Just Go To The Lake

 

Movement, says the Philosopher, is a sign of life and that in mind I loaded a couple of rods in the rig and moved off to the lake. Yes, I was alive, but what about the fish? Good question. Soldier's Bluff, once a reef in a vast inland sea, shone under a fierce Texan sun, teenagers did backflips into hot water, all was alive, but the fish weren't moving.

Don't get me wrong, I tried, with worms and shad but no, our piscine enemy were lying low, immobile, playing dead. So much for this game of soldiers, I thought grimly to myself, and moved to another location, across the dam.

Boom, right out of the gate a ferocious Drum pulled rod #2 along the fishing pier. Off I ran, alive, picked up the rod and reeled him in. Good fight, well done fish. He went back, living, to fight again another day. Next up, Gar.

The thing about Gar, if you're me, is they're easy to get on but hard to hook. You see, they'll play with your bait and drop it if you attempt a premature hookset, which tends not to work because of the bony toughness of their long prehistoric beaks. So what to do?

Try a small #6 hook, baited with frozen shad, on a 12" leader weighted with split shot beneath a small float. If you're smart, unlike me, make that leader steel. Launch the shad near the Gar, he'll see it, move in and it.

Watch the Pleistocene creature gobble that bait fish down; seriously, let the fish do its thing, give it line, allow it to pretty much eat the shad and then run with it. It'll run, allow some 8 seconds into this then set that hook.

Fish On, Just Doesn't Know It

Wow. Stand up, rod double, line out, leaping, thrashing, diving, running fish action. Just a lot of fun. But word to the wise. I say again, if you're fishing from some kind of pier use a steel leader, otherwise the fish will bite through your line as you haul him up, which is what happened to me today. Still, good fight, great result, thank you fish.

Back at the Compound we're reflecting on this real-life parable. It's the Feast of SS. Peter & Paul, who followed Christ and became fishers of men.

Tight lines,

LSP

Mad Dogs And Englishmen

 

Mad dogs and Englishmen, what do they do? They go out in the noonday sun, or so it's claimed. To test this theory I loaded up the rig with a couple of rods and headed for the lake in the pyramid peak intensity of the Texan sun.

Were there any mad dogs at Soldiers Bluff? Yes there were, doing mad dog stuff on the opposite bank. Was there anyone else? No, there was not, only me, and it was starting to look like the old adage was true. Even the fish, our piscine adversary were lying low.

To test the theory further, I headed over to the other side of the dam, you know, follow the science. And guess what? It was deserted, no one was there, not even a mad dog, they were on the other side of the dam, crazily frolicking in the hot water.

No, there was just one Englishman with a US passport, some frozen shad, a few rods and the ovenlike heat of Texas in the midst of a regular day in June. Hot, so hot your eyelids are sweating while the fish, heatshocked, hang deep in cooler water.

It's a challenge and a good one. You've proved the old noonday axiom, LSP, I thought to myself, grimly tying on a #6 hook, will you get a fish? Serious question, and a seriously bad time to try your luck against our finned friends. You see, they just don't want to know, too busy sensibly sleeping out the heat.

Undeterred, I cast off with shad and worm. But where? Into the shade of the spillway's fishing pier, get the science? And lo and behold, reeled in Black Drum and Perch variants. What does this mean.

That no, fish as well as mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the noonday sun, at least in Texas. Science has shown us this. Also, it may be hot as a preheating oven but get out there in the country and fish. Good for mind, body and soul.

Tight Lines,

LSP

More Fishing

Yesterday's fishing was slow. Like the corrupt, lying, elite, venal, condescending, pugnacious mainstream media attempting to find proof of Trump acting as a Russian spy, not a lot was happening. A lot of trying, a lot of fishing, but no catching to speak of. 

Similar, come to think of it, to the infamous Kremlins hacking our election. No end of frenzied searching, no end likewise of not finding the elusive beasts. But that was yesterday, today was different.

Today the fish were biting like a Trump Train on full power. Boom. First off, a Megabass hit my worm  in the pool of Lake Whitney dam spillway, then took off ferociously upstream. No use, fish, you're coming in, if only to live to fight again another day.

No sooner was the gigantosaurian Bass back in the water than a Striper came in, and on and on it went. In the end my arms grew tired from reeling in the monsters, Black Drum, Stripers, Catfish, Bass and a lone Bluegill.

It made for some some brisk and satisfying action and then it was over, fish back in the Brazos and me in a truck heading back to the compound, time well spent.

Tight lines,

LSP