Fish On

 

Well there you are, Morning Prayer complete, so whaddya do? 1. Answer emails 2. Check Telegram for war updates 3. Sketch out a Sunday homily 4. Drink strong coffee as you pray for the Church and her Missions and 5. Go fishing.

It's not hard, just put a rod or two in the bed of the rig and drive onwards and outwards to the lake, which sits there basking in springlike climate change. You see, we're moving into cool Autumn where it's only in the '90s.

All well and good, stand fast against the WEF, and cast off with a shad lure and see what you get. Nothing. Huh. Switch out to #6 hooks and worms and get... five or six perch. Ferocious little fish and plenty of fun on a light rod. Sorry, BIS. Then, as it starts to rain, DAVOS, I'm looking at you, head for home and the Compound.

So that adventure was all good, mission accomplished. In other news, my Mother-in-Law may be in her final days if not hours, and a close friend's wife has died from cancer. She was a good woman and a Christian lady. Rest in peace and rise in glory, EN. Some of you may have worked with her, I was happy to have known her. She will be sorely missed.

With every good wish,

LSP

Look, A Fish Is A Fish

 

You've visited the sick in Whitney, so what next? Visit the lake and try your luck against the piscine adversary in triple digit climate change. No joke, it's like an oven out there. Unsurprisingly, you're the only man standing on Soldiers' Bluff as you cast off into the depths.

And pull out a ferocious little Perch. Slim pickings after that, the fish were sensibly standing offshore, not unlike US manufacturing itself, and weren't interested in worms and the like, *the like including a shad lure which produced exactly nothing, despite schools of shad in the water. Huh.

Then all of a sudden, Bite! Hookset! And out comes a juvenile Bass. A fierce little beast who went back in to fight again another day. And that was that, eyelids sweating, shins sweating, everything sweating, it was time to head for home and the safe haven that is the Compound.

Your Old Pal,

LSP

For Goodness Sake Simmer Down LSP

 

OK, there's only so much Taylor Swift Jihad, Rwandan savagery, Big Brother Rainbow Stasi, US Clownshow politics a man can take. So what to do? Go fishing, that's right, in the heat of a Texan day in August. Would the fish bite or would they be in some kind of piscine climate change shock, immobile like their human counterparts. I drove to the lake to find out.

Sure enough, it was mighty hot, right there on the tortured limestone of what had once been part of a fibrous reef in a vast inland sea, and's now Soldier's Bluff. So it's hot, that's a given, would the fish bite, not a given, but undaunted by prehistoric reverie and the searing light of the Sun, I cast off.

Whoa, tugs and bites at the first cast, probably a small, ferocious perch. And that's exactly what it was, a perch. I tell you, even if they're small they're big fun to catch on a light rod, they fight you see. Some five or six fish later it was time to head for home and Evening Prayer, 1928 BCP style. I just prefer it, the language is worshipful, liturgical and beautiful. Here's a link.

So that was that, an hour or so catching fish at the lake in the sun and clean air of the so far Free State of Texas. What a lot of fun and a good antidote against the appalling wickedness which surrounds us.

Das Boot

That in mind, I find fishing brings you right down to earth and calms the soul, or excites it when the catch is on. Not unlike shooting and riding, when you think on it.

Fish on,

LSP

Fishy?

\Went to the lake today to fish, and lost count of the perch, fierce little beasts. Then there's this:

 

NEW - Trump Assassin video shows him crawling on the roof while multiple people point him out to police

They ytw-align-centerelled about him for *almost an entire minute*

It’s insane how Secret Service allowed this amateur to almost kill Trump pic.twitter.com/CWfHBGzOCp

— DC_Draino (@DC_Draino) July 15, 2024

What's your take. Massive, egregious incompetence or something more sinister? Either way it's bad for CONUS looking forward. Just sayn.

Your Pal,

LSP

 

Fish On - Or Not

 

Thanks to our ongoing War Against The Weather it was cool this morning, only in the low/mid 80s. So whaddya do? After a brisk morning constitutional and Morning Prayer, 1928 BCP thank you very much on the front porch, head off to the lake. And that's exactly what happened.

Were the fish biting? Yes, they were, but not in a good way. These were ferocious little bites from ferocious little fish. Still fun on a light rod but hard to close the deal, and you start to feel like you're feeding the fish as they snatch and tug worms off your line. Huh.

Mildly annoyed at being a kind of food pantry for our aquatic adversary, I persevered and caught the main perpetrator, a ferocious little perch, a bait fish really, and I cast the little beast back into the depths on the end of the line as just that, bait. Did it produce a result?

It can do, no kidding, I've caught good sized striper from that very point using the exact same method, but today? No. Nothing. Yes, there were plenty of junior perch darting about but no mighty bass to catch them or be caught. Maybe the bass were sleeping after gorging on all the baitfish, maybe they were taking a Biden style nap after the rigor of actually waking up for the day, maybe, like our Commander in Chief, they weren't there at all.

Sensing that, with the sun now high in the sky, I headed across the dam to see if the legendary Lake Whitney spillway would yield up the goods. Sure enough, there was a cowboy fishing off the pier. You could tell he was a cowboy because he wore a straw hat and his flatbed truck had ranch brand logos on it. There he was, a cowboy, fishing.

not today, buddy

"How's it going, man?" I offered by way of piscine greeting, "Whole lotta bait fish here, like wow," and there were, great schools of shad and minnows. But he hadn't caught anything apart from a baby cat, and I commiserated with the tale of my baby perch, and off we went to cast again. With no luck whatsoever.

Sure, there were lots of shad, some large(ish), mid-sized gar floating lazily about the pool like submarines, a few buffalo carp being equally lazy, and none of them hitting on anything we put into the water. My cowboy pal left and I fished on, enjoying the clean Texan air, the sight of the mighty Brazos, and the sheer pleasure of being outside in the country. 

Must do more of that, most especially when the bass catch up to their watery prey. Hopefully that'll be soon. More anon.

Cheers,

LSP

Fish On

 

There you are, sitting on the porch. It's hot, and you've prayed the morning Office, walked to the Pick 'n Steal, drunk that 20 ounce Yeti tumbler of coffee, checked the news and wondered if "hell in a handbasket" isn't too mild. So what to do? Go fishing, of course.

And that's what happened, put those CDC Stasi guidelines in your knapsack and head off to the water, to what used to be a Cretaceous sea. 20 minutes later, there I was, casting off from the prehistoric reef, sun beating down with ferocious intensity. Would the fish bite?

Sure enough they did, round about Midday. Pretty much every cast a fish, and all Perch/Bluegill, some of them large and full of fight. In fact, they were all full of fight and I lost count. Great result. Then, just as I was beginning to melt, a fierce, predatory tug. Drag out, rod double, what's this? A good sized Bass, in you come.

Walking back to the truck meant walking over countless fossils, the crystallized relics of our primeval past. There they were, frozen in stone, under the glare of a Texan sun. Imagine, if you can, a series of great reefs, breaking up a sea which stretched from the Gulf of Mexico to Austin and beyond. Or something like that.

Above it glided Pterosaurs and in the water, ferocious beasts. Perhaps today's fish are their descendants, they're certainly fierce enough. In other news, some pals are fishing in the sea, off some island. Blessed are ye poor.

Tight Lines,

LSP

Gone Fishing

 

A beautiful, balmy, spring day in Texas. So what to do? Go fishing, and that's exactly what happened. I drove off to Soldiers' Bluff on Lake Whitney and cast out into the depths. Would the piscine adversary bite?

Hard to tell, the climate's been strange lately, thanks to its Czar, Wooden Top, and this confuses the fish, so anything was possible. To be honest, I wasn't expecting much. But what am I saying? How much more do you want than an early afternoon under the free Texan sky?

As it was, I caught a drum and a couple of perch. Not bad, and all good action on a light rod. Then it was back to the Compound to recoup before jukebox action and tracking the Shiba on various charts. Stay tuned and regardless, a good day.

Fish on,

LSP

Texas is Very Awesome

How can Texas be awesome when the very air itself threatens to ignite, like an air bomb? Surely this sounds more like the anteroom of Hell than anywhere good. 

Not so fast, team. Yes, it may be hot but there are benefits, such as frontier style bluffs and Patriot Barges. No one's defunding the police here because they're not stupid.

And fish. Lots of fish, even in the heat of a late August afternoon. I know this because, after visiting with the flock, I headed over to the marina for some action, and got it. 

A lot of perch, mostly small but pretty much every cast a fish, always good, and few large, ferocious, piranha style keepers, which I didn't keep. Again, wasn't in the mood to clean, beer batter and fry 'em up. Foolish, I know, tomorrow being Friday, but whatever. Next time.

Then, at the very end, something ferocious took the line. Tug! Hookset! drag out, well at least for a bit, and up came a random predator bass. Great result. Bass on, what a lot of fun. And while some say fishing's a kind of therapy for trauma, conscious or otherwise, it's also good in itself. Fast, sometimes furious aquatic action. I find this exciting, like hunting but on the water.

Mission accomplished, I headed back to the safety of the Compound and it began to rain. Yes, rain. Beautiful, and yet another reason to thank God for his glory and Texas for awesomeness.

Your Friend,

LSP

Decisions, Decisions

Sure, you can sit in front of a screen in slack-jawed consternation as churches burn, statues of Christ and saints are vandalized, and a corporate-sponsored Marxist putsch plays out in Democrat run  cities, or you can go fishing. Such is free will, it entails choice. I chose to go fishing.

For Every Lure You Buy You Have to Get Rid of Three

Nothing fancy, just a marina on Lake Whitney, and it's not even hard. All you need's a rig, Texas, a couple of rods, some bait and a day pack full of lures, hooks, weights, knives, descalers, water, bobbers and all of that. I tell you, if you're not careful that "day pack" will turn into a full-scale bergen (ruck) as if it were some kind of bloated government agency. Choose to avoid that fate.

A Bird

That in mind, I strolled down the pier to the cleaning station, admiring the big hot sky, the surround-sound of cicadas, and the exciting prospect of fish. Would they choose to bite, would the small cooler full of frozen shad, perch and fresh worms entice them onto the hook? Only time would tell.

Beat The Black Drum

And it did, in the triple digit noonday sun. Long story short, the fish had heatstroke and were cooling off in deeper waters, so the going was slow. Still, I reeled in a couple of 'gills and a decent little drum, enough catching, just, to vindicate the expedition and then something tugged on the line; a soupy, lazy, sluggish tug, as if the fish was half-asleep. 

What's This? A Snag, Annoyingly

Huh. Quick experimental hookset and... KABOOM. Rod double, line out, diving, pulling, running action. What is this? A monster bass, a mega cat, a shark? No, none of those things. Some five minutes later it was a huge Buffalo (carp but not a carp), a huge fish on a light rod, big fun.

When the enormous beast finally tired of fighting the ancient mariner and came to the surface, I marveled at the prehistoric set of the thing. Large, jurassic, glistening scales and the sheer immensity of the watery beast, perhaps the largest fish I've ever caught. Then, just as I was hauling it onto the dock for a photo op, the line broke above the hook and Leviathan returned to the depths.

Well done fish, well done fisherman. And with that it was time to head back to the Compound. 

Choose wisely, my friends.

Fish on,

LSP

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,

LSP

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,

LSP

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

Age Of Aquarius

So, how do you celebrate the Feast of St. Nicholas of Myra? Simple, load up the rig with a couple of light rods and head out to the mighty Brazos.

Boom. Pretty much every cast a fish, it was like... like the Age of Aquarius. No kidding, I lost count.

Mostly perch but also drum, a couple of cats and curiously, baby striper. Ferocious little fish, all of them, but especially the striper. Big fun to catch when they're big and not bad when they're small. And here's the thing.

My friend Pedro was fishing silver spinners, slabs, the live perch which I gave him, and caught exactly nothing. He was going after big fish and failed. 

By contrast, I was pulling the aquarian adversary out of the water every few minutes or so on a worm, small hook, two split-shot rig on a light rod. Big success, "You're rippin' 'em up, man!"

Moral? No libs, fish smart,

LSP

Monsters Of The Deep?

So you're standing on the rip-rap like a warrior on the edge of time, beholding the mighty Brazos as it flows beneath you to Houston and its enormous Dalek. You have a choice, stare in amazement at the fabled waterway and reflect on its storied history or get a rod from the truck and go after some action.

There's no "rule," either way is OK, but I chose the latter path and went to the pier armed with a light Shakespeare Ugly Stick and a couple of boxes of worms. I felt the fish would love these worms and they did, snapping, tugging and bumping with pretty much every cast.

All well and good, but I wasn't closing the deal. Fishing wizardry told me juvenile perch and bass were plundering the line and a smaller hook was in order. Such is piscine soothsaying, don't discount it.

Sure enough, before too long I was reeling in the young 'uns, and ferocious predators they were too, going at the juicy worms like Democrats boarding a Greyhound for Chicago. But you're saying, in that mocking tone of voice, "Aren't they a bit small?"

Not so fast, readers of this popular international mind blog, they may have been small but a fish is a fish and even a small fish is value on a light rod. So I left the dam pleased, mission accomplished. 

And I tell you, it's good for the soul to get out in the clean air and big sky of an overcast Texan morning and fish, no matter what you catch.

Tight lines,

LSP