So here it is. How was New Zealand? Bet you’ve got a few stories to tell. How did Christmas go? Hate Christmas myself. What you caught lately? What you got the hump abaht? Or anything else.
Got to tell you a few recent piking-trip tales, one of which I appear in. But no, I’m still the bridesmaid or the nearly-man – although only just. First tale goes like this…
Since I last wrote to you – October? – I’ve put a bit of time in with some measure of success, but not as much as The Doctor. This man has had an incredible run of fish – up to mid-December from mid-October. He has taken 18 – yes, EIGHTEEN 20lbers including four in a day. In this two months his best fish have been as follows: 29lbs, 30lbs 8oz, 33lbs, 34lbs and 4oz and 38lbs!! Can you believe that????? Well I ****ing well can’t and I was there!!! He tells me that I won’t do any good until I can learn to swear in a middle class accent like wot ‘e does but somehow I can’t get the ‘ing’ on the end of ****in’ like he does. Perhaps that’s why.
Anyway, I’ve had a gutful of being on the wrong end of his camera and, to rub it in, another cohort – the legendary Bill Palmer – accompanied me on a trip 26/11/94. Again, I was on the incorrect end of the camera taking several pictures of him with another ‘30’ – 34lbs and 4oz to be precise. This was a different fish to The Doctor’s being two and a half inches shorter. I believe that fish took Palmer’s tally of twenties to 160 but he’s so blase about it, that’s what sickens you. I’ll show you the photo of him with it when I see you next. As he only weighs about three and half stone wringing wet, the fish looks absolutely monstrous.
Anyway, that day started a week’s piking that I had spent mostly in the company of The Whinger, a week in which I fished seven days running and driving almost a thousand miles in pursuit of a lump. Every day brought fish including a few big doubles – but not the fish I sought. As the days wore on I was becoming more and more exhausted; on the Thursday of that week I met-up with The Whinger in the small hours round his house feeling absolutely shagged, as was he, after scooping a bucketful of trout livelies out of the tanks. I said, “You’ll have to drive – I’m too shagged-out”
“What’s new?” enquired The Whinger “I always ****ing drive, don’t I?” I didn’t answer, the buzz coming from the aerator in the bait tank in the back of the car was already sending me to sleep. Anyway, we set off on the 80 mile run and arrived in darkness, loaded the tackle into the boats and were soon out fishing in the pitch black.
We fished in separate boats that day which is unusual, he having all the latest kit i.e. Minkota electric outboard, Humminbird MKll, etc set off to troll various parts of the lake; I, on the other hand, decided to concentrate my efforts on a very deep part of the lake – 38ft in fact – that had shown a heavy concentration of bait-fish on the Hummin’bird on a previous trip. Drifting about slowly over a small area, several hour’s efforts produced the usual **** all for me. Then about 10.30, one of the floats carrying a large rainbow disappeared. My immediate thought was ‘funny, getting snagged here…I’m only set at 36ft and I know it’s deeper than that’. I didn’t for one moment think it might be a pull – things like that rarely happen to me! Anyway, to confuse matters even more, the float on another rod then disappeared! I picked up the second rod expecting both of them to be in the same snag, wound-down and felt the unmistakeable bump, bump of a take. Naturally, the fish then dropped the bait and I eventually reeled-in one very mashed-up, dead trout. The usual expletives issued forth but they were cut short by the rasp of the bait-runner on the first rod!
Winding-down quickly was followed by a very hard strike. The Whinger reckons I strike so hard that one day I’ll pull a pike’s head up with no body attached to it. Anyhow, after making the strike, the rod remained hooped over. **** me, I am snagged after all, I thought. Then it moved. Yes, it actually was a fish, moving off very slowly and ponderously, the rod arched over even further, taking up its very UNfamiliar battle curve. The clutch began to sing its sweet song, the fish taking about 30 yards of line on its first run…oh, so slowly it went; in fact, I’ll never forget thinking that the clutch sounded more like a clock ticking rather than anything else. This fish made me think I’d hooked one of those Russian spy submarines! Anyhow, for five minutes or so the fish stayed deep, not giving me a glimpse. My legs felt like jelly by now. Having lost a big fish the previous Saturday, the hooks pulling with the fish right on the surface, I was beginning to believe I’d never actually get one in the net.
Then it started to lift, me gaining a yard then the fish taking it back. Inch by inch the fish kept coming until it was directly below the boat seven or eight feet down where I could see the shadowy outline of a great, broad back. I confess I prayed to a god I don’t believe in. Like a little boy: “please, please don’t let the hooks fall out of this one” I think I said (out loud, possibly) “I’ll do ANYTHING but PLEASE let those hooks stay in!”
Still she kept coming until that first glorious roll on the surface, showing a foot-deep flank that literally took my breath away. Down she went again, but once you’ve had them on the top in deep water I think the battle is beginning to swing your way. Anyway, twice more that fish came to the surface after going all the way back to the bottom. After the last appearance at the surface she only managed to make it half way back down with me really piling on the pressure. The rest of the fight was played out on the top with two attempts with the net failing as the fish roared off again, forcing me to give line. On the third attempt she slipped into the net quiet as a lamb.
Jesus Christ! I’d actually done it! Sitting down with tears in my eyes, I unclipped the up-trace and left the fish in the net over the side of the boat, poured a cup of coffee and spent five minutes composing myself. I then stood up in the boat, waving my arms like a maniac to The Whinger who was about a quarter of a mile away. Fortunately, there was no one else on the water as they would have thought I was in distress – but I suppose I was in a way.
The Whinger made his way over. “Watcha got?” he said.
“A ****ing lump” I said.
“Yeah, I know” he said, “I was watching you through me bins – nearly ****ed it up a couple of times, dintcha?” The Whinger rarely pays compliments.
Anyway, we took the fish to the bank and removed the hooks which would never have fallen out in a million years.
The Whinger took a step back to give the fish a fresh assessment. “I’ll tell you what” he announced, “that fish will not go less than 35lbs” and I had to agree with him. It was huge. Hoisting it onto the scales, a sly grin appeared on his face and I knew something was wrong. Looking at me from the corners of his reddened eyes he said “You won’t ****ing believe this…it don’t even go thirty” I stared at him in disbelief: of course it did! “Scales must be ****ed… I’ll get another pair” Hoisting the fish for a second time The Whinger announced “Nope, it definitely ain’t a thirty – only 29lbs and 10oz.
There it was. What could I say? What could I do? Empty-bellied it was. That fish could easily have gone 35lbs but there you go. My feelings of elation a few moments before withered and died on the spot. After taking the obligatory photos I returned this otherwise magnificent fish with a great deal of resentment, almost blaming the fish for not being heavier.
“Hard luck” said The Whinger, his inner joy barely disguised, “I’m off to catch a proper pike” And off he went in his boat, the ear-to-ear grin clearly visible as he slipped further out onto the reservoir.
All those miles…all that effort…all those hours…all that self-denial – for what? A measly, hollow-bellied twenty ****ing nine-ten. Eventually, I gathered myself together, got back into my boat and continued to fish. I had one of eighteen and a quarter and, later, a consolation prize in the shape of a twenty-three. This fish was to give me a great deal of pleasure as we gathered at dusk and drew the boats up onto the bank.
“What else did you have, then?” asked The Whinger, fully expecting a negative from me. I was, then, pleased to give him his answer “I had an eighteen…………………..then this” I pulled the heavy, dripping sack up and out of the water “Twenty-three pound it goes” I said. The Whinger’s face betrayed its disappointment. “So you’ve had a ****ing brace, then, ya b*****d?” This time the sickening grin was attached to my face!
Catch up later, ol’ boy.
*******
