Competition anglers. Homeland can not be sold
Fishermen’s competition is a useful and interesting occupation, it teaches fish to catch and to love the Motherland. Here everyone can not only show the degree of his mastery, but also just relax and mingle with Nature.
Homeland can not be sold, because here at your leisure you can catch perches.
On a clear Saturday morning, a bus with anglers drove merrily through a country road. We got to the place without incident. The lake was quite large, the shores were small, swampy. In the summer here, probably, mosquitoes … death. And now it is good. A lot. Thaw snow to the ice pressed. You go on asphalt. In some places on the ponds the ice is already falling, it is dangerous to walk. But nothing here – holds. Vaughn local fishermen, musli cigarettes, tilted over the holes. Occasionally, black whips are pulled out of their heads. So. There is a fish here. It will be.
The middle-aged local resident, hunched over and thrusting his hands into his pockets, reeling from the wind and everyday difficulties, looked intently at the children, brightly unwinding the coils with red flags: why did the wolves come around?
No, uncle, this competition site is celebrated. “Commander-in-Chief” – the chairman of the sport fishing section likes everything to be solemn, according to the rules.
Building, instruction, raising the flag – as expected. Urban competition – this is not a country walk. It is not at your leisure to indulge with a fishing rod, every minute counts here. Fish must be found and managed to catch. Not everyone is equally good at it. I also decided to take part, especially since I love ice fishing and always believed that I can catch fish. And in two rounds (2.5 hours) I caught a little more than 800 grams of perch. Not the most, perhaps, a bad catch. But, of course, compared with many who came here, I am a weak angler. I’m not talking about titled athletes (they have a separate account there). But even among lovers there are such hoot – you wonder. Oh, some of our countrymen are able to catch fish! And it didn’t matter that day, but they managed three kilograms more than perch to yank. And they have some special baits, and play fishing rods with nods – you look. Hole drilled and drags one fish after another. The bite ended, the flock departed – running to another place, doing the hole again, again the same story.
“You look for fish, look for it,” a fisher-neighbor advises me — don’t sit in one place like a stump, you won’t catch anything.
The weather turned bad. Wind, snow poured.
And it would be necessary to change the place, but again you will have to wield a heavy domestic drill. And the ice, albeit loose, is already thick. Vaughn boy Swedish Boer wielding. Like clockwork, almost no effort. Seriously, apparently, the guy took up this business. Such a drill to buy, just to indulge in fishing at your leisure is expensive. This is a sport. A sport that requires, in addition to skills and knowledge, good equipment.
By the way, about two dozen teenagers participated in fishermen’s competitions.
What does it mean? This means that this Saturday, the guys will no longer suck beer in the hallways. And they will no longer have the opportunity for dubious entertainment. They are busy. Busy with a good deed. I don’t know how to others, but it seems to me that sport fishing is one of the most beautiful and enjoyable sports. This is, among other things, constant communication with Mother Nature. Hiking with a backpack and a fishing rod in native spaces teach, if you like, to love the Motherland. A person who has not seen in the life of crimson sunsets and silver sunrises, who did not drink tea by the fire on the shore of a forest lake, has not walked through pearl placers of dewy grasses to the cherished place, will never fully understand what Russia is. Therefore, probably, many people now leave the Fatherland, which they did not have as a child, in adolescence, the opportunity to come in close contact with this lovely heart with generous earth. They leave, easily changing the spring song of the lark on a thick piece of sausage. May they be happy. At home, we now live hard.
But the fish bite. And life goes on.
On the forest lake ended competition anglers. Presentation of valuable gifts and memorable prizes. Applause. Flag descent. And again the road to the now dark, light-cut highway headlights. There, where far away, after dozens of turns, beyond the utterness of a forest flying along the edges of the road, it glows with lights and a cozy hometown awaits us. To live in this city may be less comfortable than in Amsterdam or even in Moscow. But around on all sides there are many forest lakes and rivers, where every morning the sun is reflected in the golden pine trunks, the echo flies up with a scared bird, and maybe the simple truth that the Motherland, like a mother, isn’t choose. Truth that many cannot understand. And suffer from it.