17 August 04 – Monster!

Rik settles in as Skive makes his way to his swim

Myself, Dave Colclough and Stu ‘Skive’ Johnson are regulars on the river Dove so it was only fair that we gave first choice of swim to Rik who was our guest for the day – well, half day really, the afternoon and evening. He had travelled up from Southampton and he went along with our recommendation that the swim where I’d taken a brace of doubles last week was a good bet.

Skive went into the next swim down, I went two below Skive and Dave went into the next swim up from Rik.

The water was coloured but not too much so. You could see about a foot through the surface. The level was about the same as the week before and the current racing through quite fast. Not surprisingly we expected to catch one or two. But what we hadn’t reckoned on was the excessive amount of weed coming down, which made it difficult to hold out for long, even with leads and feeders up to 6oz. Trouble was, as well, the water wasn’t high enough to form those nice slacks at the side. So we were stuck with fishing in mid-stream, allowing the loop of line to form, and peeling the weed off the line every five to ten minutes.

I landed a small one of about 5lb

We went quite some time without a bite, then I landed a small one of about 5lb. You can tell straight away when they’re less than about 8 or 9lb, they just tear off downstream in a mad dash until you put the brakes on them. It didn’t stand much chance with a Chimera and 10lb line pressing the pedal, even in that current.

An hour later I hit into another one, which had already taken off for the tree roots on the bite. I lost it. And it was entirely my own fault. I’d forgotten one basic thing; when you’re fishing a long loop of line to contend with high water you need time to wind that slack out of it before you can apply any amount of pressure on the fish. This one didn’t give me time, it was in the roots and hanging my hook on a strong one before I could do anything.

So I fished with less loop and upped my feeder from 3oz to 4oz and put up with clearing the weed more often.

Skive was into, and out of, one next, but he was attached to it a lot longer than I was attached to mine. It was quiet again then for a while, so I decided to move to the next swim down. Not because it looked any better but I reckoned the feed from my feeder would have moved down in the time I’d been fishing and just maybe there was one there with its bib on, tucking into the free feed of soaked pellets.

It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes after moving I was into another one, again a small one of 5 to 6lb or so.

Now then, do I move again, or do I stay put? Rik made my mind up for me as he walked away, saying, “sometimes the big ‘uns follow the little ‘uns.” Which was right many times. So I decided to give it another half hour or so before dropping downstream again.

It couldn’t have been more than five minutes when the rod hooped over, and hooped and hooped, with me hanging onto it like grim death. The reel’s drag was quite tight but even so it screamed as yard after yard of line was ripped from it. Got to be another small one on steroids I thought, but soon changed my mind when it was still ripping line off when I could see the knot to my backing beginning to appear almost 100yds later.

I gave it more butt, as much as I dared and slowed it down, but only to make it kite into my own bank and become almost solid. The rod was still thumping but no more line was being taken. I held it hard and just waited to see what would happen. I couldn’t go down to it due to a bush not far below me. Dave and Skive appeared and the air went blue as the three of us saw the bend in the rod, the thumping on the end, how much line had disappeared off the spool, and me in a cold sweat.

“Carp!” Somebody said (there are a rare few in the stretch). “Bloody monster barbel!” Somebody else said. I tried to calm my nerves by proclaiming it to be a foul-hooked barbel, but I didn’t really believe it (or didn’t want to believe it).

I got to the side of the bush that was stopping me from going downstream to it, and somehow I managed to pass the rod over to Dave, whilst keeping the line clear of the branches.

As I went round the bush to take the rod back off Dave he screamed, “It’s ******* off again, I can’t hold it……..” By the time ‘it’ had passed his lips I’d taken the rod off him and was bracing it above the butt with one hand to take the strain off my throbbing forearm and elbow. Then I half ran, half walked down to the next bush 50yds downstream, all the while keeping the line tight by winding it back onto the spool.

The next bush stuck out further from the bank than the first one and as luck, bad luck that is, would have it, it grabbed my line and refused to let go. So now I had something mad on the end, that was dragging my line through a bush. And no matter how hard I tried, from all kinds of different spots, by the bush and upstream of it, I couldn’t free it. And remember, all this time whatever was on the end was either hanging like a dead weight in the fast water below the bush, or was making its inexorable way further downstream.

The landing net was extended next and Skive tried to push the line away from the bush, but he couldn’t reach out far enough. “Give Rik a shout,” Skive said, “he’s taller and can reach out further.”

Rik came down, took the p*ss for a minute or so, and then realised this was serious business. But even with his longer reach the line refused to come out of the bush.

Then somebody had a brainwave, Rik I think. Get the line in from the other side of the bush and handline the fish in. I liked the idea of getting the line in but not the handlining bit. So I suggested I fetch my other rod to hook the line in, while Dave held the rod that was attached to the fish, gain enough slack to give us time to cut the line and then attach it to a loop tied into the line from the second rod that was now below the bush. Mad or what? But it worked, because that’s exactly what we did. On the third attempt the hook slipped over the line, I pulled it in, Rik grabbed it, Dave let some slack line out while Rik bit through the line and tied a loop into it, and then I tied the line from the second rod to the loop. It was this knot to the loop that was the danger, so the first task was to battle it out until that knot was on the reel.

The next problem was that the spool was filling up too much. The reel on the second rod had line on it to just below the lip (as it should be) but now I was having to wind on another almost hundred yards of line from the first rod! When it became silly (as if it wasn’t already) I just held it hard while Rik went downstream to look for the fish, and luckily he spotted it wallowing not too far from the bank. So a bit more heaving and hauling later from me and it was close enough for him to net.

Now wouldn’t this make a good story even better if it turned out to be a 15lb barbel, or even a decent double, maybe even a PB?

No, it was a 6-pounder hooked in the root of the ventral fin. Right in that area where you just can’t turn them or do anything with them, especially in fast, weedy water.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the time. Now I can definitely laugh, for it’s a story about a joint effort from four of us to land a fish, and one that will keep me in good memories for some time to come.