High and dry looking for that one moment of magic

Like most men I have the potential to drive my other half potty, and after a few hours of frantic Christmas shopping followed by a stop off at the local European style super market I was guilty of doing just this. I hate that snippy state we all get into at this time of year, and I for one often end up getting so frustrated over all the fervour for just one day, that I just have to escape. Luckily Jacky felt the same and suggested I maybe should go off for a few hours and leave her in peace. Me being the obedient type, she did not have repeat herself before I was pulling on my coat and slipping out the door with rod and bag in tow.

Two hours till dusk, a selection of juicy lob worms in my bag and the river was calling. I knew we had a bit of rain the day before but honestly never thought the effect would be as bad as it turned out. The land everywhere is sodden and it doesn't take much to get the rivers rising, but this takes the mick.

It looked like a weeks worth of rain was charging through the river as I crossed the field, and I won't deny almost turning tail, but truthfully I actually fancied having a crack at this familiar area when it was flooded out. I have an intimate knowledge of the banks and thought a couple of the areas where I normally sit might actually have turned from pegs to swims.

Getting close to the river though turned out to be a monumental effort alone. I hopped from island to island trying to avoid the deeper water, and after a detour probably equivalent to ten times the length of my normal route, I was sitting atop a mound in front of a nice slack water.

There is little need to go into the ins and outs of  two hours of debris catching on my line. What I can say is there was certainly fish in the slack and I did receive one tentative bite. More of this little session was spent watching the river rise out of the corner of my eye. For safety's sake I had earmarked a couple of tufts of grass a little up the bank, and as the minutes ticked away, they slowly disappeared from view under the rising water.

I eventually came to the conclusion that this was just not worth the risk, and decided to make a move towards home. This was the point when I realised that although I had be watching the water rise to my right I had neglected to watch it flanking me from the left. The water had risen up a drainage ditch along the edge of the field and spilled over in a old trench which dissected the field, and had left me very much marooned.

Landing net pole in hand, I carefully felt my way through the shallowest water, or so I thought. One step a little off course and my right boot went fully under the water, and trying to correct my mistake the left one got the same treatment. Feeling water now seeping through my thermal boots, my feet were certain to get a soaking, so off I went double time trudging through the water as a quick as possible.

Looking back over the now flooded field I could see the river had covered at least a quarter more of the low lying field than it had when I arrived. Even with a soaking wet feet I still think it was worth checking out that slack water, as there was always a chance that the heavy flow could of forced a lot of the rivers population into that tiny little area.

That following morning had been when I was really expecting to get out onto the river, but my experience the night before had luckily confirmed it would more than likely be a waste of my time, so a change of tack was in order. Having only thirty something lob worms as bait my only real option was to go and continue testing the waters on the tiny woodland fishery which I suspect might hold some decent perch.

Nestled in a spinney surrounded by trees this fishery has, as far as I am concerned, all the right ingredients for monster perch; no competition from other predators in or out of the water, huge amounts of prey fish and not too big. Partly the reason for targeting this water is that more than five years ago I myself caught a three pounder here, and then the following winter a fishing buddy of mine did the same. I was never to sure if it was the same fish but either way it proved the water more than capable of such fish.

I know the fishery's owner very well, and when I spoke to him on the subject of perch he firstly confirmed that from time to time big perch do turn up in matches, and secondly that this spring just past was a bumper year for spawning, or as he put it "the water were black wi fry". On a visit earlier this month I landed two perch of one and half and two pounds on a freezing cold day when the water was still muddied up from the feeder stream flooding over, so now it was clearing I really fancied my chances.

Maggots would have been a good addition to my bait as they would have concentrated the smaller fish and drawn in the perch, but with only limited worms at my disposal I opted to use a technique that has worked for me before. Fishing a whole split worm on the hook and flicking out a chopped up worm every twenty minutes to half an hour seems to be enough to attract perch via the scent of those chopped worms, whilst not quite being enough to attract to many swim ruining carp of which this lake has many.

With all my best efforts it seemed that still thawing pool was proving to be frigid in more ways than one. Through the morning there had been some intermittent topping by the silvers but that seemed the full extent of the activity. I stuck with the plan and concentrated all my attentions of the single orange top which slipped in and out of the shadows on the mirror like surface. 

My first bite came two hours in when my float buried instantly, leaving me connected to a powerful fish which was at least double the size of the current UK perch record. It didn't take too long to get off my hook either - three powerful runs towards the last vestiges of the lily pads and it was free. Happy with a little action the loss was not that hurtful, as carp held no interest today.

After the swim had settled and another two hours passed, out of now where I got a single stern bob on the float before it headed out into the lake. I must of hit hundreds of these classic perch bite this year alone but this one when struck contacted nothing. Both halves of my worm were gone though, which hinted a perch was somewhere scoffing its free meal. 

A quick recast and that magic moment came again exactly as before, and as I watched it sink away I paused giving this one a little more time to engulf the bait before I struck into a certain perch good perch. Whether it was the contrast of little activity or whether I am growing in appreciation of the perch's fight I don't know, but the the scrappy battle was a joy, and the first glimpse of that spiky dorsal was breathtaking.

Nowhere near the biggest perch I have caught this year but certainly one of the most appreciated  It was maybe a pound and a half or more, but more importantly it was the right sort of perch; big head, deep body and young. I have come to look for this sort of perch in these more commercial lakes as I think they are a good measure of what the water could hold. Even if they are still a few years off becoming a monster, there could be fish with the same genetics a few years older hanging around, and not just that, there's always the ones that spawned them.

A shameful lack of respect

Since I was a knee high to a grasshopper, when I first came into our most beloved of pastimes, many aspects have changed. Some have changed for the better and some for the worst. One which has changed for the better as far as I am concerned is the way in which the majority of anglers treat fish once they are captured.

Not long after coming into fishing I obtained the most barbaric keep net from a car boot sale, which had obviously been hidden away in someones shed and was dried up, stiff as a board. It was the knotted construction of this iron maiden which we now know to be harmful to fish that made it such a savage device. Gladly I can say that I never really kept much in it before I snagged it in the canal and tore it to bits trying to get it back.

Nowadays, thank god, fish care has transcended into a religion. Every possible aspect of how we can care for our quarry has been invented by the fishing tackle industry. It could be said that their motivation is not just for fish safety but for profits, who cares, because every new unhooking mat and state of the art net sold means that any fish that coming into contact with them stands a better chance than it did thirty years ago.

We anglers too have come along leaps and bounds. The way in which we treat fish in most cases is nothing less than reverent. I watched two teenage lads whilst on a popular carp lake earlier this year; when they hooked and landed a small carp, the two of them broke into action of which I could not commend highly enough. One kept the fish in the water in the huge net whilst the other readied the massive cradle mat by sousing it in fresh lake water. Their treatment of  this rather small carp was truly amazing and quite honestly the people we have to partly thank for it are those munga mixing southerners from Korda. Their modern and forward thinking TV series Thinking Tackle drums into the avid audience on a daily basis that fish should be cared for above all else, and good on them for it.

It is not the specimen angler or the pleasure angler though that has sparked me up to write this. It is instead the another group of anglers and the TV shows that promote them that are about to take some flack from me!!!

I watch all angling programs no matter how bad they are. Jacky will attain to this I assure you. I am of the belief that somewhere in the monotonous drone of even the seemingly most irrelevant of angling programs, could be one shining gem of information that might be of some use to me.

So the other night I spotted two new episodes of Fishing Gurus on one of the satellite channels. At this point I must say that even for me the first series of this was hard to watch, with its less than captivating presenters. This has changed  though in this new series as the producers of the show have made the wise decision to get that eternally overenthusiastic chappy Dean Macey in to try and enthral us a bit more. This new ruse has worked and Dean now brings a little tempo to this awkward watching show.

Anyway back on the subject. In the first episode Dean fished with a favourite presenter of mine, Ali Hamidi and they bagged a load of small carp which were treated as if they were their new born children. Mr Hamidi even landed a very nice carp, and this thing was treated as if he were lifting whatever was inside the Ark of the Covenant out. The second episode starring one Mr Steve Ringer though showed some fish treatment which I will now state is nothing less than a shocking, disrespectful and not only damaging to the fish but our sport as well.

If you have ever watched any televised fishing matches you may have noticed that when a competitor catches a large carp it is lowered onto their keep net in their landing net, and then ejected by pulling the loose net so the kipper rolls into the water. Now this is about as far as respectful to their catch as most match fisherman is prepared to go, and frankly I get the impression they only do that so as the don't lose the big one should it flip out on the way down.

Where my issue lies is when they catch any carp between 1-4lb. I have watched it again and again on loads of televised matches and programs relating to match fishing. Any fish in this size bracket are scooped up quickly in the net, grabbed out behind the fins and then dropped probably three feet or more tail first into the anglers keep net.

If dropping them three feet was not bad enough the fact that they drop them tail first quadruples this terrible habit. We all know how fish breathe, and we all know that fish are kind of evolved to move generally one way through water. So should the fishes gills be open at the moment that it hits the water then all that pressure of the fall combined with the impact of the water is more than likely going to hit those life giving and very delicate gill rakers. Which can't be good for them! I know someone who reads this might say something along the lines of, well fish jump out of the water, and they have to clean out their gill raker's from time to time. So before anyone says it I will state this firstly; like us and blinking, fish will automatically close their gills to prevent damage, and secondly even if they are doing on purpose to possibly clean out there gills, they are doing it to themselves.

Time and time again this practice can be seen on all sorts of match fishing programs. Some garner massive audiences and this makes it even worse because any aspiring young match anglers, or even old ones, will see it and think nothing of doing it themselves next time they catch a similar sized fish.

Quite honestly I can't believe how lazy this is. How much effort does it take to simply turn a fish around, and if they are so lazy as the cant be arsed to bend over a few feet, the fish will at least go into the water in way that it might not get damaged.

The other nasty bit of treatment I have seen again and again on these types of programs is when they come to the weigh-in;  fifty, sixty or even seventy pounds of fish at a time are poured from keep nets into weigh slings like they were pouring water down a drain. The only thing is water don't get hurt when that gets casually poured. But fish do! It is no wonder that when fishing commercial venues you see some of the most deformed and ragged looking fish you are likely to ever encounter.

Now I know that both of these bad habits go on at every match run across the UK week in and week out. So how much effort does it take for the high profile anglers which influence the match scene and getting paid to do so, to start trying to do something for the good of their section of our sport which could improve the way fish are treated country wide.

As for the fisheries whose commodities these ill treated fish are, well they must be mental. I work in private industry and if we treated our products as badly as they let theirs be treated we would be out of business in a matter of months. So it just makes financial sense for them to change their rules so no fish are dropped into nets, and at weigh-in's their stocks are treated with a lot more respect by the participating anglers.

There is no doubt in my mind after this little tirade, that of all the differing sectors of angling in the UK,  match fishing is ten or more years behind everyone else in the way that they care for their captures, and if they are not careful it will be them drawing more flack onto our sport by anti angling organizations.

Windows of opportunity

Options once winter sets in round these parts can become very limited, the formation of ice being the singular reason. Last winter every bit of water in the UK that did not move fast enough had a lid on it for a good long while. For me and every other angler in the UK this meant we became a rather dedicated bunch of chub anglers. Now I do love catching chub, and last week I did just that. Since then though something occurred to me; with the worst of the weather still to come there will be plenty of opportunity for cheese paste shenanigans when no still waters are fish-able, so any opportunites to fish non-running water should be grabbed with both hands before those opportunites freeze up. Luckily my epiphany came just before what could be one of  last windows arrived, and just as a new stretch of canal had opened up to me.

For the longest time I have been doing some work for a company whose premises are not far away from a very nice looking bit of canal. Every time I have passed over it on my way, no matter what time of year, the sight of it has made me salivate. The worst thing was there was literally nowhere to park my car as the road which I have viewed it from is narrow and fast. This was until the other week when I took my normal route, only to find the business that was next to the company I was working for had shut down and a large car park had appeared in its place. I will not deny actually cheering and maybe jumping up and down a bit upon seeing this wondrous and beautiful bit of freshly laid tarmac. Hence a plan began to formulate!

From fishing the same canal many miles away from this new section I knew that it could have a fine pedigree. Everything in this canal seems to grow big, and carp especially thrive in it. Though it was not them that interested me on this occasion. Zander, of which I can say with some certainty grow to very respectable sizes, were more the order of my visit and boy did this place look like zed heaven.

Arriving at first light I knew the weather for once was on my side. Cloudy skies and a nice ripple on the water to impart a little movement on my baits. It was racking up to be just right. I hit the tow path passing a group of residential boats close to the bridge. In the past I would have targeted such an area thinking it would definitely hold fish, but a while ago whilst grubbing around on a different canal whilst the water was very clear, I was able to see under some permanently moored boats only to find the lack of  movement had caused the sediment to build up under them, leaving only inches of water beneath. Ever since seeing that I have never been quite convinced of these areas.

Moving on I came to an area of hard banked canal; by this I mean both sides have the metal retaining sheets on both banks. This sort of area always seems to me a bit stark cover wise and just does not give me the confidence to sit and wait for a fish to pass by, so I moved on looking for something a little more fishy.

What I saw next though was like an oasis. After a small reed bed the hard bank ended and a mixture of hawthorns, dog rose hips and brambles spilled out over the canal. Beyond it the hard bank started again and created a hundred metre long section of cover.

The other thing I liked about this cover was the distance it over hung the water. Most overhanging plant life barely gets over the marginal shelf. This however protruded five feet in places right into the boat track, giving both depth and cover, which as a far as I am concerned are perfect winter Zander haunts.

Should I of had any previous knowledge of the Zander hot spots I would of had no problem digging in and waiting out the entire session on one spot. But this being my first probing attempt here I reverted to that technique so common amongst canal Zander anglers, swim hopping. Thirty to forty five minutes spent in one fishy looking spot after another is usually enough to get a hint of any fish present. Doing this can have some very interesting results. I have in the past spent an entire morning roving from one swim to the next getting zero interest. Then on the first cast into a new area, and before I've even got a second rod out, the first one has shot off. I have even very occasionally found large numbers of mixed sized fish shoaled very tightly in one small area which has resulted in multiple runs and some absolutely insane sport.

Today however this was not to be the case. Swim after swim was tried. The far ledge boat track and near side shelf were all fished. I found three or four other sweet looking spots which all convinced me that zander would be at home, but for the whole session my floats spent their time in that most cruelest of places, above the water!

It was kind of killing me by the end of the morning, as for more than ten swims fished all I had received was one single bit of interest where my float moved all of a a foot and a half then stopped dead. This stretch looked just right, the conditions were spot on with low light, coloured water and the likes. I too had done my part! The bait was fresh, my rigs were good and on any known bit of cut I know I should of smashed them up.

Maybe this was just one of those places to good to be true, but by the time I was getting ready to go all sorts of clandestine things were going through my mind. Had British waterways been up to their old tricks or had the local migrant workers been pulling double shifts in the area. Though I know at this point I can't make any snap judgements about unknown fish populations and whether I should come back again, what I do know is that a bit more research may be in order before I do come back as right now my fishing time is a highly valuable to me, and I am not sure if I can afford to waste it on such whims.

After the floods have passed.

The Avon has got my attention. For the longest while she had fallen from my mind, whilst other far away rivers and moody lakes have preoccupied me. But now she has changed from a memory to a target again with a monumental discharge of power which has turned my eyes back toward her.

The slow sedate flow is gone and the level has risen violently, bursting bank, covering field and fence as the familiar channel in which it flows was unable to cope with days of rain. The entire country has been reminded of how water governs our lives. Gone are the picture postcard images only to be replace by scenes of disaster and woe.

Unlike most who would rather get away from the frigid water sopping through their lives, I find myself intrigued by it. The flood plains now call to me and I have been watching for an opportunity to explore and see it in a different way. I do not want to see her as I always do, I want to cast into new slacks or differing pools which are only temporarily there; to play whilst she is a different mood.

Sense over valour has prevailed though. When midweek I ventured near, I found banks still very submerged. It's not that I did not want cast into the flooded water or that I did not feel confident to wade through the flooded meadow, it was more what I knew of this stretch!

Last year I sat on frozen banks in total silence as the evening drew in and from nowhere, the bank no less than twenty feet upstream crumbled into the river reminding me of how undercut it was. With no other reason than it was no longer able to support its weight, a sizeable chunk of dark brown Warwickshire mud, grass and all slid into the river. How many times I had sat atop that bit of earth with not a single thought to it's stability I could not have recalled if I tried, but what I did know was that I had sat there. Witnessing such a thing has ever since acted as a reminder to probe the ground I intend to sit on carefully with a bank stick before I settle in; should that bank stick suddenly dive deep after half a foot or so, then I always move back a little more, extending my landing net as I do.

No fish is worth your life, and for me this day alone in the half light it was easier to walk away. Giving the old mother Avon a few more days to temper herself, a nearby fishery I suspected might hold big perch came to my aid, and after plying its chocolate waters with left over grubs and a few lob worms, my suspicions were confirmed a little. That bitter morning a landed two nice perch of one and half, and a little under two pounds along with a rouge chub, proving that I will return again for a bigger perch.

Two more days passed before I ventured back to the river and when I again found myself looking over the fields. The water was again hidden within cuts on flat land and although the river was back where it belonged, signs of the floods remained. Just over the barbed wire fence a tide mark of debris marked high water and my normally straight path was today more of a game of hopscotch, as I traversed from mound to mound.

Though familiar at first glance, a few moments watching revealed my timing seemed quite right. The water flowed right to left but the currents were like a jigsaw put together all wrong. In the past my knowledge of some of the swims have lead me to believe that should I fish blindfolded, I could get my baits in the right place (if I did not fall in first that is). Today, however, the swims were new and I had to again think how to best fish these old haunts.

After a few probing casts of a light rig, where I watched diligently as the weight skipped across the river bottom before snagging on old weed, I spotted not far from the rod tip the tiniest of eddies, no bigger than a metre in width where the current deflected off a slight jut in the reeds.
Just lowering the bait into the water I saw my worm waft in opposition to the flow, and the tension in the line went as the lead made bottom, the bow of the line indicating my bait, now on the bottom, was possibly upstream.

How in such flow the rod tip registered such a half hearted enquire is a miracle, but the rod tip did judder just once hinting at some interest. I nearly struck the second, but just stopped hand on cork and said to myself 'next time' which took no time to come at all. We have all heard the popular saying referring to a barbel bite as a three foot twitch. Well this was a three centimetre twitch, and I hit it at one point five.

Every moment of the spirited fight was enjoyed, and the satisfying sight only a small chub of a maybe two pounds vilified my choice of casting into the temporary eddy at my feet.

I do not often chance a second fish from such small features. But given the power of the current between this eddy and the rest of the river it seemed perfectly plausible there could be a whole shoal of chub crammed in it. A short interlude and a few broken worms flicked tight to the bank and I again lowered the bait into the opposing current. 

Another tinkle came and went before I checked to see if I had been robbed, and I had! So pushing my luck I recast, set the trap and waited. Longer than before it took, but there is not many chub, no matter how fickle can resist the allure of a worm in fining water. The bite was the identical to the last. Only this time on the second twink down the white tip never sprang back. The fight of these chub in the more powerful flow was impressive, but unusually for the chub of the upper Avon they pulled none of their normal dirty tricks instead opting to hold out in the flow rather than dive into every available bit of rush.

This slightly larger one proved me right concerning the presence of more fish in the tiny eddy. But it was also a clear signal to move on downstream and spend the last hour or so fishing a favourite old swim, which I was convinced would certainly flow differently in my favour and would be a great last swim as the light went.

From the first cast to the last, fish were very interested in what I was offering. The only problem was that the quick and half hearted rattles were not caused by chub, but rather perch and if the chub bites were shy these could drive a man insane for sure.

Not one of those quick rattles were connected, no matter how quick I tried to hit them or how long I waited. These perch had robbery down to a fine art. Somewhere in the rash of violent tugs the tip pulled round very slightly, as if a tiny bit of weed had hung up as it passed by my rig. Even if I am just reeling in I give my rod a tiny strike just in case it might be a fish and on this occasion it was. A third chub smashed up the swim before broaching my net.

After that it really turned into one of those one last bite things. By the time the sun dipped below the horizon I was still getting bites, even though I could barely see the white tip of my rod in the dark. Even unable to hit those pesky perch and with my hands numb from the cold, it was well worth being on the river to see the sky first turn dark blue, then purple as night fell.

Even after a Saturday night fuelled by rum and cokes I was always going back the following morning despite knowing how cold it would be after a clear night. The one thing that kept me ever confident was that I knew the fish were on the feed. 

In a new swim however, it was no chub who struck first. With the turbulent flow close to my feet a large eddy was accessible by fishing my rod tip pointing skyward, lifting my line well over it into the slack. I had already stuck at a very perch-like rattle before recasting, and just as the weight touched down I fancied the slight nod of my rod tip indicated another may of attacked the worm as it fluttered down. Nothing more happened though and suspicion grew that once again I had been turned over.

My little flick of the rod just before reeling revealed the rig may of snagged up on some unseen obstacle. This was in part true as the hook was in fact snagged in the mouth of a pike who had grabbed the falling bait. For the first few runs it was all good, and even using a relatively light outfit I felt sure I stood a chance with this toothy critter. That was until it did a very unseasonal jump over on the far bank and revealed itself as an nice size jack of maybe five pounds or more. I survived the first bit of acrobatics but on the second my line stood no chance as it thrashed its head and severed my line like cotton.

I think the reason I cast back into the same spot was because I wondered if its prescience may have in some way hampered any other fish present, and that may of been true, as after only moments the tip once again went before I hooked another chub of two to three pounds.

Three more swims I fished after this one and no more fish were landed. Then thinking it was about time to get off, I chanced that pesky perch hole again wondering if on a different day their confidence may have grown overnight.

Straight off I missed two wicked bites which I am still kicking myself for missing now as I write this. They were the only proper bites I had in two different occasions in that swim, and somehow in a fumble of hands I struck both as the tip was going the wrong way. One fish I actually felt vibrating up the line for shortest of time before the rig popped clean out the water.

Even with that hint of regret of missing what could have been a nice river perch, I am glad to see that one of my favourite stretches of the upper Avon is showing no signs of suffering from the recent floods, and now I find myself really looking forward to those short cold winter sessions and maybe rooting out a five pounder here or there.

Putting time to good use.

I don't know if anyone's noticed but just about every bit of water in the UK right now is, how can I put it, a little off colour. We live in a pretty much permanently damp country but this is one of those times that gets everyone mumbling 'It could be 2007 all over again', with even the tiniest of trickle now doing its best to impersonate mighty rivers like the Volga or Amazon. Still water would be the only sensible options. That's if you have the time, and right now and I don't.

You see my only free time that I had allotted to try and squeeze in a cast or two this last week or so, coincided with the next heavy band of weather to strafe middle England  It was hard decision to make as I'm normally a 'go anywhere in any conditions' kind of angler, but a few hours fishing in torrential rain and gusting winds, fishing into dark seemed, well, not quite worth it, so I decided to give this one a miss.

Though lacking in fishing I was not about to just sit around griping, and instead opted to use the allotted time to instead get some necessary prep work done for when I can get out. Working full time and trying to fish as much as I can whilst maintain a healthy relationship with my better half,  I often find myself burning the midnight oil to get necessary jobs like these done. But with time on my hands it was time to make some traces for the Zander fishing of which I intend to do soon.

Years ago when when I first began predator fishing I bought traces from the local tackle shops but it did not take me long to realise that although reliable, they were expensive and also generic. I suppose it's like anything, but when you spend any time doing a lot a certain type of fishing you begin to see that the tackle you are using could be refined more to your own purpose and needs.

Nowadays the idea of buying a trace from the tackle shop would just seem like insanity to me, as the ones I make cost only a quarter of the price but have been honed to suit species, venues and method. Not only this but even just repeatedly casting traces they get damaged and kinked, hence many changes are often in order; making your own after an initial larger investment reduces the overall costs vastly.

A few weeks ago I was picking up some new floats from Merv of Wilkie's Weights. Whilst we were going through some of the products he makes, he showed me some zander hooks he has, and the moment I saw them I had to have some, especially at the price which he sells them.

I am a single hook believer as far as zander are concerned. Very early on when I began fishing for them I sidelined trebles in favour of a single large hook. As far as patterns go I have tried just about everything available on the market, from large carp hooks right through sea fishing hooks and the one I have found  that are by far my favourite is the o'shaughnessy pattern hook.

Though the only thing that lets this pattern down for me is the length of the shank! I have and still am searching for the holy grail of the sacred short shank version which supposedly exists, but which I am yet to locate. Although these new hooks supplied by Merv look the part and I can't wait to give them a go!

I know everyone has their own ways of doing things and that some might read this and totally disagree with how I make my traces, but I had some new ideas that in conjunction with how I normally make traces, may help me and others whilst zander fishing. Hence I thought whilst I am knocking up a batch of shiny new traces I would show you an easy way to make them, and what I use. 

A few things you will need to knock up a batch of traces

Step 1 =  Pull some wire off the spool but don't cut it. Form a tiny loop in the end of the wire using the spinning method.

Step 2 = Thread the loop through the eye of the hook, making sure it exits at the back of the hook

Step 3 = Pass the loop over the point of the hook

Step 4 = Pull the wire back through the eye bedding the loop over the shank of the hook.

Step 5 = Pull off the required length of wire for the trace plus a little bit extra from the spool and cut the wire using nail clippers. Once this is done thread a crimp along the wire and over the twisted section of wire and crimp in place. 

Using both the twist method and a crimp results in a very stiff section at the end of the trace. I have found this helps reduce tangles and is more than secure enough attachment for the hook.

Step 5 =  Thread a second crimp onto the wire then form a larger loop in the other end again using the spinning method. Once this is done pull the loose crimp over the twist and crimp it into place then trim any excess wire off.

Most people would usually attach a swivel to the end of the trace. Forming a loop it gives me the option of using a long bait needle to thread the trace through a dead bait, have the hook protruding backwards from the mouth of the dead bait and the trace exiting at the tail end. This means you can strike the run very early with full confidence that the hook is in the zanders mouth.

The finished trace is simple, inconspicuous, cost effective and can be removed very quickly for unhooking or to exchange it for a fresh one should it become kinked. 

Step 6 = To attach the trace to my mainline I use a Fox quick change swivel and one of the rubber sleeves to secure it. These tiny and tangle free little swivels systems are designed for fighting big carp and are more than strong enough to deal with the biggest zander likely to be encountered.

Whenever I go zander or pike fishing for that matter I always make sure I take plenty of traces as quite often a lot of action can come along in a short and specific amount of time. So having many quick changes of traces to hand gives you a much better chance of bagging up when the fish are on the feed rather than having to fiddle with making traces on the bank.

The best storage solution I have found for my traces is these trace bins. They are cheap and can store a large amount of traces in a tangle free manner which does not take up much room in the tackle bag.

I hope this has been a help to anyone who reads it and was considering making their own traces or even to anyone who already does and finds even the slightest bit of information that helps in their fishing. If it enables one reader to get even one more bite or land one more fish it will be more than worth my effort writing it. Tight lines!

The same but a different Wye.

The river Wye is still new to me. I have only ever fished it on three occasions and this was the third, hence I am still getting to know it. I suppose with the changeable nature of running water it could take someone a life time to get even the smallest understanding of a river, and that knowledge could be washed away with one single flood; so me and the Wye still have a long way to go till I have even a modicum of understanding.

Before we even left the shire, the Wye on paper looked not that different from how it had been less than a month ago. This in turn created a hint of confidence that we may, in some way, have a repeat performance of our previous visit to this little-fished stretch.

At four in the morning the sky was about as clear as it could be, and even the glow of the city did not seem to diminish the view of the stars. But this clear night was to herald a clear day, and that we did not want one bit for our trip to this river. The problem with pre-arranging such jaunts is that should the conditions be adverse, you can't exactly just change tack having ultimately drawn your cards weeks prior; should it be a bad hand then it is simply a case of making the most of a bad lot. 

Our day was planned, and even though the pair of us knew the bright sun might well be against us, the cogs were already moving, and come what may we would soon be slipping through the night to try and beat the rising sun to the Wye, to best our chances of casting into the half light.

Winter views of rising and setting suns are, I have to say, some of the best, but when you want to be on the bank before light up, that pale blue semicircle that appears on the horizon as you speed through the night, is like an alarm bell ringing in your mind. The journey into Herefordshire therefore was not savoured one bit and was instead reduced to a countdown of miles on the the satnav. 

It was just getting light as I tip toed around ice clad muddy puddles to open the gate into the white frosted landscape of the Wye valley, and for the first time this journey, I felt relaxed. We were here, it looked great and the spot where we headed held fish for sure. Though how long those fish may be inclined to feed was anyone's guess.

Not long after this, Andy inched the car along the top of the flood defences as we neared the chosen spot. Being only a single car width, any vehicles travelling along this track must either travel the entire length or turn around on the single area wide enough and flat enough to do so, before powering back up onto the track. 

It was decided that given we were the only people going to be on the stretch it was a good idea to turn the car around before we started fishing and leave it on the track ready to go later.  Going down into the turning area was easy enough, but when Andy came to power back up, the car slid to an inglorious stop with the wheels spinning in the soft ground covered in frost. A few attempts all ended the same way. This was not a good way to start a session. We agreed that the frost may be hampering his efforts and decided to leave the car where it was and try again once the sun had melted the white grass green again. Though it was also agreed to try again around midday, so as to leave us enough time to go and try and find a kind farmer to drag us out should we be unable to get out any other way.

I know Andy had the worry of being stuck niggling in the back of his mind, and frankly I did too, but unable to do anything about it we went about trying to catch some fish, as prime time was ticking away with the quickly rising sun.

As I set up I watched the river flowing past, and as all the available information had confirmed it was no higher or lower than when we were last here. Even the colour of the water could of been a exact match to last time. But something about it was different. My rigs were identical in all ways but one: not wanting any disasters I had obtained some highly durable yet reasonably lower diameter mono line which I had previously used and was very confident in.

I even cast back into the same area where on my last trip I had done so well. Three quick casts and the feeling that the river was different grew.  If my rig landed only a few feet further out, the flow seemed ten times as powerful. Sticking with just inside the flow, taps started to appear on the rod and soon enough those taps grew more violent. All the taps stopped suddenly before I got a proper rattle, and instinctively struck just as the tip bent over.

Although secretly hoping the barbel would show up again, I had wondered if the major drop in temperature overnight may have put them off feeding, but here I was playing a barbel after my first real bite of the day and it was really hammering me. The freezing temperature had certainly not made this fish lethargic at all. Time and time again it powered in and out of the current, until I finally coaxed it into the slack water towards my waiting net.

Not a massive barbel, but on a freezing cold morning it was more than I expected quite honestly. A few repeat casts later it's smaller brother or sister did a very convincing impression of giant roach. The tip kept rattling  as is my baits were pecked at by a 10lb roach. This fish was half the size of the first and all the way in I suspected a the big white lips of a chub would appear from the fight, but then it suddenly turned into a small barbel.

Not long after the second fish, the bites dried up totally. Strangely, Andy, who was fishing a crease up stream, seemed to be getting regular bites. Thus I suspected the fish may of moved a bit further out. In order to try and squeeze out more interest  I increased my feeders weight and pushed more into the flow. Just casting that few feet more it seemed like the entire pressure of the Wye was on my rig, and time and time again no matter how much more weight I added, the rig was unceremoniously ejected back into the slack after tumbling across the rocky bottom. Even going onto my second rod, with its Avon tip and a huge cow lead piggy backed onto the feeder, only served to bend my rod right through the top section.

Feeling like I was not fishing effectively, I decided a new spot was in order, and dropped down to fish the crease where the flow came back off the bend, only to find this was a hundred times worse. This time  sunken maple leaves skipping the bottom immediately hooked up on my weighty rig and dislodged it in the edge.
It was whilst trying to fish this area that I realised that although the river was seemingly of exactly the same level as on our last visit, the flow had a lot more pace and power. It was almost malevolent as it pushed by, and was only content for me to cast beside it. Should I cast anything into its path, it was just shoved out of the way. Thinking about it, the only reason I can rationally think could explain this is that the water was encountering less resistance as it moved down stream. Whether it was reduced weed levels upstream or the wind coming from a different direction and not holding it up, or just pushing it on. The fact was that it was much more powerful  than before, and this was confining us to areas where the fish did not seem comfortable feeding.

As agreed, around midday after fighting it out for very little, we opted to make a move. The last time here we held it out in one area under the belief that the fish would again feed as dusk fell, only to find they had no intention of getting back on a bait. This time we wanted to explore a few other spots lower down stream, and as Andy had managed to get the car out of the mire it seemed a good time to move.

First we checked out an area we hoped might hold a large upstream slack, where rumours of big pike abound, but it turned out the increased pace of the water had pushed the main flow of the river directly onto the bank where we stood, which had in turn transformed what I suspect was a normally sedate spot into a maelstrom of mixed currents which neither of us fancied trifling with.

Next we headed to the very bottom of the stretch, entering via a second gate at the bottom of a very muddy lane. This part of the river looked every part a salmon and trout beat; long riffles interspersed with slightly deeper pools had spey casting written all over it, but as for coarse fishing it was not looking good at all. Worst of all the early winter sunset was not so long off that we could justify going back to our original spot. So begrudgingly we picked the likeliest looking area, which turned out to be a grassy plateau level with the river, and tried to make the most of things.

Upstream from Andy, I could not hold bottom again, and soon enough resorted to trotting the biggest chubber float I had along a run mid river to try and steal a bite here or there. The float moved so fast that a fifty yard trot lasted mere moments, but after persevering for a good hour or more the float buried out of sight at the end of the run and I contacted a reasonable chub. Vilified, my only problem now was how do you tow in a 2-3lb chub against the full force of the Wye using only a 3lb hook link.  It took a while and some gentle pumping, but a big white pair of lips appeared not far from my net just before one last turn against the flow pinged my size sixteen hook back in my face.

The move did turn out to be a bit of a bad one as the lower part of the stretch just did not seem the right sort of place to be fishing right now. Sure, in the summer standing knee deep in the river rolling a chunk of meat down the far bank under the trees may have been very productive, but at the time of year when that tactic would work, this place is the private premise of the salmon angler.

We had such high hopes for this session back on the Wye as it was going to be our last trip down this year, but the conditions had made the fishing difficult. However this river has me hooked, and I can't wait to return and discover a bit more about it, provided I can persuade its owner to let me come back again next year early after the salmon season is done.

Attack of the hungry jacks.

It was meant to be a date with old mother Avon for me this weekend just past, and zander I hoped might be my quarry. At the time this plan was conceived, the river was up, coloured and looked perfect. Only problem was that I could not get anywhere near it for at least five days. As I feared, through the week the conditions trickled away with the flow of the river, leaving my only hope a predicted downpour Friday night. That downpour never came and I knew that the opportunistic window therefore resided in the hours between  however early I could get up, and whatever time dawn held off till. The whole idea had waned in my mind as time passed and by the start of the weekend just did not seem worth it. So I began pondering a possible plan B.

It was my age old angling accomplice Rob who offered a suitably interesting venue change. He has permission to fish a largely forgotten estate lake deep in the Warwickshire countryside, that although silted badly, has what can only be described as an unmeasured fish population of god only knows what. Rob has spent a few sessions fishing this water and has had some interesting captures during what he described to me was reliable sport. The hint that hooked me though was the information that recently some big pike had been captured amongst a haul by one of the other anglers who also permission to fish the lake.

That was enough for me, and given the large current stock of dead baits lining the bottom drawer of our freezer, this seemed by far a better option than struggling on the Avon. So a date was made for a foray Sunday along with the promise of a roast dinner at mine when we got back to mine.

I do love an estate lake. They have to be my favourite sort of still water venue. Just the thought of one and the mysteries that lie beneath it's old and protected water is enough to get the hairs on the back of my neck bristling. So to say I was looking forward to this trip might have been a little bit of an understatement. Add to that the possibility of some big mean old crocs swimming around undisturbed, and it was quite a miracle that I even got to sleep on Saturday night.

It was only just light when we arrived early Sunday morning, and after travelling down miles of tree lined drive into the estate we found ourselves looking over the old lake as mist rose slowly off the water. Beyond the water across a huge expanse of impeccably manicured lawn towered an imposing Gothic house. The clicking sound of coots could be heard through the mist and a tawny owl still hooted in the woods alongside the lake; already this was more than I could ever of hoped this experience would be.

We headed round to a small point on the southern bank and set up close to where the feeder stream breathed life into the lake. It would of been far too vulgar to set up some kind of depth gauging rod and then trash the water up. So I instead just just hooked on a large dead bait, set my float around three feet above the weight and cast it far out into the direction I fancied. It only took three casts plus a slow retrieve to figure the depth was around three and a half feet on average and then that was it I was fishing.

I kind of always expect a long wait when I begin on a new water. So how shocked was I when one of my floats began that seductive 'there is a pike sniffing your bait dance' after only five minutes. It was only a jack pike of about four pounds but the speed in which it found my bait hinted this might be a good day for piking. And it turned out it was! Only minutes after returning the first fish and recasting the other float to toddled off attached to a second pike of identical proportions and I was in heaven.

The next one I had to wait a good three quarters of an hour for. But this one felt a bit bigger on the strike. Though saying that all pike feel big on that initial hit I think. Longer but leaner this one went berserk as it neared the bank dashing off to my left trying to get under the bank.

Not long after this we agreed that with the whole morning available we should maybe explore some other spots round on the eastern wood which faced the house. Rob explained earlier to me that  a lot of the fish shoal tight up in a deeper area when its cold., so this seemed the obvious spot to chuck my baits.

Although a little awkward for both sitting and casting, the area looked spot on for a run or two. One rod was cast into a shallow reed lined bay to my right, in which small fish were still topping around at mid morning. The other was punched full force half way across the lake as if I was trying to land it on the houses eastern patio.

After both rods were sorted - one perfectly still and the other bouncing up and down in the ripple - I plonked myself down for a nice warm in the winter sun. I think those few moments that I sat enjoying the warming rays were the last moments of respite I got before the action really kicked off.

One rod after another went off, with the rod cast out into the centre of the lake reaping the most attention.  Honestly I have never seen pike this hard on the feed in my life. You don't realise that every capture of a pike actually consumes quite a large amount of time. From the bite all the way through playing, landing, unhooking, releasing, re-baiting and casting the process probably takes a decent amount of time. Then normally you wait a while for a run. But today this was like match fishing for pike! 

With the constant action it was only a matter of time before I got a double hook up, and it happened as I watched a bite develop on the rod cast into the middle of the lake. The float had dithered a bit, moving off a little then stopping. I knew a pike was interested but decided to wait and hold on until it moved off. As I waited rod in hand, I heard the buzz of the free spool. But the float was not even moving. Turning my head, my other rod was bending round and the line was cutting off across the surface of the water. I dropped the rod I was holding back on the rests and grabbed the singer. I had only just struck when the float of the other rod buried. Luckily Rob was not far away, and after hollering for some help, he struck into the second fish.

Mine came in quickly enough and with that safe in the net we landed the second pike. This was first for me! I have had two tench, two bream and two carp in the net at the same time, but never two pike.

Double jack

Sublime is probably the best description for the way the fishing was on this session. It was just one of those occasions when I was lucky enough to be on the right place on the right day, doing the right thing. Sure, the biggest pike of the day would have been lucky to break seven pounds, but to be in such great surroundings getting so much action was a real kick.

Between seven and one I had around twenty different enquiries, five dropped runs, three strikes that met with nothing, I lost three fish during the fight and landed nine spanking pike between four and seven pounds. Luckily I had a large stock of dead baits with me, as when it was time to leave all I had left was two mangy skimmers and a mackerel head.

I will certainly be making arrangements to return to this gem of a lake before Christmas, because although all I have caught so far is what I would describe a jack pike, I have one hundred percent belief that they have to have a mother, who lets be honest, could grow quite large in a lake full of these size fish if she was a cannibal prone to infanticide.

Just before we left we did have a little look round to scope out a few areas and it was then that Rob told me about a little spot right down at the far end of the lake by the dam wall, where the water is surrounded by reeds and the depth plunges to well below the three foot average. Maybe that place could be the lair of a pike eater? As far as I am concerned it probably is and I will be dreaming of that until I return.

Two for one predators

The things we put ourselves through.

Sunday morning I woke way before my alarm and lay in the warmth of my bed pondering what the day ahead held in store.  Once up I slipped downstairs and skipped across the chilly wood floors to get the kettle on. Whilst the ear shattering noise of boiling water filled the silence, I peeped out of the door to see the world covered in white frost. It was certainly chilly, but that only fed my fervour for the days session. 

Earlier in the week I had arranged to take Jeff to my secret squirrel perch spot on the canal promising him a new canal PB and I myself was very excited at the prospect of what looked like a classical sort of session. Cold air, fallen leaves dotting the surface of the cut and fish with an air of urgency to their feeding. How could it go wrong!

After getting my diesel chugging beast running I climbed onto the front of the van and hacked away at the solid widow screen until visibility had been restored. Prior to this my hands had been lovely and warm but that was the end of that for the day. Soon enough I was quietly tapping on Jeff's door and got no answer! A second subtle rattle of his knocker seemed to get no response either, so a proper bang was needed and that brought a bleary eyed Jeff out like some small furry animal waking from hibernation.

Every time I pick Jeff up I always seem to go the same way but today I had wondered if a differing route may save a little time. So loaded up,  for the first time ever I went a right instead of left at the end of his road. Little did I know that this time saving call may of been one the worst decisions I ever made.

The roads were as expected empty, and zipping along in the dark I was pleased with my snap decision until we turned onto a quite bit of road that marks the very border of Coventry.  Just as we were about to pass into some lit road, a figure appeared waving their arms on the verge. Luckily I actually saw them, as any momentary lapse in concentration would of had them splatted on the front of a large van travelling at 60 mph. Initially I thought it was just a hitch hiker trying to bum a lift, but as I moved over to pass, the person came further out into my path, nearly forcing me to swerve off into the gravel lining the road. It was Jeff who uttered, its a girl, as I just went round her. Straight away I assumed we were being flagged down for help by someone involved in a crash and the instant thought of a over turned car lying in a ditch came to mind. But when Jeff opened his door and she spoke what she said was worse, much worse! and she uttered those awful words "I've been raped by two men and I need to get back to Coventry" through the sobs. Honestly I didn't know what to say and I don't think Jeff did either. Neither of us reacted that quickly but she on the other hand did, and was in the van before any kind of offer had been made. Instinctively I pulled off and plotted the course to the nearest police station. 

The crying soon subsided, and peering around an agog Jeff at our new passenger, I thought something did not look right. She was no girl dolled up for a night out that had ended badly, and now quiet she was slumping over half conscious. It then clicked what she was, and I realised we were now just a drug addict hooker taxi service. Whether she had actually been raped, or just not paid, or just wanted a free ride home was all irrelevant. The fact was that now my idle had been shattered and I now found myself in a situation akin to something from a Hunter s Thompson novel. All I needed was a head full of mushrooms and Jeff to be yelling inanely, whacked off his gourd on mescaline, and we would of been half way there.

When Jeff enquired of her wanted destination it roused her from her slumber and to give probably the last place in the world I wanted to go in this situation. Now seething, I drove as carefully as possible so as not to attract any unwanted attentions, as a trip down the local police station to explain ourselves did not appeal whatsoever. In the end we did get rid of the unwanted passenger and ended probably the worst start to a day I have had in a long time.

I think what up pissed me off me the most about the whole incident was that we were pulled in under the guise of someone needing help. Yes, should we have been needed to help someone in a crashed car we would not of hesitated, or should it of been a genuine assault we would of done our duty in driving right to the police station. But this girl did so easily what people in her unenviable position do, and dragged two innocent people into her world of crap. And in future I can't deny that if such a situation should occur I for one will think twice about stopping...

We did eventually get to the canal and when we did my heart sank a little. Here was me waxing lyrical to Jeff guaranteeing a good day and the cut looked not that dissimilar to the milky coffee Jacky is partial too. Still we got going and Jeff soon enough got an early indication. Then just as he waited for it to develop rain began to dimple the surface and the wind kicked up. Luckily I had a brolly and we were soon entrenched under it for what looked like a long morning. 

The sport was slow by this places standards, but early on my dead bait rod danced off attached to a small jack pike which I landed, then twice again slid away pulled off by what we both suspected were dithering Zander which I did not land. Jeff plugged away putting together a lovely bag of perch and I nabbed a couple here or there. But now the weather was taking its toll. The incessant rain was accompanied by sleet,snow flakes and a biting wind. Both of us were suffering badly but with little inclination to move we endured on.

It got to the stage where we were so cold that our hands were unable to evaporate the damp from them leaving permanently wet. If it weren't for the fact that Jeff looked colder than me I would of considered sharing body heat, it was that bad. Even madder than us was Andy who turned up for a possible chuck of lures only dressed in water proofs. He ended up crouching on the mud beside our camp for half an hour before seeing sense and going home.

The rain did eventually stop and this was our chance to get out and pack up. Just as we began we both turned to see the float of my dead bait line had vanished. Winding down I discover the rig at least ten feet out of position and struck hard into a decent fish and moments later landed this mint plump Zander.

Before doing anything with it I flicked out the rig onto the same spot then got a few pictures. By the time I had released that one and got on with packing up, it went off again attached to a smaller but still pristine second Zander.

In the end even though we had pushed ourselves to the very edge of endurance we had a good mornings fishing and Jeff looked pleased as punch with his net load of billies that included a new canal PB which I duly informed he would beat next time he came back with me.

The Lake #17 Ahab is back after the pike eater.

That flipping big pike has been haunting my dreams. I swear most nights as I try to fall asleep the vision of it's flaring gills flashing white as it engulfed that bream creeps into my minds eye. I knew I must go back. But I needed time and decent amount time at that, for my traps to have chance to work.

Time is the key with the lake I think. It takes time to locate them, or for them to locate you. Either way I did not care, I just needed a whole day at least on the lake. So I booked a day off work to have another crack. Last time I was here I felt I had flitted about spending too little time in any one spot, and that sounds mad as I only fished two swims. This time though it would be one and I would wait it out for ether failure or success and possibly even madness.

The lake looked in fine fettle with a green tinge to the water. The brook had obviously been pumping coloured water in over the weekend just passed, and I could not wait to get started. In no time at all my three floats were rotating around the large bowl of an area I had chosen to fish, and almost instantly my short range float did a quick bob which sent a ripple out over the calm water, indicating a imminent take. 

It was only small but what he lacked in size he made up for with spirit, and did a spectacular jump just off the end of my landing net. But that was to no avail as the next time round a plump and prime jack found the folds of my net. 

I would love to say the next eight hours were a blur of non stop action, but they weren't.  In reality all that ensued was a very long staring contest between me and the lake. Honestly it seemed like prime conditions with overcast skies, drizzly rain and reasonable temperatures. But it wasn't until the very last gasp that another float sparked up in exactly the same way and produced a equally spirited jack of a slightly larger size.

It is a little hard to see in this picture, but this fish had a little indicator that maybe I might not be that far off track, as it had signs of being grabbed by a much larger fish across its back. It was never a deep wound but more of scrape where large patches of scales had been removed by what looked like a considerably larger fish and indicated the definite presence of a pike eater in the lake.

This second foray after my white whale did produce some better results as the fish are getting slowly bigger. For my part though I do feel the whole Ahab-like obsession creeping over me. Maybe now I should start looking for a stove pipe hat, then get to work on Andy with a magic marker and fake tan so he can be my Queequeg.