Any Good Angling Stories?

[dreamer]

Any Budding Writers?

 

I have a small publishing business and am looking to expand from the academic texts that I currently deal with.

 

I would like to publish a collection of fishing stories and wondered if anyone would like to contribute? I don't think the book should necessarily look for the monster catches but rather stories that convey the pleasure, absurdity, frustration, serendipity and occasional euphoria that angling gives us. I would also like it to cover a wide range of species eg from the humble gudgeon through to, say, the hapless burbot expedition.

 

The book could include illustrations but not colour photos (b/w are possible). However the cover could include colour photos if necessary.

 

It would be nice if this could be an Anglersnet project and whilst it is unlikely to be a commercial success I would propose donating any royalties to Elton's web fund. All rights would remain with the authors.

 

The book will be listed on Amazon with picture etc and everybody could give it reviews on the Amazon site.

 

The intention is that it should be a bit of fun. No one is expecting contributions to rival Chris Yates and co! Contributions could range from a few paragraphs to a few thousand words; the odd poem might also be included?

 

I would appreciate any thoughts.

[Chris Plumb]

I'd be up for that - have sent you a PM...

 

 

Chris

[Mat Hillman]

I'm not much of a writer, but you can put me down for a copy when it is ready !

[me]

Here's a short story for you.

When I was fishing last summer me and my mate hadn't had a bite all day. Then I hooked a decent sized carp so I reeled it in and then my mate went to net it but i said no i'll play it in a bit longer. Then my line snapped. I was so annoyed and I threw my rod into a load of nettles. I had nettle stings all over me after that....

And I wouldn't mind having a copy too.

[The Flying Tench]

Here's my story to illustrate the fact there's a lot of luck in fishing. It was September, 1960. I was aged 13, supposedly drift-lining with worms from a rowing boat on Loch Faskally in Scotland with my twin bother. We had no idea where to fish, and were stuck out in the middle of the lake. My records say something about 'ledgering', but I scarcely knew what the word meant. Anyway, I was in a tangle, and there was no worm on the hook, but I hung the hook in the water to get it out of the way. To my amazement there was a tugging on the line, and an 8.5 inch Sea Trout had taken the 'bait'. In my excitment, however, I allowed it to wriggle back into the water before I'd been able to look at it properly. Not to worry, about 20 seconds later it leaped straight back into the boat!

 

Did I record it as a valid capture? You bet!

[Gareth.]

Hi Dreamer,

Here are the links to a couple of my true angling stories.

 

www.predator-fishing.co.uk/articles...s/pantomime.htm

 

www.predator-fishing.co.uk/articles...geon_gareth.htm

 

And you never know, I might even have another angling adventure, worthy of another story before the end of the current season

[Newt]

surfacepopper - great tales both.

 

The sturgeon adventure brings to mind one of the funniest things I've seen in quite a while.

 

It happened at a CAG fish-in in Northern Virginia. Now you have to understand that carpers are a very rare breed in the US but those of us who chase them are willing to travel distances to fish with others who feel the same way.

 

The lake we fished was more UK-like than US standard. Maybe 10 acres total and some islands off the main shoreline. Quite a few common carp between 15 and 30lbs although oddly enough, either no smaller or larger or else both groups are smart enough to avoid capture.

 

I'd driven up Friday evening for my first ever visit to this particular lake. It's about 6 hours drive from my house but I managed to take nearer 8 hours to get there. Got lost and as late as it was there was no one around to ask for directions. I had also never met any of the others who planned to fish the weekend.

 

Got in around 2am and set up my rods. Some of the folks who had gotten there lots earlier wandered over to meet and greet. At least half of them talked real funny and it turned out the redneck and Brit ex-pat count was about equal.

 

Slow doesn't even begin to describe the fishing during the weekend. About 20 of us with rods out and I think the total fish on the bank - carp and catfish - was up to maybe 5 by Sunday noon. No one had a clue about what could be wrong either. Weather was nice and this was usually a lake that produced well. Good thing we enjoyed visiting and that kept it from being a dud weekend.

 

I thought I had traveled a distance to fish this place but one angler, Wayne, had flown in from California so maybe 2300-2500 miles. He's one of the Brits although he lives here now and has for maybe 4 years. He is a long time carper but really wanted to hook in to one of the large grass carp this lake also holds.

 

Slightly after noon one of his alarms started screaming. He was a distance away so one of the others picked up his rod and got the fish hooked while we yelled at Wayne to come land his fish.

 

He took up the rod and had a good fight for a few minutes and then the fish just sorta gave up. Into the net came a grass carp of around 25+ pounds. Well all right then!! Up the bank and to the unhooking mat for a picture or two and a weighing.

 

No one had thought to warn Wayne that grass carp above about 15 lbs have peculiar habits. They just seem to give up the fight and come quietly to the net. If you are smart you take a net handle and poke them a couple of times in the belly so they take off and give you a good fight before you net them. Otherwise you wind up with a really green fish on the bank.

 

This one was really green and no sooner had Wayne tried to pick it up for pictures than it went totally crazy. Slipped out of his hands and when he tried to grab it again, gave him a nice clout or two or three. There is a video clip of the affair around somewhere I'll try to locate but imagine if you will a very tall, lanky angler trying to get hold of a large and energetic fish that said angler has decided must be part shark and probably dangerous.

 

He finally did get the beast weighed and photographed and released. After getting back into the water, the grassie decided he liked us after all and thurned fact toward the bank and just sorta stared at us as if to ask why the fun had ended. You have to understand this was not an exausted fish but just one that seemed reluctant to leave such an interesting group of humans. After being turned toward open water several times and pushed gently it finally did leave but with the languid motions of a fish without a care in the world.

 

Wayne was having his day with the grass carp as he got another on one of his rods within 15 minutes of the release. This time he acted on advice and convinced the fish to make a few more runs before trying to deal with it and for some odd reason, decided to simply unhook the carp in the water without trying for a weight.

 

No other fish caught that day. But one angler caught properly. We had started discussing the smallmouth buffalo that live nearer my house. Similar body design and habits to carp (except more difficult to catch) and the North Carolina record buff was caught near me at 88 pounds.

 

The upshot is that Wayne is planning to visit next spring and we will spend a few days trying to add a smallmouth buff to his list of fish.

 

[ 07. January 2004, 01:58 AM: Message edited by: Newt ]

[dreamer]

Thanks for the responses.

 

Chris and Surfacepopper the material is great. I know someone who had a low twenty cat from the Great Ouse and they will vouch for the awesome fight that ensues when they're hooked!

 

Newt, it would be great to include tales from 'across the pond'if you're happy to contribute.

 

Johnclarke, I'm also sure there is a place for brief stories like yours.

 

I do see this as a forum project and wouldn't personally want to dictate what goes in. I'm happy to contribute my editing thoughts but there are others here that are far more skilled in this area than I will ever be. Perhaps a small editing group?

 

I think realistically we need somewhere between 20 and 30 reasonable stories/pieces to fill a book, with a number of 'shorts' to add further interest.

 

Taking the loose headings: pleasure, absurdity, frustration, serendipity and occasional euphoria

 

We are off to a good start, but will need quite a few more contributions if it is to work.

 

Has anybody else got a story to tell? A favourite swim, time of year, character, species, bizarre happening, success from defeat, surviving the elements, big fish, small fish, angling philosophical enlightenment, red letter day etc etc.

 

Thoughts of all, most welcome.

 

Regards

[Chris Plumb]

Here's a piece I wrote a couple of years ago which never saw the light of day anywhere (I've since moved and caught another 2lb+ roach ). I guess it would come under EXASPERATION!

 

Spending a Penny

 

The effects of tea drinking on the angling experience are well documented and familiar to many an angler. How often are fruitless hours of piscatorial inactivity, broken by the brewing up of a cuppa? Hot liquid is brought to the lips, a stationary float suddenly sinks and a flurry of maniacal activity on the bank results in a scalded groin, a pint of maggots kicked over, a landing net handle crushed under foot, and a lost fish. This is usually followed by much loud cursing and blaspheming. We’ve all been there - haven’t we?

 

My own observations, however, lead me to believe that there are still more powerful forces at work than the tea genie. These powers exert their enigmatic influence when your favourite brew has worked its way through your digestive system and needs to be expelled from ‘the other end’. In my experience, nothing guarantees’ a bite more than answering an urgent ‘call of nature’. To make matters worse these episodes often occur on quiet days when bites are at a premium. Let me illustrate with a couple of recent Cases Studies. Events that have unfolded during this summer’s Barbel campaign on the Kennet...

 

I’m exceedingly fortunate that, despite living on the fringes of a sprawling 1980's housing estate, our property overlooks parkland. 100 yards from the front door is the Holybrook - in fact the only fishable swim I can see from the house is one that presented me with my only ever 2lb roach, one mild February day a decade ago. Cross the Holybrook, and the railway, and a further 100 yards brings you to the Kennet proper. It is here that I can often be found on a mid-week evening, squeezing in a few hours angling, trying to winkle out a Barbel or two. It is on these banks our story unfolds.

 

It was my most recent visit here which brought into sharp focus what happens when you briefly abandon your rods to have a ‘jimmy’. The time of year is mid-October. I have debated long and hard about whether I should even go or not. River temperatures have dropped by nearly 6ºF over the previous week - but we’d at last had some very welcome rain. Rain that had heralded the end of a mini autumn drought. The river was carrying some nice colour so maybe, just maybe, despite the sudden drop in temperatures, the odd barbel would still be on the move.

 

By 7.30pm, I’ve bolted down my tea, marched briskly across the fields and I’m settled in my swim under the trees. The spot is a familiar one, I’ve caught here before, often. And I know I can put my bait in the right spot in the dark. The evening air has a distinct autumn nip to it and the evening twilight is quickly obscured by a cool mist rising up from the damp earth. I’m thankful for my thermal underwear. And my vacuum flask of hot, strong coffee.

 

For the next three hours though, I stare intently at the soft, luminous green, glow at the tip of my rod. My hand is poised, waiting to respond to any sign of life from the depths below. But, for three long hours, there’s not a hint of a flicker, Not a twitch, not a shake, not a flutter. Nothing disturbs my bite indicator. Nothing. Bats are swooping out of the trees - but, unusually, not one crashes into my line delivering a false thrill. The Signal Crayfish stay away - preferring to stay in their burrows rather than come out to inspect my hair-rigged halibut pellet. Even the leaf litter, so recently washed into the river, miraculously avoids my line. No, for three hours my isotope is as still as a sentry outside Buckingham Palace.

 

By 10.30pm the contents of my Thermos are a distant memory - one, however, that is being urgently re-called by my bladder! I need a pee.

 

Well you can guess what happens next. I fumble with my flies and turn to enthusiastically micturate on a bank of stinging nettles when, out of the corner of my eye, I see the quiver-tip twitch. An instant later the whole rod jerks into life and bounces off the rod rest. The rod is in mid-air, arrowing toward the inky depths, when a desperate lunge saves it from disappearing for ever. The fish, alas, is off. I’m left with a warm, damp sensation down my left leg and a deep feeling of injustice. I pack up in disgust, acutely aware that tonight my presence on the bank was simply for the amusement of the River Gods. I know that re-casting will be futile - I’ve been here before....

 

...Which brings me to Case Study No. 2 played out some 6 weeks earlier. This time I’d arrived a little later at the bank and had enjoyed a couple of large glasses of Rioja with my dinner. There was still some light in the sky though, as I cast out my two rods. The swim is some 200 yards upstream from the one I’ll visit in October. One rod is fishing a near bank eddy, the other in a deep hole, under a tree, on the opposite bank. I’m in good spirits, or perhaps that’s just the wine! And in a confident mood as fish roll and crash up and down the river. A fortnight earlier this swim had given up 9 fish in 4 hours. A real ‘red letter’ session consisting of 7 barbel, including a brace of 9 pounders and pair of chub - the biggest an ounce over 5lb. I was looking forward to a repeat and perhaps I might even be lucky enough to grass my first ‘double’ of the season.

 

The evening was a warm, balmy one, thick with insects and their predatory bats. By 10.00pm the only indications that have registered on my rods have been from the bats colliding with the line as they dived like Stukas’ onto their supper. The internal warmth generated by the wine has worn off. It was now registering in me a more urgent need - to relieve myself. So I turn and aim at some Himalayan Balsam (I dislike the sickly, sweet smell of it!!) and no sooner have I started when my near bank rod crashes round as if someone had just dropped a bag of cement on the line. By the time I reach it, it has sprung back into the rests. Bait and fish have gone.

 

Foolishly (in hindsight) I see this as a good omen - a bite at last - I’m bound to get another. It’s gone 0100 before I realise that I’m not. 5 hours fishing with 2 rods and my only bite comes when my back was turned for 30 seconds and I was otherwise pre-occupied. The Gods were laughing again.

 

So what can be done to outwit this mysterious phenomenon? If the Gods are to be satisfied do I need to throw in a votive offering to the watery deities before I ‘go’? Literally spending a penny before I ‘spend a penny’? Not ‘going’ is another option - but that would mean I simply wouldn’t get any bites on quiet days. And, so I’m told, it’s not very healthy on ones kidneys if you don’t drink regularly. (Or for your bladder, for that matter, if you hold it in!) Did someone mention a catheter? - ooh Matron!

 

Or do I try and trick the fish into thinking I’m having a pee? Fishing with your flies open (or worse!) is obviously not the answer - try explaining to the local constabulary that you were simply waiting for a bite. It is hardly going to advance your cause! Some anglers (Chris Yates included, I believe) suggest poaching in your mate’s swim while you offer them a drink of tea, or invite them over to your peg for a brew. Ask your mate to come over to have a pee in your pitch and you’ll be fishing solo for the rest of your natural as well as getting some funny looks down the pub.

 

I’ve tried standing up, making as if to go and then swivelling around - but the fish aren’t so easily fooled. Then it occurred to me. Maybe it is the micro-vibrations of urine hitting the ground that the fish detect? Maybe they’ve been waiting for this very moment, confident that they’ll be able to make a quick, undetected, raid on your baited hook? I do have a plan to dupe them however. Next season - I’m going to take a bottle of water with me - not to drink but to pour over the bank as I hold the (fishing) rod with the other hand - it can’t fail to result in a screaming bite, can it?

 

Chris

[Mat Hillman]

Guys - if you all post the stories here there won't be much point in the rest of us buying the book ;-)