When I took my first few breaths upon emergence from the womb, I had no idea I'd end up where I am now, furiously typing on a library computer to hammer out a blog post before the time limit cuts me off. I feel sort of like the character of James Bond in "Goldfinger" as the neutron bomb is about to go off and contaminate the gold supply of Fort Knox and it stops at 3 seconds or something like that. I wonder if Pierce Brosnan had to be subjected to the consumptive hacking of a guy standing across from him, looking up God-knows-what on the library computer.
Anyway, a major problem with hammering out these blog posts is that really, most fishing trips are unexceptional. Most of the time, nothing happens that is so noteworthy, so spectacular, that it warrants 300 words to describe it. It's hard to wax poetic about mediocrity, which is why I feel sorry for newsmen, who, on days where there just isn't enough happening in the world to talk about, like today evidently, resort to inconsequential, rambling articles about idiotic crap nobody cares about, i.e. the current headlining article on the WaPo website:
Who cares? Although apparently "Trump-style" is the phrase de jour to be used by all the most fly kids on the block when they could have gotten away with "stupid" and saved themselves some column-inches to cram with more ads for Kohl's 5-day sale and hair-care products.
Anyway, went fishing yesterday, weather was beautiful, only one other boat on the lake. Put in at around 4-4:30, took out at 7:30. Fished mostly with a diving crankbait, caught a few small bass, caught a few bluegills on a popper. Took a picture of a bass:
Saw a muskrat, and what I believe was a great egret, seen here. It's unfortunate for the author that readers may believe that I thought that this egret was uniquely great, but no, the name of the bird is the "great egret." Apparently they are also known as the common egret among ornithologists less inclined to prop up the bird's ego.
And found some egret tracks:
And I don't believe that I ever posted this picture on here. I've talked about Dead Carp Ditch, aka the Cesspool, but I had been down there after work one day, and lo and behold what do I find floating in the pond but a needle. Nothing screams family friendly park like AIDS laced needles and twitching junkies (I didn't see any obvious junkies. If I was more optimistic, maybe I'd figure that the needle was accidentally dropped by a diabetic after enjoying a picnic with his family and friends, maybe celebrating the birth of his first grandchild, but this is Culpeper, where optimism is typically rewarded with another metaphorical steaming pile in the face.)
And on the way back, my car hit 150,000 miles. I took a picture of the odometer, although the digital display "turning over" was sort of lackluster.
