THE DARK SIDE

A glimpse into the “Dark Side” – I have over the course of my life been connected with bamboo on 3 separate occasions. It could be said that I have moved in and out of the “dark side’, some of it pleasurable, some that brings back memories of anxiety and the discovery of right from wrong. But, more about that later.

My first association with bamboo was as a whippersnapper at the tender age of 8 years.  I’d already been introduced to trout fishing a couple years earlier by my father and a close family friend Mr. Lake who became my mentor and who managed with minimum effort and stimulating the obsession on my part, to get me hooked on flyfishing. My interest in trout fishing developed as only it can with the urgency and enthusiasm of young boys – infatuation matured into longing, deep and abiding. With it came the yearning and desire – I ached to own my own fly rod to follow the dream, the need to stand in the stream, feel the tug of the cold water and cast a line.  In those days of bamboo and fiberglass, I don’t recall being too fussy which type or make as long as it managed to get a fly onto the water with a little help from myself and depending of course on the generosity of the seniors to take me fishing. The show of enthusiasm did its trick and I was eventually presented with a 3 piece bamboo rod of unknown origins that cast like a noodle of cooked spaghetti. It came neatly laid out in a plywood box, two tip sections and 3 factory tied flies, dyed feathers in gaudy colours, red, yellow and blue and if I recall correctly, tied on # 6’s with barbs like grappling hooks. If you were lucky enough not to scare the fish into the river in the next valley and by chance happened to hook an unfortunate trout there was simply no prospect of escape for the hapless creature unless the 20lb monofilament tippet broke or the knot of the inexperienced hand came apart. Even if it did manage to escape in this way it was certain of a multi-coloured appendage hanging from its lip for its remaining years, probably destined to a life of rejection by its own kind as that ‘punk’ from the pool downstream. Fortunately for the trout, Mr. Lake kept me supplied with popular flies of the day, Invictas, March Browns, Teal and Greens and a few others. However, in fairness I was as proud as punch of the little stick and while it remained intact it did catch its share of trout. I even made my own wooden fly box with cork insert to complete my needs – not what one could call craftsman standards and of debatable family heirloom status, but I was in the zone.  I was happy and so were those around me who relished the change from the yearning kid to one with a grin from ear to ear. But, as young boys will, poking around in streams, the intended longevity of the rod was relatively short. After a few years of use and quite a number of enjoyable moments, with tips glued, wired and bound with bright green electrical insulation tape, it was eventually put out to pasture, backbone broken and never to be used again. My father saw this coming and the day the plywood box was closed for the last time I was presented with a brand new fiberglass fly rod and small Hardy Gem reel. It went on to serve me well and although it has been in retirement now for many years, the greatest result for my parents was that its introduction managed to maintain the grin. And, so I’d moved in and out of the “dark side” for the first time, an enjoyable and memorable experience and one that solidified my obsession for flyfishing.

The second association with bamboo was somewhat less enjoyable, no, far less pleasant with memories that are probably best erased. I suppose though it was with intentions of teaching right from wrong after all other methods had failed. The bamboo in this instance came in lengths of around 3’ 6” and a few weights, heavy, medium and light – they were known to produce a sting that brought the odd tear to the eye. All 3 stood in the corner of the Headmasters office in an old 2^nd World War polished brass cannon shell – implements for metering out punishment to young school boys, a practice now outlawed. I don’t think I’m any the worse off for having been on the receiving end occasionally mostly for unfinished homework – my problem was that there always seemed far more interesting and important things to do, like sneaking off for an afternoons fishing. In fairness, the “darkness” this time related not so much to the bamboo, but the fact that in the midst of the connections between the stick and my gluteus maximus, my head was buried somewhere down around my knees and my eyes squeezed tightly shut as I waited in tense anticipation.

I have recently moved again across the divide and am now firmly entrenched on the “dark side” – a little older and hopefully wiser. This time though there is a grin that threatens to wrap around the back of my head. This is the real deal and in retrospect probably what I have been searching for throughout my fishing life. To accomplish this move, I was aided by one of South Africa’s gifted craftsmen, Stephen Boshoff, who recently presented me with an exquisite hand made bamboo fly rod and a magnificent small stream net, both incorporating indigenous Besembos inserts in the rod’s reel seat filler and in the net handle. Apart for the fact that they are items of beauty, they are practical fishing implements that exude heirloom quality. When the rod was ready Stephen wrote to me stirring the same elating emotion as I experienced when sliding the rod out of its tube for the first time. This is an extract of what he said – “It is based on a Paul Young midge taper, a classic small stream taper, 6’3” for a 3 or 4 weight line, I suggest a 3 as in action it is quite authoritative, but not fast. In style, I tried to interpret what you would like, classic and no frills, something that doesn’t look and feel modern or even new. It’s an “easy” rod …. I thought of making something which you can use during those easy, uncomplicated and “stolen” escapes: where size and number of casts or even nature of the stream doesn’t matter, but just the fact that you can get away and be content and at peace, Forgive me, but it was contemplated as a grand father’s small stream rod, in a positive sense.”

Not only a craftsman, but a judge of character who was able to seamlessly connect the two and make me one happy and grateful fly fisherman – privileged indeed, for me the perfect rod. I’m reminded of the words of Vincent C Marinaro in his book ‘In the Ring of the Rise”, “….. bamboo, being a natural product, like flesh and blood, can establish a greater affinity with its owner than any other material. There can be a powerful bond between them, an identification, that lets the caster feel that the rod is an extension of his own personality.”

To match the beauty of the rod, I chose one of my older reels a JHL Hardy Ultra Light. It’s not the lightest or modern, but it too is quality and I like the traditional look and feel – there is almost a symbiotic relationship. I don’t have a genuine silk line although I thought long and hard about it and I may still go in that direction eventually, but cost and maintenance practicalities convinced me otherwise. I just know that I won’t be lonely on that proverbial cloud nine because there is a growing band of bamboo devotees. As Harry Middleton put it in his delightful book, “The Earth is Enough – growing up in a world of Flyfishing, Trout & Old Men”, “… such a fish demanded, of course, special attention, certain considerations, a method of pursuit as finicky and fastidious as their own behavior. A curious fish insists on a curious form of angling, one heavy with respect, tradition, skill and a challenge. If there was only one fish in our lives, so was there only one way to fish for it – with the fly rod.  And not just any fly rod, but A subtle, willowy, handmade bamboo fly rod, a good line, a trust-worthy reel, tippets as delicate as gossamer, and the smallest dry flies possible.” In the eyes of HM I think I’ve just about got it right.

As I move along this road with ever an increasing fascination, I have been introduced to people like Leonard, Payne, Garrison, Young and others, slowly piecing the puzzle of bamboo speak together, discovering where things like Tonkin cane, culms, nodes, filing, stripping, flaming, staggering, impregnation, finding the spline and spliced joints, fit in. It’s absorbing, addictive; it all rests so easy with the rhythms of the natural world, trout, clear streams, and the kind of things that touch my soul.

I’m now satisfied that unlike my occasional connections in the past with the short bamboo sticks during my school years, the term “dark side”, is simply a metaphor for having returned to fishing with a rod made of natural material, I’m now in a state of euphoria and bliss which I’m probably not going to emerge from in a while, if ever: see you there ………fly fishing through life.

 

 

DOLLY, DIESEL AND CONFIDENCE

APOLOGIES – It has been a while and the old photographs have long disappeared and until I unearth them, if I can, here is the story from the archives …….

TODAY we have a wide range of magnificent thoroughbred SUVs, 4x4s, double cabs and-state-of-the-art offroad vehicles to choose from. They come turbo-charged in special paint finishes, with onboard computers and GPS, standard chrome bullbars and leather finishes, as well as knobs, buttons, lights and dials that wouldn’t be out of place in the cockpit of a fighter jet. They also come with a price tag that is sure to dent the bank balances of even the more affluent amongst us. They do have the credentials to perform off-road, but for the most part I would hesitate to do so and run the risk of adding scratches and dents or even losing a chrome side-mirror to the obstacles along our backroads or in the veld.

Some of these vehicles are used for little more than confirming status, for private school lift clubs and parking under the porte-cochere of the family mansion. But before I am lynched, let me say that I own a very nice double-cab (aka the rescue vehicle for Land Rovers!) and it suits my particular lifestyle. I have even had her referred to as a “wimp wagon” by a well-known personality in the flyfishing fraternity. I say “her” because for some inexplicable reason all vehicles seem to be of the female gender.

Those double-cab owners who have visited his beautiful lake will probably know who I’m referring to. However, he has a point. By comparison to bakkies that work hard seven days a week, mine has a short freeway excursion twice a day with the odd weekend outing into the country. She looks the part but seldom gets to show her real muscle.

Then there are the “fishing trucks” — the ones where it doesn’t matter much if the paintwork is scratched, the side-mirror is taped up to hold it in place and the remains of the insects in the radiator grill are almost fossilised. In fact, this adds to her character and, more than likely, is a reminder of a particular outing that tales are made of.

I have a buddy MK, whose fishing truck is affectionately called “Dolly”. No one can tell you how the name came about, but I suspect she may have been a long lost girlfriend from his misspent youth. It’s a 2.4 diesel, single-cab, off-white (although it may have been white originally), and is fitted with a canopy over the bin. Apart from packing space — and boy, do we flyfishers need it — it has been used for sheltering from the rain, sleeping in, laying out the lunch, and more. The tailgate has even been used as a fly-tying bench on occasions. There is no power-steering or airconditioning — if you are hot, open a window; if you are cold, close it; if the windscreen mists up, open the window; if it’s raining, close it. It is not a 4×4, but has diff-lock and goes most places.

Dolly has a radio/tape system, but the tape has long been out of order. Reminders of better days are the dusty Beatles and Cat Stevens tapes in the cubby-hole. There are the usual speedometer, temperature and fuel gauges, and a few basic push-pull-n-twist knobs and levers for lights, air vents and windscreen wipers. If anything stops working, it can usually be fixed by reattaching the wire that came loose while travelling over the corrugations or by replacing a fuse. There are no mag rims or fat takkies, but she does have good clearance.

Since retirement from her regular job, Dolly doesn’t get to go out everyday, but when she does it is always a special occasion. The outing inevitably starts before dawn and almost always finishes long after dark. In most instances these outings are connected with fishing.

Dolly never fails to splutter and belch a cloud of black smoke on start up, but that soon settles as she warms up and the distinctive diesel motor ticks over. Once on the road, except for infrequent overtaking manoeuvres, she moves at a leisurely pace, seldom exceeding 110km per hour, except with the aid of a tailwind and on a downhill..

She has more than a few squeaks and rattles which are distinctly out of place on the freeways, but turn into more harmonious expletives as she negotiates her way along the rough backroads and through the bush. There is never a chance of falling asleep at the wheel because her ride is hard and every bump is felt through the seat of your pants.

It is not the done thing to ask a lady her age, but at a guess she must be all of 15 years old with some 27 000km on the clock, and I’m assured this is the third time around! If only she could talk she would probably reveal the truth about the many fishing stories that have been told and re-told in the confines of her cab.

By now you will be saying “that sounds like any number of old bakkies around”, and you are probably right. However, what separates her from most others is what you find inside. At last inspection there was a good selection of flies stuck into the dusty vinyl dashboard above the speedometer. There are also spools of tippet — some empty others, half-full — tubs of flotant, bits of bright yarn (I presume for strike indicators) and a few old Flyfishing magazines. There’s even a dog-eared copy of Tom Sutcliffe’s book My Way with a Trout in the cubby-hole, together with a whole lot of other stuff.

I always find the wad of hand-drawn maps and directions to fishing spots interesting. Some are to well-known lakes, others to never-before-fished farm ponds and private river beats. It’s a veritable Pandora’s box, and searching its cavernous depths is much as I would imagine an archaeological dig to be.

Most of what you will find is useful in a fishing sense, except for the odd item like the old cricket ball signed by some cricketer of the past whose name is now too faded to decipher. Even MK is not sure how the cricket ball got there or why, just as he denies any knowledge of the 1993 girlie magazine that can be found lying around somewhere in the cab.

Going fishing in Dolly, for some reason, feels special, a feeling of adventure. It has nothing to do with performance or looks, but rather a romantic notion of the places she has visited, the many wrong turns and where she may be going next.

A trip like this usually starts with a phone call from MK the day before which, in his inimitable, no-nonsense style goes something like this: “Hi, Dolly and I are going fishing tomorrow, you wanna come?” My reply is mostly in the affirmative, to which MK’s stock response is “Pick you up at five — and don’t forget the coffee”. Trip organised!

It’s as if Dolly is one of the party of three — a kind of personal and affectionate relationship kindled through shared experiences on the many trips into the Midlands and Southern Berg. And, for some inexplicable reason, but maybe it’s just a figment of my imagination, I always seem to catch more and better fish on these outings. I would like to add to the many mysteries of trout fishing by suggesting that perhaps on our arrival at the water’s edge, the vibrations of the diesel motor or the distinctive fumes are some unlikely attractant. However, in reality I lean rather towards something less obscure, like one’s state of mind.

As with confidence, I’m convinced that arriving at your fishing destination in the right frame of mind does help. With MK and Dolly I have this association of pleasant thoughts and recollections of a piscatorial nature that have a positive influence on my frame of mind. In other words, I’m into the programme long before we reach our destination, and that’s good. I’m focused and fish the best I can, so maybe it’s not just a figment of my imagination after all!

All images and copy in this post are copyright Peter Brigg Photography © 2015. All rights reserved

THREE SCORE AND TEN

Three score and ten, it’s crept up unnoticed – not really, perhaps I hadn’t thought too much of it until my wife said something about planning a birthday celebration. It means that I’m clearly now closer to the finishing line than when I bolted out of the starting gates in 1948. I’m lucky to have been blessed with good health and a level of natural fitness – he says as he reaches to grab hold of the nearest piece of wood. I’m fortunate that I can still get up hills where others, some younger than me, puff a little heavier. The reality of getting older is not always easy to accept – joints ache when cold and wet weather is on way, muscles are not what they used to be, balance is not as sure and you begin to wonder how many more times you will be able to run up mountains just to see the view or visit the family in the USA.

I’m not exactly an ‘old fart’ yet, at least I don’t think so, I am, I think, a little smarter and don’t take as many risks as I used to. I also think that age doesn’t necessarily bring wisdom, but you do build up a wealth of useful experience.

My love of fishing, all types, started at an early age

My parents ignited in me the spirit of adventure and a love of the outdoors 

My Mom watching over me while I attempted to catch a trout in the Wolf River

Like the imperceptible development of reason in a young three year old, so does age creep up on us as flyfishers without warning. It probably becomes noticeable first in companions ten or more years older. Towards the end of the process it first shows itself in their slowing down – they don’t move with the same ease or speed that they once did, they seem to fuss a little longer with tackling up as you remember them – it’s almost as if there is some invisible haze covering their eyes and brain.

You notice the once accurate cast so perfectly presented, land awkwardly over the trout you had stalked. They begin to wilt before the day is done; you see it in the squint, the occasional stretch to lessen the nagging back pain, the limp, and the more frequent stops for a breather. It gets blamed on the flu last week, the extra few pounds added during the past winter, an old rugby injury, everything but the real truth. These are the kind of signs that will eventually come to us all, some sooner than later.

I knew JW for most of my life and I can’t recall the number of times we fished together and the wonderful memories we shared, but it was many. I don’t remember him slowing down. At 65 he seemed pretty much like he was in his thirties, animated, quick of movement and always with a positive outlook on life generally. Considering he’d been through a tough upbringing and had battled more than his fair share of life’s challenges, his quick wit, warm personality and unquestionable passion for fly fishing, in some ways was surprising. When he reached his late fifties, his struggles this time with health started all over again – heart, kidneys and other organs, bruised and failing and yet he never complained. After a bout of illness he always said that he had never felt better. He had an interesting outlook on his health and felt that if they took an organ a year, he had enough left to take him as far as he wanted for his purposes – then suddenly he died.

My old tackle was simple and yet effective

JW had completed his cycle. Like him, the seasons and their weather patterns, the school year and its terms have their cycle – we live by their rhythms. The fishing season too – starting in spring after the dead of winter, the rebirth of all around us. Then into the dog days of summer with soaring temperatures and violent thunderstorms before sliding into autumn for what JW called, “the sweet of the year”, and then once again entering the chill of winter. Like the waters of the stream, gliding, rushing tumbling, light blends into water, water into light- it’s a cycle, a rhythm that flyfishers are keyed into – I don’t think we would have it any other way.

All of these make up the greater pattern of life – for flyfishers a fishing life. Many of us, started with an inexplicable draw to water and a link through our line to the pulse of life that swam below and into our hearts. Now younger than when I caught my first small rainbow in 1954, my grandsons have taken to asking about everything, “wha zat?” – surely the beginning of knowledge? I don’t think I was any different when I asked the same question, “wha zat?” Among it all, I learnt to understand the drift of the line, to decipher the ring of a rise, the movement of life in the depths. I grew and learnt and read a lot, gained my independence and mobility, I discovered more about the trout and unraveled some of the enigma about life and the rhythms of the stream.

There was the hunger for more knowledge in what for me seemed a natural progression in fly fishing. It led to better understanding and skill from the early fumbling attempts at casting and presentation to fooling even the most difficult of wild trout. How many, even apparently insignificant questions, but telling ones, led from then to now. My passion for fly fishing now seems so logical, a natural, happy progression from not knowing to knowing. But, it doesn’t end there and part of aging is learning how to learn – to assimilate, to modify and to adapt. In fly fishing, it is seemingly a never-ending process.

It is always easier to recognise aging in a friend from slow changes to the sometime sudden often-unexpected incidents that dramatically change things forever – weakening muscle, degenerating eyesight and hearing. We resist acknowledging the changes and sometimes don’t perceive what is happening until through someone else’s comment or a helping hand when stumbling in the stream: things that seldom happened ten years ago. It maybe indiscernible at first, but the signs are there – not hearing a companion’s voice above the wind, not seeing the shadow of a fish move across the bottom or the white of its mouth opening underwater, or a painful hip after a long day on the stream.

But, there are still good things that come with age – we stay away from water that we know from experience not to be productive, we choose the right fly without hesitation, we read the water better and we understand the rise forms because we have seen them all a thousand times. We have stopped false casting and finally have patience and are content with not being in a hurry knowing that the trout aren’t going anywhere – we understand our limitations.

We are in the cycle of life, linked to its rhythms, poised between what we can do and can’t, still passionate about fly fishing, but accepting of a little less. There are still many undreamed of and new answers.

 

DISPLAYING FLIES

I thought I’d share this for the interest of others that display their flies from time to time.

For the 2017 Fly Tying and Fly Fishing Expo I wanted as an item of interest, to display a few of my favourite small stream flies. It was more or less a last minute decision so I racked my brain as to how I could best show them off considering they were small, ranging from #14 down to #20. Most of the methods I had seen were too bulky and the small flies would be overshadowed and perhaps wouldn’t be appreciated.

I eventually settled on a plank of sneezewood from an old fencing pole sanded and beautifully polished on the one side and roughly finished on the other by, amongst other things, craftsman, blogger, freelance writer and all round generous guy, Andrew Savs. For fear of damaging the sanded and oiled side in case it didn’t work out, I settled on using the rustic look and opted for the rough finish. Drilled 15 equally spaced holes along its length with a 1.5mm drill bit – broke 3 and finally finished the last hole with the fourth bit.

RAB fixed in position using the method described.

I used 15 suitably sized sewing needs as the posts. On the points of each needle I added a small cylinder of black foam cut with the sharpened section of a vintage telescopic car radio aerial. A Heath Robinson contraption I have used for years for cutting cylinders of foam in various diameters for all types for patterns ranging from tiny ants to fair sized hoppers. Through the top of these I was able attach the flies. The needle and flies were then positioned in the holes in the sneezewood plank. They can be swiveled for the best or multiple views of the fly.

The tools and other bits needed

A drop of super glue on the needle and hook point will make it more secure, but also a bit of a job trying to dismantle.

The foam and needle size can be adapted to suit most fresh water flies.

All images and copy in this post are copyright Peter Brigg Photography © 2017. All rights reserved

 

 

IT’S A GOOD THING

A thing is happening in our fly fishing community, a good thing.

Like a wave of energy flyfishers came from every corner of the country, a gathering of the likeminded, a brother and hopefully greater sisterhood, sharing, a sense of belonging, a family – a celebration of the spirit of fly fishing, a common thread embodying all that makes up all of our sport and our passion for it in whichever way it floats your boat. The catalyst, Gordon van der Spuy and his brainchild, the South African Fly Fishing and Fly Tying Expo. The silos that existed in the respective regions around the country are breaking down as we become a more cohesive and united community.

It may not be perfect yet, it is in its infancy, lessons are being learnt and will be improved. Personally, I returned home re-energised and sensing the spirit of generosity that permeated through the interactions of many enthusiastic, warm and friendly people. The exhibitors made a clear statement that we are ready to compete equally on the world stage, craftsmen, artists, fly tyers, outfitters, authors and more. But, and here is the rub, we need to find the path for greater exposure into the wider international fly fishing community, to market the rich diversity on offer in South Africa.

Maestros – Stephen Boshoff (Cape), Moreno Borriero (Italy), Jay Smit (KZN)

Craftsman Shaun Futter – Photo Stephen Boshoff

Dr, Hans van Zyl tying one of his beetles – Photo Jay Smit

Marc Petitjean, Gordon van der Spuy and Moreno Borriero the international flavour.

For my small part I exhibited my book Call of the Stream, art and a mock-up of the new book, South African Fishing Flies – An Anthology of Milestone Patterns. I met many, made new friends and connected with others I have known for years. I was interviewed twice, once by Gordon for local purposes and another by visiting Prof James Thull of Montana State University – https://www.lib.montana.edu/trout/oral-histories/ I reaffirmed my aversion for being on that side of the camera. There are times when I prefer to be in the kitchen at parties.

I conducted a workshop on small stream fly fishing and afterwards as always, realised that there were aspects I’d not covered, things like the importance of bubble lines as feeding lanes, methods for lifting the line off the surface to avoid splash and it sounding like the pop of a champagne cork, downstream fishing, reading rises and some aspects of presentation.. But, time was short, maybe next year I will get another chance.

Thank you, Gordon, and your team of helpers, you have started a movement, a bringing together of our fly fishing family. ……………. A good thing is happening

All images and copy in this post are copyright Peter Brigg Photography © 2017. All rights reserved

AT SEASONS CLOSE

It’s late May, winter creeps slowly over the landscape,  verdant greens change to shades of yellows, oranges and browns, there is crispness in the early morning air, but it’s still shirt-sleeve weather. There are shadows on the eastern side of the stream where the current looks slow and oily,  on the western side touched by sunlight, the water is so transparent that it seems almost unreal. The high Berg under a cloudless sky, peaking over the hills around us, has a patchy cloak of snow.

 

Slipping my daypack off, I was exhilarated, sensing the anticipation. We rigged up, the conversation with Shaun is mostly about our expectations. He’s ahead of me with a nymph and orange yarn strike indicator – I suggest he have a shot at the run just upstream while I frustratingly continue to struggle threading the 6x tippet through the eye of a #18 Klinkie until I realise its blocked with varnish. In the periphery of my consciousness I see Shaun is already off the bat into the first brownie of the day – the smile on his face says it all. It had been quite a few years that we last fished together – I couldn’t have wished for a better companion on the day.

Photo Shaun Futter. A fin perfect brownie in one of Shaun’s superbly hand crafted stream nets.

 The first hour was tough going.  Wading the stream was numbingly icy with snow-melt accelerating visits to the bank to thaw out. Shaun brought a couple to the net while despite my best efforts, I failed with the Klinkie – it refused to attract attention. It was clear the trout weren’t looking up, rather in the mood for love, or perhaps that should be preoccupation with spawning. And, before there are any obscene exclamations, I do occasionally fish nymphs. I changed to a bushy CDC and Elk as the indicator with, a small lightly weighted nymph below – the Rooinek, a simple yet effective pattern. These small mountain streams are where accurate casts to shadowy lairs, concentration, quick reflexes and perfect timing are as necessary as dry flies, small nymphs and keen observation.

 An hour and a half in we struck a purple patch, the browns for some inexplicable reasons started eating – we took a mess of  healthy, fat little fish. In my case all on the Rooinek and a single fish probably the village idiot, on the Caddis. But, it was short lived, the fish without warning shut their mouths as quickly as they had come on – enigmatically disappearing as they have the habit of doing. Fishing was over for the day.  Shadows began to  lengthen and the light softened on the hills around us, the stream in shadow again, dark and empty looking. 

 

Over the course of the sunny day we tried almost everything – traditional dead drifted nymphs on yarn and dry fly indicators, not-quite-dead-yet-nymphs drifted without indicators, dry flies dead-drifted and skittered. I wonder if I sometimes spend too much time on the plethora of how-to theories that like politicians promises are made to be broken instead of merely drifting towards the logical conclusion that fishing is nothing but the pursuit of the exclusive. And, provided it is done with respect, whether it really matters how you go about it.  Small streams are a great leveler and a good place to lose any inflated ideas you may have about yourself as a flyfisher.

It was Theodore Gordon, American fly fishing pioneer that said, “The great charm of fly fishing is that we are always learning.”

 

All images and copy in this post are copyright Peter Brigg Photography © 2017. All rights reserved

 

 

WILD TROUT

Much is known about them, much more is suspected. They are spotted, dark and mottled, wonderfully coloured with almost a metallic brilliance or buttery brown – a palette of reds, pinks, oranges, blues and yellows, they are incongruously beautiful. They are otherworldly, delicate, hydrodynamic and able to survive in conditions that at times seem impossibly harsh – perfectly adapted to the working parts of the stream.

They are enigmatic, they like the water clean and cold, feed on aquatic and terrestrial bugs, ever alert to dangers, they will spook at your first cast disappearing in a blink of an eye. They have a flawless competence, live on the very edge of things – currents fast and slow, deep and shallow water, air and stream, light and darkness – the flyfisher that understands these things is on the path to knowing what he is doing. They have, with their willingness at times by accepting my meager offerings, brought me great joy, enhancing my time on our rivers and streams this past season.

A season that started poorly, but ended in a way that I haven’t  experienced in a number of years. The rains, some well above average in places and recent snowfalls saw a 180 degree change – our waters are running in the best condition in years, cold, clear and quick, the trout are well conditioned, plump and spirited. – a new beginning that, if the weather gods smile down on us, bodes well for seasons ahead.

The pursuit of wild mountain trout leads to some of the most beautiful, uncluttered, crystalline places this country has to offer, unspoiled natural environments, places where the air and water is clean, where eagles soar high in wide skies, where the only sounds and smells are natures own. Here a rudimentary sense of connection to the big wild earth will creep into awareness, where the seeds of a relationship with the natural world will flourish – these inspiring places are also uncompromising, where man is the intruder, where the earth works its magic …. if you let it in, it will run deep in your soul.

All images and copy in this post are copyright Peter Brigg Photography © 2017. All rights reserved