Logs Mugs
... 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…

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We go fishing
The technique of fishing on the "bulldozer". What kind of fish is being caught. The similarities and differences of the "bulldozer" from non-mountable mormyshek. The versatility of the bait. Despite…

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Proper installation of a floating boil
How to mount a floating boilie and remove the "idle" bites? Basic rules to improve the performance of bites. Novice anglers often encounter the problem of “blank” bites when fishing…

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hundred meters

When a friend is under the ice

This morning, Sergei clearly caught Vitaly on the first ice. The fish seemed to go around the holes of his friend and took only from him. When another large fish fluttered at Sergei’s hole, Vital broke through. For about five minutes he cursed the fate of the tin, interspersing lamentations with juicy-catchy interjections, and in the end he kicked the snotty ruff lying alone at the hole and, throwing a box behind his back, moved to the fairway.

Sergey was strangled with laughter – a hefty kid burst out laughing like a boy, but understood Vitaly with his heart: he had to envy himself, looking at a successful neighbor carrying fish one after another, and there were only three meters to the neighbor’s hole …

– Vitaly! – shouted after Sergey. – Sit next, haste. Have fun together!

But Vitaly, without turning around, waved his hand and walked quickly.

Again, a large scammer took Sergey, but the joy of his capture seemed to fade, was incomplete. But what seemed to be missing? And the fish bite, and the ice is warm, as in the blessed season of the Indian summer. Continue reading

Rye bread
Rybina obviously fed on top. How to take it? Today I am on Rutka. Sorog has already passed. Pecked mostly local fish. Now the top of the donkey jerked from…

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Fisherman, think: do you become a poacher?
An instructive story about how a young fisherman grew up and became a poacher. It is especially depressing that there is no fiction in it, one truth. Quiet summer morning.…

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Books in the fishing dugout
... opening the dugout, we saw books on the shelves ... This was not in any dugout in which we had to spend the night ... This morning we are…

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Logs Mugs
... 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…

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