Without much time to fish, and certainly willfulness burned out today, I niether marched the trail well upstream the South Branch Raritan, nor explored the downstream stretch, appealing to me yet. Days like today the value of wholesome, good, rewarding outings hits the spot by abscence. Got me thinking of returning to Mount Hope Pond tomorrow--possible maybe.
Deep holes here by the Three Bridges overpass, but I've caught only a couple of smallmouths in these specifically. Today I set my goal on one bass. Last cast I caught it, quickly cut the line with my top incisor against a tooth beneath, and released it with a hook in its tissue, but no blood--good survival odds. Naturally, my mood fell by my mistake of allowing the bass to take the killie just a little too long. But a second later a train horm blew nearby. I felt energy transfer, hope lift, but my perception conveyed the sound to my awareness jarringly, although as I walked out and back to the car the train's roar felt magnificent, like an enormously great living creature. Way back in Alexander the Great's time, for one example, the closest event to the sound of a thundering train would have been a thundering army.
I still think the bass will live. No sacrifice.