A wise old angler, in whose company I unhooked my first pike and then fell in when it bit me, paid great attention to everything piking revealed to him. I still hear his laughing, as soaked, bleeding and totally convinced that I had achieved a lifetime PB, I returned the 8lb Jack to the pond from whence it had emerged to bite me. To an eight year old you’ve got to admit a Jack of 8lbs is a huge fish. Some forty odd years later and still getting bitten, though not as often, I take great pride in the fact that my piking trips are planned, documented and occasionally even produce fish to beat my childhood Personal Best. And it’s all thanks to internet articles and numerous writings advising how to plan the perfect pike trip, which bait to use, what rigs to employ, where to fish, at what state of the moon they feed and the exact water temperature to aim at. I now consider myself a cross between predator angler extraordinaire and an 8 year old idiot who can’t keep two feet on the bank. Am I the only middle-aged predator nut who still gets excited the night before a piking trip? Please tell me that others among you go to bed early the night before fishing, get up three hours before the alarm and check everything twice into the boot before setting off for the water. Surely we all take great care to check the mercury as we leave the house, note wind directions and fish full into the teeth of the storm. Classically this morning’s trip has defied all logic, following the usual checks, double checks and barometer readings, the moon is at its worst possible state for a successful days fishing. The bait is frozen solid as I forgot to take it out to defrost and the spot I had chosen to fish has a bivvy in it with three Neanderthals snoring in unison. Not to be put off I choose to fish in a new spot a little further along the East bank of my favourite gravel pit. Being still dark as I unload the car, I fall down the bank and cut my hand on a discarded luncheon meat tin. Managing to stem the blood with my trusty roll of duck tape, I set up three rods and the brolly, settle down behind it and wait for the bleep while I sip at a cup of hot coffee. As every experienced piker knows, dawn and dusk are classic times for a run, yet at 8am I am still waiting for that first run, the sun is beating down on my back and the wind causing ice to form on the end of my nose. Classic pike weather. Convinced that the fish in this pit feed only at night, I pour another coffee to the sound of an obvious liner. With coffee now spilt down my front the liner turns into a screamer, the brolly blows inside out and I slip and fall into the water as the fish takes off on its first run. It’s amazing just how warm gravel pit water can be in September. Now summer pike are renowned for their fighting ability, so where is it documented that autumn pike have the same kamikaze belief that we anglers never fish heavily enough to cope with a biggie? As each run strips twenty to thirty metres from the spool it’s conceivable that I may come second in this contest unless the dammed thing soon tires. Hell bent for escape, the beastie now tries to transfer my trebles into a curtain of Canadian pond weed. Rod bent double, my attention is diverted by one of the Neanderthals from my favourite swim, who saunters over to ask if I’ve any spare luncheon meat to loan him. The blood from my lacerated hand has started running from under the duck tape and serves to remind me that my tetanus protection needs updating. Being a kindly Neanderthal, mine assures me that it wasn’t his discarded tin that I had fallen onto and asks if I would like a hand to net the fish which by now is trying to tail walk with a length of weed trailing behind it. Now safely in the net we stare open mouthed at a potential PB for me from this pit. The hooks are removed without problem from the scissors, the scales settle nicely at 27lb, minus 2lb for the wet sack, a confirmed 25lb PB. Witnessed by the very friendly fellow angler from my previously favoured swim, the fish, fully recovered is released and tries to bite me before rocketing off into the depths. The smile was still fixed as the second rod lunged over, the bite alarm bleeping a run. Landing nets have evolved during my fishing career, so why is it that in the 21st century we still haven’t got a net that is treble proof. My grab for the rod coincides with the single barbed point of the treble that is tangled in the net, fixing into the leg of my over suit. Attached nicely to both a second fish and a specimen sized landing net, I trip over and again manage to land, you guessed it, in the water. The Neanderthal, in fits of laughter, calls for his cave crew to witness my good fortune. If there’s a section in the Guinness book of idiots that records clumsiness, at this point I had unreservedly qualified for an entry.
The fish must also deserve a listing as it had screamed straight at me, obviously intent on biting me, and had beached itself. With the ease of a practiced piker, I chinned the beast and, still attached to the landing net, managed to crawl to the unhooking mat. At 17lb this had been the most unusual capture of my fishing career. With coffee in hand I smile into the cup. The time is 8.20am, the third rod kicks and an 8lb jack is quickly chinned, unhooked and returned without my getting wet. That’s three fish in less than 30 minutes. I decide I must record the details of this session and just start to make notes as the bloody first rod goes off again. Ten minutes later a 17.5lb pike has been weighed and returned.
Forty minutes, four fish and a length of back stroke. There are times when this fishing lark just gets too good to be true. A six pound jack finishes off the hour and leaves me to reflect upon the activities of the best session I’ve ever had. There are among us analysts who record every aspect of their fishing exploits, these guys spend years theorising and deducing best moon phase, best weather, best temperature, etc, etc. Me I’m just a guy who likes to catch pike, not the most athletic or the best prepared but I do spend time on, and in, the water. To try and predict when pike feed is like waiting for a politician to tell a truth. I firmly believe that its not hot spots or hot shots that are important. Reserved for those fortunate enough to witness one, it is being on the water when the beasties decide to feed that will result in that day of a lifetime. |
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