Forest lake Moody as women. Even rich fish, they freeze under the ice, and the bite on these lakes is sluggish, unhappy. Lougher is no exception. And so, going at it, we are not expected on “crocodiles”. We’ve seen dead in the flooded forests of the Cheboksary reservoir, where the hole smells of rotting wood, and caught pike on the ice fall small greenish leeches.
Strange lake, mysterious… I always felt the presence of a force, forest and lake Owner, the local woods, zbacnik, forest-dweller… And when he constructed a dugout on the hill near the lake, and when I slept in winter in this hot heated dugout, coming to cool off in the cold, feeling the heavy gaze from the thicket. But the lake took care of me and gave the fish. And when I almost abandoned it, came back to find the hut with the broken roof, and nearby was a clearing, in which lay the trees turned out with roots or broken some terrible force. There were quite untouched pine. Even the branches were not broken. One time I was beaten and destroyed the lake “Elektrotechniki”. Maybe enraged local Host, poxviral, broken all around, spat and walked away from their homes?
Fatal lake in addition, the fatal. Large, but very shallow; it has claimed one life and on ice and on open water. Here in the fall and in the 13th year of the drowned fisherman on it, rolling over on the boat.
But then on the other. We have gathered here once for the bass, you miss the forest air, smelling of turpentine and rosemary. And pike fishing? It will give the capricious lake, always dispensing with the burden of big fish.
On Luijer we went out in the middle of the day. All around sour in a damp fog-drizzle. Pripadaya at the low clouds, bluish, filled with water, and then poured on ice a handful of jets-fountains.
Metres in fifty from the shore a flock of angry sparrows ruffled up a few fishermen. Too cranks like us. They were lifting black konichek with your finger, dubbed by wags “the Congolese,” and carelessly throwing them into the puddles on the ice. Yeah, this something big! Pulls-pulls, well?! Cliff… Cleanly done.
And here is the third bait is drifting. — fiercely waving fisherman.
— Who takes it? — we are interested in.
— Yeah… get it On the perch did not seem like. “Slick” feel, probably, — with melancholy speaks angler.
So-o-o, that’s interesting. Once the jig someone bites, so the ice may be and whoever may want to “eat” the bait on the tee. His feet walked faster.
We soon put a dozen zherlits in the Gulf at the river Pools on the opposite Bank of the lake. Live bait was easy to catch: bass kind of freaked out and without claims took on a bare jig with a plastic tube.
I have long been interested one curious fact: in the lake, but black as a firebrand perch, light, sandy whale, reaching a weight of three pounds. One such whale, which weighed two pounds, I tried after wilting to cut with an ordinary kitchen knife, but after several failed attempts took a hunting knife is to strong and thick skin was lake perch. But why these beauties do not take on the ice, ignoring the jig, trolling and live bait?
Meanwhile night was falling. With hog on ice pulled coolness. The clouds seemed to have settled even lower and, unable to withstand its own weight, raw hats have nolabels on the tops of the pines, right there and settled down for the night. On the gray ice sulkily sullen tackles, tucked beneath her wet boxes. Are these tripods, something seen in his lifetime. Time and again they had to withstand fierce jerks ognenovski pike reservoir. And now, on a small lake, the battle of the tackles were somehow inappropriate, ridiculous, like smelled of gunpowder weapons at the exhibition of national economy.
— Time to sleep, fell asleep bull… — fake falsetto handed Sergei, and we looked the last time a scatter of zherlits, climbed through the snow to break the alder-tree deadwood for the night.
Well, like all: of firewood and for a couple of nights is enough, on the coals, like a sweaty man, sweat a kettle. But still fairly light.
— Sergei, let’s go, check imitation fish, lazy I offer, without, however, reluctant to get up, and not hoping for a positive response. Who wants to burlacha raw copyinto wasted? Pike will still be here, almost did not take the ice. After all, not the Volga.
— The legs just break, also lazily responsible friend, but somehow gets up, and here we are, cursing everything in the world, trampling the path to the Bay.
On ice it was even brighter than in the forest. And in this evening light, as if on parade, snapped the flags zherlits… Eight of them I counted!
Part zherlits was unwound fishing line and bait fish but we shot four pikes. It was short and Golden fishes with a steep nape, almost a pink belly and bright red fins. One tackle we discovered on ice. Somehow substance the predator defeated the tackle and dragged under the water. Here’s a small peat lake…
…Thrilled in the hearth coals. The sides of fireplaces, a narrow bunk, a rough table. Bunks for sooty walls laid on each other logs. No roof. That’s the whole puppet show, where we camped for the night. It was built by local people who come here to prick with a fork ROE pike. Later we will dig next to this fun puppet show on pure hill dugout. Fold it wall of clear, dry pine sticks. The first dugout will inhabit a curious mouse. At night she would scratch and rattle the dishes. And then here will come a people, different people. One night, I will say thanks to this house. Another, leaving, take away the old, but shadowsize in bad weather outside plaseska, utensils stainless steel, kettle, even soap. Then all I’ll have to hide. Third, not knowing for what, living cut down a beautiful pine tree that stood near the dugout. And next is full of dead wood… But it will be later.
In the morning the weather changed. This was evident by prosnulsya the whitish sky in the stars Yes significantly affected our sides, when I zaznobina from the cold walls, which were crawling frost.
We go out on the ice and sit down for catching konichek. Liftings of flags is no more. Not seen whether us yesterday? No, backpacks are pike. This confirms that the lake has big fish and it takes, and doubts in many urban anglers are caused by the shallowness of Lugera. The depth of the Bay is small, about a meter and a half, however, as around the lake. Only in one place in the reeds there are three meters deep. But there is, apparently, creeping marsh gas from the bottom, and die liars on Gerlich.
The perches and peck fun often. Soon I had enough bait fish. Lower the jig to the bottom and put the bait. Tired of pulling the little thing. From the receiver — my faithful companion on fishing trips in the loneliness flow like the melody of some distant “band”, in the pure sound of which dissolving of the divine for solo soprano saxophone. I drink tea from a thermos and admire the morning colors. Sergey seems to be asleep at the hole.
Dry click, especially audible in the cold air, brought us back to reality. Twenty meters tremble in the morning breeze the red box of my tackles!.. I run to tackle, but at ten meters stopped, then went on carefully. At shallow depths it would not panic, my dear, the noise of steps.
Coil tackles while real. Only the line shudders, arching loop, again leaving the ice. Holds pike the bait in its mouth, crumples it, and will strike her at this point — go, just to make sure…
Finally, pike doubts disappeared, and the coil made the first turnover, and then spun incessantly, throwing away the fishing line. It’s time!.. Strike and feel serious resistance lacustrine fishes. After two or three of the leads to the ice managed to get a pike in the hole, but here comes the nasty slack — retired!.. Take out the tackle, and “tender” words addressed to overheat tee, broken at the critical moment, pass my trembling lips.
— Hey, Hey Wake, left played! — Sergey shouts.
And sure enough — aleet the box on the next tackle. This pike take lovingly, not trusting the gear. And soon Sergei orribile same pike a few pounds.
After lunch the wind changed. Drew sharp cold. Wet snow on the ice stood motionless in a hard shell, which rustled the dry drifting snow. Became uncomfortable and really frosty. Stopped taking the perches, there was no lifts. And then, when we already saketini from the cold, lost all interest in fishing, snapped the lone box far below.
As I ran, looking frantically for rotating the spool, the fishing line has been unwound to the end and tackle with an effort careened one way and then the other way. After hooking a stray power almost snatched imitation fish fingers. Long time to Tinker, to fail to hole heavy fish. But the hook was not, and the pike were not in the hole. Took it in this time, not believing in a Big fishing here, on a small lake…
As if sensing this, pike doubled power jerks, grinds to a crawl line on the ice. Sergey ran in seconds drilled near the hole and began to set up the axe jumper between the twinned holes. But it was too late… From under the ice I pulled out just knackered and stretched bits of fishing line…
More than once we’ve been here for pike biting. Especially good was the fishing, when I took a little more sons. The elder then pulled a pike of six pounds plus, not counting the four – and five-pound pike, caught me. If the Owner of the lake then had a fit of generosity and gave us the real sons fishing. But it was not always so. The lake, guarded by a strict woods, had its own character: unpredictable, Moody, mysterious. And luck and not infrequently all, here comes…
