Sunday, March 7, 2021

Yowell Meadow Park

On Friday, I caught my first fish of 2021.  I'd been fishing other times since January One, but real half-heartedly as a result of what I thought was unusually cold, wet weather.

Turns out that February 2021 was, for the most part, a perfectly normal February, according to the National Weather Service.  The reason it seemed unusually cold is the last 4 Februaries have been unseasonably warm. And here we have the reason that anecdotal evidence is marginally useful.

So anyway, even if there have been fish to be caught, they weren't really in danger of being caught by me.  I haven't even been paddling since early to mid-January. 

Whatever, I'm beginning to ramble.  The fish was a 10-inch largemouth, out of the pond down at Yowell Meadow Park.  Caught her, if the abdominal bulge is any indication not a him (or is it he?), on a big Mepps spinner.

After I returned her to the water, I continued fishing.  I'd snagged some jetsam off of the bottom as well from time to time, so it was no great surprise when there was a little tug and then some resistance.  I figured, ehhh, a chunk of wood, or some miscellaneous trash, and lifted the thing from the water, then realized it had four wriggling legs, and a head, mouth solidly clamped down on my big Mepps.

At about the same time I realized I'd landed the three-inch-long snapping turtle from the 30-inch muddy abyss, he realized that the delicious minnow he'd chomped down on was made out of entirely non-nutritive brass and steel, and was tethered ultimately to some bearded whack job with a disturbed gleam to his eye and a heart of gold, and so he let go and went *PLOP* into the mud.

Having learned his lesson that there is no profit or advantage whatsoever in endeavor, the turtle withdrew into his shell, to wait until this hominine menace had moved on and he could return to the pond and recount to his turtle brethren his tales of the air-world, which they won't believe, since this will be days hence that he's telling the tales, and the young turtles of the day, or even of today, will see the tales as fanciful hogwash.  They'll accuse the senior turtle behind his back of senility, dementia, of having delusions, or needing turtle medication and turtle institutionalization, being a turtle on the edge, needing a turtle straight-jacket, if such a thing exists, or to be rolled on his back, if not.  For his protection? HA! The young turtles will be cruel and heartless, jeering to the point of slavering, a trail of spittle from their mouths to their plastron, until they experience their own misadventure in the air-world, at which point the cycle will repeat, ensuring that turtles will forever find their fortunes stymied.  No turtle will ever go to the moon, no turtle will invent computers, no turtle will create art, possibly in the style of pointillism, all because young turtles are dicks.  Beware turtles!

Anyhow, see picture of miffed turtle, half-folded up mask for scale.  The flash in my phone camera turns subfusc into garish; maybe next time I should spend more than $50 on a phone.


And then I went home, to return to Yowell Meadow Park the next day, on Saturday.  

The full breadth of human tragedy was on display: a little girl's kite got stuck in a tree, a puppy's unblemished enthusiasm was harshly curtailed by a fraulein with a too-short leash and infinite zeal for compliance, and I caught zero fish.  You might say that's not that bad, but I'm pretty sure even Romeo and Juliet had some fun times before whatever happened at the end (SPOILER: They live happily ever after.)

There was nothing else interesting or noteworthy to recommend the day, or it's successor.