Carp is a separate discipline in fishing. They say that not even everyone is given so much patience to specifically engage in his fishing. Is it worth talking about special gear and equipment? Of course it’s worth it. It will be a long, interesting, but just a conversation. But the fishing of a wild carp for a fishing rod is, first of all, the emotions and experiences with which the lucky ones will live until the end of their days. I caught my first carp in my life on an ordinary fishing rod in the spring. I was still a schoolboy, and we went to the Sredneahtubinskaya floodplain by bus with a transfer in Volzhsky, and then walked 7 kilometers. This is now a kilogram carp. It will make me smile and will certainly be released. And then it was a trophy of trophies among all that I managed to catch on a fishing rod!
Over time, such vivid experiences are overgrown with a large number of associations and semantic connections. Involuntarily, you begin to search for the answer to the question: “Was this capture accidental or not?” That, my first meeting with carp, occurred around the beginning of May. There are no records with an exact date, but I remember that the apricot was already fading, and we were still fishing in full length in the Eric – the flood was very late that year. Then I was sure it was an accident of pure water! However, such accidents occur in the spring almost for everyone who purposefully catches a float fishing rod in a floodplain. A short story by Igor Stepanchuk clearly shows how this usually happens. It was last year.
On the treasured hole
Until yesterday, I considered carp fishing as aerobatics of fishing art. Certain habitats, shyness and caution, an arsenal of expensive gear and bells and whistles plus a lot of time allowed us only to dream: “That would sit on a carp, !!!” In short, on Thursday at five in the morning we shoot with Sanych. Purpose: a walk in nature, plus catching something to let the cat go home. Means: a pair of spinning rods and a float six-meter, which has not been uncovered for four years. Location: somewhere in the Lenin floodplain, not far from the road (the weather forecast is unstable, but I didn’t want to knead the mud). We arrived at Eric Bulgakov. His former power was almost half lost. The ducts are dry, some kind of green water, a swamp and nothing more. But the weather is wonderful and the people of no one.
Uncover, spinning. On almost every cast, squint-pencils and perch-matches. A bit further the snag, and in it no, no, and something decent will mold. I’m fit, litter, to no avail. Flocks of roach defile along the snag. Where is our flywheel? There she is. I measure the depth – 2 meters and a half. Worm – and forward. Minutes did not pass, the float, barely occupying the combat half-stand (put the load to the bottom), begins to strangely wince. With a suspicious expression of physiognomy, it’s not that I’ll hook, but rather imitate a hook. The rod is in an arc, the fishing line rings and rushes from side to side, like crazy. “Oh, b … well, yo … no … no less than a kilo …”, flashes in my head.
– What have you got there? – Sanych rustles.
“Spirit,” I answer, hiding the fish in the cage.
Hook, worm, casting, fighting stance … “What a beautiful dushman, copper-colored with bright red fins, but how did he kick … high … Pecks, or what?” – hands grab the rod. There is!!! Everything is repeated one to one, except perhaps fewer ceremonies when fighting. He dragged it out, took it under the gills, admired it … “A mustache ?! CARP!!!” – jamming me.
– Sanych, this is a carp! – yelling.
– Oh how!
“Why am I so yelling? So … a hook, a worm … right now I would throw a boyle … What a boyfriend, I must have run into a kindergarten, there they are, standard ones, under a kilo. I know the place in Budyonny, where the “eternal bite” of the hybrid, you can drag a bucket in an hour, but the size is no more than a palm. Or maybe a couple of people? Something hands are shaking, I can’t pierce the worm. ” Cast, stand. Will I have time to light it? Sanych came … Damn, the cigarette is over … Pecks or … And nevermind, hooking …
– Sanych, there is!
– Take it, take your time, I brought the landing net.
– This one is bigger.
– Hold on!
– He’s driftwood …
– Tore off … There he was, he dragged the bobber, bastard!
– It was good.
– Yeah. Do you know, Sanych, what is the saddest thing?
– This was your carp. When I was dragging it, I thought: soon home, and you only have a little thing.
– Thank. Do you have something to tie? Take it from me, and for now I’ll throw my own …
An hour has passed.
– Well, where is the justice? – lamented Sanych. “He has carp, and I have a lavrushka.” Already eat all the worms!
– I’m over, too. I’m trying corn, I answer.
Sweeping … Hook? Not … Something monster bent the rod to the water and immediately tore off the fishing line. The second float swam in snags …
Sanych gave me his fishing rod, because for some reason he only pecked a trifle, and left for his place. Opposite me, a local aborigine settled down and joyfully informed me that I had taken his place, but he did not mind, because there was someone to chat with. For the rest of the time, I listened to Monologues about Fishing. He did not interrupt even when he pulled out (namely, “pulled out”, rudely and without womanhood, thereby crossing out my ideas about “right” fishing), he saw a 4-fish fish, and he was genuinely upset when I got home. By that time, ten kilograms had accumulated in the cage, not counting the small things that had happened in the morning. I have so far no such treasured hole as Stepanchuk’s. But I have a treasured pipe, to which I go in May every year.