My Old Fishing Spot Was Netted for Days! Then I Caught This Weird “Four-Unlike” Fish

Man, what a rollercoaster of a morning. You know that feeling when you head back to a reliable old fishing hole, tackle box in hand, heart full of hope for some familiar tugs on the line? Yeah, that was me. I was ready for a peaceful session, maybe hook into some of those beautiful native crucian carp or feisty minnows that used to be all over this spot. Instead, I got a masterclass in frustration, a lesson in human greed, and a bizarre encounter with a fish that looked like it was assembled from spare parts. Let me tell you the story.

The Promise of a Perfect Morning

It was the last day of April. The air was crisp, around 48°F (9°C), with just a gentle breeze. The willows on the banks were a lush green, swaying softly. It felt like the perfect setup for some leisurely wild fishing. You know, the kind where the goal isn’t just the catch, but the whole experience—the quiet, the nature, the slow rhythm of casting and waiting.

I was armed with my trusty 6.3-meter rod, a 1.5 mainline with a 0.8 leader, and a size 3 hook. My bait of choice was a simple scented commercial mix, ready to be pulled into tempting little morsels. I found my spot, the same one that had treated me so well just a couple of weeks prior. Back then, you’d get a bite within minutes. It was alive!

I mixed my bait, made my first cast, and settled in. The sun played peek-a-boo with the clouds, and everything felt right with the world. For about thirty minutes.

The First Signs That Something Was Very Wrong

That’s when the weirdness started. The float would dip or shiver just a tiny bit—maybe one millimeter. I’d strike, feeling that anticipatory tension… and pull up nothing but empty hooks. Again and again. That’s a classic sign, fellow anglers. That sneaky, unproductive nibble. A sinking feeling (pun only slightly intended) began to grow in my gut. This wasn’t the lively bite of cautious crucian carp; this was the maddening pecking of something else entirely.

I switched tactics, pinching on a larger, firmer ball of bait and decided to wait it out, let it sit on the bottom. “Let’s see what’s really down there,” I thought.

The Unwelcome Committee: A Parade of Pests

My answer came quickly. The float jiggled, then shot up several inches—a classic sign of a fish rising with the bait. “Ah! A big crucian carp at last!” I set the hook and felt… almost nothing. A faint, wiggling resistance. I reeled in to find the culprit: a tiny topmouth gudgeon, a type of pesky minnow we often call “wheat ear” fish back home. This guy was so small that my size 3 hook looked comically large next to its mouth. And it was a perfect lip hook! Unbelievable.

Okay, I reasoned, sometimes a few small fish pave the way for the bigger ones. Maybe the carp are just being shy. I re-baited and cast again.

Then things got stranger. The float, in perfectly still water, began to slowly sink. Not a sharp dive, but a sinister, gradual “yin drift” as we call it. I watched, puzzled. It sank a bit more, then gave a definitive one-millimeter dip. I struck!

This time, there was weight. But again, it was pitifully light. Like using a cannon to swat a fly. I brought it to the surface, and at first, I thought I’d hooked a dead leaf or a piece of black mud. But it wriggled.

Enter the “Four-Unlike” Freak of Nature

I lifted it into my hand, and just stared. What on earth was this? I’ve caught a lot of weird bottom-dwellers in my time.

• It wasn’t a flathead goby. Their bellies are smooth.
• It wasn’t a sand perch or a typical goby.
• It kinda looked like a dragonet, but not quite right.

This thing was a biological puzzle. The weirdest part? On its belly, it had a single, perfectly round, independent fin! Like a little suction cup or a solitary paddle. I’d never seen anything like it. It was a true “four-unlike” fish—unlike anything I could properly name. We snapped a few photos for the record. Nature is wild, man.

After the shock wore off, it was back to the pest parade. More tiny minnows. I even managed to snag one accidentally, foul-hooking it in the chaos. It was clear now: my hook was too big for these marauders, but if I went any smaller, what hope would I have if a decent fish did wander by? I was stuck in piscatory purgatory.

The Heartbreaking Truth Comes to Light

Just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, the weather decided to join the party. A sudden strong wind kicked up, churning the once-placid surface into a choppy mess. My float disappeared in the waves. I was basically fishing blind.

Then, I heard footsteps. An elderly gentleman walked up, a kind smile on his face. “Having any luck, young man?” he asked.

“Nothing but trash fish,” I sighed, gesturing to my meager, wriggling collection.

His smile faded a bit. “Ah,” he said, nodding knowingly. “There have been people here for the last several days. With nets. They come, they drag the net through, and they leave with bags full. Big ones, small ones, they take it all.”

His words hit me like a physical blow. Netted. For days. It all made terrible sense. The absence of my beloved crucian carp and minnows. The barren, desperate feeling of the spot. The only things left were the ultra-resilient, prolific pests and the odd genetic anomaly like my “four-unlike” friend. These netters had stripped the place clean, taking everything, violating the unspoken rule of sustainable harvesting. No wonder the ecosystem felt shocked and empty.

My dream of a relaxing morning was officially over. Any hope of a turnaround was gone. The netters had seen to that.

Letting Go and Moving On

There was only one thing left to do. I carefully took the few fish I’d caught—the minnows and the mysterious “four-unlike”—and released them back into the troubled water. Maybe they’d survive. Maybe they were the tough ones who would repopulate this scarred stretch of river. I packed up my gear, the weight of disappointment heavy in my box.

But you know what? A true angler’s spirit is hard to crush completely. I still had some time, and I wasn’t ready to call it a day. I decided to scout for a new spot, a fresh start.

A Glimmer of Hope and a Lesson in Priorities

After some exploring, I found a new section of the river. The environment was beautiful. And there, I saw the most heartwarming sight: an elderly couple, fishing together. They had their rods out, sitting on little stools, not saying much, just enjoying the peace and each other’s company. It was a picture of pure, quiet contentment.

Watching them completely reset my perspective. My frustration melted away. This is what it’s really about, isn’t it? It’s not about the “bend in the rod” or the “explosive catch.” Those are thrilling moments, for sure. But the core of recreational fishing is the peace. It’s the act of being present in a beautiful place. It’s the patience, the small surprises (even weird-looking ones), and the shared respect for nature.

That couple had it figured out. They were living the dream. I gave them a respectful nod from a distance, didn’t want to disturb their peace, and found a spot nearby. I didn’t catch anything remarkable for the rest of the morning. And that was perfectly okay. The water felt alive here. There was hope.

So, that was my adventure. From high hopes to utter frustration, from bizarre biology lessons to a sobering encounter with human carelessness, and finally, to a gentle reminder of why I love this hobby in the first place. The river gives, and sometimes, it teaches. You just have to be willing to listen.

Tight lines, everyone. And remember, take only what you need, and always respect the water.