Making A Weight Shift Balsa Fishing Lure Part 2 of 3

It is Boxing Day and it is cold enough to snow, even the weather reports are predicting a drop of the white stuff but as usual they have overdone things and are calling it the start of the next ice age. I am testing my weight shift lure while my wife complains about the loss of feeling in her extremities. There are no pike in this lake and no perch of any size; a winter fish kill a few seasons ago took its toll so I am casting for leaves, pleasure and the camera.

  Phox Minnow Weight Shift Balsa Fishing Lure Drawing

  Phox Minnow Weight Shift Tools and Materials

A Mouth Full Of Crankbait

Image Above: A Pike Breakfasting On My Homemade Crankbait

I arrived at the lake a little after 5:30am and found the carp crew who had been camped out for a couple of days were in the process of landing a lump of a fish. It turned out to be a rather large tench but not a carp and the crew were not happy. I stopped to inquire where their web of lines stretched to so as to avoid setting off another bite alarm and creating some more disappointment for them.

Two days earlier I had been out for an evening’s float fishing session when the crew had turned up carrying all their equipment in a supermarket trolley. Knowing I would be required home they set up around my swim with banks of rods laid out like cannons on the deck of a destroyer. With guns to the left of me and guns to the right, I hung on for an hour and then left them to it.

This morning I had two small patches of water to myself to hunt for pike and fling some new lures and prototypes about. I clipped on a fat head wiggler knowing that this really wasn’t the best location for hurling big bits of wood about. The plug flew but landed with the poise and grace of a scud missile scaring the moorhens and their chicks. I let it swim for a bit and then put it away saving it for a trip to a bigger water and then clipped on a Balsa Crankbait.

Despite the smaller size and lightness the lure flew to almost three quarters of the distance covered by its bigger cousin but also landed with less of a thud. It wasn't long before something was kicking up swirls in pursuit but after a couple of lunges whatever was out there gave up. I moved to my other free stretch of water just as a pike broke the surface in the shallows. Three casts later it had taken my crankbait and when it surfaced the lure was firmly wedged in its jaws. I switched on the mini video camera and then not thinking stupidly landed it in the net instead of picking it out the water from under its chin, instantly the belly hook snagged up and I had two hooks to untangle.

With some minor surgery the hook came out of the fish ok and I slipped him back while I dealt with the bigger problem of the net. When I finally got back off my knees I realized that my little lure had caught its first fish and had the rash to prove it. Unfortunately the video was unusable but I managed to salvage a still from the junk.

After deciding previously to limit myself to one pike per visit to my local water I set about testing some other little creations.  Despite some design successes the lake is the place to come and find flaws and test ideas some of which should of never have left the drawing board but it is often only when I have added water that my failings become apparent. One particular prototype swam off in a direction that almost made me believe it was autonomous. I still have a lot to learn about lures and filming especially in the great outdoors

How to make a Buzzbait

It was a little busier at the lake than I am accustomed to. The warmth of the winter sunshine had brought out a field of competitors, but rather than clog up the central swim they had tucked themselves away into the corners leaving me a sizeable stage to test my lures. I had come to get some film of my latest project the Buzzbait, this was to be a repeat performance after yesterday’s visit when I found once again my camera was battery- less.

The buzzbait is at best a little more than ridiculous, I know it has its roots in the spinnerbait  but there is pushing the design envelope  and then there is farting in it and posting to someone you don’t like. Despite looking like a unfortunate accident involving a teenager with a mouth full of dental work and desk fan this is a lure that truly make sense once you get it into the water. Given a couple of reel handle cranks and a slightly raised rod tip the lure rises to the surface as the blade splashes creating a sound very similar to that of a duckling running on water to make good its escape. Unlike the sloppy casting spinnerbait the buzzbait flies a little longer and little more directly all be it with a purring blade.

With all that said this is really a summer lure for use when little critters like ducklings, rats,mice, and voles are about on the snaggy margins where wobblers fear to tread. Until then I can just make the excuse that I am testing it rather than fishing with it.

When I had what I thought was enough video to edit together I put the camera away and clipped on a Montana John and went for walk along the bank. A group of young lads decided to join me casting jellied lures across my line while telling me about the pike they had caught last week, whose weight seemed to be yo-yoing with every detailed addition to the story. I tried to get a little distance on them and attracted the attention of another passer-by who asked how it was going as I struck into a fish.

It felt a healthy size and drawn by the commotion the lads ran over brandishing landing nets and asking if I wanted them to net it. I jumped down into the shallow water and brought the fish in; with crowd safely on the bank I slipped the hook out and let pike away before it became a thing to prod at.

The lads, who couldn’t have been much more than ten, asked what I caught the pike with and I showed them the lure. The oldest of the group took off the jelly shad he had been using and began tying a different lure on his line, one which I recognised and  I told him the lure he was holding was one I had made; I think he thought I was asking for it back. His mate said he had gone into the lake to get it out and the water had come up to his underpants. I had given it away to fisherman a few weeks earlier who must have lost it only for it to change hands again.  To show I was not trying to reclaim lost property I gave him another lure, a plastic swim bait I had retrieved myself and thought I better throw in some traces for safety. I had my fish, my film and smile from hearing about a kid who wadded in after one of my lures so I packed and headed home.

  How to make A Buzzbait  Drawing by  

  Tools and materials list for making as Buzzbait by  

New Homes for Old Lures

Image: A little fellow caught on a Jig Head.

God it is cold.  I am bandaged into my clothes with various bits of fishing tackle slipped in between the layers of cloth and still the bits that remain exposed ache in the cutting wind.  I have taken one small pike at the other end of the lake with a resin jig head but the centre section of water has been covered by the lines of a small group of carp anglers.  A couple of weeks ago I woke one of their brethren who had been camped out overnight by snagging one of his lines and setting off his bait alarm. His face said it all, woken from dreams of sumo sized carp only to find a sumo sized pike angler looking a little more than embarrassed.  

I have learnt my lesson and I am fishing out of harm’s way in amongst the snags at the shallow end of the lake. So far it has been one fish and two lost resin jig heads.  I clip on the long cast balsa minnow and watch it sail through the cross wind; it runs a little shallow for cold winter days and I still nervous of losing it having neglected making a few spares.

There is a call from across the lake and I briefly wonder whether I have hitched up another line. One of the carp lads is asking if I have a spare fishing lure. I tell him to come over and start routing through my bag and its collection of old prototypes and reject lures. I pull out an early version of the pine wobbler that has a slightly shorter lip. Its centre hook is missing; probably taken to use on another lure. I replace the hook and tell him I’ll just test it as I can’t remember if it’s any good despite the fact it still has some pike teeth ebbed in it. It swims with a wide wobble but it I am still not sure about it, so I give him a later version which has also seen a few battles and he thanks me and wanders back. He has fished here long enough to know I make the lures myself.

I keep the pine lure on the line and give it a few casts but it is difficult to handle after the precision of the weight shifting balsa lure.  A badly aimed shot lands it amongst the reed stems at the water’s edge but it swims free and a pike grabs it within an arm’s length. It is only small thing but the fight draws the carp angler back over. I unhook the pike in my hands and with a bit of fumble it leaps back into the water.  

I unclip the lure and hand it over to the carp angler before packing up. It might not be the prettiest thing I have ever made but then there are lots of shiny new lures hanging in shops and none of them have ever caught a fish. The tally stands after two hours at two pike, two jig heads lost and two minnows with a new home which all leaves me a little more space in the tackle bag.  

Monsoon

Image Above: The Roach King sits out the Monsoon

Sunday

The noise came from the other side of the lake; I could hear the crashing of branches and looked along the shoreline of the island and the muddy creeks that separate it. It sounded as if a fellow angler was having a fight with the shrubbery; fishing rods seldom pass cleanly through undergrowth. When the clank of goose or duck broke through I guessed a loose dog had found some sleeping waterfowl and decided to wake them. A brown back finally scuttled on the edge of a thicket of dogwood, when its legs stop kicking a large male fox emerged backwards onto the muddy shore. It stared at me for a while and then took a few paces unconcerned with my gaze. I played the slow motion game trying to reach for my camera at a speed that would not startle the animal but at least give me a chance of a photo.  The fox paced and then left as I fumbled in the rucksack.

 Wednesday

At the far end of the lake the sky has darkened under a cloud blue enough to remind me of scorched steel.  I have taken one pike, lost another and I am hoping to stoke the interest of a third that has just broken cover as my lure left the water at the end of a long retrieve. To my left the Roach King (nickname) is perched under an umbrella giving me instructions on how to rid his swim of the beast that has already taken a roach he was playing into the bank.  He is fishing a deep channel in the lake with a homemade float over a size 22 spade end hook; some people like to make it a little harder that it ought to be.

I cast again but fat drops of rain are falling, they grow fatter and faster until the lake almost shudders under the onslaught. I drop the rod in the long grass and shelter in the trees.

Fishing The South Pacific (straight to video)

Image Above: Tackle Box made from an old video case.


I am sat amidst what looks like the aftermath of a rock festival, a long train of debris surrounds the lake like a tide mark. Summer has brought its fair share of litter louts to the pond, tins of sweet corn and empty bags of ground bait mix with half eaten packets of crisps and pop bottles, fish food and fisherman’s food.

The smell of weed wafts over from the next peg and in the distance on the far bank a voice breaks into a few verses of and old Roxy Music hit.  The vocalist is a big guy and continues to run through hits that may have been popular in his youth.  I reach into my rucksack and pull out a video, South Pacific. There is a pause as I look at the palm trees and dream and then I open the case and take out a fishing float.

There is a man in the garden with a gun

Image Above: A little silver thing.
Image Below Right: Filming in the garden.

I dropped my mother in law at the airport at about 5am and then cruised home to collect my tackle and head for the lake. At five thirty I was at my favourite peg with a float poking at the surface tension of a still lake. It was a slow start but eventually a shoal of small bream cruised past and I took half a dozen before they moved off trailing bubbles down the lake. The roach came a little later fat and greedy for breakfast. In the small bay where the lake widens a father and son were dealing with an eel the lad had caught and the excitement drew some spectators from the other anglers who had arrived while I was busy with the roach.

I left a little before nine with the feeling that I had lived almost a whole day and had yet to enjoy breakfast. Turning into the avenue I found a film crew setting up for a day’s shoot with cables and light gantries strung down the pavement only to converge on our neighbours house. I spent most of the morning packaging lures between visits to the bedroom window to keep ahead of the action. They were filming a new drama thriller for channel four about conspiracy theory called ‘Utopia’ and Liverpool was doubling up for London which was probably all down to cost.

I watched the stars (none of whom I could recognise) climb the garden walls with one of them brandished an automatic pistol. At one point they ran a small rail line down our back garden to carry the camera while the cast re-enacted what looked like a scene from the great escape. Two things struck me about the filming, you have to be so thin to work in front of the camera that some of the cast would only be a little heavier than my balsa lures. The other thing was that the crew employ a man whose sole job was to hold the replica gun while it was not being used in filming; a gun minder like a baby minder only with a gun.

In the afternoon I went off in search of welding rods along the dock road, the family came along for quick trip to Crosby beach and some bass scouting.



Image Below: Sculpture at Crosby Beach.

A Tale Of Two Lures

Image above: The first pike of the afternoon.

Image Centre: Hand Carved Balsa Wobbler And Its Bigger Pine Brother

It is late afternoon when I finally make it to the lake. A trip to the tackle shop had delayed my departure. There is seldom a queue at the counter but the shop is home to a collection of anglers who should probably spend a little more time near the water be it soapy or the fishing kind. Today the owner was demonstrating his one and only super power the ability to resist adhesives. The impromptu display began while he was fixing one of his patrons fishing umbrellas with fast setting epoxy. After the epoxy failed to glue his fingers together he produced a tube of super glue and liberally dotted it on his fingertips before pressing them together. True to his word after a minute his fingers came apart with skin intact. I left as one of his other customers who had tried the same trick was realising his piano playing days were over.

The banks are almost unrecognisable a flush of summer growth has filled out the space between the lowest branches of the bankside trees and the tall waterside reeds. I find space and set up the rod and reel where the denser shade of the trees had stolen the light stunting the undergrowth.
The first cast puts my lure deep into the clutches of a weed bed it comes back embedded in a tightly packed ball of green. I cast again and again fanning out to cover the banks and to reach for the centre of the lake but my lure stalls every time as it picks up another beard of weed. I move and start again but it is a similar story. I try a shallow lure and then a surface lure but it makes no difference; with little in the way of open water every retrieve only brings more weed.

The lake is old flood land a product of subsidence and does not fall away to any depth much beyond eight feet. At this end the banks narrow slightly where two small rivers feed in cutting channels some distance over the lake floor. Ultimately the bed load of material carried by the moving water settles out gradually reducing the depth of water until weed begins to fully occupy the water column.

I return to the path and walk the short distance to where the lake begins to spread out to its widest point and the rivers lose their influence. The weed thins its hold on the surface only forming dense drifts in the shallows where a strip occupies just a rod length of water from the bank. I begin the search with a Hybrid Casting Spoon sending it out almost parallel to the bank and retrieving it at speed with a pulsing rod tip so the lure flickers and veers sharply from side to side. With each cast I aim at another mark on the clock until I work my way from ten o’clock through to almost half past two. It is hard to get to grips with the lakes submarine topography without a depth finder and a boat so I cast for coverage hoping to increase the odds of happening on features that hold pike. Often here I have drawn fish out of the middle of the lake casting at twelve o’clock. I run through the clock again varying the retrieve with long pauses to let the spoon drop into the depths.

I draw a blank and move thirty yards and begin again. With my lure out in the depths I catch site of some movement close into the bank on the edge of a reed bed. I retrieve the lure and stop to take a look and way things up, it could have just been a rat slipping into the water or moorhen leaving for the reeds but something nags at me. The reed bed is thirty yards off and skirts a small bay shaded by a scrub willow and stunted hawthorn. In the spring I had watched a small jack pike hang motionless in the shallow water until the clump of my boots had sent it off into deeper water.

Maybe it was just a jack chasing fry or frogs. I unhitch the casting spoon and reach for something a little lighter a new balsa wobbler as yet untried. It is not a radical design I took the basic shape from another of my balsa creations the ‘Montana John’ and rather than rely on a single hook I wired it for two small trebles, bulked out is profile and shifted the position of its internal weight to compensate. This is a completely hand carved lure and although newly finished with glass like coats of epoxy it has spent long enough in my hands for it to feel very familiar like the handle of a well-worn tool. I know it has the lightness of touch to cover the distance on the cast without thumping into the water and spooking whatever awaits it on the edge of the reeds.

I adjust the brake and magnets on my bait caster reel and swing the lure, it lands smoothly a foot or so from its target. As I crank the reel handle the lure springs into life and a wobble sets up before it sinks away into a dive. In less than three cranks of the handle the water irrupts and I am in, the rod is pulled sharply and begins to dance like a wand as a fish struggles with the idea of restraint. It is a short fight although the pike manages a brief but spectacular walk on its tail. I push my net through a gap in the reeds and the fish obliges.

Its body is thick and solid and even under a firm grip it writhes looking for leverage. The hook comes away cleanly and I am left for a moment to admire the fish and lure which is dwarfed as a David by a Goliath. I fumble the return to water which ends with me half launching the pike which recovers almost instantly disappearing to leave to small vortexes as a parting gesture. With the fish gone I gather my kit and head for firmer ground to eat crisps and drink pop and relive the moment.

From here on the bank space is limited by access and cramped by trees to cover the water between access points and would require long casts. Balsa even weighted is not the best material for punching out long casts; I clip on a heavier pine wobbler. Made with a denser Scots pine body larger in size as well as being heavier overall this is a lure to make up some distance. Despite its lack of delicacy the unusual weighting pattern and shear sides create  a violent wobble enough to draw pike in from some distance away even in coloured water. 


Back at the water’s edge I find myself performing contortions to swing the lure out past the weed banks. I work around trees and push through reeds carrying my rod over head like a marine with a rifle. On one small section of open bank I send the lure out past the trees that enclose its other end. The lure runs a good way off from the roots and overhangs but a wave rides out on the back of a pike and I tense waiting for line to straighten under the load. There is no splash just a dull weight that occasionally thuds a little as I draw the fish in. It is smaller than the last one and the hook is deep within the mouth just ahead of its gills which accounts for its reluctance to fight it out. I reach my long nosed pliers inside and the hook comes away with a twist although the wound has trailed blood out through its gills. Once in the water the fish comes alive powering away to recover.



The air has stilled and evening is beginning to settle. Out on the lake the sails of dinghies sag as yachtsmen wait for a breeze to break up the huddle of stalled craft, out of boredom or looking for a competitive edge, some of the younger crews push hands through the water. Under the trees I have become a bait of sorts for the emerging mosquitoes and other insect looking for a feature to patronise.
I pack up slapping at the gaps in my armour and walk back to the car.

Before leaving I sort through my lures pulling out the familiar faces I have carved or cast and then placing them in some kind of order. It seems a long way from business end of selling lures. I wonder about what makes a lure something to be desired - is it its ability to bring home fish, reputation, brand, pro endorsement or just the look of it? I know that for the three to four hours I am out here at the lakeside everything else, work, business, life are wiped and there is only me the water and the fish. What I want from a lure is for it to feel like an extension of myself, sometimes I need range, or the ability fight through a gale, other times the light touch that responds to the crank of the reel handle and twitch of the rod tip like a puppet.

I suppose the business of selling lures is about being part of someone else’s time on the water and that is a big ask.

Image Above Right: A Second Pike
Image Below:  The Pine Wobbler and Link to Shop

Wagglers

Image Above: Roach and home made balsa waggler float.

    By late afternoon the storm had developed into a small monsoon. Sheets of rain blew in over the surface of the lake dropping their load in fat drops that pummelled at the waters. Without a bivy or the modesty of an umbrella I padded through the ring of mud that marks out the island looking for shelter amongst its trees. This turned out to be a false promise as the wind took to liberating the rainfall from the trees at regular enough intervals to ensure I would not miss out on the bounty.

     Despite the weather summer has arrived at the lake; the stretches of water cleared by the winter die back of weed have gradually shrunk under the season’s new growth.  Even bank space is at a premium as anglers have returned from hibernation in public houses or curled up under the warm glow of a T.V.  sets.  There is little open water in which to throw a lure and so I have my excuses to fish with floats and bait. 

    There is almost a welcome rhythm to float fishing, tie on hook, slide a float up to what you think depth may be, add some shot weights to hold it and then hook on a plumb weight and cast. The plumb was given to me by a fellow angler who took pity on my early attempts to catch fish with a float. Unlike the other weights in my box it never ventures out as part of rig but serves as a temporary addition to the hook to find the depth of the water. I pass the hook and line through the eye on top of the plumb weight and then push the point of the hook into a small piece of cork wedged into a slot on the base.

     I cast and wind in stopping every few feet to check the depths, if the float disappears under the weight of the plumb the length between the float and hook is under depth, if the float lies flat on the surface I am over depth. From my plotting’s I work out that the bottom falls away sharply to a pretty constant depth only a short way out. I cast again and bring the float back to my chosen fishing position just beyond the drop off and the float sinks until its top creates the slightest lump in the surface tension; I am just on depth at about five feet. Once retrieved I unhook the plumb weight and move the small shot weights that hold the float in position and the float six inches up the line over depth so the hook will lie on the bottom rather than hang mid water like an apparition.

    I take four of the larger split shot weights from my selection box and pinch them on the line either side of the float and then drop it in the water. The float stands upright with the water covering three quarters of its length, I add another smaller shot half way between the float and the hook and a much finer one six inches from the hook.  When I cast again to deeper water the float settles until only half an inch shows above the surface enough to hold its own in amongst the ripples surface but still show a bite. The float is traditional waggler with a bulb of balsa at its base, the design keeps the float relativity still even when the surface of the lake is bruised by ripples. I am ready to fish.

    I hook on a single sweet corn kernel and cast again following it with a handful of loose kernels thrown around the float. The fish come in short bursts mainly roach of a good size and skimmers (small bream). As afternoon turns to evening the sky darkens prematurely and my rain filled bait box takes on the look of sweet corn chowder. I realise it is time to leave when I begin cradling fish for warmth and wondering whether wading in the lake may be the drier option. 

Balsa Jubilee

Image Above: Hand Carved Balsa Lure Bodies

Summer has missed beat and a little bit of early spring has once again reared its head. The lake water at least looked to have benefited from the cold snap and the rain; it had gone from its normal Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup to a light broth with a hint of ginger. I spent a little longer there this morning than I should of float fishing and catching my fair share of roach, skimmers and golden bream all candidates for a new look alike lure.

A little bit of Pike Action

Five of Jacks

Image Above: Mist on the water, Pennington Flash

The sun was low enough to burst through the bankside foliage and cut in amongst the mist that had risen overnight. I padded along excited to be at a new water and a little in awe of the surroundings having spent too long fishing in an inner city park. The lake or “flash” as it is known sits in a hollow rather than a valley and owes its existence at least partially to mining subsidence. This is flood land and there is a dampness about the place that reaches far beyond the banks. In the distance I traced the low arch of a Pennine ridge that seemed familiar but the name escaped me. The landscape was still in that process of naturalisation, its industrial past had been softened with spoil heaps weekly shrouded in scrub and sun bleached grasses. The lake is something special as all large bodies of water are, we can build roads, pave earth and manicure landscapes but a lake will always have something unyielding in its nature.

I set up quickly and made my first cast with a wobbler which slid through the air trailing a thread that settled out like gossamer as the slap of wood on the water broke the silence. The water was not deep and the lure tugged at weed snatching stems, I watched mesmerised as it rolled into view its rear end flicking like a spark of life. I worked the banks casting from gaps in the thicket of shrubs that lined this part of the lake. The weed was becoming a problem; I held my rod high making the wobbler run at a shallower depth but it wasn’t the easiest way to fish. I moved again and hitched on one of my hybrid casting spoons in the knowledge that if I kept a steady pace it would run just below the surface out of the weed. The lure ate up the distance between access points leaving little out of reach. In the clear water I could watch it react to every jerk and nod of the rod as it swam and flickered almost with a searching action, when the rod was still it settled back into a side to side roll, spooning its way over the weed.

Just off a reed bed, my first pike stopped the lure in its tracks and then set off for cover, I wound as fast as I could hoping to prevent a scramble through the reeds to retrieve them. In the end the fish came in parallel to the bank with his head buried in a mop of weed almost as if he was having a bad hair day. At about three pounds it was a good start to the day and having only a single treble to remove meant he was back in the water without too much messing about. Unfortunately I had run out of bank as fishing is only permitted on certain stretches of the shore and I wasn’t keen on casting in amongst the carp fishermen I had passed. I headed back to the car to drive over to the far side of the lake.

The sun had stirred up a breeze that chaffed through the reeds and pushed the surface of the water up into wavelets. This was obviously the windward side of the lake a green film of algae clung to the margins but beyond this it was almost clear water. I took another jack in the first few casts unhooking it in the water and before moving along the bank.

A little later and far out in the lake I felt a tug on the lure and then nothing, I cast again but misjudged the angle required and ended up far from the mark. The next cast was a little better and I found the tug again which had come from a seven pounder. I had hopes for something bigger maybe into doubles but seven pound was nice and heading in the right direction.

I took another two pike over the next hour, not of any size but it didn’t matter I was catching fish on a lure I had designed and produced myself, maybe the testing is over. 

Image Below: Jack pike on a Hybrid Casting Spoon.

Jura For Breakfast

Image Above: Angry pike on a blue home made wobbler (Devil Minnow)

I wonder sometimes if I manage to catch fish despite myself. This morning I was out at six to test my devil minnows and a few other things. The lake was quite, save for a couple of dog walkers so I had the place to myself; it was a little overcast with a light breeze almost perfect testing conditions.  I set up my rod and bait caster failing to adjust the brake for a heavier lure, needless to say I spent twenty minutes after my first cast sorting out the bird’s nest I had created on the spool. The scissors came out and my line got a little shorter. After I put my spool back in I also failed to tighten the locking nut creating another bird’s nest a few casts later which stopped the lure in mid-flight but only briefly as the snap link on my trace snapped and my sinking lure sunk out of sight. The shock also managed to send the level wind out of sync causing it to stall on one side.

There are many words in many languages that describe my feelings at that moment, chose your own.

Luckily I carry a spare fixed spool reel so I wound on the line from my bait caster and not having a spare trace I put a split ring on where the snap link had been. This was not the best solution as I had to open the split ring every time I needed to change lures so I opted to limit my selection and forego a full testing session.

My rod which is actually designed for a fixed spoon reel felt like a different animal and I was soon throwing a blue devil minnow the length of the lake.  After about an hour of covering empty water I saw some movement close into the bank and cast almost parallel to shore.  The lure was running a little over a rod length out from the shallow shore when a pike bolted from under the bank about six feet away a grabbed hold. I stepped straight into the water and after only a couple of turns on the reel I was holding a four or five pound angry pike.

I thought it best not to tempt fate and packed up; the cold from sitting on the bank messing with fishing reels had worked itself into legs and fingers. I am not a drinker but a guy I know told me the only way to warm up quickly was whiskey and chocolate. At home I didn’t bother to find a glass but took a swig straight from a bottle of Jura, single malt and remembered when I used to fish in the Atlantic with the island of Jura as a backdrop.  Just one swig of whiskey, more lures to make and a clear head required.

Image Below: looking back to the Isle Of Jura (on horizon)

Another 9am, Another Monday morning

I was a little late to the lake this morning. The workmen who had begun exploring whether the hole in lake was fixable on my last visit were already on site with a pump churning up the water. I asked how they were getting on and a guy in waders told me that the hole was a little larger than they had first thought and it would probably call for an excavator to continue. As to whether they could fix it that may depend on when the money runs out.

I moved a little further down the bank and set up my spinning rod with a new prototype lure I had come to test.  As yet I hadn’t given it a paint job; I was looking to see how it swam and what it was like to cast before investing in finishes. It did what it was supposed to do, but it lacked that certain something so I unhitched it from the trace and clipped on my devil minnow.  Half a dozen casts later and I was into a pike that felt a little larger than the jacks I had caught here previously, maybe it was the ten pounder I had let slip out of the landing net a week or so earlier.

It rumbled to the surface and gave a few kicks before I had it to the bank, a fellow angler had is landing net at the ready to help out and came in without much of a struggle. Unhooking was a bit of an operation even with a pair of long nosed pliers and forceps as the hooks had embroiled its jaw in the net and it took a moment to figure out which was the best way to free it.  A little audience had gathered, dog walkers and workmen so I finally got a picture of me holding a fish. Despite forgetting the old trick of pushing the fish towards the lens to make it look bigger the consensus formed that it was about six pounds (fishermen’s estimate) not a monster but nice to start to a day’s work with. After a bit of a tail pulling in the shallows it recovered and sped off into the murk.

A little stunned by my early success I ambled around the rest of lake for an hour before heading home with big plans to turn my minnow prototype into a sellable lure. Two trips and two successes have to count for something.

Over the weekend my sister came up for a visit and agreed to feature in one of my adverts as long I made her unrecognisable.

A Leak In The Lake

Image Above: Some new hybrid spoon lure colours

I left the lake shortly after the workmen arrived. They had come to fix a hole; a hole that had opened up twenty years earlier and dropped the water level by four feet. Only last week I spoke to a fellow angler about the leak in the lake and he said, “They (the council) would never get round to fixing it, especially in a recession.”  

It hadn’t been a great a morning. Only yesterday on a day tip to Wales I had been stood on an almost perfect beach staring out over the breakers and thinking about bass. This morning it was back to the puddle at least I had hooked a pike although I lost it. By way of compensation I snagged a lure I had lost a few weeks back. Pedro (see prev. posts) a small spoon lure was returned to me all be it missing and eye and the varnish I had hastily applied. 

 I trudged home wondering whether the lake would miraculously refill before my next visit and if the island would return to being a true island instead a patch of raised ground surrounded by mud.  

At home it was back to coating lures and more photography for my website which seems to have been under construction for far too long.

Image Below: Nefyn Beach, North Wales

An Early Start

An Early Morning Pike

6.30AM at the lake

The sun was up but it had failed to reach the water’s edge. The surface of the lake was perfectly still even the ducks seemed to have hushed themselves into corners. Despite the hour I was not alone, a carp angler had two rods out and further down on the opposite bank another fisherman was waiting on a float.

I began casting my minnow enjoying the light fwap as it touched down. After months of neglect I had finally cleaned and greased my fishing reel which was behaving almost as well as it had done straight out the box.  With no wind to fight, a free running reel and a new lure I was looking for fish to complete the picture.

The lure behaved beautifully, the extra weight from the pine rather than balsa construction gave it a little more direction and purpose on the cast. Having opted for a less than stable cylinder shape in the design the lure had a much more pronounced wobble. I covered the short section of bank available to me quite quickly with little if any response apart from snagging a range of old carp rigs.

As the sun began to dapple the lakes margins I headed over to the island to cast around the overhanging branches and shrubs. With the glare in my eyes and hemmed by the greenery I lost it for a bit and began firing off casts in random directions. When I finally settled down I managed to send the lure out parallel to the shore and in a few short turns of the handle I was into a small pike. It sailed in to the shallows breaking the surface monetarily before ploughing on  towards my feet.

My unhooking mat was already open thanks to its amazing ability to fall from my rucksack at any opportunity. With a little minor encouragement the pike unhooked itself and I quickly took some photographs before returning it to the water.

So this was to be the start of another day's work, I spent the rest of the day airbrushing lures and putting together the opening page of my new website.

Image Below: New photo for opening page of website

Balsa Baits

Image Above: Pike taken on a Balsa Lure

I had an idea; this is not a rare occurrence, the trouble is that often I have too many ideas and not enough time to make anything out of them. The idea was to build a Bass fishing lure for the summer if I ever get the chance to get down to the Welsh coast again. Ordinarily I would sculpt a bit of wood add some weights and hooks and hope for the best. This method is not very repeatable and while I have made some great lures this way I have had my fair share of duds. So the day before yesterday I sat down with a drawing board and a sketch of a Mackerel I had made in December and set about designing and building a prototype. What I wanted for the lure was that it bore some resemblance to a Mackerel and wasn’t just a minnow lure sprayed to look like the aforementioned. It needed to float and dive but not deep and when retrieved it should wobble. On the cast it should be able to punch out in a straight line in a bit of wind. To some extent all these competing needs call for a bit of sacrifice somewhere, long lures don’t wobble as much as short but then short lures don’t always cast as far or as accurately.

From the drawing to the final shaping it took me a couple of hours, having a drawing to work from was great, it meant I could actually work to dimensions, better still I had a record of what I had done. I messed up the lower jaw and shaved a bit too much off but as a rough start it looked good. I gave it a sap coat of epoxy and left it overnight to harden up. The next morning primer and then paint, I wasn’t looking for a final finish quality more an impression and believe me I cut corners. Another flood coat of epoxy and a night on the turning rack. This morning the coat of epoxy was almost dry but not fully cured.

Outside it was a great day for testing lures, the rain had stopped but a north wind was blowing on the edge of gale force. So I grabbed my rod, net and bag and almost ran to the park lake. It took me a few minutes to find enough shelter to thread my bait caster and rod. I tied a small trace and clipped on my lure and adjusted the brake and the magnets. The first cast was to be the first test, having been used to testing the more compact resin spoons I wasn’t expecting this lure to give that kind of distance or accuracy but I was wrong it ate up the distance cutting straight through the side wind leaving the line to parachute out behind. On about the tenth cast it went too far as the clip on the trace failed and my new lure was free, shit. I have a bit of a habit of doing this, I put on a new trace and spoon lure and hook up with it after a few minutes. I put the spoon back in the bag and began bashing the lure every which way trying to find a weakness up against the gusts but it was all good.

A long cast into the shallows on the opposite bank brought me my first Pike, I was a little shocked sometimes it can be a while before lures lose their virginity. The Pike a jack was in the 2-3 pound range and a good start. I moved down into the main basin of the lake and twenty minutes later I was into something a little solid. It cut across the lake almost ignoring the fact we were connected by a length of line, I steered it into the shore where it erupted as I scrambled for the net. Even giving away a couple of pounds for exaggeration it was over ten pounds. I fumbled for forceps as my landing mat was taken by the wind for a swim. So I unhooked the Pike in the net and then reached into the rucksack for the camera as the Pike rolled out of the net and was gone. The next job was to cast for the landing mat which when hooked put up a brave fight.

I packed up, unclipping the lure with its slightly tacky coat of epoxy and found a snug corner of the rucksack for it to enjoy a well dissevered rest. The next story should be prototype to production, this I suspect will take a lot longer.

The Wrong Side of the Tracks

Image Above: Sefton park lake drained for repairs

I knew he was a fisherman; his eyes like mine were focused on the water, I had the pram and kids and he had a dog. I walked scanning the lake as far out as the reflections would allow and back in toward the shore and the path. As he passed three large carp of least ten pounds zoomed over a patch of low weed. I pointed them out and he stopped and told me the local anglers had been doing a bit of restocking on the quiet. I asked him about pike and he winked and said a few may have made it back in. The lake the largest of Liverpool’s park lakes was drained a little over four years ago for bit of a restoration project. Officially the fish were temporarily re-homed in other local park lakes by the council. I don’t know a fisherman who shares this view of what became of out fishy friends, what is certain is that what came out never went back in. So a lake that for most of childhood and teenage years was a mecca for anglers and kept more than a couple of local tackle shops in business is free of fishermen until the brave venture back, maybe I might be a bit braver.

Finding a bit of time in the afternoon I headed up to the north end of the city to a leg of the Leeds Liverpool canal. This had also been somewhat restored, but it was still the wrong part of town and I was conscious that I was spending an equal amount of time sizing up the locals as fishing. Having little success with the lures I took the bait caster off and replaced it with a small fixed spool spinning real loaded with three pound line,  tied on a homemade jig weighing a little over a gram and dressed with whip tail cut from washing up gloves.

Passing under a bridge to a more neglected stretch I spotted some movement at the surface and began working the opposite bank. Popping the jig just short of stone edge to the canal brought a bite and I was in, I landed a small bream as the water further up the stretch erupted. A group of lads playing football on the opposite bank had decide to launch a bottle attack on guy who had just walked past be on the tow path. Bottles gave way to bits of brick and rocks which lucky all missed him before they ran for it. I packed up and headed back south wondering if I will fish this water again. The fish was hastily returned without the customary photograph.

I spent the evening with the airbrush and some lures.

Image Below: Airbrushed lures

Old Ghosts

Image Above: Jack Pike caught on a homemade spoon lure.

  The lake was smaller than I remembered, like so much of my childhood world it had shrunk in my absence. There was one other angler perched on a tackle box with his rod on a rest while he smoked. I moved to the far end of the lake partly to put some distance between the splash of my fishing lures and his float but also to explore the small reed beds that fringed this narrow arm of water.  I cast a lure into the dull mudded water and begin the puppet show, retrieving the lure with jerks, twitches and straight runs that make the best of its unnatural wobble. Overhead gulls followed its progress swooping close to the water for a full inspection. 

I have come to catch a fish which for me is something different than going fishing, but there are other reasons. I have one fishing rod, a bait caster reel, scissors, a mat for unhooking, forceps, a camera with a broken screen, a mobile phone that has been partially gnawed by mice and four homemade spoon lures. I tell myself I am just fishing light, keeping mobile and agile. The lake sits in the rude green of a city centre park, the foot traffic is manly dog walkers and commuters but when the morning rush is over the benches fill with drunks and the skeletal faces of heroin addicts. Even the dogs grow meaner as jack russells give way to mastiffs and leads to chains and studded collars.

I work the banks and the reed beds, my lure flies almost effortlessly on long casts and if I side swing it bounces like skimmed stone whiffling out into the surface.  Close in there is a boil of water as the long flash of pike rolls in the depths. It has missed the lure, I cast again and again but the pike has given up or moved on.  I take my cue and make my way around to where lake widens fanning out casts to cover as much water as possible. When the near bank is exhausted I make my way through a shallow spit of mud onto what should be an island.

I fished here once as a kid with a friend and some other lads, the sons of a friend of his mother’s. They were older than us, teenagers that new things and smoked when they could lift cigarettes from their parents unguarded packets. Circumstances threw us in together and we set up here on the island to fish amongst the mud and old crisp packets in warmth of a summer evening. I don’t remember us catching much but my friend and the lads had other ideas. We got into some bullshit game of hide and seek, but it was about one thing only getting me away from my fishing tackle. When the game was over my tackle box was empty. Every last fishing float, weight and hook, things I had collected, things I had stared at for weeks in the glass cabinets of tackle shop until pocket money or Christmas money had liberated them.  They knew what they had done, my friend knew what they had done but they bullshitted their way out of it. It wasn’t the fishing tackle that hurt the most but being the one, that kid. I never saw much of that friend again, one of the lads I saw years later and it looked as if heroin had had the best of him. I suppose I learnt that stuff in tackle boxes doesn`t catch fish only the thing on the end of my line.   

Not much has changed here, the lampposts carry police warnings strapped to them and am I travelling light should history repeat itself.

I leave the island and return to the beginning, the reed beds and this time the pike hits its target and I land a Jack that looks a little over three pounds. It’s perfect, each scale placed on its flanks with care and bound in flashes of colour that melt away as rolls in the weak sunlight.  

The lure works and I pack up.

Image Below: Warning Signs