Three Anglers Return to Sancha River: When the Crucian Carp Vanish, the Bitterling Save the Day

Alright, let me tell you about our latest fishing “adventure.” It was one of those days that starts with high hopes and slowly, hilariously, descends into a lesson in humility, patience, and the art of making do. Four days after our last trip, on November 7th, my uncle (let’s call him Second Uncle, the eternal optimist) texts: “Let’s go to Sancha River. Your cousin-brother is coming too, he’s just learning.” How could I say no? By 9-something AM, we were piling into the car, a trio ready to conquer the waters once more.

Of course, nothing is ever simple. A 40-minute drive somehow ballooned with an impromptu shopping stop. We didn’t roll up to our destination until after 10 AM. Second Uncle, drawing on the deep wisdom of our previous outing, declared, “The crucian carp were bigger downstream last time.” So, downstream it was. The collective memory of slightly larger fish was our guiding star. Famous last words, right?

The Scene at the River: Optimism Meets Reality

We pulled up to our chosen stretch, and it was… popular. Very popular. The upper half of the bank was a neat line of anglers, their rods forming a silent fence. Our trio? We got the leftovers—the lower half. We set up shop: the newbie cousin-brother on the left, me stubbornly in the middle (always the middle), and Second Uncle holding down the right flank. It felt a bit like being assigned the worst seats in a theater, but hey, the show must go on.

The routine began. I tossed two handfuls of wine-soaked rice into a promising-looking grassy hole near the bank—classic bait for crucian carp. Then, the ritual of mixing the bait: mostly Red Tail Green, a good portion of Mad Fishing Crucian Carp blend, a dash of Aji-herb, a few precious drops of “Solo Battle Crucian” attractant, and the obligatory gluten powder to bind it all. Let it rest, awaken, become magical… then a tiny pinch of “Grain God” to rein in the dispersion. I was going for finesse. The gear was simple: my trusty 3.6-meter rod from last time, no need to even re-adjust the float. I was locked, loaded, and ready.

The Great Wait: A Masterclass in Nothingness

With the bait ready, I started. Pull out a small ball, cast, wait. I began with a brisk pace—a cast every 30 seconds for the first ten throws, trying to create a tantalizing cloud of scent and particles. Then, I settled into a more relaxed rhythm: one cast per minute. I watched the float with the intensity of a hawk.

Ten minutes passed. The float might as well have been glued to the water’s surface. Twenty minutes. Nothing. Not a twitch, not a nibble, not a ghost of a movement. I glanced left at my cousin-brother. He was staring at his float with the confused concentration of someone trying to read a foreign manual. I looked right at Second Uncle. He had his arms crossed, a deep frown on his face. Same story. Absolute zero.

But here’s the kicker—upstream, in those prime spots, we’d hear the occasional cheer or see a rod bend. Plop-splash… someone had a fish. Then another. It was a quiet, steady chorus of success that only highlighted the deafening silence on our end. The realization dawned: “Ah. So that’s why no one was sitting here.” The spot was dead. A fishing desert.

The Dance of Desperation

When you’re getting no bites, you can’t just sit still. It’s against an angler’s code. So, I began “The Dance.”

• Phase 1: The Hopeful Relocation. I picked up my gear and shuffled to a spot further right. “Maybe here,” I thought. Ten minutes of intense staring later… nothing. The float was a statue.
• Phase 2: The Return to Base. Convinced my original spot had somehow magically improved in my absence, I moved back. Spoiler: It hadn’t.
• Phase 3: Repetitive Futility. I repeated this shuffle a few times. Left a bit, right a bit, like some sad, aquatic-themed square dance. The fish were utterly unimpressed.
• Phase 4: Exhausted Acceptance. Eventually, I just ran out of hope and energy. I plopped back on my tackle box, defeated. Fine. I’ll just sit here. See if I care.

Lunchtime came and went. We ate our snacks in a silence broken only by the sounds of chewing and the distant splashes from the lucky upstream crowd. The mood was… contemplative.

A Glimmer of Hope, Briefly

Then, a miracle! Not on my line, of course. My cousin-brother, the newbie, let out a yelp! His rod tip bent, and after a brief, clumsy struggle, he landed a decent crucian carp! Looked to be a good 2-3 ounces. The ice was broken! Seconds later, Second Uncle, not to be outdone, hooked and landed one too. And then another. He entered a brief, glorious hot streak.

And me? In the middle? I was the guardian of the void. I provided moral support by continuing to catch absolutely nothing. It was spectacularly awkward. “Great catch!” I’d say, through a slightly forced grin. “Wow, another one!” My float continued its impersonation of a tiny, red-and-white lighthouse in a sea of disinterested fish.

Just as I had fully made peace with the idea of a total skunk—a big, fat zero—my float… dipped. Not a dramatic dive, just a subtle, beautiful, undeniable dip. My heart jumped. I struck! There was weight! After a fight that felt epic in my mind but was probably three seconds long, I landed it—a small, beautiful, perfect crucian carp. Maybe an ounce. I have never been so happy to see such a small fish. It was a victory over utter failure. I managed two more slightly better ones later, and I even shamelessly stole one from the edge of Second Uncle’s productive zone. Final tally for the “crucian carp hunt”: Four fish. Four. Not exactly the haul we dreamed of during that car ride.

The Pivot: Plan B is Tiny and Shiny

By around 2 PM, even Second Uncle’s spot went cold. We looked at our collective catch. It wouldn’t even cover the bottom of a decent-sized soup bowl. The dream of a fried fish feast was fading fast. That’s when Second Uncle, wise in the ways of salvage operations, said, “Well, the bitterling were biting last time at our old spot. We could at least get enough for a dish.”

Bitterling. Tiny, colorful, feisty little fish. Not the target, but when life gives you lemons… or when the river gives you no crucian carp, you go for the bitterling. It was a total pivot, a complete shift in expectations and technique. We packed up our defeated crucian carp gear and trudged back to the spot from our previous trip.

The setup was quicker, the expectations lower. We aimed for the smaller bites, the quicker movements. And you know what? It worked! They were there, and they were hungry. For the next hour or so, we filled the void—literally. The tiny, silvery flashes became a satisfying rhythm. Pull, swing, unhook, into the bucket. Repeat. There was no pressure, just the simple joy of feeling something on the line.

Why Bitterling Save the Day

This part of the trip taught me more than the first half. When your main goal falls apart, having a secondary, humble goal can save the entire day. Here’s what switched in our heads:

• The Pressure Vanished: We weren’t “hunting” anymore; we were “gathering.” It felt lighter, more playful.
• Action is Everything: Constant bites, even from tiny fish, are infinitely more fun than staring at a motionless float for hours. It keeps you engaged and reminds you why you’re out there.
• It’s About the Experience, Not Just the Trophy: We were laughing again, joking about our earlier failure, and enjoying the simple mechanics of catching fish. The bitterling were the comic relief after a tense drama.

By a little after 3 PM, we had amassed a respectable, heaping bowl of bitterling. It was a colorful, shimmering pile of consolation prize. It wasn’t the crucian carp we wanted, but it was a honest day’s catch. We looked at it, nodded, and called it. Mission accomplished? Not the original one. But a mission, nonetheless.

Driving Home: Thoughts on Fishing and Flexibility

The ride home was quieter than the ride there, but not in a bad way. It was the quiet of tired bodies and processing the day. We didn’t crush it. We didn’t land the big ones. We got schooled by the guys upstream who knew the sweet spots. But we adapted. We laughed. We caught something. My cousin-brother got his first decent crucian carp, which is a core memory right there. I got a lesson in patience and the importance of location (and maybe a bit of jealousy management). Second Uncle got to be the sage who guided us to a salvageable finish.

Fishing at Sancha River, or anywhere really, is never a guarantee. Some days the water gives, some days it takes. The key, I’m learning, is to not let a stubborn pursuit of one type of fish ruin the whole trip. Have a Plan B, even if Plan B is a bunch of tiny, glittering fish that will take forever to clean. Because in the end, you’re outside, by the water, with your line in the flow. Sometimes that’s enough. And sometimes, if you’re lucky and flexible, you still get to take home a bowl full of proof that you tried.

So here’s to the bitterling, the understudies of the river, always ready to step in when the stars of the show don’t appear. And here’s to the next trip. Maybe we’ll scout a new spot. Or maybe we’ll just head straight for the bitterling from the start. Who knows? That’s the fun of it.