The High Hopes (and Even Higher Water) of a Post-Lockdown Fishing Trip
October 26th was a banner day for fishing—we hauled in more than enough to feel like total pros. So when the next day rolled around, there was zero doubt we’d be heading out for a night session. To make it even better, we got word at noon that lockdown restrictions were starting to lift across the area. The pandemic was finally easing up, and my crew and I were convinced this was our sign to chase after those monster crucian carp we’d been daydreaming about. Spoiler: The fish had other plans.
Last-Minute Dash to the Spot (and a Detour for Fish Soup)
After lunch, I crashed for my usual post-meal nap, and when I woke up, my phone was blowing up. My buddy Tiger had texted over an hour earlier asking if I was in for fishing. I shot him a quick reply and found out he and two other guys were already set up at our go-to spot: the West Lake section of the Ying River. I immediately hit up my buddy Lei, who was in the middle of simmering a carp soup at home. He didn’t hesitate—he turned down the stove, grabbed his gear, and met up with me and our friend “The Boss” (we call him that because he’s always organizing our trips) to head out.
The drive west took about 30 minutes, and along the way, we passed fields where farmers had planted winter wheat. The tiny shoots were just starting to poke through the soil, looking fragile but full of promise—soon enough, the whole area would be a sea of bright green. When we pulled up to the riverbank, we saw a crowd of anglers lined up along the north shore, but the south side was practically empty. No mystery there: the path down to the south bank is so rutted and overgrown that it feels like navigating a jungle obstacle course. Who has time for that when there are fish to catch?
Setting Up Shop in the Swollen River
We tracked down Tiger and the guys, and first order of business was finding a place to set up. Let me tell you—this river had risen a lot. The water was almost lapping at the top of the bank, which meant we had to clear away a thick patch of weeds to make room. We spaced ourselves 1 to 2 feet apart, scraped out two new fishing spots, and got to work prepping our gear.
Lei, ever the thoughtful guy, brought along late-night snacks for everyone. We also packed instant noodles and sausages because nothing kills a fishing high faster than a growling stomach at 10 PM. Once we had our rods assembled, our lines tied, and our bait mixed up, we settled in, ready to watch our bobbers disappear under the water from a monster bite.
The “Monster Bite” That Never Came (Except for One Tiny Carp)
Now, here’s the thing: Every angler knows the old saying, “Rising water brings biting fish.” The logic makes sense—when the water level goes up, fish get more cover, move into shallower areas to feed, and are generally more active. With that in mind, we loaded up on bait: a mix of Field Battle Blue Crucian, Crucian Carp Bait Mix, Antarctic Krill Meal, and some rice wine-soaked rice. We made extra so everyone could share, since the day before, we’d had our best luck with 5.4-meter rods or longer, I went with a 5.7-meter rod (I skipped the 6.3-meter because my arm was sore, and with everyone packed tight, I didn’t want to accidentally hook a buddy’s ear).
We followed our usual routine: The Boss tossed out a handful of rice wine rice as chum, and I used fermented grain bait to mark our spot. We cast our lines and started reeling in a few times to attract fish, then settled in to wait. And wait. And wait some more.
By 10 PM, my bobber had dipped under the water exactly three times—and none of those were actual bites. The guys around me were in the same boat: Their bobbers were sitting perfectly still, like stone statues. I counted—there were at least 10 rods in our small section of the bank, and every single one was a “needle in the ocean” situation (you anglers know what I mean). The only action all night came from The Boss, who hooked a scrawny little carp that couldn’t have weighed more than half a pound. After that, it was crickets.
I talked to the anglers next to us, and they said the night before had been a frenzy, with fish biting left and right. The night before that? Even better. But tonight? Nothing. Zilch. Nada. All my so-called “expert strategies”—fishing deeper, fishing farther out, using a more sensitive bobber—were completely useless. It was like the fish had gotten a memo to take the night off.
Cutting Our Losses (and Drinking Our Sorrows Away)
By 10 PM, Lei, Tiger, and I looked at each other and knew it was time to call it. “Let’s go home and drink beer instead,” someone said, and suddenly, everyone was packing up faster than you can say “no bite.” We didn’t even waste time debating—we stuffed our gear into our bags, grabbed our leftover snacks, and hightailed it to the car.
Back at my place, we cracked open some cold beers and started dissecting what went wrong. We threw out every possible excuse under the sun:
- Maybe the water rose too fast, and the fish were disoriented?
- Did we use too many different types of bait, confusing the fish?
- Is there a “two good days, one bad day” cycle that fish follow?
The more we talked, the more we settled on the most likely culprit: the weather. The forecast said temperatures were going to drop sharply the next day, and fish can sense that change. They probably gorged themselves the night before to stock up on energy, so by the time we got there, they were all full and hiding out in deep water.
Even though we came home with almost nothing to show for our night, we were still laughing and joking by the end of the night. Fishing isn’t just about the catch—it’s about hanging out with your friends, complaining about the lack of bites, and making plans for the next trip when we’ll finally land that trophy fish.
If you’ve ever had a fishing trip where you caught more mosquitoes than fish, you know exactly how we felt. But hey, that’s part of the game. Sometimes the fish win, sometimes you do. Either way, it’s better than sitting on the couch watching TV.
