Under the Sign of the River
The river didn’t answer right away. But something inside me knew I was in the right place.
It’s the year 2017 and I’m disappearing
After twelve years in the city, I’m slipping away to where I always felt best. Back to the countryside. Not quite home, not the place where I used to fish as a boy in the stream behind the house. But with my wife, we’re finally fulfilling a dream we’ve kept putting off for years. We bought a house in seclusion. By the forest.
Nothing new, no white plaster. More like a cabin. Wood, stone, a patch of earth and a little wild river under the windows. Everything here is different. And everything here feels right.
Specimen Hunter isn’t a gimmick. It’s not a project designed to look good. It’s this. This is how I live. This is how I want to live.
My bond with nature is beyond words. It’s been there since I was a kid. I don’t want to just go out now and then. I want to be in it. Breathe with it. From morning till night. No lights, no networks, no noise. Just the two of us. And around us, what no one can tame.
I could write a lot about living in nature. But that’s not what matters right now. I just want you to know why I’m talking about it. Why I’m starting on a personal note.
Because I want you to know who I am. And that this project isn’t just glitter. No marketing. No empty phrases. It’s something different.
And also because this change – the house, the forest, the peace – brought me one more thing.
I discovered a new river. Smaller, quiet. Full of meanders. And only later did I find out it was also full of fish. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Let’s go back. To the beginning. As stories usually do. You can’t show everything at once.
I know a story full of big fish would make anyone happy. But how long would it last? Without the journey, it loses its magic.
Everything that matters hurts. And takes time. If it were any other way, it would stop being fulfilling.
So back we go. Sometime around 2019. That’s when I started discovering this little river. Slowly. In my own way. And she let me. A little. But never completely. Not even in a hundred years will you truly know her. And maybe that’s exactly why it’s worth staying with her.
In the sign of the river…
It’s morning and I’m getting up to go fishing. Originally, I planned to wake up a few hours earlier, but after yesterday’s work-heavy day, I only managed to get up on the third alarm. I quickly brew some coffee for the thermos, pack it along with breakfast into my prepared gear, and head toward the river. The weather’s been beautifully warm all week, and—as usual—it falls apart just in time for the weekend.
When I arrive at the water, I realize I’m alone here—there’s not a soul in sight. Just how I like it.
I’m coming back after more than three weeks. This year, I made it my goal to spend all my free time here and get the most out of this spot.
Today will be my third time fishing this stretch. The previous two outings brought me only a few chub—no carp yet.
My first outing was on March 2nd. I had been preparing the spot a week in advance, just waiting for the flow to calm down. I fished in small hollows beneath old trees—it was the only place where the rigs stayed clean for at least half an hour. It was just a short session of a few hours, and you already know how it ended. Then more rain came and the river became unfishable for two weeks. I got another chance on March 15th. This time, I prepared a spot in a smaller meander. I cast one rod to the edge of the channel and the other near the bank. Again, only chub came in. I stayed by the water for a little over three hours before the rain chased me away—brilliant.
Smaller or heavier showers continued into the following week, and then it took nearly another two weeks for the river to calm down again.
So, we’re heading into mission number three
I’m driving along the river stretch, deciding which spot to choose. This time, I want to try the calmer section above the weir—there are plenty of bushes and fallen trees here, and thanks to the still water, I can finally fish across the full width of the river.
So I leave the car a bit away from the river and head toward the mentioned stretch.
When I reach the first of the two chosen spots, I leave my gear there and set off to explore the second location and get a feel for the whole stretch.
The spots are quite similar, apart from a few obstacles, but the first one offers more options.
So I decide to stay at the first spot.
The whole time I’m watching the water’s surface, looking for any sign that would hint at the presence of fish—nothing happens.
So I choose the spots for placing my rigs based on experience—one rod I plan to cast about 20 meters downstream under an overhanging tree, the other a bit over 50 meters further, toward the submerged bushes on the opposite bank.
So I take the bait and head as close to those spots as possible.
I bait the spot under the overhanging tree with three handfuls of pellets and the same amount of boilies. I don’t throw all the bait in one place, but rather scatter it across the river. Fish in the river, just like in still waters, move around—and this way, I’m trying to create a kind of invisible barrier for them.
I return to the fishing spot and start unpacking my gear. Everything is already prepped from home, so the rigs go out to their spots fairly quickly.
To the baited spot, I cast a boilie I’ve decided to test this year—it’s the Nash Scopex Squid, paired with Citruz Pop Ups Pink from the same brand. I’m trying this bait on every trip this season. One rod is always for testing, the other for a trusted classic.
The tried-and-true classic in this case is Live System. It’s always worked great for me in cold water, and on the same river, just a few dozen kilometers upstream, it brought me a beautiful five-kilo fish.
Now some of you are probably horrified—five kilos? A carp? Seriously?
Yes, seriously.
Maybe I should give you a bit more insight into the river I’ve been talking about.
So let me set the record straight—the river I’m writing about might seem more like a large stream to many of you. In some places, the depth barely exceeds 1.5 meters, and the widest point is maybe 12 meters. On summer days, a few stocked fish occasionally break the surface, and bigger ones are mostly the stuff of talk and dreams.
Of course, everyone knows someone who knows someone else who supposedly caught a ten-kilo carp here—or bigger. But somehow, the proof is always missing, and the stories are full of holes.
One way or another, I believe there’s a bigger fish to be found here. A few kilometers upstream, I saw maybe three fish over 8 kg. Sure, it’s been a few years—but still.
There really aren’t many fish here, and the ones that are have learned a lot—otherwise, they wouldn’t still be around
Aside from my fish caught a few kilometers upstream, I know of only one other—around 9 kg. That’s it. Nothing else.
And that’s exactly what makes this spot interesting to me.
I want to spend a lot of time here. I want to learn the whole cycle, explore every spot, and try every possibility. And in the end, when I catch a fish just a little bigger than the last one, it feels like an incredible success. Anyone can catch big fish in places where there are plenty. But try catching a 10kg carp in a stretch of river several kilometers long—at a spot where there’s just that one fish, or maybe two more like it. That fish didn’t survive by accident—it made it that far because it never got fooled.
Doesn’t it remind you a bit of English-style fishing? It does to me. And that makes it all the more appealing.
To deliberately outsmart one or two fish—and then do it again
To make this mission even more unique, I plan to document every fish I catch—and if I catch the same one again, I’ll archive it and compare.
That’s enough about the project and the water I fish—let’s get back to the current session.
The rigs are in place, and I sit down on a bucket of bait right by the rods. I’m not taking any chances—they’re really close to the snags, so I’m keeping the drags locked tight.
The traps are set, and I can finally enjoy my breakfast and coffee. I keep watching the surface the entire time. Nothing’s happening at my spot, but about 100 meters upstream, fish start to show—I’m not sure, but probably chub. After about 30 minutes, the activity moves closer. Now I’m certain—it’s chub. An hour passes and I get the first take—it’s a chub. Damn. While unhooking it, I see its mouth is full of broken-down pellets—so that’s that.
What’s strange is that it took the single bait about 30 meters from the baited spot. And the rod on the fed area? Nothing.
I’ll put the bait back in the water and see what happens.
The next take doesn’t take long—another chub. This time, I change the rig placement and try the undercut bank on the opposite side. I’m moving even farther away from the baited area.
The weather today isn’t exactly ideal, and to be honest, I’m starting to feel a bit cold—but the awakening spring around me is breathtaking.
I sit motionless on the bank, listening to the birdsong, watching ducks drift by, and noticing fresh shoots pushing up through the earth all around me. Then, barely two meters away, a tiny bird lands and starts gathering twigs for its nest—another lands right beside it, and one even touches down almost on my shoe. I’m afraid to move, not to scare them off. It’s unbelievable. Just a few meters from where I sit, pike are going wild in the shallows—and a bit farther on, more of the same. It’s truly beautiful.
The chub have quieted down for a moment, and all I feel now is the beauty around me. But what’s about to happen—well, it’s irony in its purest form.
After a while of just soaking it all in, I thought I’d swap watching the water for a quick look at my phone—wanted to check something fishing-related online, of course. And that’s when something happened that I’ve never experienced before.
My rigs are placed, as I mentioned, on perfect hotspots. I’m sitting glued to the rods, right at the water’s edge, with my rods standing about a meter above the surface. Out of nowhere, a beautifully colored scaled fish—about 60 cm—leaps right at my feet. It jumped the way we’re used to seeing—a meter from the bank, directly under the rods—and knocked my rod off the buzzer. That is irony. I set traps into snags—and a carp lies beneath the bank at my feet. Unbelievable.
I’ve just reached about the halfway mark of the time I can spend here today. I reel in the rods, check the rigs, and cast them back out. After a few minutes, I spot another carp—about 100 meters downstream. It surfaced again, but this time it’s a smaller fish, maybe 40 cm.
Sem tam mi poskočí pruty od ataků menších jelců, a následně vše utichá.
But after a few minutes, I start noticing something strange—once the rods go quiet and the chub have clearly moved off the baited area, signs of feeding begin to appear. Gradually, in shifting intervals, chains of rising bubbles start showing up. The carp are moving in.
In my opinion, here’s what happened:
In the morning, I baited the spot. The chub found the attractive feast, quickly hoovered up all the bigger particles, and moved on. Then the carp moved in, slowly vacuuming up the remaining bits and smaller baits from the bottom.
I’ll try to verify and repeat this pattern. If I’m right, I could use it to my advantage in the future. I just need to find a bait that the chub will ignore but the carp won’t turn down. So far, those little buggers have devoured everything I’ve ever thrown in.
Anyway, time is running out and I have to start packing up. And here comes irony number two.
I’ve been freezing here all day, the wind’s been relentless, and the sun just wouldn’t break through the clouds. But the moment I pack up the last rod, the sky clears and the sun comes out in full force. What can you do? All I can do is laugh.
On the way back to the car, I stop at a few spots, watching the ever-present pike with their stunning patterns and colors. The third mini trip is behind us, and the hoped-for success hasn’t come—again. But as I said, this water is tricky and the season is only just waking up. I’m content. I’m one step closer to my goal. And who knows—maybe it’ll happen tomorrow, or in a week, or a month. But I know it will happen.
I’ll be looking forward to the next adventure.
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