My First Pike

 

It’s a warm afternoon for November.  Dad and I have motored in his black Austin 10 close to the river at Alwalton. We lock the car and slide down a muddy path to a backwater on the Nene near a broken lock gate.  A grey heron, which we hadn’t seen, surprises us as it springs from its fishing spot – it lets out its call which sounds like ‘Frank’ as its long, wide wings take it down river to a new place to stand and wait with pointed, stabbing bill.

Underfoot at the river’s edge are trampled reeds which give a little at each step as the mud beneath moves.  Dad thinks this is a good spot to test out the new spinning tackle I got for my 12^th birthday. Pike will be lurking under the overhanging reeds, he says, waiting for small fish to pass then lunge with sharp-toothed jaws for their feed. The smell of the reeds and river fills my nostrils – I can smell the fish. Dad helps me assemble the rod and attach the reel and line. The reel smells of the oil I’ve used to make it work smoothly and the cotton line smells of the water-proofing grease I applied.  I have been practising this at home for days and tried shooting out the line and spinner from the reel in the back-garden. I am ready. 

I cast across the backwater several times from the same spot trying to land the spinner near to the reeds opposite without snagging in the overhanging willows.  And then I move a few feet and try some more casts.  Dad has found a clump of cut reed to sit on whilst he smokes his pipe and watches me at my craft.  The smell of his pipe smoke is a comfort as it signals the presence of my dad when I can’t see him behind me. I’ve only been spinning for about ten minutes when suddenly I feel a bump and a jerk when my spinner is close to where I stand on the bank.  I see it turn – a big, spotty pike which runs across the backwater with my spinner in its jaw. 

My cry of ‘I’ve got one!’ wakes my dozing dad and rings out across the landscape.  My heart races and I feel dizzy and a bit scared! ‘Try to reel it in carefully without breaking the line’ advises Dad, now at my side.  And to my surprise it works and soon the pike is swirling in the water just off the bank held close by my tight line.  Dad is ready with the gaff hook and catches it by the gills and hauls it on land.  What a wonderful, gleaming beast.  It flops about a bit, still with the spinner hanging from its jaw. ‘It’s a fine fish’ says Dad ‘about 5 pounds too!’ ‘What a great catch for a first pike!’ I’m proud! I love my dad.

‘Let’s take it home and show your mother and sister your first catch.  Your Aunty knows how to cook pike, so we’ll show her too.’ Dad and I hold the pike carefully – it’s cold, slimy and scaly and feels very muscular as it resists my grip. Dad instructs me how to use a disgorger – a tool to release the spinner from its curved jaw. My hands stink of pike!  I rinse the its slime from my hands in the river, but they still smell of pike. I carry the heavy beast, now still, up the bank to the car where it is placed in a cardboard box in the boot. I sink smiling broadly into the lovely leather seats – their aroma rivalling the smell still on my hands.  A sharp stench of exhaust and we’re on the road home.

At home, I am photographed in the garden holding pike and rod by my lovely, excited mother.  The pike has been placed in a large tin bath, full of water, and has revived – its jaw and gills pumping rhythmically and its orangey fins fanning.  My aunt came and inspected it and later prepared it for a family meal.  I didn’t want to eat it and didn’t like the taste or texture – it was full of Y-shaped bones which stuck in my mouth. 

Although I caught more pike in my youth, I never ate another that I caught, as all these wonderful fish were returned to their river home. I stopped fishing well before I left for university as I began to see fishing as a cruel, recreational sport.  I later worked in nature conservation. I did eat pike again, from the Baltic in Estonia where it tasted wonderful and there were no bones to spoil it. But I hadn’t caught it and didn’t know it was pike until I asked after the meal!

Roger Mitchell