Avacha River April.
The muddy fishing on Avacha begins in late March. Since the river finally opens, plus or minus 10 days in mid-April. That's when I open my ski season. So this time, sitting on a hole dug in the brackish ice of Avacha Bay, sluggishly topping up a beloved smelt, I thought about opening the season of liquid water. Nearby was an old (still at school) pal. I fished without bait, and he is replanting an amphipod. But something in his actions was not right. Had to catch more, and the result is a wifi.
Out of boredom and in order to cheer up, I began to paint him the charms of jig fishing in the spring Avacha. I was told. He asked for company. I didn’t really want that. Still, the spring opening is an almost intimate act. And I let go of the whole fish (with Vovan this will not work). He began to rub about difficulties. Firstly, you need cross-country skiing, secondly normal spinning, and thirdly, to get up and advance early so that you can catch on time. He dismissed all the arguments and “scored” the meeting for the coming weekend, at 5 in the morning.
The river opened up to hour X all and was waiting for us. I was waiting for Vovan at the edge of the forest. He had a telephone, but it was impossible to get through.
At 5:30 it appeared. Naturally, with a hangover. Until late at night, he noted something with someone. In general, he is a normal man, golden hands and not a loafer, a freelancer, but weak …
In a winter jacket like Alaska, in non-frail pants, also winter ones, a thick knit hat on his head. Shod in shoes under the ancient mounts of Rotafell. Such, with a wide welt. Under the arm there are old wooden skis, on the back is a backpack with a telescope sticking out of it. Well, what nowhere to go "bridges burned." We rolled. Rather, only I rolled. Vova fell and lost his ski. It turned out that the shoes do not fit the bindings. I had to remember the past and somehow combine the incompatible. That path, which usually takes 20 minutes, we covered in an hour and a half. Not without loss. On the way back, I had to look for Vovin's hat and something else on the little things. But he did not lose a bottle of Ussuri balm on antlers.
And here is the river. Avacha River. Approximately 2 kilometers from the confluence with the bay. The flow in this ebb phase is about 0.5 m / s. In past years, the place is familiar, broken and cool. But we came to catch, not to admire the scenery. Quickly picking up my Harry Loomis, clinging to a lace 0.13 15-gram pasties with an offset and a two-tailed carrot twister. I manage to make a few casts and even catch something.
At this time, Vova caught his breath, uncovered the telescope and even untangled his beard on the old Nevskaya. I was the main one on baits, so I bring him a staffed cheburashka. And then an ambush. He has a fishing line of 0.4 or 0.5. Which are 15 g. You need at least 30. I looked for the marking of the test on his fishing rod. Naive. There, and "in the shocks" it was clear that type 60-200. Force Majeure, although everything was agreed in advance. I hook him with lead XXX, show the basic equipment and go on fishing. I am caught, Vova can not abandon. Nevskaya on the cast begins to wedge.
We solve the problem by bathing the coil in water. We stand nearby. We throw where it will fly. I say: fell to the bottom, and immediately select the slack. Then winding or jerking the tip and winding about a meter. We are waiting for the next fall to the bottom, winding up, waiting, hooking. Everything is simple. I literally “see” what happens to the bait in each phase of the wiring.
I’m caught, Vova doesn’t, but there is excitement. After half an hour, he asked: And how do you determine if it fell to the bottom or not?
Then he recalls a meat grinder lying around in a backpack. There is a cord, but small and thick as a rope. But everything is better than Nevskaya. However, this did not bring success.
We change fishing rods. It turned out that he is not very friendly with normal coils. Alas.
With difficulty, but I caught a loach on his drin. Vovan was amused, exchanged, and with renewed vigor began to foam the waters of the river. And … caught! I was probably more pleased than he was. Finally, it happened. Then more and more. It was possible to round off and return home.
Before fishing, we agreed that the whole catch to him. He looked at these 10 kg, scratched his turnips, but there was nothing to do. I had to remove from the sidor: shoe covers, a diving sweater and a two-liter thermos. They buried all this stuff in a snowdrift under an alder, collected the catch and went home. We didn’t go there anymore.
Appreciated the convenience of publication. Very comfortably. Sorry, if I'm bored. It's boring. The day work takes out, there is no time to let off steam on fishing. There is no time to do shopping at fishing shops. Everywhere pitchfork. Everyone has a weekend week, and I have a "carrot" on a string. Run, hare, run.
Leafing through albums.