In a time to come he would begin to question if the day had been a dream. Like a lot of dreams the details are vivid then blurred, easy to recall then more difficult to reach. And, like a lot of dreams, moments actually forgotten suddenly re-emerge for seemingly no reason.
But maybe it was Rust Cohle who made the most
pertinent of those observations;
“And, like a lot of
dreams..........there’s a monster at the end of it.”
******************************
This had better be worth the effort. He’s been on the move for only five minutes
and he’s already torn up by the undergrowth.
He was told it was inaccessible and the landlord wasn’t joking. The pond being barely visible on Google Earth
was the first indication he’d had that this huge area of vegetation was going
to be a natural barrier par excellence. He’s stuffed his folding net down the front of
his top to shield the mesh after being wrenched to and fro as it snagged left
and right. He’s ditched all luxuries at
the car after seeing the fortress of brambles and blackthorn ahead of him...the
bag with food and drink, the waders and waterproofs all deemed worth the risk
of abandonment in the vehicle’s boot to travel as lightly as possible. Even his mobile phone has been shut back in
the glove box due to a zero signal, thus freeing up a pocket for his good camera. He’s a walking jangling rattle of small
tackle boxes, all contained about his person in every pocket his waistcoat
sports. In the most spacious of these is his Shimano Citica reel and tight to
his chest is the cloth-sleeved two piece Abu baitcast rod that he’s glad is no
bigger. He wishes he’d remembered a cap
as his scalp is again raked by thorns but he’s grateful for the Polaroids that
are keeping him from being blinded by grasping barbed limbs.
No
paths,
the landlord had told him. His only instruction was he had to look for the least dense parts and press on
regardless.
So, at the risk of being the victim of a
wind-up so cruel he would never forget it, he did indeed ‘press on’. Regardless.
You’ll
be the only one there.....the only one who’s been there for years, probably.
Needless to say that had inspired him. A lack of competition is always welcome. No pike, and an invasion of crayfish that
could only have worsened in the span of time since the landlord had managed his
last visit meant it drew little or no interest, even from those who had made
the ragged journey in the past. Hey,
maybe it’s gone. Maybe time and geology
have slowly drained it into the earth.
He’s going to find out pretty soon though because, through the myriad of
clawing vines ahead he can see clear daylight.
And now he sees water. He
realises he’s going to be able to put the landlord’s assertion to the test, the
claim that has brought him here through a literal jungle of hurt, armed with
rod, reel and packs of soft plastic crayfish patterned with a variety of
colours they don’t even exist in;
There’s
only perch.....but everywhere I looked, bloody hell, there were hundreds of
them.
******************************
The water is clearer than he expected. You wouldn’t drink it but neither is it the
murky green he anticipated. He can see
the bottom of the pond even some way out, aided by what looks like sand as a bed. Clay?
He’s creeping nearer with that as-yet-unknown new venue curiosity that
no-one tires of. At first, the world
below the surface seems devoid of life but then the first flicker of movement
catches his eye. His brain registers a
crayfish sidling across the pale base of the lake. Slightly further out, another of similar size
is static. Then, reassuringly beyond
words, three perch become visible as they pass in front of him with the
seemingly clear intention of going somewhere, before merging with the darker
water and being lost to his vision. His
enthusiasm soars. He turns his attention
to the surroundings. The whole pond is enclosed by an arena of trees that
stretch out over the water like a circle of friends putting their arms forward
to try and touch fingers in the centre.
Bank space is tight all round but he can see what almost passes for a
beach further along from where he’s standing and, beyond that, somewhat
quirkily, a small wooden jetty juts into the water. Blimey, was there ever a boat? The thought of this place being visited by
others almost intrigues him. Then his
mind gets back to the moment and the Abu is drawn from it’s cover and
connected. The Citica is fastened to the
reel seat and line is passed from guide to guide. From a pocket he slides one of the crayfish
tackle boxes then sits himself back against a gnarled tree trunk to decide on
his weapon of choice. It can’t be said
there’s a shortage of options; he’s brought enough soft plastic to build Katie
Price a spare bust. In the compartments
of the container are crayfish of all colours, some natural and
some...well...unnatural and most are just a couple of inches in size to fit his
favourite Ecogear jigheads. Only in the larger single section of the box does
the ‘odd lure out’ reside. It’s a hefty
Castaic crayfish that dwarfs it’s comrades and has been brought out of
curiosity rather than tactical intent.
And perhaps a touch of guilt.....
Because the Castaic has languished unused in
a drawer since it travelled home in his luggage from a Las Vegas Chad Lake Tahoe
and given it the time of it’s plastic life, belting along at high speed in the
bass boat to the largemouth hotspots and hooking into some lunkers. Then
gunning home across the water, back to Chad Chad
But that’s for the end of the day; the last
few casts when, traditionally, lures that are brought only to be assessed get a
swim / crawl / twitch in some quiet snag-free corner before home. Right now, a
small Strike King crayfish is being slid onto the jighead and clipped to the
snap link. Then looking at the
watermelon green and orange cray dangling from the hook with plastic pincers
swaying he remembers his dad’s standby line for any lure that looked like it
could never fail; if the fish don’t want
that I’ll eat it myself.
He’s popped the thumb bar on the Citica as he
approaches the water and the first cast fizzes the spool with a punch of his
wrist. The crayfish makes splashdown
about twenty yards away and he raises the rod tip slightly as the ‘V’ of the
line cuts it’s way across the surface towards him. When did a lure last land in this lake? Before now, has one ever landed in it? All is
still and he flicks the rod gently upwards as he slowly turns the reel handle
to bounce the little lure homeward bound. The next rod flick is met with an
equal bump in the opposite direction and he strikes into immediate
resistance. About fifteen yards in front
of him he sees the line jagging in several directions and feels the plunging
fight of a hooked perch.
The fish isn’t small and it takes a minor
battle to draw it closer to shore where it heavily breaks surface in a swirl of
black-barred gold and green, with amber pectorals catching his eye. It veers away to his left as he snaps open
his net with one hand while steering the fish back towards him with the
other. Then the frame and mesh are
welcoming the scrapping predator and lift it clear of it’s natural environment. He kneels down to view his trophy. It glows in the net, pristine and uncaught
until today. He slides the barbless
jighead from the side of it’s mouth and lays his rod on the ground. Then, still kneeling and holding the netted
fish with one hand he delves into one of his many pockets for the little Salter
scale that will reveal all.
This is the scale that, when purchased, the
tackle store owner was at pains to point out would only weigh up to seven
pounds. He’d reassured the shopkeeper
that the scale was only for perch and he needed nothing more. And he recalls the store owner’s reply being
along the lines of the scale being perfect for perch and if he ever catches one
that bottoms it out he’ll be famous for life.
So with the little Salter adjusted to disregard the weight of the net he
hooks it onto the frame and raises it slowly.
Two pounds and two ounces. For
him, that’s a belter. He lifts the fish
from the net and holds it carefully close to the ground for a photograph. He’s delighted when the spiked dorsal holds
fully upright for the picture then he lowers the fish slowly back into the lake
and sways it back and forth. The perch
regains it’s bearings in moments and flows away from his hand, back to the
deeper water. Then he exhales and sits
back for a moment. That was a perfect
fish. If that is all he catches today
he’ll be happy. Two pounds two. It looked huge. The biggest from the UK
He looks around for a new casting point. That jetty has been drawing his attention
since he arrived. He’s going to check it
out. He collects and pockets camera and
scale, then clips his net back onto his waistcoat and quietly makes his way
along the bramble-tangled shore to get to the little wooden feature. It seems decades old and not entirely
trustworthy. Years of passing seasons
have left the timber looking very much the worse for wear. He takes his first step onto it and instantly
sees, submerged to his left where the lake bed shelves, the upturned remains of
a rowing boat, it’s broken boards protruding like the exposed ribs on the
carcass of some decomposed sea creature.
Then, while he’s taking that in, the jetty suddenly creaks like the
Addams Family’s front door and instinctively he hastily lowers himself to his
knees. Common sense tells him to shuffle
back and get off it. But the
somehow-surviving boyhood drive that got him soaked to the skin on almost every
stickleback expedition from thirty years before is telling him to wait. Imagine how interesting the view off the end
would be. Surely crawling along will be safe as houses, what with the low centre of
gravity and all? Bollocks to it....he’s
on his way. The wood is bleached white
with exposure. He’s halfway along it on his hands and knees with the rod
crossways between his teeth like some carnival tightrope walker. Twice the jetty moves slightly and twice he
freezes before cautiously proceeding. This is a near-death experience waiting
to happen; while it’s shallow nearer to shore he can see the bottom shelving
deeper further out. Finally he’s at the
end of it. He lowers himself flat onto
his front and lays the rod next to himself.
The camera in his chest pocket is digging right into his ribs so he
draws it free and places it next to his rod on the jetty beside him. Then he slides slightly forward and peers
down over the final plank into the water below.
******************************
Crayville.
There’s almost a carpet of them around the base of the wooden legs that
support the little pier. Most are just
shuffling slowly around directly underneath him. None are particularly big and he watches as a
pair spar on the pale lake bed. He drags himself further forward and bends his
head down to look back under the jetty itself.
More crayfish but also several perch congregating in the shade of the
boards. He’s pleased to note none are
bigger than his recent capture and he watches for longer than he realises as
the striped brethren mill around calmly in the faintly sun-streaked water. And as the light does indeed brighten for the
first time that day he then switches his gaze to straight out beyond the jetty
end and into the lake in front of and around his prone figure. He can see far more now that the cloud has
briefly broken up; the clay base of the pond seems almost backlit. He adjusts his Polaroids on the bridge of his
nose as he tries to establish what it is that he’s noticed scattered over the
lake bed in all directions. Crayfish
debris. Smashed crays litter the bottom
for as far as his vision allows. Broken
claws and body casings make the area resemble a crash site. That, he thinks, is bizarre. He strains to see into the deeper shelving on
both sides. Nothing much to his right
but on his left there’s a submerged tree trunk and next to that, just where the
darker water starts to take objects from view, is the faint outline of a
suspending carp. That surprises him, despite it being
perfectly feasible. He’s suddenly
tempted to flick the little Strike King there and see if it shows interest or
not. He won’t try to hook it but he’s
keen to see if it goes for a look. He’s
carefully reaching to his side for the rod when he realises the fish is going
to make life easier for him by coming nearer.
It’s not aware of his presence and is drifting forward into the clearer
water. And then his buttocks clench
right up as if a doctor has suddenly appeared with an endoscope, and his mind
flashes a nonsensical joke through his head as he watches the fish slowly
cruise starkly before him in all it’s multi-pound glory....When is a carp not a
carp?
When
it’s a perch.
******************************
When it’s a perch. He can barely comprehend that fact, as the
huge bristling frame fills the foreground.
The destroyer of crayfish is holding station several yards beyond him
and looks like nothing reality could produce.
Years before, he’d been working at a fishery when a crowd gathered round
a perch angler who had just landed a five pounder. That fish had looked like a
physical impossibility and was the only chance many of the observers that day
would ever get to view one of five pounds in the existence we call ‘real life’.
So, as he plainly sees that the fish before him at this moment is bigger by
some margin than the one celebrated at the fishery years earlier, he can do
nothing more than say to no-one in particular
Oh. My.
God.
while his heart beats in his throat and he
subconsciously slides himself a short way back along the jetty.
His thoughts regroup. He’s pushing his chin
down on the pier boarding while gazing at the almighty predator dominating the
lake space in front of him and, to his mild
embarrassment, he realises he feels almost intimidated by it’s presence;
the enormity of the thought of even casting a lure to this thing seems
overwhelming. But cast a lure to it he’s going to. Then, as he reaches to his side for his rod,
he realises the pissy little two inch Strike King cray is barely going to be
noticed by a fish that could swallow an eight inch trout swimbait without it
touching the sides. So he wants the biggest bait he has with him and after a
brief mental size calculation he’s lying on his side, unclipping the tiny jig
and getting ready to swap it for the most patient lure he’s ever owned, the
Castaic crayfish, formerly of the BassPro Store, Dean Martin Drive, Las Vegas,
Nevada, USA. What’s ten years between
friends? If you wait in a drawer for long enough, your day will come.
He’s constantly watching the huge fish while
he’s fastening the Castaic. He briefly
wraps the line round his forearm then pulls strongly on the lure to test it’s
connection. All holds firm with no slips
or pings. Still lying sideways and now
in great discomfort he plots how to go about this. He needs to cast the big cray well beyond the
perch then bring it back slowly into the happy hunting ground. Pitching directly to the fish would risk
spooking it and losing the present advantage of the fish being at ease. He needs to be up on his knees for this,
though, so again slides on his stomach back along the jetty, reaching halfway,
and now knowing he wouldn’t be plainly in view if he slowly knelt up. So he slowly does. His net is awkwardly clipped to the back of
his waistcoat but he ignores the hindrance.
He lifts his head an inch at a time until he sees the top of the fish,
now slightly over to the left again. He
raises the rod and the crayfish slowly rotates on the end of the line like a
circus performer as he clicks down the Citica thumb bar and draws the rod round
to his side. Then he swings the tip to
his front and sees the heavy Castaic sail into the middle distance and meet the
water a safe yardage beyond the jetty end. He keeps the rod tip as high as is
discreetly possible to lift the line clear from needlessly dragging on the
surface of the lake. And now he just lets everything settle and nervously
re-fixes his attention on the biggest perch he’s ever seen in fact or
fiction. The fish seems unperturbed by
the distant impact of plastic on water and continues it’s almost sentry-like
patrol of the immediate area. Keeping
the rod tip up he slowly turns the reel handle and, out on the lakebed, the
Castaic cray, equally slowly, begins to waddle home.
******************************
He’s got his breathing settled but the blood
is pounding in his ears. The urge to
bring the crayfish back quicker is overwhelming but he’s determined to not
stuff this up. The Citica handle is
turned gently and all the time his eyes are fixed on the fish. The steeper angle of the line is telling him
the lure is close now and as he makes more effort to see it he suddenly
realises that he can; the dark plastic critter’s shape is just in view now. And at that same moment the boss of all perch
flicks it’s broad tail and faces the approaching crayfish. This is
nerve-shredding. The fish, too, has seen the American intruder and is
visibly more alert. He dares to creep
the lure closer while locking his gaze on the fish’s reaction. Another foot of crawl. The fish looks wired now. For Christ’s sake, please. He dares to put a slight twitch into the retrieve; the fish
moves slowly towards the lure and he genuinely fears he’s going to puke. The sight of the stand-off is too much to
bear and, just when he thinks the vivid imagery is more than he can cope with,
the huge fish raises it’s spiny dorsal like a sail and he almost feels
light-headed as he sees that the spiked fin is as big as his open hand. Then, almost in an involuntary reaction to
that, he twitches the rod again and the crayfish does all he could dream of: it
digs into the lakebed, puffs up a tiny cloud of silt and rears up with it’s
pincers waving straight at the approaching thug as if daring it into a
fight. With that, the fish gives in to
every predatory instinct it has been attempting to suppress and lunges forward
in an attack as violent as it is breathtaking.
The Castaic cray is engulfed in a swirling montage of green, black and
amber with the vast white interior of the open jaws as the centrepiece and the
plastic lure being crunched within them.
Up on the jetty he almost cries out in shock
as he fires the rod tip skywards and the line zips up off the surface of the
water and locks solidly into the fish.
He sees the head of the perch jolt round towards him then can barely
watch when the fish hurls itself into the most mind-blowing flared-gills
headshake he’s ever seen as it attempts to throw a crayfish that seems to be
fighting back like no other has before. He’s
trying to get to his feet but a seeming eternity of lying flat then kneeling
has made his legs, initially, unpredictable at best. As he finally stands, holding the rod high
and back, the huge perch bores away to the right, bow-waving parallel to the shore. He hears the spool of the Citica hiss as the
clutch gives line and his head spins with it.
He needs to stay in better contact with the
fish than this and he needs to be off the jetty and onto the shore as quickly
as he can travel. He’s more than a touch
disorientated but he’s keeping a tight line somehow as he sets off along the
wooden boarding towards the bank. Then
at almost the moment he is set to depart the jetty for firm ground he feels the
world move beneath him and the sound of rotted, breaking wood that goes with
the realisation the ancient little pier is sliding away beneath him with a
splintering farewell. With a falling
leap he feels the jetty go from under him and as he hits solid earth he
stumbles, tripping forward then sideways then righting himself like Georgie
Best getting hacked by defenders but somehow staying on his feet. Behind him he hears the swirling of water as
the pier is claimed by the lake for all time, but he can’t turn to look because
he’s still fixed on the bend in the rod above his head, the line being kept
thankfully tight by the still-travelling fish at god knows what range now. He’s able to use the reel again and makes a
few turns of the handle to re-establish full contact.
How is
it still on? Only
the fact that he forgot to crush the barb on the Castaic’s hook has, thus far,
prevented him losing the fish in the midst of his comedic routine. But now he’s
better placed for a fight. He can see
the line entering the water some way out and travelling solidly to the
left. The fish is going back the way it
came and suddenly he’s filled with dread because he realises there is now a
sunken pier to go with the sunken boat and the sunken tree in the part of the
lake that surely must now deserve the title Sunken Corner, a district of Snag
City. If the fish gets into any of those
obstacles then all is lost. As much as
he dares he draws the rod firmly to the right to oppose the progress of the
huge perch but makes almost no impression on it. He’s aware of himself begin to
resign to fate but suddenly feels the fish turn towards shore and he cranks the
Citica handle, gratefully gaining every unexpected foot of line that he
can. Then he sees the vast shape of the
perch emerge from the darker water and veer right again, sees it clearly enough
to glimpse the brown body of the Castaic crayfish sticking out from it’s jaws
like a Cuban cigar in the mouth of a tycoon.
The spade-like tail pushes the fish past him and, again, the Citica
hisses line as he loses all the yards he managed to recapture moments
before. Christ Almighty, he isn’t used
to this. He catches little perch. The earlier two pounder was almost the
biggest he’s ever hooked. Until now. This
doesn’t even feel like reality because he can’t equate the thousands of perch
he’s ‘fought’ during thirty plus years to the immovable object that is
currently cruising away from him towards the middle of the lake.
Jake Hamilton
I'm exhausted after reading this. Excellent work!
ReplyDelete