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

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

 

S'Up?

 

What's up? Well I'll tell you. A recce mission to the lake to see if the Piscine Adversary was biting. No, it was not. I think they were stunned by the shock of massive heat after massive rain. Still, I tried my luck with topwater lures and it was good to get out in God's clean air by the water.

Waterworld, Thanks A Lot, NWO

Other people were fishing and not catching either, so I didn't feel so bad as I melted into the limestone of what was once an enormous paleolithic reef in an inland sea. A rogue rooster didn't seem to care one way or the other, he just strutted around. And I wondered.

Imagine This Bird Eight Or Nine Feet Tall

If that bird was paleo large, say 6-8' tall+, would it kill you? Dam straight it would, if only by reflex, and just think, our ancestors in the age of magafauna fought and survived against such fearsome beasts. But now they're shrunken and harmless, unless you're a member of our Godless Elite who want to erase all life from the planet apart from themselves.

Top Water No Bites

CS Lewis writes about this in That Hideous Strength and the Abolition of Man. Read 'em both if you haven't already, and if you have, read 'em again. By the way, the former's a novelization of the latter and, I'd say, all the better for that.

What You Gonna Do LSP, Shoot All The Fish?

Then there's fish. They were lying low today, like Democrats in defense of Hunter Biden's cracked up gun buying, but don't kid yourselves, aquatic predators, we'll be back. And then some.

Tight Lines,

LSP

Gone Fishing

 

So, what'd you do today, so-called LSP, if that's your real name, which we doubt. Well, nothing complicated, a morning visit to the Pick 'n Steal and then off to the lake and its dam to try my luck against the piscine adversary. Would they bite?

No, they did not. Don't get me wrong, I tried, I really did, but the fish weren't having it. There they were, predatory gar lying in ambush downstream of the spillway pool, you could see them loud and clear through cleverly polarized glasses.

But no, they weren't having it, frozen shad didn't cut it today, so I tried my luck at Soldiers Bluff on the other side of the dam. There were fish there, yes, you could see them, but would they bite? No, they would not.

In fact, it was like fishing into a wind tunnel and who can blame the fish for keeping their heads down beneath the surging waves. So I packed up light Ugly Stick rods and headed for home, thankful for a morning under the big clear sky and clean air of Texas.

Don't worry, fish, your day will come. Draw the moral as you care to take it and that, dear readers, is the story of that.

Never Surrender,

LSP

Just Get Outside And Fish

 

Will last night's apocalyptic storm make the fish bite? Piscine science says wait a bit, it can take up to 72 hours for storm shocked fish to return from deeper waters and go full feeding frenzy. I chose to ignore the science and went fishing anyway.

Guess what, the science seemed to be lacking because there they were, Bass on their ambush ledge at the dam, just like they were before the storm. Huh, and lo and behold, up came a decent fish on the first cast. It got slower after that but sure enough, as per last week, a very decent Black Drum took the bait, fish on and up he came, plenty of fight to boot. Nice.

Everything else in the pool signified Gar action and I wasn't set up for that, so it was over to what used to be called "Uncle Gus' Marina," which used to offer great fishing off bank, cleaning station and pier. Then it didn't because it was bought out and shut for a refurb. 

It's open now and this was my first time back since new management. The pier and cleaning station had gone, sadly, please bring them back, and so had the old marina/boat slips, which are being replaced. Is this good or bad? Time will tell.

what a fight that was, big fish, light rod

In the meanwhile, I wasted no time casting off from the bank with topwater torpedoes because a few fish were jumping and a topwater catch is an awesome catch. But no luck, perhaps these perverse and annoying fish "followed the science" and were locked down in the depths, keeping an antisocial distance from enticing lures.

Regardless, their time will come and it was good to be back at the place again after an absence of a few years. Let's hope new management rebuilds the pier and cleaning station. I tell you, that gave superlative fishing, from perch to cats to bass and beyond, what a lot of fun.

Recce over, it was time to head back to the Compound under the big sky of Texas, a morning well spent.

Cheers,

LSP

Fish On

 

We have choices in life, contrary to Marxist determinism, and such is the beauty of free will. For example, you can sit staring at a screen in slack-jawed trad consternation or you can go fishing. I chose the latter option and pointed the rig at Lake Whitney.

This was once a reef in a vast inland sea

There it was, shining and hazy under a hot Texan sun, but would there be fish and would they bite? I cast off with worms to find out and... nothing, apart from a lazy little Gar who swooped down on my worm, held it in its beak, swam away at leisure for about 60 yards, ate half the worm and dropped the rest. He didn't even run, and who can blame him, it was hot.

Behold Leviathan and the mighty Brazos

Soldiers Bluff being a bust I headed across the dam to try my luck from the pier. Slow going at first but then I spotted them, two stationary Bass on a ledge next to the dam's wall. Off goes the worm, cast a little ahead of the fish, followed by a slow retrieve onto their position. Boom! Strike!

Nice little Drum

A couple of minutes of diving, thrashing, rod double action later up comes a very decent fish. Good fight and back you go, great result. So, send another worm into the depths, untargeted this time, a blind shot and another slow retrieve. And what's this, a tug, and another, hookset! It felt like a Black Drum and sure enough it was, not as cool as a Bass but still, plenty of piscine action.

That complete, it was time to head back to the Compound, mission accomplished. I file this exciting story under "Country Life in Texas."

Tight Lines,

LSP

Rocky Paths

 

Same Old Rock

Some of you enjoy idyllic trout streams and rivers full of salmon or walleye, others again spend their time sea fishing off the coasts of fabled islands. Me? It's mostly all about Lake Whitney and, to be fair, the mighty Brazos, which is where I went this morning in a desperate bid to escape the crazy.

"Maybe getting out in the clean air of Texas will do you good," I thought grimly to myself as I loaded a couple of rods into the bed of the rig, "As opposed to staring in slack-jawed Francoist consternation at the end of the world."

Witch way mysticke sister?

And yes, it was good to get to the lake and cast off into the depths, and there were plenty of fish, no doubt about it, I could see them gliding by the bank and jumping with fierce predatory aggression. But did I catch any?

No. I did not. It was like our wars, Enemy 1, Home Team 0, but what am I saying. Every moment spent under the free sky of Texas is a moment worth living, a victory in itself. Just you try it and see. 

Ye Olde LSP

In the meanwhile, the Specialist called in and's settling down well into his his new unit, 57th ESB (expeditionary tactical signals). He has, predictably, asked to be sent to Central Asia, but fortunately that's off bounds for now. Not a good deployment, eh?

That aside, there is an equestrian club at Ft. Hood which practices boot-to-boot cav charges, swords out, run! I told him, "Well you can ride, so join in. Just don't fall off and skewer yourself with your wretched sabre." Always paternal, you see.

Your Best Pal,

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

In The Heat of The Day

 

What is it they say, only mad dogs, Englishmen, and members of tactical signals brigades go out in the noonday sun. Or something like that, and it's what we did, the mission being to catch some fish even if it was 100 degrees in the shade.

Sure enough they were on and before you could say Das Kapital, perch were snapping and tugging at the lines like the voracious predators they are. I pulled out a couple of fierce little beasts, looked over at the kid and boom, something slammed into his hook and it was rod double, drag out action. No fooling.

What was this monster, a cat, a bass, an enormous drum? No, it was a dinner plate sized blue gill, perhaps a Zeta Variant, and easily the best fish of the day. What a great result. Then, after another hour or so of catching we started to melt and headed for home, a good afternoon at the water well spent.

In other news, the Pope's attacking the Latin Mass. There are two classes of being which hate Latin, schoolboys and Satan.

Fish on,

LSP

Fish And Fossil

 

"Dad, can we go fishing?" I thought for a moment, for maybe a second, "Yes, we can." Some coffee, two bacon and egg sandwiches and a relined rod later we were on our way to the lake, Lake Whitney. And after a brief pit stop at a lakeside Pick 'n Steal for fried cherry pie and a fishing license for the kid, we were at Soldiers Bluff, casting off.

Would the fish be on? Sure enough they were, right from the get go, with voracious predator perch going at the worms we were throwing into the murky, minnowed water. Tug, snap, light rod down and boom, out comes a fish. The soldier caught first, nice, and I came in not far behind.

And so passed a pleasant hour or so in the Texan sun on the side of the lake, what a lot of fun, especially given a late bite in the last half hour; fish after fish till you started to lose count. Some of them were big too, but all Bluegill. Come on, Bass, get your act together.

As we clambered up the rocks to get to the rig and home, I reminded the world that this was once the bed of a primeval, Mesozoic sea and there were fossils to be found. Sure enough, there was a junior ammonite and some petrified shells, easy to dig out of the clayish strata.

Then, "Look at this!" Lo and behold, there was a section of fossilized shell, sticking out of the rock. Pretty cool, so we went back to the truck to get some tools to excavate it. 

Some well placed taps with the hammer end of an old axe on a sturdy screwdriver and there it was, freed from the rock. "What if there's more?" We tapped away, removing the stone which had once been mud, and there it was, the fossilized spiral of an ancient crustacean.

Great excitement, and the fossil's back at the Compound. The Bluegill, on the other hand, were put back to fight again another day, and maybe to keep. Tasty.

Fish On,

LSP.

Systemic Rural Racism

 

One of the many problems country people face is racism, systemic racism, that ingrained, institutional, just the way things are racism which so afflicts entities of color in America's rural landscape. 

Parks, gardens, sky, fields, starlit night sky? All crushingly racist along with their iniquitous purveyors. That's the theory, and I drove out to Uncle Gus' Marina to test it out.

Sure enough, there was a banner of good ole Nazi "Uncle Gus" welcoming visitors and guests. And guess what? Uncle so-called "Gus" was white and holding a captive Bass of Color (BOC). Here, let's zoom in.

Unsurprised but still shocked, I drove carefully down to the apartheid marina and guiltily cast my line in the waters of the oppressed deep. No luck, anarcho-marxist cardres had trained these fish to avoid the hooks, lures and bait (worms) of their white colonialist oppressors.

Huh. I gave up the fight, vowing to return, "Watch out, you piscine Reds, I'll be back, with a vengeance," and headed over to the dam spillway.

Where it was raining, this being Biden's America, but undaunted, line out. No luck. Rinse, repeat at various angles. And then? That chomp, tug that every angler loves to feel. Pull up! Hookset! and there it is, a fish at the end of your line, diving, thrashing and doing its Bolshevikk best to escape, but it doesn't. 

You reel zhir in, get the photo op, and release the unrepentant Menshivik back into the depths. Well done, fish, you live again to fight another day. Then, because the climate changed owing to Texas not paying enough tax, it started to rain and I headed for home. And now? Curry, Thai Texan style.

OK, a good morning out in the good clean air of Texas, well done. But back to the point. Was the countryside's endemic racism made better or worse by this piscatorial endeavor?

As always, you be the judge,

LSP

Fish in the Heat of the Day

Fishing at 2 pm at the end of July in Texas doesn't make a whole lot of sense. I admit it, the fish are pretty much stunned by the heat and not biting. But I was in it for the challenge.

Sure enough, it was pretty slow going. Still, after a few minutes there was a tug on the line and out came a medium Perch, too big to use as Striper bait but a catch nonetheless. After that?

Not much until a Black Drum decided to attack the line, a fierce little beast and followed up by another, larger cousin. 

Good action, all things considered, and then the water grew quiet in the heat haze, with the exception of  a mighty Perch which I used as bait for the ferocious Striper. 

They weren't having it, so I packed up and headed for home before the air caught fire, noting a curious message on the way.

Fish on,

LSP

Fish After Mass

One of the many benefits of LSPland is that you can go fishing after Mass, which is what we did, right there on Lake Whitney as the sun was beginning to sink in the large Texan sky.

It was a tranquil scene, no doubt about it, but excitement was in the air as first one then several ferocious Bass surged up out of the water to prey on insects and small, unwary birds. Time to get on the fish, gentlemen.

I tried a variety of lures, a mid size shad, some kind of minnow thing and several topwater torpedoes, to say nothing of worms real and plastic along with delicious strawberry fish treats. But the fish were having none of it.

We weren't catching anything, the anglers to the left and right weren't catching anything and neither was man across the way. And that's just the way it was.

No fish on, we fell back to the Compound for a tasty meal of fried chicken and a celebratory glass of the right stuff in honor of Melania's birthday. 

It's Not Over, Fish. Not by a Long Shot

Would fried fish have been better? Sure, but that's for another day, when the fish are biting.

Your Old Friend,

LSP