Carbeling! No Zarbeling.

Last year whilst grubbing around on the river I got chatting to an old guy - well I was chatting, he was moaning. Amongst his various gripes he mumbled the word carbeling, by which he was referring to when carp anglers, who normally spend their time pitched up for days on end next to some lake awaiting a pig of a carp, instead ply their carpy scaled down tactics to fishing for big barbel on non native rivers.
Hearing this made me realise that I could possibly coin a new phrase of my own for a technique I have been using for a good many years now.

Zarbeling ; To fish for zander using using barbel techniques and tackle.

I started doing this after what can be considered one of the most frustrating sessions ever. Whilst fishing a particularly coloured Avon on a mild February day with some very heavy cloud cover, my two bite alarms sounded all day with multiple enquiries, from what I was convinced were zander. Even low resistance rigs fished into the slack water using light set drop off indicators could not convert the initial enquiries into actual runs. Late in the day my riparian companion Rob rolled up to my swim, after spending the session quiver tipping for small fish down stream. After watching my bank side disco for a while he tied on a trace, cast out a dead bait, and lo and behold, he got a tiny bit of a bite which he converted into a nice zander.

This got me thinking that tip rods were the way forward for river zander fishing. On a lake or canal that has little or no flow you can leave the bail arm open on your reel with whatever bite indicator you favour attached, and have no problems.
The problem with rivers is the flow. To fish at all in the flow there is always an element of resistance/pressure on your rigs, and we all know zander hate both. Barbel rods offered both a sensitive quiver tip plus enough power to deal with the biggest zander you are likely to come across, and even with pike right up to 20lb should you be lucky enough to hook one. Rig wise I straight away began using a free running big barbel set up, just with a wire trace and trebles attached instead of a mono or braid hook link.

For quite a long I was still waiting for that hoop around of the tip, of which I did get the odd one here or there. But still I was getting heaps of tiny knocks I was not converting. I can't remember when I figured this out exactly, but on one occasion after getting a single tap on the rod tip I picked up the rod and took the line in my other hand.
By holding the tension myself I could actually feel the fish move off, and I let it go on its merry way whilst keeping in touch with it. Once I had let it have what I thought was enough time to get the bait in its mouth, my sharp strike met with throbbing resistance.
This was a revelation! I now began converting probably 80% or more of  the slight taps into landed fish and I have never looked back.

With this unnerving warm weather we are currently experiencing and my need to get back on running water, I wondered if a dusk zarbeling session might be the right way to go. With a fining down river with a healthy bit of colour and near double figure temperatures to boot, the conditions looked about spot on.

I could of just played it safe and gone chubbing on the upper Avon where I knew the fish were on the feed, and given my state Sunday morning after the bloggers winter watering the night before, that was nearly the case. But as I ummed and ahhed, mooching around the house, I came to the conclusion that another window like this in the weather might not be so forthcoming over the next few months, so I got my act together and headed out.

Anyone who fishes any busy town waters will fully understand what I mean when I say that I soon found myself sitting in that still strip of almost silent land between the bustling path populated by Sunday walkers and the ever moving river. I kind of love being in this place half between humanity and nature. You walk along that path to get where you're going, then step out of society slightly and begin to dabble with nature instead whilst all the other people still on the path are oblivious to things going on right beside them.

After sitting in silence staring skyward for the best part of an hour, I was beginning to think my gamble was going to end badly, and pangs of regret crept into my mind. Given the conditions I had hoped even during the daylight hours some interest might have been garnered, but not so much as a nod had occurred. Sure the plethora of rubbish still suspended in the water kept me busy recasting every now and again, but the feeling I was working for nothing had begun to undermine my confidence badly.

Then twang!!! It always amazes me that even after watching rod tips for hours as they move back and forth that we anglers can spot the difference between an rotten old leaf catching your line and the tiniest pluck of a fish. This was no leaf, bag or any other shite for that matter. It was one hundred percent a fish. Rod in hand I could feel a few more tiny tremors travelling back along the just taught line. Then it moved off and I tracked the fish through ninety degrees with the rod flicked of the baitrunner  and as the line tightened  I struck hard into a solid fish.

My decision to gamble on a zarbeling session had paid of with the capture of my first zander of the year, and at seven pounds plus it was a great first fish. As is so often the case on this busy bit of water, once that first bite was out the way it all kicked off. Two more smaller zander fell one after another before it quietened off for a while.

Vilified, my thoughts were pushing me away from the river and homeward. My hunger had become apparent, and the idea of the beef and ale pie I would soon be eating was betraying me. That was until one of my rod tips began bouncing around.
I have found when using this method of bite indication for predators that the difference between a zander and a pike bite is never more evident  A zander nine times out of ten gives a single tap then unless line is given it will certainly drop the bait. A pike on the other hand nearly always indicates its presence in one of two ways: either the rod tip slowly bends over, then for some reason springs back before bouncing back and forth until you hit it; or it hammers off straight onto the bait runner just like a barbel. Either way the difference is obvious once you seen a few examples of each.

The first pike was tiny and no injustice was therefore felt when it got off. Only a short while after recasting onto the exact same spot, the next pike to pick up my bait really put a bend in my rod as it hung deep in the still powerful current.

Long and wide across the shoulders, this young lady has was well on her way to becoming a proper river pike. Like all the fish I caught on this short session she was solid. The fish, unlike us anglers, seem to have fared very well in the flooded conditions, and its nice to know that whilst we have been unable to fish, our quarry has been able to feed up in earnest for any cold weather ahead.

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.