Lake Fork Guy: Making Fishing Lures From Dip Cans

Lake Fork Guy has all the kit, the bass boat, the engines, the fish finders, not to mention a collection of rods and reels that would put a tackle shop to shame, but maybe it all comes down to having the right dip can on the day and what lures you can make from them. For me these two videos share a little of that bonkers experience that comes from catching fish on lures you have a least partly made yourself.

Fishing In Paradise with Morning tide fishing

 Dam these guys, dam them, bastards, bloody bastards, Jealousy is an ugly thing and I have it bad. Great film making, great fishing, great wildlife, great everything, go look them them up ,subscribe and share the hell out of their work.

In interview with Mads of Savage Gear

Sometimes you don't need pictures and this real look at what Mads gets up to behind the scenes at Savage Gear

The Hidden Stream

I love this film as it reminds me of the type water I started lure fishing on, a small forgotten stream a short walk from where I used to live.   Check out the you tube channel The In Depth Angler  for other great videos

Tank Test Tuesday Love Bait Spoons

I have to be honest, I have a bit of thing for spoons they are one of those baits that kind of drive pike a little mad. These little pike look-alike spoons from Love Baits of Poland not only look great they have a twisting jerky motion in the water that almost begs to be bitten.

Check out their cranks baits as well, they have some great designs and a definite
style of their own. Website Love Bait

Mr Wilson Goes Lure Fishing

A bit of lure fishing from John Wilson who was driven out of Britain by a gang of otters

A little bit of the little stuff LRF with John Wheeler

Nice mellow film of LRF in Pymouth

Devon Minnows,Trout and bloody rain

Image Above: Homemade cane (bamboo) Devon Minnows

Images Below: Trout and Priest

Wind Turbines at Royd Moor, above Scout Dyke Reservoir, Yorkshire

The reservoir had filled since my last visit a little under a year ago when a summer drought had lowered it until it had taken on the feel of a dry dock in the process of being drained. The rough stone banks had gone and the water now reached around the bases of the trees meeting the grass in small bays. A healthy growth of weed and pads hung about the more sheltered stretches of bank and out of view of the imposing dam wall the waterscape felt almost like a natural lake.

The last weather forecast I had heard had been a little over-enthusiastic and what had started as driving rain in Manchester had subsided to a drizzle over the heights of the Pennines. The drizzle despite being unable to dimple the water’s surface had quickly soaked through my jacket marking my clothes beneath with damp patches around the seams.I was not alone everthing was touched with a sheen of water from the barded wire to the blades of grass, while the low cloud muffled the wind turbines until they sailed like ghost ships across the moor above. I had visited an agricultural supply shop on route and bought a pair of green dairy over-trousers something I hadn’t worn for a few years. The assistant kept pulling out small and medium sized pairs from the pile before getting closer with a large. I advised him to add enough X’s before the L to make it look like a large roman numeral. The trousers turned out to be a wise investment as my legs were the only part of me that stayed just damp instead of saturated.

I had come with three basic requirements for the day to fish, film and test a few things; if I could combine all three and catch a fish on video while testing a new lure it would be gold. Sadly the rain never stopped long enough for me to get any footage apart from some cutaway shots of tying on bits and bobs under a tree. Fish wise the reservoir is stocked with rainbows and a few brown which have to go back, there is also a good head of perch.

I began casting some cane Devon minnows and after a couple of hours and having changed enough times to have worked through the selection I had brought I hooked on a micro wobbler I had made last year hoping it may do me some good on this bit of water. Three or four casts later and I was into a rainbow. I had forgotten about the speed these things can kick up but it quickly came back to me as the fish shot round the bay tail walking as it went. When I finally banked it like an amateur I kicked my bag into the water behind me, normally this would mean just a bit of wet tackle but it was holding my camera and a couple of lenses. I dropped the fish and grabbed the bag before it sank, luckily I had, had the foresight to wrap my camera in a plastic bag to protect it from the rain. The camera was dry but the lenses had taken water and I dried off and drain them as best I could. Meanwhile, the fish being free on a grassy bank sloping down to the water unhooked itself and made its own way back foiling my plans for a fishy dinner. A passing dog walker unaware of the chain of events that had led to me standing in the rain swearing at myself was little taken a back and almost broke into jog to escape the scene.

When I had gathered myself a little a wave of relief washed over me as I remembered I had caught a fish with a previously untried lure. I caught another trout at the next bay guaranteeing dinner and then predictably threw the lure into a tree overhanging some very deep water. At this point I decided to return to car to dry out my clothes, the lenses and reassess the general direction of my life.

Slightly less damp I returned to the water and managed to get something to tug on one of my Devon minnows but it failed to make to the bank. Looking for a second fish I tied on a flying ‘C’ minnow and it quickly proved itself by filling out my bag limit. With a few hours to left to fish and feeling eager to avoid trout and treble hooks I thought I would try a bit of drop-shotting for perch using some of my micro soft plastic worms and new hooks I have been doctoring. I casted around the weeds and overhanging branches but failed to find a single perch, the trout however were throwing themselves at me and in a couple of hours I lost track of how many I had caught the single hook making it easy to unhook them in the water.

It never stopped raining but by late afternoon the drizzle had slowed until it almost hung in the air like wet dust as the distant wind turbines gained some definition to their outlines.

LRF, well almost

LRF On the East Float, Birkenhead

I am not very good with labels; it seems like latest one, LRF (light rock fishing) should stand for something new, despite that in the tackle shop the old gits tell me they have been making little worms from bathroom sealant for longer than they can remember. When all said and done I am no stranger to dangling bits of fluff and rubber off piers and landing some little monsters. But I think like all labels or brands LRF is a bit aspirational, and my trouble with it is that it seems to be something that is vaguely cool and for most of my life if not all, cool has always been some other country I would of liked to have visited.

So I set off to do some kind of rock fishing with light gear in the docks where I had fished as child with garden worms and a rod bought for me with my grandfather’s cigarette coupons. Instead of a selection of miniature soft plastics I had tied up some micro sabiki rigs with size eight hooks on 6lb fluorocarbon line and rather than just lash on some curling ribbon I got the fly tying vice out. The inspiration for my newest lure venture had come from another handmade fisherman Jan from the south coast of England who had sent me some standard sized rigs he had tied himself based loosely on one of my mackerel feather rigs from the videos I had made. I say loosely because it is fair to say he had taken them to whole new level and by all accounts has been going home early from his fishing trips due to reaching his personal bag limits rather more quickly than expected.

Where as Jan had used fur, at short notice I could just about rustle up some marabou from a bag of craft feathers and a bit of flash borrowed from some Christmas decorations. For thread I had sewing thread in some garish colours all topped off with a drop of nail varnish. After dropping no.2 son off at school it was off the docks.

Dockside I sat in car testing the air temperature by winding down the window down far enough to

realized that even with the vast amounts of insulation tucked into my clothing it was not going to be enough. Undecided on whether to stay or go I was finally encouraged out by another hardy soul who was threading line through his rod eyes at the far end of the car park. Out in the wind I set up quickly while I still had the use of my fingers and dropped my feather rig into the water. There was to be no yanking or long cast this was LRF, all be it a bastard form. I made delicate taps and tweaks to the line imagining myself performing tai chi, which I then realized was Chinese in origin were LRF is Japanese inspired so I tried imaging myself as graceful geisha but I couldn’t really find a mental connection between high class prostitution and fishing with feathers plucked from a turkeys back.

It was a baby cod that fell for the dance first in a little spot sheltered from the wind by the rear end of a Mersey ferry. I made my way along the dock to fish and chat to the other fisherman, who as luck would have it was making coffee on a stove in the open boot of his car. A mugful later I was feeling almost human again with just a touch of freezer burn on expose parts. I took a few more fish finger sized specimens and a whiting before I finally succumbed to the elements and retreated to the car.

Was it LRF, who gives **** I caught some fish, shared a coffee pot and some of my ludicrous fishing stories, my rigs worked and I got to come home with all my fingers.

Image above: Jan's rig, Cheers Jan

Image below: Iris's rear end

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

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