Roadtrip perch ease pike pain

In fishing terms, 2016 could hardly have got off to a worse start for me. My pursuit of pike had resulted in two floodwater blanks followed by the "capture" of my largest ever river pike, which would have been the cause of celebration had the net not broken as Wayne, my fishing partner for the day, carried my beaten prize up the bank; in a horrible instant, the pike dropped from the net to the steeply sloping wet grass, and with a flip of its body threw the hooks and slid back into the river. Caught and landed, but never touched, held, weighed or photographed- she looked to be about 16 or 17 pounds, and still haunts my dreams, slipping in slow motion, freeze frame style, back to her watery home. Things could only get better ......... and, today, they did.

 

 

6:50am saw me standing outside work, waiting for my lift to the Oxford Canal. Greg, Roger, Pete and I were making the journey to Banbury to meet up with Keith, who we'd got to know through the Christian Anglers UK website and forum, and who- it hadn't escaped our attention- catches more than his fair share of quality perch. We fancied a piece of his action, and, like the true gentleman that he is, Keith was happy to try to "provide the introductions" between us and his local stripeys.

 

 

The day was cold, but mostly clear, with the exception of one early afternoon, fifteen minute attempt at a flurry of snow, and although fingers grew incrementally colder as the session wore on, we had little reason to complain. The canal looked inviting, and Keith was confident. He informed us not to expect large numbers of fish, but assured us that most of the fish we caught, particularly the perch that we were targeting, would be of good quality and above average size, and so it turned out to be.

 

 

We had been warned that it would take a while to get the fish going, and that the drill was to pick a line and feed steadily on a little and often basis, and so it was a surprise when, just a few minutes into the session, Greg hooked a fish. Even more surprising was the fact that it was a small rudd.

 

 

I chose to fish with red maggot on a size 18 hook and a 2 lb bottom, with a 4lb mainline, and teamed a 10 foot float rod up with a recently acquired 47 year old, vintage Mitchel 304 CAP reel. Along with loose fed maggots I introduced small balls of brown crumb, laced with chopped worms and a good squirt of Predator Plus. After about an hour my float dipped, and I was playing my first perch of the day.

 

 

The fish pulled determinedly before succumbing to the net wielded for me by Pete. A fine looking perch which, on the scales, went 1 pound 8 ounces, and looked handsome on the mat along with the vintage reel and Norfolk reed waggler.

 

 

It wasn't long before Pete, too, was playing an indignant perch to the net, a slightly smaller fish, but boldly striped and no less beautiful.

 

 

As the day wore on, as predicted by Keith, bites were not easy to come by, but when the float did slide away, the culprit was usually a decent stamp of fish. Pete added another perch (this time on legered worm), before I completed the brace with a second perch, more vividly coloured than the first, but tipping the scales at exactly the same weight of a pound and a half.

 

 



Pete and I were on two perch apiece, Keith had caught a perch of about a pound and a roach, Greg's total was still the solitary rudd, but as we approached packing up time, Roger was still yet to catch. Thankfully, he rallied with a late flurry and landed his own brace of perch.

 

 It would be wrong to imply that it had been an easy few hour's fishing. In four hours between the five of us we landed only nine fish, but the perch had all been attractive fish, hump backed, hard fighting, deep bellied sergeants with cavernous mouths. It had been a pleasure to make Keith's acquaintance on the bank, having got to know him through the "virtual" internet world of Christian Anglers UK, and the peaceful surroundings and camaraderie conspired to conjure up an entirely enjoyable day. A pair of pound and a half perch had "made my day", and if fish (as well as eternal salvation) are a gift of God's grace, Divine providence had certainly smiled kindly on me.

2016 is finally up and running.

"And the award for best fishing film goes to ....."

Ok, so the picture above is a bit of a "spoiler", although there weren't a plethora of possible nominations!

I can only think of "A River Runs Through It" and "Salmon Fishing in the Yemen", and there, it would appear, Hollywood's flirtation with angling pretty much begins and ends. Sure, there are occasional fishing scenes that appear as incidental episodes in other films, but they're not the axis around which the film pivots.

 

Of the two films mentioned, "A River Runs Through It", in my opinion, is by far the better film. I enjoyed both, but the fishing scenes, breathtakingly beautiful Montana backdrop and intense pathos of Paul Maclean's (played by Brad Pitt) self destructive descent to tragedy make "A River Runs Through it" the fishing film against which any future angling related films will be measured.

 

 

I recently discovered that hardly any of the anglers in our church's fishing club had seen the Robert Redford directed classic, and so last night about half of the club members invaded my living room to further their cinematographic angling education. Needless to say, the film was universally enjoyed.

 

As a work of art it combines the ability to fill the viewer with a sense of awe, wonder and beauty, but also to reflect on dysfunction within family relationships, matters of faith (the father of the family is a Presbyterian minister who believes that "trout, as well as eternal salvation, come by grace"), love, loyalty and addiction. There are moments of poignancy and sharply drawn observation, and in the occasional passages narrated straight from the book upon which the film is based, the opportunity to enjoy Norman Maclean's masterful prose.

 

This film is, quite simply, a "must see" for anyone, who, like Norman, the storyteller in the film, is aware that they are "haunted by water."

 

 

 

Inactivity and a walk on the wild side

It was Henry Thoreau, author, philosopher and sometime angler, who wrote that "some men fish all their lives without realising it's not the fish they are after." The Fly Fisher's Club express the same truth but, being predominantly ex public school types, chooses to do so in Latin, their club motto being "Piscator non Solum Piscatur" which roughly translates "it is not all of fishing to fish."

Now, I can blank as graciously as the next man, and fully appreciate that there's more to angling than the mere capture of fish, but such sentiments wear thin when you can't actually go fishing to test them out. It's now 6 weeks into the New Year, and I've only fished once (an ignoble blank while pike fishing a flooded river) due to a nasty virus which has seem me cancel two fishing trips, and shows little sign of abating.

 

All of which has meant that my "fishing" has been of the fireside variety, an internet, printed material and daydreaming activitiy, that, although not without its pleasures, is no rival to the "real thing". In the same period of time, my regular fishing partner Pete has visited our favourite perch hole twice, once catching a large net of boldly striped fish on floatfished worm, and on the other landing this beautiful 2 pounder while dropshotting.

 

 

Fortunately, when he texted me to tell me about his success, I was in the middle of a 15 hour virally induced sleep marathon, and so was spared the "I should have been there" self-pity that I would otherwise have wallowed in.

 

I've been reading a good book (or two) in my absence from the bank, one of which despite mentioning fishing in only one of its chapters, will strike a chord with any angler. "The Wild Places" by Robert Macfarlane is an exploration of what's left of Britain's dwindling wilderness. A beautiful elegiac bit of prose that takes the reader to windswept coasts, desolate moorlands and mountain crags, and briefly takes in a sea trout fishing session. The writing style matches the landscapes he describes, rugged and challenging yet strangely beautiful.

 

 

As an angler, who fishes, in part, to become one with the landscape, even when the book has its setting away from water, because, like Norman Maclean, "I am haunted by water", I found myself making connections between it and my fishing, all of which got me thinking about my few experiences of genuine wilderness fishing, all of which have been on the American continent. I am a seasoned African traveller, but have only ever fished in the sea while in Africa, twice off Zanzibar, once off Bagamoyo and once off Tanga, all in the Indian Ocean. My wilderness experiences of Africa have all involved land-based flora and fauna, although I have gazed longingly into the crocodile and hippo infested Great Ruaha River and wished I could fish it on several occasions!

 

 

My first experience of wilderness fishing was in Canada, while staying in a lakeside cabin, deep in bear country beside Clear Lake, once the stamping ground of the legendary faux native Indian and early conservationist Grey Owl. It was here that I caught my first ever fish on the continent, a tiny walleye that succumbed to a small rubber grub and jig head, straight retrieved in short hops to the shore. We walked, canoed and fished, and  saw three bears in five days, and I felt, for a few days at least, like a real outdoorsman.

 

 

My second experiences of wilderness fishing were in 2013, on the same continent, but this time in the USA, in Missouri and Arkansas. I fished with two American friends from a shiny red bass boat, that swept across the water at 60 mph, and from which we explored bays and shorelines, casting crankbaits, spinnerbaits, poppers and soft plastics. I caught a brace of spotted (or Kentucky) bass, and some gloriously coloured little bluegills, which attacked lures half their size with aggressive abandon.

 

 

The highlight of this particular trip was when my companion, Dave, caught a monstrous, prehistoric looking, gar, a tooth laden, angry looking fish that jumped clear of the water on several occasions and gave a great account of itself in its efforts to evade capture.

 

 

My final session of that trip saw me wading into the shallows of Bullshoals Lake, and catching scores of small pan fish, as the Americans term them, on floatfished worms, referred to by the locals as "nightcrawlers". There's something about being out in wilderness places that awakens a sense of the transcendent and numinous, and while I'd contend that the man who said that he's "closer to God in the outdoors than he is when in church" is a man who just hasn't found the right church yet, it is my experience that time spent in the magnificence of creation invariably enlarges my vision of its Creator. Fishing as a sacrament, perhaps?

 

 

"Beaten by the Bure"

 

This is Pete. With a fish. Not just "any old fish", but the biggest perch we've had so far from the Grand Union Canal. He caught it last week, in a half hour dropshotting sortie from a swim we'd earmarked as having potential to produce a big one. Feast your eyes on the photo, take in the perch's plump rotundity, because it's the only fish you'll see in this blog entry!

 

 

Our trip to Norfolk had been planned for a few weeks. David had met a local expert while on holiday in Norfolk in the Autumn, they'd fished together and caught a couple of pike, and Pete and I arranged to join David on a return trip in January. What we hadn't planned for was a big storm, floods and a drop in temperature two days before we fished. When we arrived, the water was three feet up from its normal level and pushing through at a rapid rate of knots. The river was right on the cusp  of "barely fishable", and we knew it wasn't going to be easy.

 

 

Rods were frequently arched in what looked like a pleasing battle curve, but was in reality just the latest branch or piece of debris deposited by the storm being drawn like a magnet to our treble hooks. There were two or three fishable spots, tiny slack areas where we could anchor a deadbait, and David did manage to provoke one run from a pike but, in keeping with the day, he missed it. At one point a whole tree floated imperiously down the centre of the river, and as well as the frequent discussions about moving swim or changing tactics, a certain "gallows humour" typified the day's banter. Winter fishing is not for the faint hearted.

 

 

From Leicester to Norfolk is a long drive in a car for a day's fishing- it's an even longer drive back if none of you have caught anything. However, hope springs eternal, and in a few days we'll be back on the bank, although perch from a "certain swim" on the canal, not pike from a far flung Norfolk river, will be the target. I suspect we'll be more successful on our own turf, too.

 I'll let you know .....

 

 

To cap it all, a vintage reel and a starring role

Anglers far better bred, and more highly financially recompensed than me, who choose to fish for trout describe (so I'm led to believe) some nymph and mayfly as "ephemera" due to the fleeting and brief lives of said (and presumably sad) mayfly. Much modern fishing tackle could also be said to be ephemeral, and most of us anglers have items in our tackle boxes and sheds that bear witness to the fickle fads, fancies and changes that drive a lot of fishing tackle production. While a lot of my tackle remains modern ( a friend once remarked that my gear falls into two categories: "state of the art or out of the ark"), over recent years I have increasingly enjoyed using old vintage tackle and fishing in a more traditional style. All of which is why I was delighted this week to take delivery of a CAP Mitchell 304. I've long been an admirer of the unmistakable round body shape, and detective work suggests that my "new" reel was probably made in 1969, making it just a year younger than me. It's now loaded with line, and set to become my "go to" perch reel on days when I'm not in the mood for using a centre pin.

 

 

My collection of older reels also includes this Intrepid Black Prince, which deals easily with small carp, a Mitchell 300 that has been in my possession for 31 years, and still gets the occasional airing for summer stalking or floater sessions, and the 1960's centre pin pictured below.

 

 

However, despite the 304 being a new prized possession which will be in use before the end of the month, I'm not entirely devoid of pragmatism, and my next trip, a pike fishing sortie to the Broads in seven days time will see me committing traditionalist "heresy" and employing an oh-so reliable Bait-Runner in pursuit of my toothy adversary.

 

 

Regular followers of this blog will know that in November I joined up with my friend and fellow angler and church minister Stewart Bloor to make some films commissioned by the Christian Vision for Men (CVM) organisation. One was to be of me talking about my faith, one of Stewart talking about his, and one a short 60 second promotional film for UK Christian Anglers (www.christiananglers.co.uk) which Stewart and I help run. The video's have turned out really well, and our wit, wisdom and spoken words were several times interrupted by fish, including a 2 pound 5 ounce perch for me. I was even made aware of a comment on Twitter about them (the films, not the fish!) emanating from a member of the Archbishop of Canterbury's staff! The films can be watched by clicking the links below:

 

Me fishing: https://vimeo.com/150926146

 

Stewart fishing: https://vimeo.com/150810596

 

UK Christian Anglers promo: https://vimeo.com/150820766

 

I suspect, sadly, that for me and Stewart "fame" will prove to be as ephemeral and passing as life is for the mayfly, and as fads are in angling fashion. Now, to get my pipe and slippers and put some grease in that Mitchell!



Visions of pike ...

 

Christmas Eve, the "night before Christmas" and tonight, according to one well known poem, children will go to bed with "visions of sugar plums" dancing in their heads, but I suspect that when my head hits the pillow after my return from Midnight Communion a prehistoric looking fish will be inhabiting my sleeping thoughts. The reason? My next planned fishing session is a January piking pilgrimage to Norfolk, to be shared with fishing companions Pete and David.

 

While pike are not my favourite species (perch claim that epithet), they exert a strange fascination over me, and have done so ever since I caught my first of their kind, a lively jack of about three pounds, back in January of 1982. There's something special about a fish that exhibits such ferocity and oozes malevolence in its watery home, while being so fragile and vulnerable on the bank. Add to that the myths and far fetched stories that surround old esox and you have the stuff of which angling dreams are made.

 

 

Pike are also the fish, more than any other, whose size, for me at least, is one of the least relevant factors in terms of my appreciation of them. Because many of the places from which I've caught pike have been relatively wild or natural waters, catching any pike is an achievement, and the pounds and ounces merely a bonus. I have also found that small pike, such as the one caught by my son in this picture, are often more exquisitely marked than their older and larger counterparts, and these predators in miniature are as appreciated for their beauty as others are for their weight.

 

 

In addition to the imagination capturing qualities of the fish themselves, there is an attractiveness caused by the differing styles of fishing for them, all of which I enjoy. There are days when pike will chase a lure in the manner of a kitten chasing a toy, and seeing the water erupt as a pike aggressively turns with a lure in its mouth is one of the heart stopping thrills of angling. Lure fishing is an active, intuitive approach to fishing, maximising the primeval hunting aspect of the sport that links us to previous generations of our ancestors. Live baiting has always been the most reliable method for me, and although dead baiting has been responsible for the downfall of a number of my pike, it is the method in which I have the least confidence, and at which, in the words of many of my boyhood school reports, I must "try harder".
 

 

Pike and perch share my winter fishing attention, and the tail end of this calendar year has been disappointing in terms of pike captures, although my perch obsession has meant I've only twice fished for them since October, resulting in the capture of just one miniscule jack. However, last January and February yielded a bountiful supply of pike for me and Pete, and our hope as we look towards January is of recent history choosing to repeat itself. My first pike of 2015 was this 14 pounder pictured below, if its grandmother swims in a Norfolk river whose name I'm unwilling to divulge, is twice the size and has a mind to take my bait next month, then my Christmas wish really will have come true. Santa, I really have been a good boy .............

 

 

A good ending

 

 

Novels, films, sermons and lives are all in want of a good ending. So too, fishing seasons. For those of us who fish ponds, lakes and canals as well as rivers, seasons these days are defined by calendar years, not by the once glorious 16th of June. When I was a teenager the countdown to "Opening Day" caused me more excitement than the countdown to Christmas, but as LP Hartley observed "the past is a foreign country; they do things differently there", and times have changed.

 

After an indifferent last couple of month's fishing, and knowing that this would be my final chance to wet a line before church life goes into Christmas overdrive, I was desperate for a good ending to my season, and- despite the absence of monsters landed- this morning's session gave me the good ending I desired.

 

 

It had been hoped that Greg would join us on the canal for our "last hurrah", but unfortunately work commitments prevented him from doing what he would rather have done, and so it was just Pete and I who braved the early morning chill. We headed for a spot that we thought had the potential to be good for perch and set about mixing some groundbait laced with chopped worms and prawns. We started off on float-fished maggots, which saw me catch three micro-roach within 5 minutes of commencing to fish, but it was only after switching to worms that the perch really started to turn on. Initially we fished tight to the spots we had baited, feeding and casting accurately in true "textbook style", but it turns out that perch don't read text books, and more speculative casting around the swim and "chasing bites" proved to be far more effective.

 

 

Any session should be about more than just the fish, and this is particularly so of a "last session", and so a bankside cooked breakfast to celebrate the end of a highly enjoyable season was in order. The sun occasionally broke through, but the weather was mostly cold, although mercifully dry. Pete was using a pole float on running line using a 14 foot match rod and his "pride and joy" small Greys fixed spool reel, I opted for a shorter, 10 foot, match rod, and used one of Ian Lewis' handmade "crucian mini dart" floats. We also picked up the odd fish on the quivertip, with a worm presented on a running ledger with a 3/8 ounce bomb.

 

By the time we packed up at lunchtime a goodly number of perch had made their way to the keepnet, and in the lulls between perch catching activity (which tended to come in short, sharp bursts of several fish), the conversation was varied and convivial. In honour of the season, we changed hats for some final photographs, and ended the season resplendent in headgear that might have been borrowed from Santa.

Another season now consigned to the "drawer" in my head labelled "happy memories", and new adventures to look forward to in 2016. I can't see me ever getting bored of this game .........