By David West Beale

March ‘23
Wels catfish and me have never been a thing. I know next to nothing about cats and until this morning I’d never fished for them intentionally. Intentionally – there’s the thing. If you happen across one by accident (and I have, twice), then there’s only one way it’s likely to end up.

The first time, I was about twelve or thirteen, and got spooled after a two hundred yard run while fishing for gravel pit tench. The second time, a couple of years ago at a canal marina, I had to run up the towpath to avoid being spooled. Happily my perch lure eventually pinged free and I got to keep my line.

Now, this morning, I’m sitting in my car, heater on full blast, windows steamed up, rain beating against the metal and glass. I’m trying to process what’s just happened and my hands are still trembling. I can’t shake a feeling of disbelief, but sometimes, just sometimes, when you make a plan it actually comes off.

I’d intended, in a vague kind of way, to try for a catfish for The Big Lerf Winter League, and thought to leave it as late in the competition as possible, hoping the water would become warmer. I’d heard a few days ago that the catfish in this lake are waking up from their long winter slumber and starting to move around. But in truth wels are still sitting in the ‘highly unlikely ’category on my winter species shopping list, along with bitterling and grass carp. So, with the closing days of the competition fast approaching, and with confidence fairly low, I’ve allowed just one three hour session for my attempt to catch a catfish on the lures.

I’ve cobbled together a rig on the heaviest lure rod I own, which at 70g still feels woefully under gunned. I’m fishing 40lb braid through to a 25lb fluoro trace with an unfixed 31g weight. Hook is a catfish 1/0 with one red XL Marukyu isome hair rigged on, and one threaded straight onto the hook. A split shot is crimped on to my leader about 250mm above the hook, so while the weight is well anchored, a small amount of free play is allowed in the rig between the hook and the weight. This rig allows me to tighten down against it and stay in contact with the lure, and given the size of even a small catfish, any movement of the lure should register pretty quickly on the rod tip as the line is free to slip through the free running weight.

I’m figuring that the cats aren’t lively enough yet to be chasing lures around, and there are no signs of cruising fish, so my plan is to forensically cover as much of the small lake as possible, casting and recasting, searching the water but leaving the lure on the lake bed for a few minutes in each spot, in the hope that it will get hoovered up from the lake bed by a foraging cat. After waiting for a few minutes, a few slow turns of the reel will trundle the lure back towards me, with the heavy weight dragging the lake bed and sending up puffs of silt. Enough of a flag I hope to attract some interest.

This all sounds great in theory, but to be honest I have no real idea what a take from a catfish will feel like. Casting to a small island in the middle of the lake, I’m leaving the lure static and fairly quickly begin to feel small plucks on the rod tip. I know that the lake has a good head of roach, stocked as ‘fodder’ fish for the cats, and in my mind’s eye imagine roach nipping at the ends of the Isome. This is good news as I’m hoping that the roach may attract the attention of any cats nearby, but after some minutes all goes quiet and for some reason this spot just doesn’t feel like it will produce. The lake is small – about half an acre, fringed with reeds, and except for the small central island, is fairly featureless. I try every spot, against the reeds, against the island, looking for any deeper water or drop off that could hold a cat.

The wind is getting up and the water is becoming more ruffled. The smooth water in the lee of the island’s wind shadow seems to be calling to me so I move around the lake and put a cast out about half way across. As I tighten down against the weight the rod tip begins to tremble and knock – just like the roach bites before, but this time they continue for a few seconds, so I lift and pull into solid weight that moves off instantly. For a few seconds I’m thinking I’m connected to one of the few big carp in the lake, but then huge thumping head shakes tell otherwise, the fish wakes up and an epic tug of war begins.

Several times the fish runs into the middle of the lake then right back at me, tearing along tight to the near bank under my feet. It’s a weird experience playing a fish this powerful that can swim as easily in reverse as it can forwards. My arms feel like they are on fire, and despite 30lbs of drag on my baitcaster, it’s a good ten minutes before I even see my leader. But eventually the radius of circling runs becomes smaller, I start to see my leader and occasionally a long sinuous tail. I can also see huge dark shapes ghosting my fish – bigger cats than I care to think about, following the action with interest.

I’m winning the fight now and just praying the hook will hold. I prayed earlier that if I was lucky enough to hook a catfish it would be one of the smaller ones in the lake, and as I net my fish I’m guessing it’s a mid double. On the mat it’s docile enough, the hook slips free without fuss, a few quick photos and back in the water to rest in the margin while I get my scales. At thirteen and a half pounds it’s the only fish I weighed for the competition (except for a particularly chunky bullhead), but it seemed rude not to.

Reflecting back on all of this later I am surprised at just how subtle the take was, and wonder whether the other bites I believed to be roach may have been catfish too. I think luck was on my side today and I’m dead chuffed to have caught my first cat, particularly on the lures. But then again, in fishing, as with many things, I think that you make your own luck, and I’m looking forward now to the warmer months when the catfish will be more active and up for chasing a moving lure.