Morgan Lyle of The Fly Line reported, corroborated and commented on recent developments in striped bass conservation in a way that I had hoped to but didn’t, and so I’m reblogging his piece here:
The website space.com has an article up detailing the lasting effects of the interstellar object, estimated between five and miles in diameter, that crashed into earth at the spot now known as the Chesapeake Bay Crater.
Without this epochal event, there is no Chesapeake Bay and no striped bass fishing as we know it today. Stuff to think about, walking the beach.
via Moldy Chum
I hope every striped bass angler out there sees it and feels the same awful kick in the gut at the prospect.
John has a 37 Contender. John’s 37 Contender has twin 250-hp Yamahas on the transom. A 37 Contender with 500-hp of propulsion in the hands of someone capable is a serious and righteous machine.
Sure it costs some coin to take that ride, but what else are you going to spend it on for kicks? Drugs? Invest in an alpaca farm?
Before the fish is even at hand, thinking about the next one. Getting that one off and getting out there again before it all dies down.
The fish at hand might feel debased by it all, if it even had a cerebral cortex, but as such it’s probably OK just being not dead.
Sorry about that. As Snoop says it, “You gotta get yours but fool I gotta get mine.”
To steal some lines from another song, Too much of everything is just enough.
After September 11, 2001, longtime friends of my in-laws sent around an email detailing a new emergency response plan. Should all forms of modern communication cut out once again, we were to follow one simple directive: Head to McSorley’s.
Located at 15 East 7th Street in the once dangerous but now hipster Lower East Side, McSorley’s serves beer. You must buy two–either light or dark–and you must keep drinking to keep your seat. When I first moved to the area we went once a month on Saturday afternoon, crammed around tiny wooden tables and ordered rounds. And plates of cheese and crackers, with slices of onion and extra sharp mustard. There was nothing hip, cool, insider, or happening about it but to me it represented the best of New York.
Until 1998 when I caught a striped bass.
The best essay published to date on the city was was written in 1949 by E.B White. The best book detailing its modern infrastructure is The Powerbroker by Robert Caro. There are countless others but no matter how many books you read, nothing will emotionally prepare you for the moment when you look up to see the other passengers move from one end of a crowded subway car to get away from the half-naked, face-painted man twisting animal balloons. And he’s sitting next to you.
I once lived in Hoboken, New Jersey, which a friend of mine from Brooklyn referred to as, “The Gateway to the West.”
There is the idea that New York is the center of the Universe. (And the idea, pointed out by residents, that the least “New York” area of the city is its most visited.) This is just an article of faith, but at least one aspect about New York is grounded in fact: the heart of the city sits on an island in the tidal section of a striped bass spawning river.
The young fish that show themselves in the backwaters of the boroughs and suburbs of the Sound each spring are Hudson fish. News travels fast in the big city (and everywhere) and if you blink you’ve missed it.