Fish On

 

The sky was beginning to lighten as I got to the marina, in search of piscine adventure. "G'morning, gentlemen," and then we were motoring out into the lake as the sun began to rise.

Beautiful, and a moment of anticipation, would we catch any fish? It's not a given and there, right from the get go, lies a moral; just because you're on a boat doesn't mean you'll catch anything.

Belay that lure...

That in mind, we'd rigged up for topwater because intel said young, ferocious striper were blitzing surface shad. And sure enough, there against the bluffs was line of spray, a frenzy of fish exploding out of the water.

Young but Fierce

Power over and look at that water boil! But not for long, there's no time to waste. Line out, zig-zag retrieve then bam, down goes your lure and it's game on, a fighting striper on a light rod bent double. Big fun and fast action, which went on as we tracked the fish across the lake. I lost count.

What great fishing! OK, the stripers weren't fully grown, only around 16-18" but still,  full of aggression and predatory fury; they went back to fight again another day. It'll be a different story in the Spring when they've reached leviathan status.

Mission accomplished, we headed back to the marina, well satisfied with a morning out on the water. And here's the thing. Just because you're on a boat may not mean you'll catch any fish, but it can help. Thanks, J, for the trip.

Tight lines,

LSP

Look At That Striper!

 

Don't get me wrong, catching perch is fun but catching striper is awesome. There we were after Mass, pitting wits and worms against junior bluegill when the water erupted about 30 yards off the bank. I figured it was sand bass blitzing on minnows and tied on a topwater lure.

Out it went, wait, then a zig-zag retrieve back to shore. About two thirds of the way back the water surged under the lure and a fish hit it like a steam train, taking the silvery, rattling, plastic prey down into the depths. Behold rod double action as the fish dived and tried to run, this was surely more than a regular sandy or hybrid. And sure enough it was, out came a striper.

I love topwater fishing. There's something about the explosive impact of the fish striking the lure, amped up, full of ferocious, predatory drive; it's going to get the prey before its competition. Then the fight's on. And with that, have a blessed Feast of the Transfiguration.

Tight lines,

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

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,

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

Sorry Commies, You Lose

Yesterday was Labor Day and the fish were staging a "go-slow" in solidarity with their Marxist comrades, the Dove. But one battle lost doesn't mean a war over, far from it.

Today we turned the tables on aquatic bolshevism, luring the scaly soviets out of their revolutionary committees with live worms, spinners and topwater lures.

That's right, a Heddon Tiny Torpedo which the voracious little bass couldn't resist. It'd been a while since I used one and they demand a bit of patience, the temptation being to try and set the hook as soon as the fish strikes. Big mistake, you'll snatch the lure out of the piscine communist's mouth.

Instead, let the aggressive revolutionary surge onto the lure, take it down into the proletarian depths, apply pressure and then reel the little commie in. Easy to say, hard to do because it goes against the quick and sudden hookset mentality that goes with a subsurface strike.

Still, I got in the way of it, casting off, letting the lure rest and then twitching it in to various rhythms. Speaking of which, fishing wisdom recommends you do your best to keep the lure as stationary as possible as you twitch it about. This apparently enrages the predatory nihilist bass who then launch themselves at their bourgeois oppressor.

Well it takes a lot of patience, so I emulated the method while changing it up with more aggressive retrieves and caught a lot of fish. They weren't huge but a fish is a fish and even a small bass striking topwater's a lot of fun. Great result.

Market-driven capitalism restored and the Red Menace put back in its box, I blessed a herd of horses and a barn. Then headed back to the Compound.

God bless,

LSP

Get Back On The Gar!

Gar are living fossils, members of the Lepisosteiformes family of fish, which can be traced back through the fossil record to the Late Jurassic. They're also massively under fished and big fun to catch.

That's because these large predators typically put up a tremendous fight, running, thrashing, leaping and diving with your bait. Exciting, but there's a catch.

The Last Run

You see, the problem with these overlooked and abundant fish is that they're hard to catch. Sure, they'll take your bait, run with it and in a fit of enthusiasm you set the hook. Snap! but no, no snap, the contemptuous Gar drops it all and swims nonchalantly away. 

That's because your hook can't find purchase in the bony, Jurassic beak of the Gar, which cunningly plays with what's on offer before attempting to swallow the shad, worm, liver, minnow or whatever you're throwing in. This all translates into the fish being able to drop your bait during its first run.

Let's Zoom In

So don't try for a quick hookset, let the prehistoric beast make its run, then let it stop, meditate, play with the bait and run again. Be sure to let the drag play out to least resistance, you don't want to spook the fish, she'll drop everything and swim off. But keep with her; after a few minutes she'll start to swallow the bait and make an effort to head downstream.

Observe the fish through the technological marvel of your polarized glasses. Is the bait at the back of the Gar's beak, is it heading away from you, have you felt it trying to gulp the bait down, yes? Time to tighten the drag and set the hook. BANG, the fight's on.

Smallest of Three

And I tell you, it's well worth the patient opening act. Imagine the armored ambush predator, and they can be large, leaping furiously clear of the water on its charge to escape your line. Great excitement.

I brought three of these creatures up to the pier today but only landed one, the others were too large and broke the line (#12 test on a light rod). At this point it obviously makes sense to invest in a more substantial rig.

There's doubtless a moral in all of this but I won't draw it. That's up to you.

Fish on,

LSP

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,

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

Go On, Beat The Drum

I know, I know, there's not been many sporting posts on the this fascinating mind blog lately and that's because I've been babysitting. So here's a fishing infovideo to set the record straight.

When my son, the Cadet (potential) saw it,  he said, "You look younger, Guv'nor." Such, readers, is the magic of fishing.

Tight lines,

LSP

Fish

GWB headed over from Dallas for an evening of dove poppers, steak and a morning of fishing at Soldiers' Bluff. And I tell you this, it's a relief to be able to eat juicy steaks again; I cooked them on the grill, three minutes a side. They were right on.

Ocean Conservancy

Fortified by last night's ribeye, we drove out to the lake with high hopes of catching a cooler-full of Bluegill. Maybe GWB's cowboy hat would help, acting as a kind of country lure. But no, despite the promise of an early Striper the fishing was slow at best. 

Beer Battered Fish Snacks

Still, a few aquatic predators made it back to the compound, and  a right tasty snack they were too.

Fish on,

LSP