The months swam on, occasionally I'd pull the Russian out to admire it's polished, shimmering skin. Cold to the touch, it still made me feel warm with excitement. Dreams of massive fish attracted by its water turbulence floated through my brain.
Mark and I both tentatively committed to christening the lure on bass opener, only to mutually be too busy that given weekend. Instead, I combed the river banks casting uninspiring lure after uninspiring lure, looking for a spot, the right spot, to cast the Russian. The manner within which she was begotten leaving me gun shy and worried: should I cast her in? What if I lose her? A chance I can't take.
A few catches, remedial by expectations, nothing compared to what the Russian will one day bring me if I bide my time well, and bide I did. At last, I cast out with spinners, crank baits, jigs and sink worms. Nothing's biting that day, but more importantly: nothings getting snagged. I look out across the stream that day and feel it: today's the day the Russian pays it's due.
I tie a new knot, assuring the best security. I add a leader; lest a vicious pike take my beloved away from me. I breathe... this is big... really big. I draw more oxygen to make sure I'm stable, the excitement nearly overwhelming me.
I cast it clean and fair, seven ounces of glimmering silver going where I intended. The splash subtle, barely disturbing. That's good, it won't spook my prize. I reel in briskly, assuring maximum water turbulence. I envision the Silver October bleeping with sonar while it's on the move. My line concludes, no catch on that run... that's OK, I savour this experience. I savour the loss of my lure's virginity.
I recast with less exuberance. No catch. Even Dave Mercer requires at least a few casts to catch his fish, so I keep plodding on, knowing my superior tackle will net me my beauty.
Cast. Cast. Cast. Cast. Cast. Cast. Cast. Cast.
I pull the lure close to me for inspection. I blow on it; do the propellers still work? Yes, they immediately spin. I stop blowing, they continue spinning, slowing only under the light resistance of the breeze. The lure is functioning just fine. I cast in a different direction.
Cast. Cast. Cast. Cast. Cast. Cast. Cast. Cast.
I finish the last reel in, what the...? I decide to watch the action, to see how attractive it might be. I cast out to a clearer area, I reel in fast and it b-lines for me, causing minimal presence in the water. I swear I've seen more action from dollar store spinners. Maybe I'm doing it wrong. I cast slower. Faster. Super fast. Super slow. I watch the action, nothing; almost imperceptible to me.
I put it away that day, shut out and deflated.
Here is where my love of movies and quotes urges me to paraphrase one of my favourite films:
I wish I could tell you that the Russian fought the good fight, and the fish let it win. I wish I could tell you that - but fishing is no fairy-tale world. It never let fish bite it, but I was stolid. Things went on like that for awhile - fishing life consists of routine, and then more routine. Every so often, you wind up catching some fresh fish. The Russian kept me trying - sometimes I was able to feel a nibble, sometimes not. And that's how it went for us - that was our routine. I do believe those first outings were the worst for me, and I also believe that if things had gone differently, this lure would have got the best of fish.
Lapsing out of my movie paraphrase, let me be clear: this lure has no action, and has not caught me a single fish. I've rigged up insane pike rigs making crank bait chase the Russian like it's bitch, to no avail!
Today, the Russian sits in my tackle box, slightly rusty (I guess I neglected the WD40 maintenance that the manual suggested) and disused. Do I miss it? I miss the allure of it... I miss the dream of it. I've moved on, though, and found a great lure that gave me success. More on that some other time.
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