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.
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
