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The other afternoon I took Jeremiah and his friends Juan, Brian and Fernando to a local bass lake. It's called a bass lake to distinguish it from the trout lakes that dot the area, and--so they say--because it has some nice bass lurking in its depths. There are certainly many people who come here with their big, shiny boats, Ugly Sticks, and giant tackle boxes full of lures and soft baits. At least one of them has assured me that he's caught five pounders out of there.
As for us, so far the biggest bass we've caught have been about 5 inches long, like the one Jeremiah caught on this trip. And we catch those only because they happened at that moment to shove aside the teeming little bluegills that afflict the lake.
But that's my jaded view. For the boys, this is a fishing paradise. On a hot day like the one when we were there they can fish and swim--and swim while they're fishing. And catch fish hand over fist. That's what they did for a solid five hours, and they've bugged me ever since to take them back.
Nice. Very nice. I will take them back sometime soon. The great thing was that for the first time they all baited their own hooks and took off their own fish. So there's a chance I could take my rod and do a little fishing of my own. Maybe I could pull up one of those lunkers. At the very least I could add my catch of bluegill to the stringer. This time Juan and Brian and Fernando took the fish home. They insisted that their Dad keeps all the fish, even the little ones, and even if that's not exactly true it can't hurt to thin out the population a little. But of course I think maybe I could catch some bigger ones, enough for us to take home, fillet, and fry up.
Happy boys catching fish, me catching fish, maybe a fish fry--come to think of it, that's a pretty good definition of a fishing paradise.