It’s carp time. For me I mean. Everyone else has been catching carp for months. Therefore, to make my own efforts stand out, I titled my post with an edgy alternative spelling. Unique, huh? See, I can’t do carping until the striper thing has run its pathetic course. Spring striper fishing is hard, addictive work. During striper time I maintain a stern demeanor, buy expensive beer, scream with manic triumph, and shed countless bitter tears. I wade through rushing rapids and carry the boat up steep escarpments in the dark, cursing. But at some point, when my tender feelings have been hurt almost beyond recovery, it happens. I’ll be on the verge of yet another heart-rending striper trip and I’ll say (to myself, not in front of the kids) “fuck this”. Then I’ll know that the frantic, orgasmic period has ended and a gentler, cuddly era approaches. I’ll buy cheap beer and leave the house with laughter on my lips. Ahh, carp.
Yeah, I love carp season. Without carp, I could hardly refer to myself as lowbrow. Early spring is the focal point of the angling year, but late spring through autumn is the meat of it. The season opener was good this year and I found little fish all over the place in post-coital starvation mode. I got out again for a late afternoon quickie and suffered an embarrassing blank. But, what the hell, I’ve got months of this ahead of me.