Fish Till Your Arms Ache

Today was beautiful in this part of Texas, slightly misty but warm, like an autumnal Spring. Such is Fall in Hill County, season of mists and mellow respite from having to turn on the AC. Pleased by this happy turn in the War on Weather I drove to the dam in search of fish.

Idea being to replicate last week's success against the fluid adversary and get out in the clean air, rod in hand, which is exactly what happened. First cast, up came a baby bass, then perch, followed by baby striper, followed by decent sized drum, followed by young catfish.

OK, the fish weren't as big as the ones I would've caught with a boat, granted, but there were plenty of rod-benders, tug, pull, snap and here we go, battle on. What a lot of fun, to say nothing of the tranquility of the sound of the water coming gently off the dam in the rare moments of peace between strikes.

And on it went 'til I lost count and a fierce wind blew in from Waco, exciting the immature catfish but making it hard to cast. Throw out your line and watch it go horizontal in the gale, type of thing, so I packed up and headed for home.

On the way back over the bridge a vulture dive bombed the rig, like an avian Stuka or feathered Richtofen. No kidding, I thought the thing was going to hit the truck, first time that's ever happened.

In other news, you can read about the looming threat of war between Greece and Turkey here. And while you're at it, consider how good it would be to see Sultan Erdogan sink beneath the waves of the Med in Lepanto 2.0 and Hagia Sophia restored to its glory.

Fish till your arms ache,

LSP

Ferocious Fishing

The sun shone down on the mighty Brazos like the hand of God and we had the Lake Whitney dam spillway pretty much to ourselves. An auspicious start, fortified by a first light men's prayer breakfast with the cowboys at ORCC. Would starting the day right make for good fishing?

It sure did. We cast off into the pool with frozen shad and it was pretty much a strike with every cast. I say strike but don't be fooled, these were gar strikes and that's a different kind of thing altogether. Gar, ferocious prehistoric ambush predators that they are, are also weirdly shy.

They'll take the bait, hold it, sensing for threat, and then run with it. Sometimes they'll just take and run, but whatever the case, the temptation's strong to set the hook like you would for a bass or some kind of normal fish. 

As the Good Book says, resist that temptation. Seriously, because chances are if you try and set the hook too soon or even have too much resistance in the form of drag, the fierce but strangely scarified gar will drop your bait and swim off. And don't forget the added issue of a successful hookset in the gar's bony beak. Not easy.

That said, the Cadet sent out delicious if slimy shad into the water and played the game, letting the pleistocene monsters take the bait, meditate on it, run with it, stop for a solemn collect, run again and  then boom! Pull back and set that hook.

Rod double, big fish, leaping, monster, thrashing action. Then try and bring the beast in, which isn't easy because they'll bite through your line (use a steel/heavy duty leader) or pull your hook off into the depths in 4+' prehistoric fury.

The kid got three gar to my one, well done. However, I did manage to pull out a catfish, which evened things out a bit.

I tell you, what a lot of fun. Gar can be great gamefish, though they take a lot of patience and a bit of thought. And here's the thing, other people turned up with long-distance casting setups, they were fishing for striper, and mostly caught nothing. We caught far more and had way more action.

There's a moral here, if you care to draw it.

Tight lines,

LSP

Still Beating The Drum

After a morning visiting the sick, I stopped off at Lake Whitney dam to test the waters. These were clear(ish), and apparently devoid of any fish. 

The occasional Water Moccasin slithered across the still surface of the pool, ignored by floating turtles, and that was that, no evidence of fish at all.

Still, I had the pier to myself, no pressure, and that's no small thing. There it was, the great edifice of the dam and the Brazos, winding its way through Texas to Waco and beyond under a big sky. A tranquil scene, and I cast off more for the contemplative reflection of it all than anything else.

Say your prayers, consider the upcoming Feast of Pentecost and the nature of the Holy Spirit, who we're told is the personification of the love between the Father and the Son. Take a break from the turgid skulduggery of the world and unwind overlooking the river.

Good call, right? No, it wasn't to be. The pool looked empty, like the pews of the venerable if shrinking Church of England, but it wasn't, it was full of voracious Black Drum. No kidding. I'd no sooner cast off with a famously scientific split shot, #6 worm rig than Drum were plowing into the line. 

Up came one, up came another, and another, and on we went for an hour or so. Good action and good sized fish. Finally the worm battalion were down to their last two conscripts, which I threaded onto a sharp, #6 baitholder.

The Tebbit

Within seconds something big was on the line. A Gar? A Striper? A Dolphin? Lord Tebbit himself, protesting against the rainbow riding iniquity of Bury St. Edmonds' Deanery?

No, just a monster Black Drum. He thrashed, flailed, dived and pulled but nothing worked, the fish was on and up it came. 

And that, international readership of this popular mind blog, is just the way it was.

MAGA and Fish On,

LSP