A very pleasant evening. Very pleasant indeed.
The sun was low, just beginning to redden the few clouds on the
horizon.
No breeze ruffled the water.
Throughout the late summer’s afternoon, Mark Kitteridge
and me caught many fish, but nothing of any size and not the quarry
we sought. We caught rudd, heaps of rudd. Ruddy rudd. Each time
the float bobbed and slid under the water the hope rose, but invariably
it was a rudd, tiny rudd. It was also getting very close to home
time. Down to ‘just one more cast’.
I think we both saw them at the same time. Two big
dark green shapes slowly meandering along close to the far bank.
Carp! At last.
Separated from the far bank by a small stream mouth,
and fishing under a canopy of tee tree made long distance casting
difficult. Mark loaded a small handful of bread into his mouth
and gave it a quick munch, and then with little delicacy spat
it into his hand and threw it out to where we could cast our hooks.
Hopefully we could entice the carp from the far bank to within
our range.
We ripped out the centre of a slice of fresh bread
and carefully moulded around the hook into a bell shape. The wide
head of the ‘bell’ hung below the hook.
Out we cast, and waited till the float cocked upright
under the weight of the split shot on the trace between the hook
and the float.
Mark’s bread berley was being savaged by fish; rudd,
again. But the carp were now there, mooching quietly about, occasionally
sipping on the ground bait. The sight was too much for us. Out
fired more bread ground bait, slices of bread, sweet corn, chopped
up luncheon sausage. The carp meandered around and about. Nudging,
nosing our hook loaded baits, but disdaining them. The rudd benefited
from the carps’ disdain.
We tried everything we knew, which for me was very
little. This, my first coarse fishing expedition. There was something
I knew though, buck fever had struck again.
No matter what the fishing, no matter what fish
being sought, the sight of your quarry in plain view, brings on
the dreaded disease.
Here we were, Mark and I, two fishermen with at
least seventy years of fishing experience between us, standing
on the bank of a very small lake, quivering with excitement and
anticipation at the sight of two carp. Tossing everything we had
at them. We did not hook these fish, too smart for our overheated
efforts.
Many trout anglers know buck fever well.
There you are quietly walking along the bank of
a river and you spot him. Must be ten pounds at least, definitely
ten pounds, not 4.5 kilo that would sound too small. He sits there,
slowly moving slightly to one side or the other to pick up some
morsel.
Then it starts, buck fever. The symptoms are very
evident. Out comes the fly box, and it drops, spilling the flies.
How on earth can trout see nymphs in flowing water, when you cannot
see them in the grass at your feet?
Finally you find one and tie it on. Despite the
fever raging through your body, you test the knot, which slides
undone. This is the same knot you have tied four hundred trillion
zillion times at a conservative estimate. The knot you can tie
behind your back, with cold wet hands, in the dark. Retied, you
move into position behind a bush to screen yourself from the fish,
and plan your cast.
It is not a long cast, maybe only ten meters in
all, to land the nymph seven meters above the fish. Plan decided,
you slowly stand up and swing the line out, a couple of false
casts to lengthen the line, and then into the final back cast.
Eyes riveted on your cast target you swing into the forward cast,
but come up in a dead stop. You just knew the blackberries would
get you didn’t you? Well, you would, if buck fever had allowed
you to note their presence.
Out you back from behind your cover and try to pull
the line from the blackberries. The nymph too deep in the thorny
clutches is sacrificed. Another nymph tied on, you test the knot.
Failed again. Not the knot, this time, but the leader. So you
replace the leader which in its blackberry thorn nicked state
would have probably lost the fish anyway. Bent backed, you return
to the bush, peer over it. Where’s the fish? It’s gone. Damn,
and worse.
Standing up, and moving from behind the cover of
the bush, you spot the fish moving back into its lie at just about
exactly the same time it spots you. It bolts for the deep cover
on the other side of the river. This time the fish is gone; for
good.
Furious at yourself you look around and easily work
out a much better casting position, with clear room for the back
cast, and cover from the fish. A much better drift line too.
One of buck fevers more insidious side effects is
short term blindness to all that surrounds the sufferers. Something
about, there are none so blind as those who will not see, springs
to mind.
Another time and place, Kitteridge and me, again,
with John Elliot of Daiwa. We arrived at Flat Rock, in Auckland’s Hauraki Gulf, to the
sight of kingis everywhere. Acres, actually hectares, of them. Boiling
and bubbling all over the place. Big kingis amongst them too.
Instant buck fever.
Out came poppers, bloopers, chuggers, jigs, spinning
lures, hexs, and you name it. Each thrown, tossed, jigged and
pulled. Nothing.
Eventually Mark Kitteridge went down to a tiny Stingsilda lure
and landed a very good kingi. But on the next cast another kingi
took Mark’s little lure, his only one, home to play. That was
that. Seemed on that day size did matter.
I wondered after this episode what may have happened
if we had calmed down at the sight of all these kingis and spent
a little time trying to procure some live baits. Failing that
some quieter contemplation and observation of the lolloping nature
of the kingis on the surface might have revealed their likely
quarry.
Buck fever unfortunately robs the patient of all
sense, especially common sense. The kingis were there when we
arrived, still there many hours later when we left. Time was not
the issue. Overheated, predatory blood definitely the issue. Ours
not the kingis.
Buck fever strikes at any old time there are visible
fish.
Like the time you are motoring out to the 300 metre depth
mark to start chasing marlin, and you come across a pod of bait
fish being harassed by marlin. Panic stations. Out go the lures
in double quick time. Also what goes out, out the door, is good
fishing practice.
A marlin strikes and immediately breaks the line,
tip-wrapped around a rod. Normally you would check, but not in
your fevered state. Another lure takes off but no one notices
until too late. Someone forgot to set the ratchet. By the time
you do notice it, the marlin decides it does not like the lure
anyway and spits it back at the boat.
The third lure is merrily chugging away, and up
behind streaks a marlin. A whack, a blat and nothing. Again the
marlin comes in and in plain view scoffs down the lure. Just as
quickly back out it comes. Again the marlin slashes at the lure,
still no hook-up. Must be something wrong with the hooks, you
think, winding in. Something is wrong all right, very wrong. There
are no hooks. Shackle-hooked rigs work very well when the shackle
is done up. Hookless, buck-fevered rigs do not.
Quickly another lure is grabbed and let out behind
the boat to make sure it is running properly, and then the leader
is let go. You watch the leader and lure sink away out of sight.
Would have been a good idea to attach the leader to the main line
clip-swivel someone remarks. When you stop swearing, you agree.
There is only one cure for buck fever and that is
to come to a dead stop. Stop what ever you are doing, take ten
deep breaths, and think about what you are doing. Then look at
the fish, and forget the ten deep breathes you just took, and
enjoy. In this over shackled world of ours, an occasional adrenal
burst of buck fever is just great for the system.