Rye bread
Rybina obviously fed on top. How to take it? Today I am on Rutka. Sorog has already passed. Pecked mostly local fish. Now the top of the donkey jerked from…

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When a friend is under the ice
This morning, Sergei clearly caught Vitaly on the first ice. The fish seemed to go around the holes of his friend and took only from him. When another large fish…

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How to find your autumn fishing
A sad time ... It is unlikely ... An onboard fishing rod and a "warm" perch. A good technique is a bike. A golden autumn, a chilly morning and, it…

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On the channel near the Horseshoe

Pike is envious of someone else’s hunt. Tired of the grip of little things, built a “tandem” …

Today I go spinning along the channel near the island of Horseshoe. There was a short rain, the sun came out and everything around me steamed. I move along the coastal grass and from time to time I check the lure’s warm water. Having exhausted the supply of running and tested oscillators, I turn to turntables and wobblers. And then some exotic jelly-like worms, peeped in fishing films, come into play, but then I leave these delights to athletes, professionals. I’m not quite a retrograde and take something useful for myself, apply it. Now there are a lot of all sorts of literature, manuals, useful, of course, but most often being a compilation, not quite author’s. And there is no desire to rack their brains over all these expensive new products, because, unlike professionals, often narrowly focused (spinning, for example), I like fishing the most diverse, in unexpected and fresh places. Having lashed the channel up and down, I get out to the shore – to swallow a seagull. Having set up a tent on a wind-blown shoreline, I climb into it, lifting it up, and quietly fall asleep under the purr of the receiver and the grunt of waves on the banks.

I wake up from the screeching cry of seagulls and the anxious feeling that I’m sleeping instead of being on the water … Get out of the tent to the fresh wind, smelling of fish! .. Seagulls scolded over the canal, falling into the water with snow-white clumps. The water that was quiet after the rain in some places boiled in silver spray, and then the seagulls yelled with even more evil bazaar voices. Perch eagerly hunted for shallows and reach …

I catch, again in the old fashioned way, a small “tandem” of a spinning sinker with a white cambric, a tee and a hook higher with the same cambric. I wait, when the next “boiler” boils, I throw for it and spend a blende. Heaviness on the fishing line and – just a couple of perches. I took the perch quite actively, but it was too small, although once with my son we got here on a zhor weighty okush.

Tired of the grip of little things, I build again the “tandem” (as then with my son) from the vibrating yellow Senezh spinner and the Aglia Meps turntable. And again there was a grip, but the specimen was an order of magnitude larger. Moreover, bites occurred more often than with the first version of the snap. And then someone resiliently stopped the spinner, as if a fuel was hooked (what’s the matter here, in a flooded forest, it’s usual), but then it moved hard, as if I were dragging this very fuel. The braid sometimes allows you to do this, if only it would not “grunt” a swivel or a leash. But here the severity was clearly alive. A rather large pike entered the fishing line, albeit calmly, as if by virtue of its solidity … Perches in a panic “rained down” in different directions, jumping out of the water along with a trifle – their victims. Having settled, the pike was in the net.

The fact that pike is envious of someone else’s hunt, I was convinced back then, with my son. Similarly, they hunted recklessly perches, until, finally, patience also burst at the spotted predator, albeit deformed in warm water. The only difference is that then I caught four rather large pikes in the places of perch hunting, and now only one. Probably the loss of fish, its density, simply affected.

Perchs scattered somewhere, spreading panic and fear, and I went to look for them. But the duct was empty. Apparently, the pike that had not slept enough in irritation dispersed the entire prickly chantrap and again lay down under the driftwood, ignoring my pieces of iron and other toys. Only one naughty little grass, not cooling down, it seems, from irritation and excitement, hit after the bauble. Feeling a hoax, she spat out a piece of iron, but still caught on one hook of the tee. She broke off already in the boat, because, seeing the wrong grip, I took it not by landing net, but simply tore it out of the water, like a frivolous roasting-plank…

Sunset softly melted in the mirror duct. The sun was falling behind the spruce of the Roasted Mound, apparently settling down there, in the gully and gray thicket, for the night. Or maybe it rolled further, tired for the day.

From the side of Kozmodemyansk, the open Volga, one heard either intensifying, then subsiding monotonous tapping of the engines of the ships. These sounds did not disturb the harmony of a quiet evening in the ducts, but rather complemented something in the sleepy stupor of summer twilight. In a sedge in shallow water, someone brought in, shaking water lilies and flapping circles on the water, and then suddenly hit under the shore, burst out, and again everything calmed down. It died from the island with earth heated during the day and at the same time with the freshness of herbs and berries.

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