I went out on the lake in the high pressure, bright sun, and wind. That was foolish and I repented of the decision in the end. There was nothing there.
Then I went up in the mountains and camped overnight, the goal being to catch wild trout. I’m having a little trout phase this winter. It behooves me to be reminded that fishing for little wild fish fulfills my angling desires. For one, it’s relatively easy. Relatively. Plus the fish live in a nice place, which is true even if it’s trite to mention it. I assume most fisherman have home waters. My home waters exist in the Appalachians. Anywhere else I fish, however pleasant or consuming, represents a deviation from the original home waters. This stream was particularly nice, with big park-like bottoms that give me the feel of fishing in a hemlock cathedral. But enough of this bullshit. If you want to be exposed to a dewy-eyed nerd yammering on about his extreme sensitivity to natural beauty, you’ll have no problems finding that.
I will mess with stripers a bit the next few weeks, but this is the winter doldrums, a quiet time when I try to improve my character through deep contemplation or perhaps through reading a bunch pulp science fiction.