On crucian fishing, in the ancient village of Salobelyak, Vyatka province.
This time I took with me only a five-meter “float” and a homemade feeder. His gatekeeper, the quyvertip, showed the thinnest bite, swinging against the background of the water like a float. The lateral installation of the quiver initially offers to stare only at the top in the reeds and frogs croaking in the mud. No landscape before the eyes and the colors of dawn.
Also, my feeder does not need replaceable tops, because it is strong and unbending, like all clumsy gear of the Soviet era, when they did not notice kilogram pikes on the fishing line. Only when the “keel of three” sits down, then it became clear – took the pike. And here – he threw the feeder, reeled up the wicker and – everything, the tackle is alert, facing the dawn. Almost like on my Obi-3 among the Volga, only the bell is missing. But instead, you can attach a feeder bells. Let not my castor feed the Paleolithic era by 80 meters, but for some reason I always had forty. But put at least a 150-gram feeding trough, the spinning will not grunt, and the gatehouse as it was a bit to bite remained. Continue reading
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. Continue reading
Pike never managed to persuade high atmospheric pressure these days. Although in places remote, on the Volga and Vetluga, she, apparently, still came across, especially to the one who was looking for. I, on a boat, walked around our nearest city places near Shiryaykovo and the cable-stayed suspension bridge, where in the summer I caught pike and perch, but this time I only caught a half pound of lace. Released. Where is he going? On the fry it is small, on the ear – even more so. Let it grow.
He spat, drank tea from a thermos, packed up the boat, and headed home. I dug up dung beetles right outside the house, as they say, in the backyard. The house was recently bought, new, there are still no secret corners and any sheds where you can always find under the boards and the old slate even crawling out, even under leaflets and dung beetles. But I created, so to speak, a miraculous monument, but simply a bunch of leaves and all kinds of tops, where I regularly threw food waste.
It seems cold in the mornings already to gray hair on the grass, rowanberries rustle with frost, glass puddles choke underfoot, crunching with young ice, and dug up his treasured pile, having previously removed the cabbage leaves, and there the orange-striped dung beetles and all seasoned, peppy from the frost and most important “Bundles,” so to speak. Continue reading