Night burbot fishing. Preparing for fishing. The alarm bell of fate is ringing in the sky, and the excitement is hot blood …
Night fishing requires some frost preparation. December in the yard. The first month of winter. Often the drizzling cold rain will charge for the whole night, causing melancholy and, as if running cold damp hands under a fishing jacket. This is the worst option for spending the night by the river and catching burbot. No matter how you cover yourself with a cloak, you will still be damp. Especially if there is no thermal underwear under the winter clothes or it is of poor quality. It is better not to wear thermal underwear with a high percentage of wool or cotton under the suit. Here, oddly enough, thermal underwear made of artificial materials has the best hygroscopicity.
Requires night fishing and a lot of firewood, especially large and heavy ones. The best for the Siberian nodia is the bog oak, which brings a rapid current to the banks of Bolshaya Kokshaga near the village of Starozhilsk every year. These oak ridges catch fire long and hard, but if they do, they burn slowly and hot, all night. They smolder or melt more in their own scarlet heat, which gives hot coals. And the sand around such a fire heats up like a stove. If you then move the fire and put up a tent in its place, after removing the coals and laying the spruce branches, then you will sleep or lie comfortably, as if on a Russian stove.
So the evening began to glow over the river. It’s time to get ready for the night fishing. We lay out the tackle on the sand. At the chosen place, we unwind twenty meters of fishing line from the reel with free rings, bait the hook with a “sharp” path, with a ruff or a lobe of leaf leaves. For a long time already we put only one leash at the sinker, because there is less confusion, and burbot most often takes it on it, this hook closest to the sinker with dashing worms fluttering in the current … Throw a heavy lead-sinker not far. These twenty meters are just enough to get from our sandy spit to the dump from the roll to the pit. If you throw it a little, the hooks will reliably snap into the stale spruce and oak trees, which usually fall from the steep, pit bank, washed away by high water. We stick strong willow twigs into the sand of the braid, but at the same time with a flexible tip, in the cleft of which the fishing line is pinched. We throw the zakidushki into the light in order to “shoot” along the length of the line, otherwise in the dark, by the light of a flashlight, you can “put” the tackle in the snagger opposite. Finally, the sinker flopped in a given area, launching circles in the fast-moving water. You can select the line before tension and hang the bell. The tackle takes on a wary and serious look. She is already in another world, where strong and careful fish walk, muskrats prowl and crayfish sneak along the bottom.
There is probably no tackle more primitive, probably, but in night fishing there is no burbot and it is more convenient. When the icy cold falls on the sand and water, a transparent night falls, only at the zakidushka it is easiest to detect a bite, because the bell “yells”, it happens that you can hear it two hundred meters from the forest, where you shiver and protect your eyes from sharp twigs, collecting wood fin. And the same ringing tosses you from the couch, who took from the ustatka and dozed off in the blazing heat of the oak blocks of the nodia. And this ringing, like a bell of fate, beats in your temples, and you rush in the dark to the zakidushka, risking to break your neck on a steep, and you don’t need any castmasters, Rapala and jigs, including your favorite turntables and vibrators … The alarm bell of fate is ringing in the sky, and the passion is hot blood … And there was just a bite of a snotty ruff or a tadpole-burbot … This is how, probably, the fishermen become the ones they sometimes talk about, twisting their fingers at their temples. But to them, unfortunate pragmatists and cynics, mocking fishermen, you cannot explain how piercingly the winter night smells on the verge of longing and delight in front of a huge pale-faced moon, a high boundless abyss overhead, in which cold stars burn; in front of a terrible-eyed owl hooting in the night on a black dead wood. And from the inability to share this delight with someone (words are powerless and superfluous), you just walk up to the fire blazing in the night, pour yourself some vodka and quietly wait for the next call of the zakidushka, this primitive and old tackle, far from high technology spinning hunting …
Alexander Tokarev and fishx.org
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