God bless,


Thursday, May 17, 2018

Get On The Fish

Rather than reflect on the Church of England's devolution into mawkish irrelevancy masquerading as radical counterculturalism, I went fishing. 

It seemed better to get by the water after Mass and tangle with the ancient adversary than contemplate the Mullallyfication of the CofE.

Once again, the adventure started off with an empty pier, no pressure, and out went the lines with their tried and true #6 baitholder hooks and juicy worms, barely weighted with a split shot sinker resting around 12" from the hook.

Now, experts say the bigger the hook, the bigger the fish and I'm sure that's true but small hooks are notoriously capable of catching large fish as well as their smaller allies. You see, the smaller fish can't fit an enormous great hook in their mouth; they attempt it, greedily, then drop it in frustrated contempt.

Regardless, this hook logic works well if you're fishing indiscriminately from the bank and your emphasis is on catching fish, any fish. If you're singularly after trophy Bass or the awesome Striper or whatever, you tailor your rig to meet the need.

In my case, it's mostly just about catching fish and the above method worked well this evening, with no end of good sized Black Drum and a couple of fat Bluegills coming up for good measure. Pretty much every cast a fish, great result.

Fish on,