I reckon this whole “Urban Fishing” thing ain’t just a peculiar American pastime. It’s a mighty big deal in the States, with over 50 million folks casting their lines into the recreational fishing pond every darn year.

Now, let’s picture this urban fishing in the ‘Valley of the Sun’ during summer – sounds like quite the peculiar obsession, don’t it? July in the Phoenix Area can scorch up to a blistering 46°C, and trying to wrangle a big one under that relentless sun? Takes a true cowboy at heart, if you ask me.

But there I was, in one valley suburb in July, capturing photos of these fishermen angling in the sun, hoping for a good catch. Ah, the things we do for the love of fishing!

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The incongruity of these young fisher peoples flocking out in the blasting July sun inspired me to write a little verse.

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In city suburbs, where the concrete waters flow,

Lies a scene most peculiar, where the urban fishers go.

Casting lines into waters, reflecting paloverde green,

Chasing shadows and whispers, an angler's urban dream.


With rods and reels in hand, they gather at the pond,

Not by the sea of Galilee, but near the grid’s concrete glare.

"Follow me," cries the modern Ahab, obsessed with his quest,

Not for Moby, but for catfish, in this desert of the West.


"Repent," they mutter softly, as they cast their lines in vain,

Seeking schools of sunfish in the city's refuse drain.

For the fissures of the pond run deep,  patience is worn,

They seek a fighter fish obsessed with worm.


Fishers of men in a land so dry, where the sun beats harsh and strong,

Their bate is cast in empty pools, where nothing much belongs.

The heat of the Arizona desert makes the pavement sizzle and fry,

Yet still, they stand with hope and line, under the blazing sky.


In the pools of murky water, where refuse pools erratic,

They find their quarry wriggling, a sight both sad and slick.

The limited pleasure of dining on urban fish so lean,

A feast fit not for kings, but for those who dare to dream.


The suburb hums with life around, indifferent to their plight,

The fishers' silent vigil kept through day and into night.

Human obsessions mirrored here, in the lines and hooks they cast,

Chasing fleeting shadows, echoes of the past.


The absurdity of urban fishing, in this man-made pond of stone,

Is a testament to human folly, and to the dreams we've grown.

Yet there's a certain magic, in this strange and futile chase,

A glimpse of deeper meaning, in the most unlikely place.


So, cast your line into the fray, and let your heart be bold,

For in the grottos of the pond, the greatest tales take hold.

And though the catch may be small, and the summer long and bleak,

The urban fishers of our times, their silent vigil keep.

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For you city folks sweatin’ it out under the scorching sun, I’ve rustled up a perfect tune to fire up your fishing fever. The video is in Scottish Gaelic, but don’t worry, I’ve thrown in some English Subtitles for y’all. Saddle up and enjoy the show!

Fuadaichean  (‘Clearances’) has some pretty impressive players, featuring the talented Karen Matheson of Capercaillie, singers Julie Fowlis and Kathleen MacInnes, the one and only singer and broadcaster Mary Ann Kennedy, and last but not least, ex-Simple Minds composer and keyboardist, Mick MacNeil.

And hey, did you know that the original English version of ‘The Clearances Again’ was released as a protest against the Scottish Government’s policy to make ten per cent of Scotland’s waters into Highly Protected Marine Areas? It’s all about the fishing, in the end!

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Lang may yer lum reek!

Cheers, nca

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