“Fortune occasionally favours the persistent, thank goodness!”
AS USUAL, the end of the traditional coarse season came with mixed feelings. There tends to be that sensation of “thank God spring is coming” mixed with the gut feeling of unfinished business.
For whatever reason, the better pike had me flummoxed over the winter. Would that bigger set of jaws ever arrive?
It’s been heartening, at least, to see some of your letters and emails in response to my column on how hard piking has become. I’m not alone, it seems, in struggling to find better fish.
A decade or so ago, albeit with more time on my hands, I would catch a 20-pounder almost every winter. Fast forward to the present and it feels like a different game. Sometimes, you fear that unless you’re willing to cough up to fish trout reservoirs or private syndicates, the odds are about as skinny as a flounder on a diet.
So what does a pike fanatic do? Well, one healthy step is to avoid the online tide of big-fish porn, and to focus on what is achievable and enjoyable locally to you. Meanwhile, there’s also part of me that repeats a simple mantra – ‘just keep enjoying your fishing, and sooner or later you’ll be surprised’.
True, I might get a monster if I spend an eternity deadbaiting known spots, but I prefer fly or lure fishing to feeling as bored as a frozen herring. This game is meant to be escapist fun, not psychological warfare.
Typically, my last shot at a better fish came just as expectations had hit the floor. In desperation, I’d been donning waders, fighting brambles and fishing less accessible waters.
Isn’t it curious how many remarkable catches come just as our belief is waning?
My season’s best was closer than I thought. I’d had a gentle take on the fly and, finally, a fish that stayed deep enough to quicken the pulse.
Over perhaps three or four breathless minutes, weighing scales were the last thing on my mind – all I could do was hold on and pray. I’m not sure how I would have reacted had the hookhold slipped, but it wouldn’t have been printable.
Moments later, she went into the net quite tidily. In fact, netting her seemed the least of my worries, compared to getting any kind of record of the capture in a tricky, overgrown swim. By pure luck, my mate Chris Lambert was walking along the bank that very moment and had seen the commotion. And while he couldn’t will the scales to spin any further round, I at least got a decent picture of my 17-pounder and a welcome reminder that fortune does occasionally favour the persistent, thank goodness!
“This game is meant to be escapist fun, not psychological warfare”