Storyteller...

*Hello, All!* F. SARAFANOV. IN THE DUISK OF AUTUMN Newspaper "FISHERMAN FISHERMAN" No. 23 2001 Hello fishing friends! Greetings from the distant Urals, from Staroutkinsk (patrimony of the Demidovs) from Fedor Sarafanov, an amateur fisherman, 72 years old. My entire adult life is connected with the forest, I am partial to any program about the life of nature, and even more so about fishing. Now it's winter, only memories. Often, half asleep, I wander to my places cherished, helping themselves with a stick through the ridges of Mount Sabik to the Daria River their own paths. Early in the morning, the fences and swathes are covered with white boils meadowsweet. Honey smell, aroma visibly lingers in the air with vapors fog, densely filling the lowlands of the meadows. It's so thick that you can feel it hands, face, eyebrows, eyelashes drizzling. From the spice of wild rosemary it rings. Here is my Daria. Hello! She nods to me with branches over the water, joyfully silvery in the ripples of the rifts, coos in the changes of the pebbles. I hang the sawdust on the branches of the Christmas tree, I have dozens of them along the river over the years, Every outing now lasting 10-12 hours is a joy for me. I'm hastily preparing for fishing, tea later. We'll have breakfast later. Jay - fish offal, I - seagull green under lightly salted kharyuzka. Recipe: gut, rub with salt, add nettles, wrap in salted canvas, roll it up and under the flap of the backpack, in a couple of hours it’s ready. Forlover add meadow mint with nettles. You will swallow your tongue. Our Kharyuz are generally not large, but very small, if pulled out without damaging them, I'm sending you to grow up. I fish with a float rod with a sliding sinker and olive float. This makes it possible to easily maneuver in drag fishing bottom or, conversely, in a pull on the rapids, exciting him as if leaving bait. The reserves of kharyuz are becoming scarcer due to summer droughts; before they have time to roll down, in the remaining basins it eats its own young. As a result, turn to there is no place for spawning, and the swamps have died out after logging and during summer floods rot comes from them, and we have swamps on the watershed mountains. Time is fleeting, you wander in the autumn twilight, stumbling over roots. C Sabika shines with light. Fresh, cool. The air is transparent, through the thinned peaks trees, the Urals lights up with pink light. Quiet. It's felt in everything wariness of changing time. Winter is coming. Frozen rags crunch underfoot. But... I hear music. I am fascinated and in a moment I feel with my whole body the wildness of this overtures. With a howl of hopelessness, the voices of the young are cut through by treble. Wolves! Family, whole choir. The legs have grown. But I’m gradually starting to feel like a master. He inhaled, and “Hey - hey - hey!” - echoed along the slope of Sabik. And that's it fell silent, but also seemed to wake up again, breathing life into itself. I walk with caution humming to himself. Yes, this happens too...Sometimes I fill my diary with the events of my family and friends, my past life, I envy the renewal in nature, but I’m already chilled and have a dull silver look... /That’s all, All, you can scroll further.../