The night burbot fishing failed, but the perches pecked quite decent.
Bright and quiet beauty of golden autumn reigned around. The evening light lay on the bathes of birch trees and oak trees, highlighted the contrasting shadows and sharply outlined the drylands. In the clear air there was the bitterness of wilting and at the same time – the freshness of cold herbs, touched by evening dew. It smelled of icy water, clarified to tear transparency. Somewhere cautious footsteps were heard, a crack of a dry branch, and then suddenly, as if a herd had passed through a forest … And this, it seems, was a herd. It turns out that the path is damaged! .. In some places I went around it along the grassy roadsides, and sometimes I had to climb the hills in order to go along the level ground, and not break my legs along the potholes and loose knolls. Boars … Pigs in the literal and figurative sense … After all, they would have dug in a lowland, under oaks. There are enough acorns and roots. Put down only the snout of your ravenous insatiable. No, you have to ruin the way for the fisherman and the hunter. What should I look for on the trampled path? .. Then it only dawned on me: it is good for wild families here in desolate solitude, because of this the path is destroyed in front of man. Don’t go, they say, our places marked for love, for free life, and for walking piggy kids … Smart, hell … They live, after all, almost next to the city. And there are a lot of ducks. And, as it turned out, beavers. It is necessary to grind such a tree! .. A man will not grab it … I almost managed to photograph a very large beaver floating on the river, but while I brought it closer I managed to dive, ZOOM, cautious. They, beavers, apparently built a dam on the pit I was walking towards, which was not immediately recognizable as a structure. At first I thought that in a narrow place it caused the fin and quicksand logs to be large water. But, if you look closely, you can determine the smart organization of work and the correct design of the structure. That is why the pit became wide, how wide can it be on a small river.
Here I am in the pit. On water circles from fattening bleak disperse. On the shallows, overgrown with mud and grass, perches still chase a silver trifle-melting pot. Silence … Only a raven drops its sad – “crowns …” from a height, and the highway buzzes in the distance. I begin to prepare my tackle for burbot fishing – snacks. Confused, I unwind the fishing line from the reel, lay out the rings in the sand, make worms, chopped fish, a plank, slices of ruff. All these delicacies for the autumn burbot were brought with them, the fish were caught in advance.
Somehow unexpectedly, heavy gray clouds were dragging around, twilight fell, Night came blacker than black. And I, already in the dark, begin to prepare the night. I’m not going to sleep – I have to wait for the burbot to bite, and therefore I just make a bonfire from a small dry land, and for a long time I heat the sand with a strong fire, buzzing and sparking into the sky. Then I move the fire away, and in its place I remove all the coals, and then I lay the rods and dry grass, almost soft hay on them. It turns out a soft couch heated from below. A bonfire is blazing nearby. Soon I add three heavy and dry logs to it – on top of each other. Between tightly lying logs, the thrust is not strong, although it can be regulated by moving the logs away. The heat from such an oak fire is slow and strong. In Siberia, this slowly burning and hot bonfire is called Nodia. Heavy oak ridges can smolder all night, like a stove …
All the time I listen to the sounds of the night, and suddenly the bell will ring, the bell will rattle. I did not wait for cash grip, although I spent the night by the fire in a delicate wakefulness. Apparently, there was no burbot here, or “hunters” with electric rods knocked it out. Predators without conscience …
The morning came again clear, with a clear transparent sky and hoarfrost on the grass. The gold of the foliage opened, at first it faded and timidly, but with the tanning sun, the foliage flashed with yellow and red bright colors.
And then suddenly the fishing line of the zakidushka sank, and then threw it up. The alarm bell struck and the brass bell rang. Poklevka! .. Having run up to the zakidka, I quickly choose a fishing line. Something rests on her disagreeably. Perch! .. Probably with a pound and a half weight. He took it, striped, on a living track, which, apparently, somehow sat on a large hook with a worm prepared for burbot. And here the greedy perch could not resist seeing a tender fish on a hook … And also – to the cage. And I take out a telescopic rod, put a piece of a worm on a small hook-and-eye hook and catch a char melter with bleak. From time to time, perch, smaller than the first, but quite worthy for the fall fish, peck at the caught fish. Failed night burbot fishing, so at least take my soul here! ..