Ice fishing on the Kazanka


A Long Islander learns how to drill for trout
By TIM LAVIN

Ice fishing can either be a fun father-son excursion or a mission with a purpose. PHOTO: Courtesy of The Moscow Times

Ivan the Terrible used the Kazanka River as a staging ground for his troops when he invaded the Tatar stronghold of Kazan in 1552. He constructed a fort, Sviyazhsk, on the river's northern bank and waited until October, when the river froze. Then his army ravaged the city, forced the Muslim Tatars to its outskirts, and claimed Kazan for the Russians.

Today the Kazanka, a tributary of the mighty Volga, stretches about three-quarters of a mile wide where it passes Kazan. Nearest to the river stands the leaning Siyumbeki Tower, symbol of the Tatars.

Below the tower, one day in late March, the Kazanka ice was dotted with legions of burly men. They were armed, however, only with the implements of modern Russian ice-fishers: drills, homemade rods, and metal sifters.

This day was a warm one for Russian springtime, but the temperature still hovered below freezing. Not a hint of sunlight penetrated the dull gray sky. The professional fishermen had abandoned the Kazanka for the day; the warm conditions were unfavorable for finding profitable fish. The remaining men fell into two categories: those out for a fun Saturday excursion, father and sons, many of whom sat behind wind tents, drinking vodka and eating. Then, there were the purists.

"I come here at eight in the morning, I stay all day," said Ivan Yevstafyev, an enormous man, who laughed more freely than any of his peers. A fur hat covered the tips of his big ears and most of his gray hair. He had a pocked face, six metal teeth and an expansive mustache. He wore an insulated green and red flannel shirt tucked into insulated brown fishing pants that were, in turn, tucked into insulated brown fishing boots. Most noticeable, though, was his enormous belt buckle, a shining star with a hammer and sickle etched into it.

He rose, heaving and huffing, and opened the yellow wooden box on which he had been sitting. It contained a burlap bag filled with his catch: perhaps a dozen fish, the largest about a foot, several still convulsing. He was obviously proud, but still modest - a good catch for a poor fishing day.

"I'll boil these for six hours," he said. "I add a little sauce, some tomato paste, onions and peppers, spices and herbs. Then I let it sit. Same as canned fish."

"Actually better!" shouted an interested neighbor.

Ivan smiled and hitched up his pants. "All of the city comes here. I don't really come with friends though. This is a deeper place."

He doesn't mix fishing and vodka. "When I get home, that's when it's time to drink. What kind of fisherman am I?"

If nothing else, he was an experienced one. He retired 15 years ago, having "been everything, from a simple worker to a high boss, a plant foreman." Since then, he has fished nearly every day. He knows this river well, and he explained the ice-fishing process in precise, loving detail.

Into the ice, the fishermen drill a circle with perhaps a four-inch radius. Doing so is easy; the drill operates similarly to a manual car jack with a screwdriver attached. Selecting the spot to drill, however, is sweet science. "Oh, you just learn," said Ivan. "Sometimes you drill here, there's plenty of fish. A few meters away, no fish." The arcing row of fishermen in which Ivan sat followed along a ridge of ice and snow in the center of the lake. According to Ivan, this was only logical. The contour of the icy surface corresponded to that of the river bottom. "The ice is higher here, that means it's more shallow below. That means more fish in the deeper water just off the ridge."

The primary fishing implement is, of course, the rod. For these men, only a homemade version suffices. Ivan's consists of a small piece of hard blue foam, about a foot long, out of which protrudes a thin plastic pole. Duct-taped to the end of the pole is a flexible piece of black rubber, and affixed to that is fishing line - thin and strong, like reinforced dental floss. To the line, the fishermen generally attach a brightly colored lure, a hook, and perhaps some blood worms as bait, although the lure itself tends to be adequate. When the rubber piece bends downward, ever so slightly, they know they have a bite. They use the sifters to keep their holes clear of ambient ice chunks.

"Sometimes," Ivan said, "I just have to get out in the air and fish, you know?"

A few hundred meters away, toward the kremlin bank, sat a smaller grouping of fishermen. Albert Suleimanov was also a purist.

When asked why he avoided the more popular spot by the ridge, he just waved his hand toward them dismissively. He knew better. A retired tramline worker, he comes to the Kazanka every morning at seven a.m. and stays until dark. Only when the temperature dips below negative 25 degrees Celsius does he stay home.

"When the bite is good, there's more people. There's very few fish today. The atmospheric pressure is too high. Today, it's 759 millimeters. Yesterday was a good day. It was 744." He listens to the radio each morning for this invaluable information. He had dark, dark skin, a three-day-old beard and, like Ivan, a mouth full of metal. He wore a heavy blue coat, open in front. He also shuns the booze when fishing.

"Of course, everybody else drinks. On a good day, you'd see people singing and dancing, spilling vodka. They'd offer you some and pat you on the back. I don't need it. I'll drink when I get home. When I'm drinking, it's not real fishing." The rules for real fishing, he hesitated to enunciate.

"I learned to fish with Dad, when I was very young." He paused for a long time. "I don't know what's so good about it. I just love it." A grizzled, gruff man, his face looked bleak and tired. Until he mentioned today's catch. He opened a blue plastic bag to reveal three small, streamlined fish flopping desperately. "Not much," he said. Then he smiled. "Enough to feed me and the cat, though."


 

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