THE POACHER

I have often come across youngsters from the nearby rural settlements fishing as best they can with pretty rudimentary tackle. On occasions I have stood and watched for awhile – with the deftness of an Olympic hammer thrower, they twirled and flung their hook with no concern for stealth or delicate presentation, upstream, downstream, across-stream, midstream, strip-drift-strip. Each cast with its sinker of rolled wire, landed like a smart bomb over its target. They used hand-lines of heavy nylon wound onto a stick and with hooks better suited to tiger fishing in the Zambezi, than small trout in tiny streams. Their bait, any unsuspecting insect or wormy creature that crossed their path. Their success was about as likely as winning the lottery, except for one occasion when a youngster proudly showed me his catch, a brown trout of about 2 1/2 pounds.

Whenever they asked to see our flies they were wide-eyed and clearly not convinced. The thinness of the tippets were met with the exclamation, “eish!”, meaning more or less in this case, ‘what the hell’. The limit of their fishing was never beyond the boundary between the tribal land and the protected Wilderness Reserve.

Then, a couple of years ago, I came across a man from the rural community fishing nearly three hours upstream from the nearest settlement. My initial reaction was annoyance and resentment.  Here was a ‘poacher’ in a proclaimed World Heritage Site, fishing waters that I had paid my dues for just to be able to follow my passion for hunting wild trout.

Eventually something inside of me said, ‘go and talk to him’. With our respective language barriers we struck up an awkward conversation that necessitated a lot of hand gesticulation. It worked and I eventually established that he was fishing for a meal for his family – out of the tattered canvas shoulder bag he produced a single small 10 inch rainbow with the comment in isiZulu, “things are hard”. Understanding his situation, plucked at my heart-strings.

We shared a long run, me with my Sage 1wt and a #16 CdC and Elk and he with a hand line and three flying ants threaded onto a #6 or bigger hook. He caught naught, I got 5 – I gave them to him together with the leftovers of my lunch – it felt like the right thing to do.  He received the fish, energy bar, cheese and biscuits, in traditional fashion with cupped hands and a simple meaningful comment, ‘siyabonga’ , thank you. His wide farewell smile said it all as he left on his long walk home – he bid me, ‘sala kahle’, stay well. I responded ‘hamba kahle’, go well. It left me with a good feeling and there were still at least, another 10 trout in the run.

Note to myself …….. Don’t be too quick to judge without taking the time to find out the other persons circumstances, be understanding, tolerant and accepting – kindness doesn’t hurt. So it is with our lives… Those who want to live meaningfully and well must help enrich the lives of others, for the welfare of each is bound up with the welfare of all.
The fact is, none of us truly wins, until we all win.

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PEOPLE OF THE BERG

As much as I enjoy photography, it’s a pain in the fundamental orifice to sort through thousands of images some dating back 30 years or more – digitally scanned files of old 35mm slides from my backpacking years in the Drakensberg Mountains to those taken more recently on new age digital cameras.  Deleting duplicates and the less than perfect shots, getting rid of others where there appears to be no apparent reason why they were taken in the first place. Clearing storage space, labelling, cataloguing and backing up onto new external hard drives. It’s hard work and time-consuming, but it also draws attention to groups of images that have a story to tell on their own and that you perhaps hadn’t thought of before.

Where am I going with this?

What I discovered were many images of the local people in their rural settlements in the foothills of the Berg. Looking back every hiking trip took us through these picturesque and truly African places. We even got to know some of the characters and families along the paths we followed more frequently – we were always greeted warmly like long-lost friends each time we passed their way. They are poor, living, in some cases, a meger subsistence existance with little or no services or basic facilities, far from roads, transport and communications, yet they are humble, friendly and always showed a genuine interest in us. The children, when we were spotted, would run barefoot from what seemed like miles away with their familiar cry for “sweeeeets”. Our handouts, were welcomed with wide grins that said it all.  Sometimes they’ed join us as we walked, continuously asking questions and laughing infectiously at our responses.

I recall especially the last day of our hikes in the Mnweni area – usually on a Sunday We’d plan to be in these areas in the late afternoon to make the most of the soft, warm light for photography, and, subconciously wanting to stretch our time in the Berg for as long as possible. Sunday’s were always a time when the people would drink their homemade brew in small happy groups around their kraals, sing, beat drums and call to each other from hilltop to hilltop and through the valleys added to by the sounds of cattle and goats being herded back to shelter for the night. It was a remarkable experience, and still is, that gives me goose-bumps remembering those late afternoons, it was Africaness at its finest – if there is such a word?

So, to answer my earlier question, this post is a celebration of the rural settlements in the foothills of the Drakensberg Mountains, of the local people I have crossed paths with on my backpacking and fly fishing trips into the Drakensberg – my life has been enriched by it.

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All images and copy in this post are copyright Peter Brigg © 2018. All rights reserved

 

 

EARLY SHIFT

3.15 am. I couldn’t sleep so I slipped quietly through to the kitchen, closed the inter-leading door so as not to disturb the slumbering family, poured myself a cup of strong black coffee, fired up the laptop in the breakfast nook and pondered the talk I was to give at FOSAF’s National AGM in a few days.

I’m never entirely comfortable standing in front of a group of people perhaps expecting some perceptive or insightful revelation. Something that seldom materialises and it’s usually much of the same old thing just couched in different terms or the emphasis shifted onto other elements of it. However, what it always forces me to do in preparation is to delve a little deeper into why for many of us fly fishing has become such an obsessive-compulsive disorder. I do think that we all relate to the freedom, truth and honesty of it and the approach we choose … I have a passion for trout, cold water and a love of all green things, its full of light and probabilities.

https://www.facebook.com/VagabondFly/videos/vb.421790127967639/1829216790558292/?type=2&theater – Credit to Pieter Taljaard and Vagabond Fly.

There are days when you fish well to the point when you may actually believe you are in your prime, nearing the pinnacle of your competence. And, then there are those days when, inexplicably, you have an off day and it all comes crashing down; you stumble and slip, your timing is off, your presentations are poor and your fly finds every branch and tuft of grass in range. What I have learnt is that this has a lot to do with losing concentration and focus and with it the accuracy of your cast and the quality of the drift.

I see fly fishing as an arcane business that is about equal parts science and poetry. I have the habit of leaning towards the side of the poetry, some may say, the soppy stuff – the soulful and contemplative, the joy it brings, the excitement and adventure, friendships and memories – like the soft light at dusk, the rise of a trout and just the sounds of water over stones – I’m no longer haunted by exotic destinations, my wanderings now lead me to the mountain streams I love, to the wildness of high altitude places.

The technical side is filled with myriad of detail strung together in a specific order that over time with repetition will eventually wear neural pathways; it becomes instinct, second nature. But, all I have ever hoped for was simple competence – only now after all these years, do I feel that I’m just about there, but who knows?

Then there is the matter of scaling down of being free and uncluttered. I have come full circle from those early days when I carried a rod, reel, tobacco tin with a handful of flies, to having a chronic back ache from a fully loaded 22-pocket fly vest and being a sucker for every item of “have to have” paraphernalia, to now a small belt pack with just the essentials. Being lean and mean there is less fussing with stuff and clarity of intent is no longer clouded with needless gear.

“I have been fly fishing for over 40 years now and even if I’m not the best wader, caster, fish spotter or fly tyer, I’ve learned to work well within my limitations, like a 3 legged dog that can still go for a nice long walk. The effect is cumulative. You naturally bring everything you know to every day of fishing, and the more days you have under your belt, the more you bring. If nothing else the fly rod that once seemed so strange and awkward, will now be thoughtfully familiar and the push of the current against your legs and the slippery, uneven bottom no longer surprising.”  John Geirach, A Fly Rod of My Own.

6. 00 am. Three cups of coffee, half a dozen paragraphs and I don’t know if I’m anywhere nearer the truth, but I did have the bones of my talk.

All images and copy in this post are copyright Peter Brigg © 2018. All rights reserved

 

WILD TROUT COUNTRY UNDERWATER.

^{Rhodes in the NE Cape is a long drive, from anywhere, if you go there you want to be there. Quinten Austin, his son Cuan and I left from Kloof at 7am stopping in Kokstad for the traditional Wimpy breakfast and at Mt Fletcher for a fuel top-up. The kilometres passed quickly. To avoid white line fever our conversation drifted towards fishy matters, experiences, exaggerations of trout caught and lost within the limits of believability, we even managed to come up with solutions for a few of the worlds pressing problems – the excitement and anticipation of being in wild trout country was palpable. It was Cuan’s first visit to the NE Cape, he was like a kid about to be let lose in a candy store.}

^{By the time we turned off onto the dirt road between Mt Fletcher and Maclear to take the Pitseng Pass short-cut, it had begun to rain heavily – the wipers lashed sheets of water, we slipped, slid, eased our way through washaways, bumped and ground our way to Vrederus and then up over Naude’s Pass at 2587m. The temperature dropped, the wind gusted strongly, a misty drizzle enveloped us as we drank a dram to celebrate our arrival at the top of the pass.}

^{Naude’s Pass on the Rhodes side was drier, but with overnight rain the upper Bell River had burst its banks. By the time we had settled into our accommodation in Rhodes, downed a few cold ones, the rain had started again. The river as it flowed silt laden through town was bank to bank, like a tongue of dark chocolate it rushed downstream towards its meeting with the Sterkspruit River at Moshesh’s Ford to form the mighty Kraai River – like all the rivers in the district, it was in flood – it was becoming tough to hold onto optimism.}

^{The annual Epson Wild Trout Festival is a social affair as much as it is about the fishing and as more participants arrived in muddied vehicles, the party got underway at Walkabouts, the recognised Centre of the Universe.}

Walkerbouts (the Centre of the Universe) and breakfast by candlelight courtesy of Eishkom.

 

 

 

^{We awoke the next morning to clearing skies, but halfway through the tackle fair the sky darkened with ominous looking clouds pushing in from the West. The afternoon was spent exploring the district to assess the possibilities for fishing. Trees were down, low-level causeways impassable, bridges were log jammed – it wasn’t encouraging.  The rain started again in the evening and continued thoughout most of the night, intensifying and bucketing down the following morning. It rained for most of the day – beers flowed,  a couple of impromptu presentations and fly tying demonstrations helped to pass the time.}

 

 

 

^{Then the rain stopped. Morning brought hope once again as skies cleared and groups left for allocated beats on the upper reaches of the Bell, Bokspruit and Rifle.  Conditions were challenging, wading was risky, crossing was life threatening, the trout were hunkered down in undercut banks, eddies and under rocks as tons of water rushed above them on its way to the Atlantic ocean on the West Coast. Surprisingly, reports filtered in of trout caught, most involving not casting, but  a technique foreign to me that I coined, “the Vaal lob” of weighted rigs with large tungsten beads and split shot, sometimes two, the size of your average garden pea. My size 14 and 16 nymphs with 3 and 3,5 mm tungsten beads and 6 to 8 turns of lead, floated like skated dry flies on the rushing water – I thought I was prepared. Before each cast I searched the bottom with my feet to wedge my boots in between rocks to anchor myself. I did eventually manage to tempt a few hungry, unsuspecting trout out of their sheltered lies. There were even a couple of decent 20 inch fish caught high up on the Bell. I was reminded of a bumper sticker I had once seen, Any day above ground is a good one, and a bad day fishing is better than a good day.}

Extreme fly fishing, log jams, rush hour traffic with a difference, pristine high altitude streams and wild trout

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

^{The last day was the most rewarding as levels dropped quickly and the water began to clear. Ken Quick, a great fishing buddy and all-round good guy and I, had a peach of a day on a special high altitude stream, Glen Nesbitt, a small tributary that joins the Bokspruit just upstream of the house at Bothwell. Snaking its way through a deep valley among weathered sandstone outcrops, beneath willows and through pebbled runs, It has a steep gradient and plenty of pocket water, riffles, plunges and deeper pools.  We took a mess of brightly coloured, plump and spirited rainbows from 8 to 16 inches all on dry flies. A fitting end to an enjoyable and memorable few days shared with friends in a landscape that oozes trout and fly fishing – South Africa’s wild trout country, a slice of heaven on earth.}

Wading boot graveyard – Walkerbouts

^{Thanks must go to all involved in organising the event, Dave Walker and his team of helpers at Walkabouts, the guides, old friends and new, riparian owners, the weather Gods and the trout – see you again next year.}

All images and copy in this post are copyright Peter Brigg © 2018. All rights reserved

 

Interview – Feathers and Fuoro

Early in 2015 Leonard Flemming asked for an interview for his superb blog,  Feathers and Fluoro. I had forgotten about the post until it popped up on my Facebook page this morning as a memory of 3 years ago. So I don’t lose sight of it again, and as I don’t share historical memories on Facebook preferring to move on to making new ones, I have recorded the link in my blog for the record.

The day we fished the Bushmans together it was also the day I was introduced to Leonard’s Wolf Spider – an exceptional searching pattern. Using his as the foundation I developed my own easy to tie variation very simply because I couldn’t manage his intricate pattern with my less than nimble digits.  Mine too has become a master of fraud, now used by many flyfishers – it has been the downfall of countless innocent, unsuspecting trout. – thank you again for the post on your site Leonard and for introducing me to the Wolf Spider. It’s time that we shared a stream again.

http://feathersandfluoro.com/peter-brigg-profile-a-south-african-fly-fishing-artist/

Leonard brings another Bushmans brownie to the net

 

PHOTOGRAPHY

A photograph fully expresses what one feels, capturing a moment that’s gone forever, impossible to reproduce.

Photography has been an interest of mine from an early age. It started as a teenager in the B&W era and my own darkroom, progressing to full colour film and 35mm slides to the current rapidly developing digital world – from box cameras to DSLR’s – Kodak, Voigtlander, Minolta, Pentax, Nikon and Canon.

Landscapes in particular have dominated that interest, a symbiotic relationship with other interests in mountains and fly fishing high altitude streams. A visual art, creative expression, capturing light and mood – moments in time. These interests have taken me to places of exceptional natural beauty, wild places, places as pretty as you will find anywhere.

Here is a small selection of some of my favourite photographs.

All images and copy in this post are copyright Peter Brigg © 2018. All rights reserved

 

MOUNTAINS, STREAMS AND THE BIG BROWN.

It’s impossible to abandon the need that exists in me for the raw wildness of the mountains, the high country, cascading streams that haunt and soothe, and their mercurial trout. I’m absorbed by these places, where solitude is rich, you can sense the pulse of life.

I like to fish alone, not always, just occasionally. There is a stream in the southern Drakensberg that I try and fish a couple of times each season, mostly spending a few nights camping with a couple of fishing buddies. But occasionally, I roll out of bed long before the sparrows make an appearance and spend a long day on my own.

The Mkhomazi is nestled in a beautiful, wide valley in the foothills of the Drakensberg below Southern Africa’s highest peak Thabana Ntlenyana, (11,424ft) just across the border in Lesotho. It is a challenging stream with a fairly sparse population of brown trout. They can be picky – often. I have had more blank days here than any of the other Berg streams.

Recently, I made the long and winding trip, leaving home in the dark with a 3-hour or more, drive ahead of me depending on the condition of the 70 odd km of dirt road. It wasn’t until I crossed the bridge over the Inzinga that the first signs of light began to tinge the eastern horizon. Out to the west the sky is pulled down tight over the worn, dark ridges of the great Drakensberg escarpment, rising ghost-like out of the misty lowlands and deep valleys. But, by the time I’d parked at the low-level causeway on the reserve road, ominous and threatening blue, black clouds had spread across the high peaks.

There was now an urgency to get onto the water, to stalk a large trout I’d seen on my visit at the close of last season. It was in a long shallow run about 500 meters upstream – hopefully he was still there, hard against the bank in the shadow of the overhanging tussock grasses. Trout appear and disappear, affirming the wild rhythms of possibility and tendency rather than certainty. They don’t disappear as much as fade, dissolve and then unannounced reappear at will – shadows of motion and colour.

In the run above the bridge I had a small brown come up and nose the hopper. On the next cast less circumspect, duped by the fraudulent alluring fly, he boldly sipped it in. A plump, 12 inches, as pretty as they get – it felt like a good omen. But, for the next hour with one eye on the approaching weather, all went quiet. Then, just below the ‘big brown’ run in a deep pool of light and shadow, littered with large ash-grey boulders, I was surprised by a solid, 18-inch trout that was tempted by the weighted #16 nymph hanging below a bushy CDC and Elk. He was strong and fought hard for freedom, but lost. I held him for a moment to admire the beauty, then with a flick of his tail he was gone, back into the shadows of the pool again.

The weather was changing fast, squall after squall swept across the escarpment, I could feel the cold wind against my face, rain was coming. It was time to move upstream. I reached the knee-deep run, its pale green waters flowed steadily, the bottom strewn with stones, the surface riffled by the wind. A deeper channel and current seam hugged the right bank below the overhanging tussock grasses. Keeping low, I moved cautiously, wading slowly hard up against the left bank, searching. A shadow moved just off the current seam, was it the ‘big brown’? I’d changed back to the hopper. The first cast was off to the left, the next the same – I was rushing, a deep breath and the third cast landed perfectly, I saw the shadow move again as the fly drifted past, but nothing. The weather was almost overhead, thunder and lightning were all around – too close for comfort. Just a few more casts and I needed to get back to the protection of the vehicle.

Then for the third time I saw the shadow against the bank a second before he rose to the fly.  I clumsily struck, i felt the weight and pulse of life in the cork, a momentary pirouette as it broke the surface. He turned and made a dash downstream. I followed, but he had wrapped the light 6x tippet around roots in the undercut and was gone. I don’t know if it was the ‘big brown’ – it was a really good fish.

For a stream that has on occasion produced just two or three fish for three anglers over two days including a few blanks, this was a good day on the Mkhomazi, all in the space of a few hours.

It was time to go. I reached the car soaked to the skin. There was little chance of the rain easing up soon. So, after a slow, slippery drive back along the gravel section, a stop for a legendary pie (I like the pepper steak) and coffee at the Windmill Ultra Stop outside Notties, I was back home by late afternoon.

I will return to the high country, to the sparkling streams and their trout – and, for another try at the ‘Big Brown’.

All images and copy in this post are copyright Peter Brigg © 2018. All rights reserved