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ultralight carper

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Posts posted by ultralight carper

    You Know You Are a Carp Fisher When.......

    in Pictures, Stories & Video

    Posted

    When you call for information about a lake resort for a family vacation and the first question you ask the property manager is "Are there carp in the lake?".

    When you stay up fishing for 36 hours straight when you are on VACATION.

    When the only time your spouse sees you cook is when you are prepping maize or making boilies.

    When you have a charge account at Tractor Supply and you don't own any livestock.

    When you spend more than $50/trip to the local day old bread store.

    If you have ever told your child "Don't eat that bread, it is for the carp!".

    When you go the the beach, put a shell up to your ear and hear bite alarms! B)

    Survey ?

    in Carp Locally & Fishing Reports

    Posted · Edited by ultralight carper

    Name: Rob Schoborg

    Age: 43

    Hometown: Tulsa, OK

    Favorite Waters: Three-the Arkansas River between 11th and 41st streets in Tulsa, the big north pond on the University of Missouri Agriculture Experiment Station and the Yellowstone River just upstream from Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone in Yellowstone National Park.

    Favorite Fishing Moment(s): The last fishing trip with my Dad before he passed away-Aug, 18, 2003. The day my dad and I caught about 20 carp from under a Mulberry tree overhanging the Arkansas River. The day that my stepson caught his first carp-which was a mirror to boot (now he won't fish for anything else :D )! Oct. 13, 2005 - the day before my wedding-my sister and I got into a bunch of big redfish (one is pictured on the left).

    Rod Of Choice: St. Croix 10 foot ultralight noodle rod

    Reel of Choice: Pretty much anything made by Shimano.

    Line Of Choice: 4 lb Berkley trilene

    Favorite Hook: Size 14 Salmon egg

    Favorite bait: Bread.

    Biggest Carp: 17.8 pounds

    Dream fishing trip: Catching anything in New Zealand (went last year but did't get to fish - it is the coolest place on the planet...)

    Occupation: College professor.

    Favorite Food(s)?: A good old fashioned Cajun crawfish/shrimp boil! Fortunately I married one (a Cajun) so I have this anytime shrimp or crawfish are in season-WHOOOIE! Also, ice cream with large chunks of chocolate.

    Children and fishing

    in Beginning Carping

    Posted

    All the advice here is good... I would just add a few suggestions.

    1) Use long shank light wire cricket hooks if you are going out for panfish-they are much easier to remove.

    2) Crimp the barb of each hook (or use barbless hooks). This makes the occassional "hook in the finger" episode much easier to deal with. Also, makes taking the fish off easier.

    3) Areas around docks or marinas are great for panfish. Bread makes a really good chum for small 'gills and, as a bonus, you may get a carp or two.

    Ths most important thing - as everyone else has already said - make sure you go where there are lots of fish. I take kids to a state park near my home that has abundant panfish and a playground (in case they get bored).

    Rob

    Winter Reflections....

    in Pictures, Stories & Video

    Posted

    :D it really is all about the fellowship on the hooch :D

    in the last few days i have got a few messages that were on the rough side. i dont really brag about things i have done. what i have said in the days since being the first head hawg was all in fun :D

    the last few years i have had to see my dads health decline to where he cant fish any more. my 2 sons are 18 and 22 and girls is what they catch now, so i have fished alone alot lately. after a chance meeting at the hooch one day i ran into horace and a couple of other fellows. we talked like we had known each other for years :D:D that is what fishing is about and the whole hawg of the lawg contest.FELLOWSHIP.

    the last time on the hooch i did not even have a pole in the water i just came to bank talk :D

    i hope this clears things up and please realize i am not bragging(4 lbs 14 oz is nothing to brag about :D ) :D:D:D

    Bigbird,

    "Brag" all you want :D - the important thing is that you are fishing, enjoying it and getting some great fellowship out of it! It is clear from all the posts that this contest is not a bragfest, it is all about the fun of getting together and fishing. If anyone has anything negative to say about it, just ignore them. I just lost my dad last year - the last time he was physically able to fish with me was almost 5 years ago. So I know how much it sucks to lose your fishing buddies. Lucky for me, my stepson and daughter are 14 and 10, respectively, and both still like to fish (fortunately my wife Michelle does too...). I for one can't wait to hear the next installment of the "Hawg Log" contest. Maybe I can even come down some time and give the Hooch a try - you look like a pretty fun bunch to wet some lines with! Good luck and keep haulin'em out!

    Rob

    My first carp

    in Pictures, Stories & Video

    Posted

    Sorry for the length of this story but I started thinking about this at about 4AM on Jan 1st while participating in the FFF and it just sorta poured out...

    All through my early childhood, I was (and still am) enthralled by water. I can remember going on family car trips when I was 4-5 years old – I would stare in fascination at every body of water we passed. Lake, stream, pond or even a rain-filled drainage ditch, it didn’t matter. I would sit and stare and imagine that the nearby shores and waters thronged with life, even though I couldn’t see it from my vantage point in a speeding car. As I got older, I devoured books, magazine articles and television programs on the subject and came to realize that my wildest imaginings were just hollow reflections of the truth. From the tiniest of microscopic organisms to the most elegant wading birds, the waters of Eastern Oklahoma were one vast, complex and beautiful web of life. I suppose then, that it is unsurprising that I soon developed what was to become a life-long passion for angling.

    Try as I might, I cannot remember when I caught my first fish. I suspect that it was when I was about 5 years old. Our family spent much of our vacation time visiting my aunts, uncles and cousins in central Iowa – so much so that my sister once commented that “Iowa was our Disneyland”. At that time, most of my relatives still farmed. Many of my happiest memories of childhood come from days spent on the family farms in central Iowa. Unfortunately, with so much of the land in the area under cultivation, there was not much in the way of nearby fishable water. To provide myself and my younger cousins with a place to fish, my uncle Leonard transplanted bluegills from a distant creek into his concrete stock tank. There we wiled away happy hours alternatively catching the tiny fish and releasing them into the inky green “depths”. I know we always imagined that somewhere in that 25 foot circular concrete “pond” was an unseen lunker, ready to snatch our bait and give us the thrill of our young lives. Alas, it never happened.

    As I grew older, my desire to fish grew more powerful. My father, like many men and women of the “greatest generation”, worked hard to support his family and his community. This left him precious little time for fishing. But those few fishing trips together will always stand out as the best times of my life. Sometimes we went after crappie at Oolagah lake, channel cats in the tail waters of Keystone dam or sunfish at Lake Spavinaw. Unfortunately, we always seemed to get there just after the fish quit biting. “Well, they were biting real good this morning” was a phrase we often heard from other anglers whenever we walked up to a new spot to drop our lines. Pulling a few panfish or a small channel cat to the bank became a cause for celebration. Needless to say, the often fishless trips tested what little patience I had. My father, God bless him, never became frustrated or angry at me. He would always smile, point out what a wonderful day we’d had and say “We’ll get’em next time”. I always believed him. And he was always right.

    Christmas day, 1976, stands out as a red-letter day for me. It was the end of the bicentennial year and I had just turned 13 years old a few months before. I think most kids get excited about their gifts, but I had just unwrapped what would become, for many years, my most cherished possession. There, under the tree, surrounded by discarded fragments of wrapping paper, was a small, dark-colored plastic case. The case contained a Diawa mini-cast, one of the first ultralight spin-cast rod/reel combos. The surface of that tiny, silver reel glinted in the Christmas lights – the jet black, five section ultralight rod looked like a tiny magic wand. It may have seemed but a toy to the uninitiated but it was the first serious fishing tool I ever owned. I longed to try it out. Sadly, my mother, being convinced that I would be instantly kidnapped if I set foot out of the house, restricted me to a one block radius around home. Since we lived in suburban Tulsa at the time, the only water that rule put within reach was the neighbors’ swimming pool! I spent my evenings, when not occupied with chores or schoolwork, tying flies, making jigs and spinner baits and wondering when I would ever get to try them out. Eventually, over the next few months I convinced her that it might be safe to allow me out within a mile or so radius if I went with a few trusted (by her) friends. This may not seem like much, but the “permitted zone” included a wonderful place called Woodward Park.

    Woodward park was (and still is) an expansive and well-maintained Tulsa city park. There were playgrounds, walking paths and beautiful formal rose gardens. However, what I was interested in were the ponds. There were three of them – stretched out along an imaginary half-chord running from north-east to south-west, along the angle defined by 21st street on the north side and Peoria Avenue on the west. None of the ponds were larger than a typical municipal swimming pool – all were lined with ornamental rocks and were, at most, 4 1/2 feet deep. The north-most pond was clear and structure free, except for the rocks lining the bank and a single large rock that had been artfully placed in the center. The lower two ponds were weed-filled and murky – just the place for a giant bass or catfish to lurk – at least in my imagination. As a bonus, the lower two ponds were filled to the brim with frogs, tadpoles and turtles. Just the place for a nature-loving, pre-adolescent boy finally given a little bit of freedom to explore.

    Throughout the spring, I gave that Diawa mini-cast and my homemade lures a workout. I could be found fishing these ponds at almost any daylight hour that I wasn’t at school or doing homework or chores. As per the house rules, I tried to get various friends to go with me. Occasionally I couldn’t find anyone who was interested – the pull of fishing was so great that I would just go without a companion and hope I didn’t get caught (I never did…). I caught bluegill, green sunfish and “punkinseeds” in abundance. Not large fish but still fun to stalk and catch. In the lower two ponds, I would even get an occasional bullhead or largemouth bass. I don’t think any of these fish weighed over a pound, but the larger and more elusive species added spice to the game. One day I bought a secondhand light glass spinning rod at a garage sale and used 100 feet of light nylon rope and a 5 foot monofilament leader to make a crude fly rod. I then spent many an hour enticing the local bluegills (and bullfrogs) to hit my hand-tied sponge rubber spiders.

    One fine Saturday morning in early March I set out for the park with a friend. We netted some tadpoles, chased the frogs and caught a few ‘gills and ‘greens out of the lower two ponds. He then went home, leaving me to fish the northern-most pond alone. At first I concentrated on the water around the rocks lining the southern end, quickly enticing a green sunfish to hit a small spinner. As my eyes scanned the still water in preparation for my next cast, I saw a long, dark shape in the water. As I stared at it, it moved! Was it a fish? As it drifted into the center of the pond, I could see it clearly. The massive tail, huge golden-brown scales, large eyes and sucker-like mouth left no doubt. It was a carp! As I watched, I wondered “How did this fish get here?” After all, I had fished this pond dozens of times and there was no way a fish this size could lurk unnoticed in such a small, shallow, clear body of water. The question was immediately followed by the euphoria-inducing thought “Maybe I can catch it!” My rod snapped out a cast toward the behemoth as if by its own accord. The spinner landed – I had just found my Moby Dick and the mysterious fish, his Ahab.

    I was beside myself with anticipation as my spinner drew across the carps’ nose. I could plainly see the line entering the water and the tiny Colorado blade flashing as it spun. I even thought that I could see the quarry’s eyes track the lure as it slowly moved past. But nothing happened. I tried cast after cast and nothing happened! I cut the spinner from my line, opened my tackle box and chose another weapon – surely this one would work! My offering was again spurned. I churned the water to a froth, flinging spoons, jigs, mister twisters, rubber frogs and, as a last resort, an old wooden top water bass plug. Nothing! That fish just sculled its way slowly around the pond, occasionally stopping to vacuum up bits from the bottom. I felt like that fish was somehow silently mocking me.

    Over the next few weeks I became obsessed with catching “The Carp” (yes, the capital letters were there inside my head). I visited that pond every chance I got and tried every lure, bait and technique that I had ever read about or heard of. Every presentation was rejected. At one point, I was so frustrated that I contemplated trying to snag him. That fish was trapped in a small, clear pond – easy meat for netting or snagging. All I needed was a couple of treble hooks and a sinker dredged from the bottom of my tackle box. Upon sober reflection, however, that option just not seem right. I didn’t want to take the easy way out; I wanted to fool that wily carp, land him fair and square and return him to the water so he could live to fight again.

    In junior high and high school, I was that overweight kid with glasses that did well in all the classes. My classmates had a number of unflattering nicknames for me – the nicest (and least imaginative) were “brainiac” and “four eyes”. Given my rather academic (some would say nerdy) inclination, I decided that the solution to my problem with The Carp was to do a little research. I had already read through all of my books on fishing – the only mention of carp was a picture and a short comment about how they ruined the water quality for game fish. Well, even if everyone else considered carp to be undesirable, I was overjoyed that that fish had found a home in my local pond and was determined to get it to the bank! Therefore, I broadened my search. I looked in the card catalogue (remember those?) at school and at the public library. Zippo. I skimmed every fishing book I could find at the local bookstores. There was advice aplenty on catching trout, bass, panfish and pike – even catfish. But nothing on catching carp! Finally, I joined an outdoor book club advertised in the back of “Field and Stream”. I looked through their listing of titles and something caught my eye. The title was “The Art of Angling” by Tiny Bennett. The short description did not mention carp, but the book was touted to contain information about fishing for a wide variety of freshwater species. Then and there I decided use my hoarded allowance money and ordered it.

    A few weeks later, “The Art of Angling” arrived on my doorstep. I tore open the crisp, brown paper and pulled out the book. I cracked it open and read through the authors’ “Preface”. This is what I saw…

    “I am a simple angler who likes to catch fish and who does not believe that certain fish are inferior because they are not deemed socially acceptable. I believe the sport to be a manifestation of man’s deep-seated need to hunt and when people suggest – as they often do – that trout is superior to carp, I want to know “In what way?”. Carp are bigger, tougher, more cunning, and infinitely harder to hook and land.”

    I thought “Wow, this looks great!” I turned excitedly to the ‘Table of Contents”. There it was in black and white, “Chapter 7 – Catching Carp”. I spent the entire evening pouring over that chapter – and suddenly I had an idea of why my carping efforts had proven futile for so long.

    The day of reckoning had come. On a bright May morning I made my way to the park, sure in the knowledge that I now had the key to hooking The Carp. The night before, I had carefully replaced all of the line on my reel with brand new, low-visibility Stren 4lb test. As I expected my equipment to be sorely tested by the power of such a large fish, I checked every inch of that line for nicks or abrasions by running it slowly though my fingers as it went on the spool. “The Art of Angling” described carp as being very smart and wary fish with extremely sensitive mouths and good eyesight. In such clear, shallow water it was vital that my presentation be as delicate as possible. I tied a single, #10, short shank Eagle Claw hook directly onto the line using an improved clinch knot. I then molded a small bread ball over the hook, completely covering the hook and knot. Given that I was using ultralight tackle in shallow water, I added no additional weight. About 200 feet from the pond, I carefully set down all of my gear, except for my rod and my net. I then slowly crawled the last 200 feet to that pond on my belly (a sight that I am sure quite amused passing motorists on 21st street). But I had no time to be amused; I was totally focused on the coming encounter and completely determined to accomplish my goal.

    Once at the waters edge, I laid my rod out on the grass and slowly raised the front of my body so I could peer between two rocks at the edge of the pond. I scanned the surface, looking for the slightest sign of my quarry. For a few tense moments I couldn’t see him. I rescanned the entire pond all the while fighting a rising sense of disappointment. Had someone else caught The Carp; perhaps even (gasp) taking him home for supper? The ruination of all my carefully laid plans lay before me. Then I saw it, a large shadow gliding through the water in the shallows almost directly across the pond from where I lay. As the dark blot became a fish, I readied my rod. With a flick of my wrist, I sent the dough ball flying across the pond with the line scribing a path perpendicular to and 10 feet ahead of The Carp. The bait landed just where I wanted it – on top of a flat rock bordering the pond on the opposite shore. I pulled it gently into the water with nary a ripple and then slowly reeled it in. As the bait neared The Carp, I stopped reeling and let it fall toward the bottom. As it fell, the fish turned slightly, as if eyeing the bait. Then, in a rush, he sucked it in! I instantly set the hook and the battle was joined!

    All hell broke loose in that tiny pond when the hook sank home. There was a “wooshing” sound like jet plane taking off as that gigantic tail flung what seemed like a gallon of water skyward. The Carp raced back and forth across the pond, seeking any exit, any snag that would break the line. As the enraged fish slashed its way across the pond, I kept the rod tip high to keep the line from becoming entangled in the rocks. Time and time again, The Carp pushed his snout into the bottom, hoping to dislodge the hook. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the great fish weakened and his rushes became easier to control. A bit of side strain using line and rod brought him up to the bank. I carefully slipped the landing net into the water in front of the tiring fish; a last second bolt for freedom enmeshed him deeply in its coils. I grabbed both sides of the net and pulled the trapped fish skyward. Because the back half of the fish protruded drunkenly from the tiny landing net, I quickly grabbed the flopping tail with one hand to prevent his escape. After I laid that beauty on the grass, I just stopped and stared for a minute. Even now I can remember how that fish looked – the deep belly, the huge scoop-like tail and above all, that beautiful copper-gold color that gleamed in morning sun. After that moment passed, I carefully removed the hook, picked The Carp up in both hands and gently slipped him back into the water. He rested in the shallows for a moment and then majestically swam back into the deep. It felt, just for a moment, like I had conquered the world.

    The mild spring gradually became a typical Oklahoma summer, with long periods of baking heat occasionally punctuated by driving rainstorms. As the grass turned brown and the earth cracked, The Carp and I continued our great game. As I tried again and again to catch him, The Carp became steadily more wary. With every failure, I learned more and more. I managed, in dozens of attempts, to hook The Carp just twice more, each of which proved more difficult than the last. Once he fell to a bread crust surface fished from my improvised fly rod. On the other occasion, he struck a tiny ball of Velveta cheese bottom fished on a #12 salmon egg hook with a 2 lb test leader. Both times the fight was valiant, but The Carp was eventually landed. And each time I released him and watched him swim away, I experienced a growing feeling of sadness – like I was saying goodbye to an old friend.

    The brutal Oklahoma summer only reluctantly gave way to fall that year. As my 14th birthday approached, came and then receded, my mother relaxed the travel strictures and I was allowed to range further from home on my own. In the process, I discovered bicycling, which opened a whole new world of fishing to my previously foot-bound self. There were ponds brimming with hard-fighting bluegills, sluggish creeks hiding fat bullheads and, just 2 miles from home, the mighty Arkansas River. Each trip brought new sights, new adventures, and new challenges. Suddenly I was thrust from fishing famine to angling feast and I gorged myself. As the weather cooled and the sycamore trees lining the river turned from deep green to gold, the white bass and stripers began running. There were also channel cats, largemouth bass, crappie, sauger and gar to be caught. And yes, loads and loads of carp. I never fished Woodward park again.

    During that wonderful fall, I went back to Woodward every few weeks, not to fish but to catch a few frogs or net some minnows for bait. I would, however, always take a bit of canned corn or some slices of old bread or cheese along. As I walked by the side of that small, clear pond, I would throw tidbits in the water. As I watched, the small sunfish would swarm around my offerings. Sometimes, The Carp would emerge from the bottom to inspect these treats, and, after careful scrutiny, sample a few. I am not really sure why I fed him, maybe to reward him for all the excitement he had brought me or to make up for torture inflicted – or just because. But finally winter hit, the ponds started freezing over and I stopped going to the park; I was busy with school and a new job, plus as many fishing trips as I could manage to squeeze in. The next spring I went back, bread in hand – but The Carp was gone. Maybe someone caught him – or maybe he just didn’t make it through the winter – I’ll never know. But I kinda missed him, just the same.

    Over the years since, other interests, relationships, jobs and life in general have frequently interfered with my pursuit of finned quarry. Despite that, I still retain my love of fishing and a deep awe and respect for nature. Less than two years ago, my father – my mentor, my best friend, my fishing companion – passed away after a prolonged, debilitating illness. After his burial in Haverhill, Iowa, I flew back to Tulsa and stayed for a few days before traveling back to my wife and step-children in Tennessee. Much of my time in Tulsa I spent fishing. On the last day I was there, I sat on the east bank of the Arkansas River, rod in hand and caught carp…and cried…and watched a beautiful sunset. Each fish I caught seemed to make the huge gulf thrust between us a little smaller. The same is true today, with every fish I catch, I feel like my dad is right there beside me, smiling and holding his old Zebco 33.

    When I look back on it now, from 30 years hence, I can see that my contest with The Carp taught me many useful fishing skills. More importantly, it re-enforced, in a small and subtle way, many of the values that my father sought to instill in me from my earliest youth. Like setting a goal and sticking to it. Or using research and ingenuity to solve problems. Maybe even the importance of fair play and doing things the right way instead of the easy way. On the other hand, perhaps I am making far too much out of an insignificant event that is, after all, just a fish story. Maybe I was just a nerdy kid wasting his time chasing after a garbage fish. But then again, if it is the summation of all the little experiences and lessons in our lives that make us who we are…perhaps a little carp can be good for the soul.

    For Dad and for my new fishing buddies Michelle, Christopher and Sarah; Julie, Jessica and Josh. Thank you for all you have brought to my life.

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