Palomar Crappie
June 14, Friday
Klesko just homered for the Braves, Ross Porter infroms over a radio frequency shared with an impassioned Latina singing in Spanish. I'm waiting for Dan and his class to meet me here at Observatory Campground on Mt. Palomar. At Lake Henshaw, I had a strike in the first minute my line was in the water, a little catfish, too little to keep, his whiskers and down-turned mouth seemed to convey his pissed-offedness at having been hooked. Fish were flopping out of the water all over the lake; it looked like the makings of a banner day. They jumped over my line. I dropped mealworms on their noses. They danced around my bobber. All I caught was a sunburn and two measly, unkeepable bluegill.
Another guy there reeled in a nice string of crappie. I went over to see what I was doing wrong. I ascertained that I really wasn't watching my bobber close enough. Any kind of dip or unusual ripple and you snap your wrist and hook the fish. He told me about some Vietnamese that had been there yesterday. He said it looked like Vietnam there yesterday. "Look at the mess," they left," he said indicating some litter on the shore. "Them and the blacks," he said, "always leave behind their trash." He didn't know I had just taken a sloppy shit on the shore and used one of those brown paper bags to wipe my ass. I saw crows were into my bait and so I excused myself.
Here comes a blue van. Maybe it's Dan. I'm getting ready to grill some catfish I bought at the store yesterday. And some corn on the cob. I'll roll a cigarette first, though, even if I wheezed all last night. I think my mildewed sleeping bag added to my repiratory woes. The blue van was not Dan. I think I last saw him in Utah in '92.
I can't think of anything else to write. When I get home, though, I think I'll be able to proceed on a paragraph or so into Jim Crack. When?
Sunday night? Definietly Monday. If Shirelle's not around. I'm doomed. My lips are chapped. There are a lot of ferns around here. A ranger gave me directions to San Luis Rey Creek where I can swim or fish if I want to and have time. Here comes a blue Suburban or something. Maybe it's Dan. It is not, though. I'll be able to read when I'm done here. Dan's bringing a bunch of kids from his middle school.
Klesko just homered for the Braves, Ross Porter infroms over a radio frequency shared with an impassioned Latina singing in Spanish. I'm waiting for Dan and his class to meet me here at Observatory Campground on Mt. Palomar. At Lake Henshaw, I had a strike in the first minute my line was in the water, a little catfish, too little to keep, his whiskers and down-turned mouth seemed to convey his pissed-offedness at having been hooked. Fish were flopping out of the water all over the lake; it looked like the makings of a banner day. They jumped over my line. I dropped mealworms on their noses. They danced around my bobber. All I caught was a sunburn and two measly, unkeepable bluegill.
Another guy there reeled in a nice string of crappie. I went over to see what I was doing wrong. I ascertained that I really wasn't watching my bobber close enough. Any kind of dip or unusual ripple and you snap your wrist and hook the fish. He told me about some Vietnamese that had been there yesterday. He said it looked like Vietnam there yesterday. "Look at the mess," they left," he said indicating some litter on the shore. "Them and the blacks," he said, "always leave behind their trash." He didn't know I had just taken a sloppy shit on the shore and used one of those brown paper bags to wipe my ass. I saw crows were into my bait and so I excused myself.
Here comes a blue van. Maybe it's Dan. I'm getting ready to grill some catfish I bought at the store yesterday. And some corn on the cob. I'll roll a cigarette first, though, even if I wheezed all last night. I think my mildewed sleeping bag added to my repiratory woes. The blue van was not Dan. I think I last saw him in Utah in '92.
I can't think of anything else to write. When I get home, though, I think I'll be able to proceed on a paragraph or so into Jim Crack. When?
Sunday night? Definietly Monday. If Shirelle's not around. I'm doomed. My lips are chapped. There are a lot of ferns around here. A ranger gave me directions to San Luis Rey Creek where I can swim or fish if I want to and have time. Here comes a blue Suburban or something. Maybe it's Dan. It is not, though. I'll be able to read when I'm done here. Dan's bringing a bunch of kids from his middle school.
posted by johnz at 11:05 AM
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