May Day!

Well, well, it's May Day, yet again. The Puritans frowned on May Day, go figure, thinking the festivity a a blasphemous, pagan excuse for wanton immorality. And, like red moleskin trousers or the Church of England, it wasn't in the Bible. So they stamped it out along with Christmas and Easter, killjoys.

A Hippy

Still, in fairness to the Puritan sensibility, May Day was doubtless full of unreconstructed, late medieval bawdiness and it never made it back onto the calendar of popular feasts after the overthrow of the wicked regicides. That is until now.

Cheap Red Wine

Hippies have taken over May Day, along with their revolutionary geeknerd cousins, the Communists, and typically don't miss an opportunity to make a nuisance of themselves in otherwise peaceful civic centers. 

A Couple of Commies

The May Day commies throw dialectical materialist duodecimal dice for their NWO rulers and the hippies get loaded on cheap red wine and thieve, it's what they do.

A Typical Bluegill

Here at the Compound things were different. I drove to Clifton to administer Last Rites and followed that up by catching a catfish and a bluegill. 

Aggressive Little Monster

The cat fought hard and at first I thought I'd caught a snag, but no, it was a fierce, aggressive fish. He lived to fight again another day.

Never trust a hippy,

LSP

Ye Gods, I've Caught The Carp!

Unlike Satan, I try to take a day off, on Mondays, and what better way to spend part of that than checking out a new place to fish. It's not hard, put some rods in the bed of the truck, buy some kolaches and strong covfeve and off you go.

I arrived at the top secret Texan objective around Noon, after an intensive bout of front office porch work with the flock all morning, and sized things up. It looked right, smelled right, sage and cedar, and felt right. But would it be right and produce a catch?

Sure enough it did. Right out of the gate fish were tugging and thumping against my complex, scientific lure, a worm on a #6 bait holder allied to a single split-shot weight. Nice and easy does it, and then pull, a fish was on the hook and up came the first of five catfish. Good result.

Remembering that movement is a sign of life, I changed position and gently twitched the almost free floating bait along the bottom, but not for long. Something like Jan Sobieski's Hussars plowed into the hook with the kinetic energy of an ironclad phalanx.

Was it a monster catfish, a Leviathan Bass or something else, perhaps a dolphin? Hard to tell, as the monster of the deep dived, pulled, thrashed and eventually came to the surface. A carp, a huge great carp. Back you go, my friend.

Another even fiercer carp blew up the line again, in just the same spot, and I reeled it in only lose the hook as I brought the beast to land. But so what, we'd battled and one came out the victor. Sorry, carp, you lose this round.

And that was that. Pretty much a fish with every cast and we didn't even have a boat.

Tight lines,

LSP

Beat The Drum

What kind of countryman are you, so-called LSP? All you do is post creepy photos of Barbie dolls dressed up like wimmyn priests.

Hey, I get your dissatisfaction. So to put things straight I put a couple of rods in the pickup and headed for water. Intuition and experience said try the other side of the dam, and that's exactly what happened. 

It was deserted and the river flowed clear. So clear, in fact, that you could see that there weren't any fish apart from a small posse of Carp, guarding the spillway entrance to the once mighty Brazos. Therein lies another tale, but undaunted I set up on the empty grid of the pier and cast off with worms and carp bait.

Within seconds something was tugging at the juicy worm/strawberry dough bait combo. Nice, then out pulled the line  with that steady, mindless-hunger, piscine determination and I snapped the rod up to set the hook. Action! 

Only to pull the hook up through empty water. What was this, a fish without parts that didn't occupy space? No, just a Gar who sensibly dropped the enticing strawberry chummed worm.

Knowing that persistence in the face of adversity is key, I cast off again, expecting nothing but hoping for everything. And there it was, a tug, a dive and fish on in the form of a voracious little Black Drum. I hauled him in.

Next, a decent sized Bluegill; up you come, predator, and back you go to fight again another day. And this little menace was followed by another Drum. Then something big hit the line. 

BOOM. One minute you're waiting there on the pier, looking out over Texas and the fabled Brazos, and the next? Something's charged into the hook like a Trump Train on full loco. Rod double, drag out, fast and furious action. Then up came the fish.

It was a big 'un too, no foolin', and a larger  adversary hit the line at the end of the expedition. Big action from a big fish, which annoyingly snapped the 12Ib test as I brought it up, defeated. 

Then it was time to head back to the Compound, under the light of a shining moon.

Fish on,

LSP

Fish, You Fool, And The Ghosts Of The Brazos

The sun was shining, the air was crisp and it seemed right to go fishing; Genius Patrol weren't invited, their job was to stay behind and guard the Compound.

A short drive later I was at Soldier's Bluff or Sosebee's Bluff, named after George Sosebee who left Georgia in the 1870s to escape the "odious" Reconstruction Government after the Civil War.

Reconstruction reached its most odious stages in the mid '70's and George Sosebee determined that he could stand no more of it. On the raw frontier, he reasoned, there must exist a place where no Reconstruction Official or carpetbagger would venture.

By 1875 Sosebee had found his frontier, where the Big Rocky Creek tumbled through a limestone precipice overlooking the Brazos river in Bosque County. 

Carpet Baggers

Today, Sosebee's Brazos is gone, inundated by the Corps of Engineers' dam which was built in the 1950s. Still, the tops of his limestone bluffs remain and you can fish from them, sometimes with spectacular results.

With that in mind, the lake was choppy and surging, thanks to a fierce North East wind, and I wondered if the expedition'd be a bust. "How's the action, kids?" I asked a professional crew of youngsters who'd set up on the shore with an impressive array of surf casting rods. They said it wasn't bad, holding up a very respectable Largemouth.

Inspired by success, I cast off with a plastic minnow allied to an earthworm and sure enough started getting bumps and tugs; fish were out there, no doubt about it. But could I close the deal?

It took a while but then, BOOM, a fish was on, pulling out the drag and glinting silver in the topwater. At first I thought it was a Drum but no, it was a decent young Bass around 12". I put him back and reflected on the towns flooded by the dam, including Towash, across the way from the bluffs. In case you wondered, Towash wasn't Cheltenham:

On January 5, 1870, Hardin was playing cards with Benjamin Bradley in Towash, Hill County, Texas. Hardin was winning almost every hand, which angered Bradley, who then threatened to "cut out his liver" if he won again. Bradley drew a knife and a six-shooter. Hardin claimed he was unarmed and excused himself, but claims that later that night, Bradley came looking for him. Bradley allegedly fired a shot at Hardin, which missed. Hardin drew both his pistols and returned fire, one shot striking Bradley's head and the other his chest. Dozens of people saw this fight, and from them there is a good record of how Hardin had used his guns. His holsters were sewn into his vest, so that the butts of his pistols pointed inward across his chest. He crossed his arms to draw. Hardin claimed this was the fastest way to draw, and he practiced every day. A man called "Judge Moore", who held Hardin's stakes of money and a pistol, but refused to give them up without Bradley's consent, "vanished. Later Hardin admitted killing two men in Hill County Texas - Donald Long.

Here's another account, fictional but I'd say on the money.

...in 1865 Towash made a big sign... Texas-style. It boasted the Boles racetrack, which attracted the sports and gamblers from as far away as Hot Springs, Arkansas. There was a hand ferry across the Brazos and close by a grist mill powered by a huge water wheel. Dryer & Jenkins was the trading store. There was a barbershop that did very little business and six saloons that did a lot, dispensing red-eye... raw. Typical of many towns in the Texas of 1867, there was no law except that made by each man with his own ‘craw sand.’ Occasionally the Regulators of Austin rode in... always in large groups... more for protection than law enforcement. 

I reeled in the Bass and cast off for more, while the ghosts of the Brazos lay heavy on the lake.

Tight lines,

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

Sorry Fish, You Lose This Round

Smarting from our signature defeat against the fish the other week on the dam spillway, the team decided to have another go. To catch the fish off-guard we went to a different location, Soldier's Bluff. 

There's been times when fishing the Bluff has been simply outstanding, fast action, good fish and pretty much a catch a cast and sometimes more. No kidding, when the Bass are blitzing it's topwater frenzy and devil take the hindmost.

With that in mind we cast off into the depths and at first things didn't look good. A boat kept roaring by, surfer in tow, churning the water, frightening the fish and blasting some kind of pop music. Perhaps it was rap/r 'n b hybrid, I don't know, I'm no expert but I do know this, it was annoying and we weren't catching.

At last, the boat sped off into the vastness of Lake Whitney and we were in with a chance, perhaps. After throwing worms and their plastic imitations into the usual spots and getting nothing, we headed towards the dam.

Still nothing and then, as the sun was going down, a fierce tug at the line. Yes, fish, you're on the radar. After that it was pretty much a Bluegill every five minutes or so and many more escapees, who were happy to run off with our enticing worms and "Crappie Bites."

Regardless, it was fish on and if we'd been in the way of keeping them, dinner on too. As it was, these fierce little predators went back in the water. They lived to fight again another day.

Victory assured, we headed back in the setting sun. Burgers were on the menu and the Cadet wasted no time in dialing up Highland Regiments, piping us into the Compound.

He's inspired by the A&M Corps and ROTC. Shoot in the X Ring, kid.

Tight lines,

LSP

Get On The Striper

I'll be honest, I've never been on a guided Striper expedition until today and I was wondering, at 0-Dark-Thirty, if it was worth the predawn call to rods. I needn't have worried.

I was immediately impressed by our guide, Pat, and his workmanlike boat, which had that air of I know what we're doing, you're going to catch fish, gentlemen, and sure enough we did.

After motoring out a short way into the gargantuan inland sea that is Lake Whitney, we anchored off an underwater point which showed an abundance of bait fish on the Hummingbird. Then he patiently explained the tactics. 

"Drop the line to the bottom and come up three cranks," he had the depth spot on, "Then put the rod in the holder and wait. When you get a hit, wait and wait again, patience, let that Striper take it down. Then he's yours, reel him in. Here, I'll bait your hook."

One live Shad three cranks up and I didn't have long to wait before the rod was bending double off the boat. Pick it up and wrestle with the mighty Striper, surging and fighting like the predator it is. But  14LB test and a sharp Kahle #3 proved too much for the Leviathan and up he came into the boat and a waiting cooler.

This went on, again and again, until we'd all limited out, after about an hour. Brisk action, I tell you, and it got to the point where Bass were hitting the bait on the way down, steam-training into the Shad with prehistoric aggression. 

It was like Jaws, especially when the monsters dived under the boat. Would it capsize and the hunters become the hunted? That didn't happen, fortunately, and all too soon it was time to head back to the marina where Pat cleaned the fish and I have to say, you couldn't wish for a better guide.

Needless to say, there's no shortage of fish in the fridge.

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

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

Cast Away

Yesterday was blast, today was cast, and that's what the sporting life is all about, mixing it up, by land, sea and air. Well, lake, in this case.

After a slow start I drove out of the compound to catch fish with GWB. I wanted to show off the fun and success of the Weightless Worm Rig (WWR), so we headed to Lake Whitney by way of buying a couple of boxes of nightcrawlers. These were "imported from Canada," curiously, and I've been told that people in Alberta make a living from this.

Many Limits

Next stop, the lake itself and the limestone banks of Soldier's Bluff. At one point in time, soldiers must have looked down on the Brazos river from the rocky bluffs and before them, Indians. Not that long ago in the scheme of things, but today it was just the team, threading worms onto hooks and dropping the tasty morsels down into the depths.

Across the cove from us a solitary gentleman was sitting on a bucket with a line in the water. Was he a #BlackLivesMatter supporter? No, I doubt it, he was probably after catfish instead of a Soros grant. I watched a few rigs pull up behind him and out poured an army of young people, who clambered their way onto the opposing bluffs. They were going cliff jumping, big fun, but we were after fish, and they were biting.

Well, Well, Well

It started off in a competitive spirit, "Ha! Number 2, we're even," but that soon went by the by as fish after fish ran with the WWRs. I lost count, but GWB estimates a "good cooler full." We certainly caught that, though these Bluegills were put back to fight again another day. And not only Bluegill, I caught a decent little Crappie who was trying his luck in Sunfish territory.

Then the worms were gone and it was time to quit while the going was good. I'd say there's relaxing, innocent enjoyment in bank fishing, though it would've been nice to have some kind of boat to get out to where the Bass were were jumping, about 40 or 50 yards out.

Kindly Old LSP

Fishing wisdom: Go where the fish are and give them what they think they want; you'll catch an abundance. There's a moral in that somewhere, if you care to draw it.

Tight lines,

LSP