When the moon burns and takes burbot
Night burbot fishing. Preparing for fishing. The alarm of fate rings in the sky, and blood is burning with excitement …
Burbot night fishing
Night fishing requires some preparation for frost. December is in the yard. The first month of winter. Often it will charge a drizzling cold rain all night, causing depression and, as if launching cold, damp hands under a fishing jacket. This is the worst option for spending the night by the river and fishing for burbot. No matter how you cover yourself with a cloak, you will still be raw. Especially if there is no thermal underwear under the winter clothing or it is of poor quality. It is better not to wear thermal underwear with a high percentage of wool or cotton under the suit. Here, oddly enough, thermal underwear made of artificial materials has the best hygroscopicity.
Requires night fishing and a large number of firewood, especially large and heavy. Best of all for a Siberian nodya is a moored floating oak, which brings a swift current to the shores of Bolshaya Kokshagi near the village of Starozhilsk. These oak ridges light up long and hard, but if they light up, they burn slowly and hotly, all night. They smolder or grind more in their scarlet heat, which gives red-hot coals. And the sand around such a fire is heated, like a stove. If you then move the fire and put a tent in its place, having previously removed the coals and laying the lapnik, then you will sleep or lie comfortably, as if on a Russian stove.
So the evening lit up over the river. It’s time to get ready for night fishing. We lay out the gear in the sand. At the chosen place, we unwind with a reel twenty meters of fishing line with free rings, bait the hook of a “sharp” wire, a ruff or a lobe of leaves. For a long time already we put only one leash at the sinker, since there is less confusion, and the burbot most often takes it on him, this closest hook to the sinker with dashing worms flying over the course … Throw a heavy pig-load near. These twenty meters are just enough to get from the sandy spit to the dump from the roll to the pit. Throw a little, and the hooks reliably yell into the stale spruces and oaks, which usually fall from the steep pit shore washed by high water. We stick strong willow rods in the sand of the braid, but at the same time with a flexible tip, in the splitting of which the fishing line is pinched. We throw the showers in the still light in order to “shoot” along the length of the fishing line, otherwise in the dark by the light of a flashlight you can “put” the tackle in the snag opposite. Finally, a sinker flopped in a given area, circling circles in swift water. You can select the fishing line before pulling and hang the bell. Tackle takes on the form of a wary and serious. She is already in another world, where a strong and careful fish walks, muskrats prowl and crayfish creep along the bottom.
Burbot night fishing
There is probably no primitive thrower, but there is no burbot in night fishing and it is more convenient. When the ice rink falls onto sand and water, a clear night will fall, only on the zakidka it’s easiest to find a bite, because the bell “yells”, it happens so that you can hear it about two hundred meters from the forest, where you shabby and protecting your eyes from sharp knots, you collect fin wood. And the same ringing tosses you from the couch, who has accepted from the stock and dozed off in the dying heat of the oak block Nody. And this ringing, like a bell of fate, beats in your temples, and you rush to the zakidku in the dark, risking to turn your neck on a cool guy, and you don’t need any castmaster, Rapala or jigs, including your favorite turntables and oscillators … The alarm bell rings in heaven, and excitement burns with blood … But it was just a nibble of a snotty ruff or a burbot tadpole … That’s probably how the fishermen become the ones they happen to talk about by twisting their fingers at the temple. But they, unfortunate pragmatists and cynics mocking fishermen, cannot explain how the winter night piercingly smells of melancholy and delight in front of the enormous Moon, a pale face, a high boundless abyss above its head, in which cold stars burn; in front of an eagle owl, scary-eyed, wailing at night on a black dead wood. And from the impossibility to share this enthusiasm with someone (words are powerless and superfluous), you just go up to the fire, fading in the night, pour yourself vodka and quietly wait for the next call of the zakidka, this primitive and old tackle, far removed from high-tech spinning hunting …