For a long time I did not go out into the Volga expanse, where boiling ramparts run, and a fresh wind fills my chest, smelling of warm water and the special smell of a large river. Just as the motor “Obi-3” did not become light-winged, so less and less I visit the fairway. But the channels of the islands archipelago have their own interesting life, where there are the same Volga expanses, winds and heavy waves, but you can go into a quiet bay laden with snags, where suddenly a strong predator’s trunk will turn out, a weighty predator will splinter on the water, and rush off scattered flocks of frightened floaters. At the border of quiet water and the wave swell, the castmaster can grab a perch, throw a yellow-eyed pike or a yellow-eyed pike heavily upset the fishing line and then, a little closer to the shore, in the overgrowth thicket, a golden rudd will suddenly peck. This diverse fishing can be even more interesting if you look for bream. But a large one rarely takes, scammers are more interested in maggots and worms.
Here, on the islands and in the canals, days go measuredly, in the sleepy rustling of limestone and birches, the lapping of incoming waves and the murmur of diesel engines on the Volga. And on red evenings from sunset, silence is broken by slaps and blows of fish tails in the mirror bays.
I know there are a lot of bream here. He comes across a network of fishermen and local residents, but does not want to peck at a bait. If you get on a boat along the edge of an island strip of grass, feed the place and throw a couple of fishing rods, putting them on board the boat, then after some time you can wait for the bite of the undergrower or the breeding ground. Together with these flat “flakes”, the roach-lane begins to fiddle with the bait. But where does this thick-lipped and golden-sided seasoned bream go? I tried to catch both semolina and corn. But on the Volga, albeit a shallow one, which is part of the Cheboksary reservoir, the fish took only worms and maggots. And the planting nozzle of small rivers did not seduce even the skinny scavenger. Although on the forest river Bolshoi Kokshage it is often only bream and crucian that were taken to it. Big and small rivers have different characters.
The remaining half of the day I plowed the bay on a boat, trying to find pits and furrows at the bottom. If he found, then he again threw his two “floats” and was impatiently waiting for a real bite. But then the place was completely lifeless and empty, then ruffes overpowered, then they pecked the shores, and in the grass and along its edge, where there was a hole, the float tipped and drowned the rudd. Occasionally, small scavengers came up, and then fishing became more fun. But not a single bream was at least a pound.
On the island, having lunch with cold fish soup and sausage sandwiches, I set about cooking something like a gatehouse for an improvised onboard donkey from spinning, but lay down in the breeze and dozed off.
Woke up already on a quiet night. A myriad of stars burned above me, it was calm and warm, almost stuffy. Over the edge of the shallow woods of a neighboring island, the moon shone coldly. A silver path ran across it from the water, breaking from splashes and circles on the water of the melting trifle-melting-point. In stuffy silence, some sounds were heard, reminiscent of champing and gurgling at the same time. These strange sounds were heard from across the bay. There, the coast was in reeds, and the approaches to the island consisted of continuous thickets of hornwort, water lilies, and strips of mud, where in places there were small windows of clean water. It was from there that this rather loud champing was heard, as if the pigs were busy in the warm muddy mud. It was relatively light from the full moon, and I went to that mysterious place where obviously someone was eating hard under cover of night.
As I quietly did not approach the shore, the chomping still subsided. But it was evident that the reeds were moving. Just as quietly, I returned to my parking lot and took a fishing rod, and captured worms with maggots. Barely rearranging his legs, he crept up to the reed place, took aim and threw a fishing rod in the window among the thick mud. The float was visible on the mirror water illuminated by the moon. But suddenly he ran along the surface and scuttled deep. I hooked and pulled the fishing rod to me. The water began to boil and a heavy fish splashed on the mud. So right on the mud I brought her ashore. It was a tench … Here you have the Volga fishing.
In the morning I caught a couple more lines and began to prepare for the exit to the already big water.