Moody White Eye Sope
It’s frosty. Fifteen degrees in the morning. Under a high shore, on the slopes of which a small village is spread, there are about thirty fidgets sitting on a frosty morning on ice more than a cozy TV chair. Boers crawl in the ice, smiles sparkle under a frosty mustache, someone is already warming up, pushing a neighbor heavily in the shoulder. He answers the same. Do not bite …
It doesn’t bite me either, and therefore I’m tired of looking for this elusive white-eyed sopa, I am sitting in a tent and chasing teas. The receiver purrs, in a tent warmed by the sun, it is warm and somehow cozy in the kitchen.
The nod of one of the fishing rods shook and I, having dropped the lid from a thermos with hot tea, was reaching for hooking. Ugh, you! .. It wasn’t worth fussing: the ruff, having bent its tail scantily, as if a soldier with a hint of salute, were looking at me with bulging eyes. Here it is … Volga fish, on a hook … And the local grandfather said that he had not done more than one hole before the hydroelectric station during the winter. As he breaks a lane in the first ice, so all winter and catches from it a bream, blue dander, pike perch, perch, and closer to spring – and a thick-bellied ide. There were times…
Meanwhile, it exceeded noon. I move closer to the shore rather out of obstinacy and desire to at least do something. I sit down thoroughly, giving the vow not to run anymore, not to fuss in vain. I put the donku and drop it into the next hole with a heavy “uralku” with a soak of blood so scarlet in the sun that you wonder how much the fish need? .. Above the mormyshka there is a leash and also with mormyshka, but made of white polystyrene. He looked, sinful, with one lucky fisherman.
Having adjusted my gear, I’ll climb into the tent. Already painfully lyutsya frost in combination with the breeze, pulling along the Volga. A microclimate is immediately created in the tent, and again comfortable in my small dwelling.
Knock-knock! .. The nodding guards on both fishing rods already clanged from sharp simultaneous bites, and, not knowing what kind of tackle to grab, I hooked at once with both hands and, throwing one fishing rod, I caught a heavy fish on the other. Consciousness simultaneously fixes that when cutting with the left hand, heaviness was also felt. A matter of chance, maybe the fish will not come down, it’s still hooked. The one I am fighting for is calm, although it is felt that it is not a trifle. The smooth elastic tremors of the fish remind us that the outcome of the fight is not yet clear, despite the fact that I have Japanese 0, 175 on the reels of fishing rods. I raised such fuss at the hole that I was afraid to cut the fishing line on the edge of the hole and let the fish go for a walk. From the second approach, the sopa is on the ice. Good! .. Not a bream, of course: more galloping, flatter, lop-eyed, but beautiful fish. One word – linen! ..
Moody White Eye Sope
Throwing it in a drawer and pushing the fishing line, the rings lying on the ice, I grab the left fishing rod. Then I gave a blunder! .. The gear needed to be rewound. While I pulled out a sop, the fishing line rings turned into a dense “beard”. Having taken out the fish a little less than the first, I throw the “beard” together with the fishing rod into the box and continue fishing with one fishing rod. Yes, and it would be useless to catch two – bites followed one after another. (Subsequently, I repeatedly became convinced of how inconsistent and unpredictable the biting of the sopa was. It was possible to sit for half a day without a single bite, and then to grin for an hour, as if for a whole day. And vice versa).
White Eye Sope
The fish was measured – one and a half mittens and more. There were many wrong bites. The nod shakes, as if in a fever, and you hook it up – it’s empty. Although it takes, apparently, a large fish. A trifle did not come across.
The time was already approaching at four in the afternoon, departure was soon, but the box was filled literally before our eyes. Excitement, fresh air, transparent gave the sunlit Volga – here they are simple joys, from which the soul is made kinder and cleaner.
I am walking along the trail. It’s easy on the soul, but in the box, dryly slapping its tails, the sopa is rolled over. And she’s not so cunning, just the fish has its own habits, somewhat different from the habits that encroach on it fishers. It remains to snooze an hour in the car, and at home – immediately in the hottest bath and in bed. In the morning, after fishing, there is still some lethargy in the body, but then you feel a surge of strength. Speaking trite: that’s what it means to relax! .. Although sometimes after many kilometers of “rest” on the virgin snow the legs do not hold. But still – long live the crackling frosts! They only heat the blood, do not allow it to turn into a sluggish neutral water. And let the old snowstorm hiss, in the morning she will choke on the snow and lie in silence on the city. Fishing buses and cars will again buzz, figures of indefatigable fishermen will blacken on the deserted streets. The miracle will happen again …