Not every fishing post on this blog is strictly about Tenkara fishing. Sometimes, other random thoughts pop into my head that I just need to get off my chest. Occasionally, these thoughts are so ridiculous that it feels almost shameful to even mention them. But as a beginner blogger, I take a deep breath and get it off my chest anyway. Because the internet is like nature itself: sometimes a little random stuff is bound to be found. And that’s exactly why I created a section called “Random Stuff.”
So today, I thought I’d recall one of the dumbest lure losses I’ve ever experienced in my life.
Of course, there have been other losses—many, in fact—but the dumb ones are wished to forget fast. Some of those forgotten incidents could very well have been even worse. But this particular moment came back to me in early February this year, when I decided to try fishing with a spinning rod for a change, and instead of catching anything, I ended up losing not one, but two good lures. Given the poor winter conditions, which left rivers cluttered with debris, I blamed the losses on the frozen, messy rivers. I left one lure at the riverbed while walking away from my car, and the other right beside it on the way back to my car. That was silly, too, but that’s not the story I want to tell.
Although I fish on many different rivers, my dumbest lure loss ever happened on my home river—or rather, beside it.
It happened one autumn. That day, the bite was exceptionally poor—or, more accurately, nonexistent. Like trying to fish in a poisoned well. I had been conjuring at the riverbank for three hours without a single touch. Unlike city anglers, who often need a long drive to reach a trout river, I had every convenience for a quick fishing session. Normally, such comforts make me lose patience with a dead river within an hour and a half or two.
Yet that day, I was unusually persistent—I actively changed lures, adjusted my retrieval speed and technique, crept more cautiously, and moved to different spots over a five-kilometer stretch, driving from one location to another. Nothing. The fish simply didn’t bite. I started suspecting UFOs, chemical pollution, or even the evil eye of the old village hag. Everything seemed right—the weather was good (bad, that is), the gear top-notch, and even I was reasonably competent—but still, no fish.
After three hours of self-deception, I finally reached my limit. Enough! I cast about ten more times, promising myself, “This is the last cast!” Even that secret trick didn’t tempt a trout to bite. So I reeled in, and with my boots full of rainwater, started to trudge home in a foul mood. I didn’t pack up the spinning rod yet because … just in case.
Walking toward my car across the meadow, I reached a small river oxbow lake turned pond, situated some fifty meters (about 55 yards) away from the river. The pond was deep and full of water year-round, though it had long lost its connection to the river. Its far side was lined with thick alder bushes. In the water, I saw no obstacles.
Passing the pond, I watched the lure dangling at the end of my line. It was a Mepps spinner—a cheap lure monetarily, but invaluable in results. It had saved my day more than once.
This fine lure I now decided to cast toward the pond while walking past it. Though there were no fish due to the lack of river connection, there were no fish in the river either! A compulsory movement, born from habit and frustration from the day I made a spontaneous cast into the pond, carefully avoiding the alder branches.
The lure flew perfectly, without touching the branches, landing right in the center of the pond. But as it reached the water’s surface, there was a sudden dull thunk, and the running line came to an abrupt stop. At the spot where the lure was supposed to fall, only a few gentle ripples appeared. Looking closer to see what had happened, I couldn’t believe it—a tiny, dried stick, only pencil-thick, barely visible, and blackened by the water, poked out by just a couple of centimeters (about an inch)—and my lure had landed right on it!
Well, what can you do! Over the years, I’d freed plenty of lures from branches. So it was looking like time for yet another rescue operation. This one seemed, thankfully, straightforward. I tried gently at first, but it quickly became clear the lure wasn’t coming loose that easily. I muttered under my breath. Damn little twig—completely waterlogged and thin, yet so stubborn! And how the hell is it even possible for a lure to land in open water on the tip of such a tiny twig—and get stuck so firmly!?
As I got closer, I could see the lure’s treble hook had actually pierced right into the tip of the twig. “Alright, no problem. I’ll just go around to the opposite bank of the pond and pull it out from behind,” I thought, trying to control the rising rage in my heart. In about ninety percent of cases, pulling from behind had freed my lures—whether from branches or rocks. But why, oh why had I made that pointless cast? Now, after finally deciding to call it a day, I’d made things even harder for myself!
Muttering curses under my breath, I made my way around the pond, letting out and reeling in the line again as I went, until I reached the thicket on the opposite bank. The pond was maybe some 30 meters (or yards) across, and it took me nearly ten minutes to fight my way through, passing the rod from one hand to the other around alder trunks, bird-cherry bushes, and tangles of hop vines—all while clinging to slanted trees to avoid falling into the water.
Finally, I reached the spot where the lure should have come free with a good pull and gave the line a sharp tug. Nothing happened. I tried again, harder this time, jerking repeatedly. Still nothing. The swearing now started to get considerably louder.
I pushed through the brush again with growing irritation, passing the rod from hand to hand around trees and giving the line increasingly forceful tugs. Nothing changed—the lure was stuck as if nailed in place. My cursing grew louder, and when I finally made it out of the thicket again, I tried wading in to free the lure by hand. The water, however, deepened quickly, and since I didn’t have waders, I stopped. That plan clearly wasn’t going to work. I wasn’t keen on stripping down either—the air was cold, my temper was running hot, and the pond was no doubt crawling with leeches and other intimidating creatures. So that idea was abandoned.
It was now clear that I wasn’t going to get that lure back easily. Still, I wasn’t ready to give up on it either. As long as there was a connection by the line, the lure wasn’t truly lost! So I tried one more trick—using a “bow and arrow” technique to shoot the lure free, a method that had saved many lures from rocks and snags before. I kept shooting, but nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Bit by bit, my patience was wearing thin. Though I still had contact through the line, it was obvious I couldn’t just leave the lure there. After another fifteen minutes of frustrated circling around the swamp, tugging, and swearing out loud, I finally turned my back to spare my eyes, pulled the line tight under my arm, and with a sharp snap, my connection to the lure was ended.
When I turned around, the lure was no longer hanging on the twig.
“Fuck it all!” I thought to myself, marching away from the pond. It stung more than I cared to admit—especially since it had all started with a completely spontaneous cast.
So that, folks, was the dumbest lure loss of my life. If anyone has an equally ridiculous story, take heart and share it in the comments for everybody to enjoy!