Books in a fishing dugout

… opening the dugout, we saw books on the shelves … This was not the case in any dugout in which we had to spend the night …

This morning we fish on the Volga canals not far from the Fried Hill. Fishing with an overnight stay. Therefore, we decided to think over in advance a way to sleep. Our old dwellings on this island have already collapsed and we intended to spend the night in the forest by the fire, which is also not new to us. But a local fisherman told us where we can spend the night by the warm stove.

They came to the dwelling, sawed wood with a chainsaw, which they took with them in order to spend the night in the forest, and there the builders came. Silent, quiet. They decided to check the dugout to see if everything was in order. So they said. Apparently, they have a house in Troitskiye Vyselki. They did not spend the night, only asked to keep order in the housing. And you don’t need to ask us about it. We always leave order for ourselves, pick up garbage in bags, take it in the trunk of a car to the city, leave firewood and everything that does not deteriorate: sugar, salt, concentrates, matches, etc. At least we try to do this, but we always take the garbage with us, even from our homes, even from a fire on the shore where we spent the night.

We were amazed when, opening the dugout, we saw books on the shelves … This was not the case in any dugout in which we had to spend the night. There seemed to be a kerosene lamp on the shelf. It turns out that these people did not come here so much to fish as to take a break from the hustle and bustle of civilization and read a book in silence, accompanied by the measured hum of the wind in the tops of the trees and the rustle of falling snow … we will not come back here. If today these people are there, then we will go to spend the night in the forest.

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They did not go far from the dugout. The December day is short. Had to be in time, to catch live bait, to put up the girders, to collect firewood and heat the dugout. And live bait has recently become capricious: it is often more difficult to catch a small fish than the predator itself.

We drilled a couple of holes right in the bay in front of the very paddy leading to the dugout. We sat down at the holes, lowered the jigs. I have tungsten white. The usual kind of “pellet” from the company Spider, but helped out more than once, when the sorog and perch “spat” from other tricks, especially early in the morning and in the evening. My son also has a whole set of white tungsten jigs, but he was too lazy to tie at least one of them before fishing, but simply took a fishing rod with a regular perch jig, where the brass on the top had already turned black. And the day is already gray, towards dusk. It would be necessary to choose something lighter from the baits. The son left a dark jig on the tackle.

Here’s a bite on my rod. It was a live bait perch. It can be thrown into the kan. Then he took a ruff, and then desperately pecked at the perches. In sequence. Soon there were enough live fish, however, not a single “white” fish was found here. The son only silently watched. Then he decided to bandage the jig. But it was too late. I stopped pecking too.

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It began to get dark and we decided to put up the vents before dark. The two of us quickly “scattered” the tackle in the old proven places and went to prepare a lodging for the night.

There was no firewood in the dugout. Someone, having spent the night, left nothing. I had to hastily break dry thin birches and lime trees. Without a saw, there was no other way. But the supply of this small dry forest was quite enough for the night, since the temperature was, if not positive, then about zero.

In the morning, among the stockade of girders, a single flag stuck out alone. But the live bait was quite a striker. This means that at night a small bee-eater poked him with his nose and went on. Well, nothing, morning is ahead. But in the morning and all day, the girders stood motionless. Old places have failed. Something has changed here. And we haven’t been for a long time. We need to look for fish. She does not stand in the same places where once, perhaps, she was caught desperately.

Books in a fishing dugout

In the evening, we threw the girders to places that seemed to be not catchy. At least they never caught there before. It is an islet on the other side of the channel, overgrown with sedge and reeds along the banks. Not deep here, the same two meters, but among this shallow water there were small holes. I determined this with a cut, before lowering the bait under the ice.

In the morning, only one flag stuck out in the same way, but a pike of two kilograms was sitting on the hook. She had to be pulled from the snag. When we decided that the tackle would have to be torn, the fish took off and went. Here we took it.

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Until noon two more pikes were caught, and then it was time for us to go home. The main thing is not empty. We visited their places. And grandfather Vodyanoy did not let us go without fish at all. So, to be a pike on the New Year’s table …

Alexander Tokarev and

Books in a fishing dugout

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