Chub Hunting
The plan was simple. Four spots along the river, not far from one another. A whole day to fish them.
I arrived at the first spot at nine. Before getting changed I walked the bank to read the water. The weather was good. Sun out, wind at my back — good for casting far. But the water was low. Mid-summer low, maybe lower.
I worked every inch of that stretch, from the bank and then wading out to reach the far water. Cranks, minnows, spinners. Nothing. The surface broke now and then but it was asp, not chub. An hour and a half and I had nothing to show. I left disappointed and drove to the second spot.
This one was different. A long, fast-moving shallow with overhanging trees. I tied on the Jackall Chubby 38F — my best chub lure — and started casting. Fifteen minutes of nothing. Then I dropped one straight below the rapid and felt the take. A small chub, twenty to twenty-five centimeters. Not what I wanted, but it was a start. A small pike came after that. Not my target.
Then I found the rhythm. I waded across and cast upstream to the far bank, retrieving diagonally. The rod bent hard. A serious fish. I could see it — a decent chub — and then the line went slack. Gone.
Further upstream I took a small chub and had a few more hits that came to nothing. The Chubby 38F was the only lure that produced. I’m starting to think it may be the only one I need for chub.
I walked back to the car and drove upriver to the third spot.
It was a good walk from the parking. But the patch was worth it — forty meters of rapid, running longer than usual because of the low water. The first fifteen minutes brought nothing.
On the far bank there were two rocks with a calmer pocket of water between them. I cast just above them, let the current carry the lure in, and started reeling. The take was solid. A heavy chub. I had to work it through the gap between the rocks, the fish dragging water weeds behind it. It came to the net clean. Forty-five centimeters. I took a few pictures and moved on.
The tactic was working. Long casts to the far bank, slow retrieve, let the current do the work. One more chub followed. Then a pike. I missed a few bites on the Chubby and switched to a Mepps Aglia Long spinner for a different depth. It brought a very decent perch. Twenty more minutes in the stretch and nothing else moved.
A very good return for fifty meters of river.
Lunch at the car. Then a drive and a long walk — private land blocked the direct route — to the fourth spot.
I started at the edge of the rapid. No bites. But I could see a good-sized chub holding just five or ten meters out. I watched it move slowly upstream. My lure passed it twice. It didn’t care.
I worked downstream. Another long cast, the Chubby moving through the currents and pools, and a hit. A nice chub. I didn’t know then it would be the last one of the day.
I was certain there were more ahead. The water looked right. But the rest of the stretch gave nothing.
Last summer I’d come through here by kayak. Just below this spot was a fifty-meter run that gave five or eight bites and a couple of chub. I decided to find it on foot. Two hours I walked up and down, reading the water. None of it looked the same. Maybe the hard winter changed it. Maybe I missed the patch altogether. I’ll never know.
I decided that was enough. I started back toward the car.
Then the river opened up below me — a long view, a new rapid, big rocks breaking the surface. The potential of it was too much. I couldn’t leave it unfished. I spent another hour casting, but I was working upstream and couldn’t get the lure to take the lines I wanted. Downstream I might have taken one more fish. I didn’t.
Could have. Should have.
I was exhausted by the time I got to the car. I stopped in the next village for an ice cream. I’d earned it.
The day left me with chub, pike, perch, a sunburn — on my hands and neck. I looked like I was wearing pinkish, red gloves. Next time, better protection from the sun.
