Our First Catfish from the Saône

It had only been a week since our first trip to the Saône in search of catfish (July 2004). Slava was eager to return, but I couldn’t – I was invited to a birthday party.

A phone call in the middle of the night: Slava joyfully announced he had already caught one, about a meter long. I was frustrated – Slava was catching catfish while I was stuck here.

Another call: 1.60 meters long, weighing around 25 kg. I was completely devastated.

A week later, Sergej, Vitali (my namesake), and I set out full of anticipation and hope for a successful fishing trip to the Saône.

We arrived soon after and quickly set up rods for catching bream, mixed the groundbait, and cast our feeders into the river. We desperately needed baitfish, and darkness was approaching. While Sergej waited for the bream, Vitali inflated the inflatable boat, and I prepared the catfish rods and the rest of the equipment. For both Sergej and Vitali, this was their first time here. Sergej was a beginner, and Vitali came along just for the company. No wonder they started grumbling loudly after an hour without a single bite: “We came all this way, and there’s nothing happening here!”

I calmed them down and explained that during our last trip, we caught the first bream only at one o’clock in the morning.

I was saved by the sound of the bell ringing, followed shortly by the first bream. Soon we caught another one, and then another. We had our baitfish – it was time to head out. I decided not to struggle with buoys and instead tied a breakaway line to the branches hanging over the water on the opposite shore (a “breakaway rig”) – right where the catfish often splashed. I explained to Vitali how to set the drag and so on.

Sergej and I paddled across (or rather, he paddled) with two baitfish in a bucket and a flashlight. I held the line loop that unspooled from the reel onshore. We found the first suitable bush, tied four meters of thin monofilament to it, and attached the end to a snap hook on a homemade catfish float. We then baited the hook, passed the loop of the catfish leader through the snap hook beneath the float, and set it up. Sounds complicated? Try doing that in a boat spinning in the current, in the dark!

We set up a second rig in the same way and soon returned to shore. I tightened the reel drags (or so I thought) and hung the bells. Just as I was about to check the bream rods, I heard a loud splash on the opposite shore, followed by my bell ringing. A moment later, I set the hook with all my strength – to no avail. The catfish hadn’t been hooked, and the float with the baitfish broke away from the bush and drifted downstream. I waited five minutes and reeled in the line. Damn it, back out we went!

Meanwhile, the bream were biting like crazy. After catching several, we leaned back on the riverbank, half-reclined, and waited for the catfish. The bream rested, and we started to doze off.

Suddenly, the bell rang loudly right next to us! My catfish rod bent as if it were about to snap. Seconds later, I grabbed it and tried to pull it from the holder. I managed – and felt incredible power on the other end! One jerk, and I slid across the ground like I was on skis. A bit more, and I would’ve been pulled into the water!

I held onto the rod and reeled frantically. No, it couldn’t be... The catfish was gone!

I sat down, my head in my hands. The guys stared at me in silence – just as shocked. Sergej had to paddle again while I fiddled with the branches, the thin breakaway line, and the baitfish. We returned to shore, refreshed the bait on our rods, and waited.

Then a shrill ringing – this time on Sergej’s rod!

Sergej reacted slowly... The rod swayed, jerked – a strong pull, and Sergej struck with all his might!

“I got him!” he yelled, falling to his knees and bracing the rod handle against his stomach.

“Vitali, help me reel in the other rods!” I shouted frantically. I looked at Sergej – he was struggling to hold the catfish rod! We reeled everything in quickly. Meanwhile, Sergej was steadily bringing his opponent to shore.

I stripped down to my underwear and declared I didn’t care – I’d jump in. The riverbank was steep, about 60 cm high, and dropped to 1.5 meters deep. The urge to jump into the darkness with the catfish quickly vanished. I shone the flashlight on the line – the catfish was close.

And then he surfaced – not huge, but beautiful! I grabbed the leader, slid my thumb into his mouth, and gripped his lower jaw with my fingers. A second later, he was on the shore.

A triumphant victory cry echoed through France! There he was – our first catfish from the Saône!

1.10 meters! Hooray! The joy was indescribable.

We began recalling everything that had happened and laughing about how I had prepared myself to dive into the water. Then silence returned—everyone was exhausted and wanted to sleep. Sergej soon started snoring, while my namesake and I sat by the faint fire, chatting about trivial things. Dawn began to break. The catfish splashed here and there under the bushes, and mist rose above the water.  

My baitfish became restless; the rod quivered as if electrified. I stared at the float on the opposite shore, waiting... Suddenly, I saw my baitfish launched into the air, flipping in a somersault, followed by a massive wave and a loud splash—and then came that painfully familiar ringing sound.  

Can you imagine how I felt as I once again reeled in the half-dead baitfish to shore? That was him—the massive catfish that had dragged me across the ground. I was certain of it...

We started packing as soon as daylight broke. When we pulled out the tethered catfish, I noticed marks from small teeth along its flank, about 40 centimeters wide. Now we understood why Sergej had struggled so much to hold the rod—he had two catfish on the line at once! A larger catfish had grabbed the smaller one during the fight.

Yes, such wonders only happen in fishing!

Farewell, Saône! Farewell, you giant catfish—I know where you live now! Until next time!

Vitali Dalke, August 2004