Mulling things on my morning ramble with Storm, our family’s mixed Lab.
No, that is not structure in the photo above.
That would be cover, at least according to the prophets of structure fishing.
Don’t know that stuck in my craw this morning, but it came to mind when we started walking down the ice on the north old clay pit.
The language used in describing structure fishing is needlessly convoluted, but I guess bottom feature fishing isn’t as catchy as structure fishing.
Language should be plain when trying to describe a style of fishing, not as contorted as the words in Stray Casts, that “nebulous abyss,” as Steve Statland has called it.
Shouldn’t be feeling cantankerous coming off Christmas, especially since we did our usual feasting at a Chinese restaurant.
That became a routine with us years ago, not because we are Jewish, but by necessity while traveling.
The first Christmas Eve Chinese dinner came on the way to see my folks in Pennsylvania and we could not even find a McDonald’s open. We only had two boys then, but they loved the stop for Chinese near Harrisburg, Pa.
That stop became a ritual a couple years later coming back from the in-laws on Christmas Day and we could only find a Chinese buffet open in, I think, Rolla, Missouri.
The wonder of Chinese food in America is its eclectic range over ingredients, colors and textures.
The Canada geese, which are keeping a small hole open on the lake to the west, raised quite a racket as we crossed the side rail separating the town from the wildness of the town pond.
I thought maybe they were going to rise up and fly off to feed. But no, they simply fussed.
The ice was far thicker than I expected. In fact it is thick enough that tomorrow I think we will walk around the north pit.
And the surface was far less slick than yesterday. That talks to the nature of snow. Yesterday was warmer and the snow wetter. The little bit of snow last night was granular and really was not slick at all, in fact it kind of gave traction.
Two doves, did not look like a pair, flew around the wires above the grit area by the grain elevators on the edge of town.
A gray squirrel scurried, rather inexplicably, across the road by the corner tavern downtown. The bank thermometer read 18 degrees.
Back home, a squirrel slunk away along the porch rails from below my bird feeder. I had 12 degrees on my thermometer behind the garage.
Rambles have structure and cover.