… In the light of thunder-storm flashes, like a native of inferno, a bristling clod of four kilograms of glance at us looked from us in the net …
For two hours we lashed the quiet expanse of the reservoir near Dubova with lures, but everything was in vain – the pike did not take. Either because the water was clarified to a stream purity, and the baubles in it burned with hot fire, or perhaps because of the appearance of a full moon at night, the fish rejected our tricks. In a word, a fisherman will always find a worthy explanation for his failure. And then Nikolai, whom we met on the shore, suddenly pulled a nylon canal from under the boat bench. Water splashed in it.
– Are there any circles? He asked, opening the bowl.
I shook my head and looked into the can. Small fish swam there.
“Karasiki,” Nikolai explained. – Before fishing, the little son pulled in a puddle near the house in the village. Just in case, I took it with me. Now, maybe they will come in handy.
Three mugs of eight were allocated to me by Nikolai, and in order to have five tackles, I broke off a hefty branch from a tree sticking out of the water, sliced it and, having halved it into two equal logs, cut out the grooves for the fishing line. I have already had to do such log mugs. They helped me out on the lakes and on the Volga. The tackle is simple: you wind a line with a tee and sinker on a log, put a fish on it, and let it go through the water.
I suggested putting the mugs on the river bank, where the depth reached ten meters. In winter, “pike” were usually exhibited here in piles in the depths.
We start gear near the edge of the river shelf at a depth of three meters. Further to the shore stretch the former flood meadows. Now over them one and a half to two meters of water.
The sunset was already fading over a distant birch tree standing in the water. From the Volga, the buzz of a motorboat was occasionally heard and again everything froze. It was quiet that evening. Somehow unrealistic was this silence not far from a large village, where dogs did not bark now, axes did not knock, roosters and cows were silent. Without a single flame, black huts crept aside. Flooding zone – this is the name.
There was almost no wind, and our circles moved, carried away by a weak current. Their red “hats” in the evening light on the water seemed black, no different from my logs in color. But what is it? A white spot in the circles of Nikolai lit up. We hastily sail there and see a quick promotion of an inverted circle. When the supply of fishing line ran out, he suddenly tipped to one side and quickly went towards the pit. Catching the fugitive, Nikolai dragged a small pike on the fishing line, taking it without a sucker, “by the collar”.
“First,” he smiled. – Your second will be.
But again his circle lit up in whiteness, and the same pike jumped in the boat.
After waiting for Nikolai to make upturned mugs, I direct the boat to my gear and rearrange them to a depth of six meters.
Sunset quickly faded. Heavy rain clouds crawled into his scarlet strip. It was becoming stuffy, and we began to pack up. In a hurry, we wind up the mugs. One of my logs was without fishing line. Stretched, she steeply went into the water. Holding it, I feel a dead hook. Snag … In the dark, I never saw the rotation of my cunning circle. Sailing to another log, we suddenly heard a splash. The log, rising at one end, quickly spun around itself. This can be seen in the short knots left on it, which simply could not be cut flush with a knife. As if alive, a log huddled in the water and suddenly floated under the boat.
– Catch, Nikolai! – I reach out with my hand under the side, but the cunning “circle” has already disappeared, scraped along the boat’s skin and appeared from the other side. Nikolai, catching him, hastily handed me a fishing line.
– On, miss yourself, so that later …
He did not finish, but I understood him. It is more offensive when your potential prey leaves the wrong hands. Then it seems that you yourself would have definitely caught it.
Surprised by the unexpected severity, I choose a fishing line. Rybina walked at the bottom, stubbornly not wanting to go up. Realizing that the fishing line was sweeping over the snag, I switch from stern to bow and try to pull the tackle. Gone!
– Op-op, so-and-so! – conjures Nicholas in a thick mustache, sternly moving his eyebrows and preparing a net. Splashed under the boat, and a hefty belly turned white on black water. At the same time, the sky flashed over us and a little later cracked. In the light of lightning flashes, as if coming from inferno, a bristling clump of four kilograms looked at us from the net in a big-eyed way.
We sailed back under the thundering streams of thunder.