9 a.m. Coffee Thoughts – Knowledge

Knowledge involves understanding, comprehension, and mastery. It’s about acquiring, sustaining, growing, sharing, and applying information. If learning is the recipe, then knowledge is the cake—the way to build expertise. Fly fishing is just one small slice of the cake. It can other than the obvious benefits for the fishing, contribute significantly to our lives generally – patience, observation, understanding, appreciation, respect, inspiration, creativity and so much more.

In my case I have found that fishing small streams there is always an insatiable hunger for more knowledge. It leads to a better understanding and skill from the early fumbling attempts at casting and presentation to fooling even the most difficult of trout. How many, even apparently insignificant questions, but telling ones, have led from then to now – and, what a fun journey it has been, a logical, natural progression from not knowing to knowing. But, it doesn’t end there and part of growth is learning how to learn – to assimilate, to modify and to adapt – it is a never-ending process.

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

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9 a.m. Coffee Thoughts – Friendship

Despite having known Jay Smit of the Jvice fame and being friends for quite a few years now, we fished together for the first time yesterday. It was on a section of the middle Mooi River, not one of the upland freestone streams I almost always gravitate towards, but rather a slow moving, high grassy banked river that meanders through pastoral surrounding – a cow dung and mielie stretch where we encountered potentially manhood robbing barbed wire fences and flesh shredding bramble patches. However, despite low water levels and temperatures far from ideal, the browns were relatively obliging, chasing our deeply sunk nymphs as if they were the real deal.

But, it was the day spent with Jay, his good company and barrister quality freshly ground coffee that got me thinking this morning about “friendship”. I recalled from way back to the present the many people that, through fly fishing in particular, have enriched my life in so many ways.

Jay brewing another coffee with his Kelly Kettle

I once read a quote about friendship. It went something like – “Two may talk together under the same roof for many years, yet never really meet; and then, others at first speak are old friends.”

This is true of flyfishers, there is almost always an instant connection, – you don’t have to work at it, it is a kind of natural fellowship. So much in fly fishing is about the people you meet along the way, sometimes it’s a casual acquaintance, sometimes it becomes a life-long journey – a companionship amongst like-minded souls, unselfish sharing, spiritual enrichment and lasting memories.

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

 

CREATURES OF HABIT

The smell of freshly ground coffee permeates the house, it must be 9 am. It’s a daily habit that got me thinking about the many self-inflicted rituals and traditions that we invariably follow, none less so than flyfishers and their idiosyncrasies.

I speak from my experiences – My trips to Rhodes always involve a stop either on the Kraai River bridge or at the top of Naudes Pass to toast our arrival in wild trout country. Then, there are the rituals ahead of a day’s fishing on my home waters – sorting tackle, checking leaders and replacing old tippets, boiling eggs, making my favourite sandwiches and stashing it all at the front door in readiness for an early start. There are the fuel top-up stops, the usual bad garage shop coffees and on the way home, the must-have-pie at the Windmill diner on the outskirts of Nottingham Road. And, after extended camping trips and before saying our farewells as we return to our respective corners of the country, there is without failure a visit to a nearby hotel where we always order their large speciality burger and chips washed down with a Guinness or two – believe me it’s needed after a few days of camp food.

At least once during each fishing season on rivers and streams, stillwaters and along the coast, in remote camps, cottages and lodges, old friends, some not so old, get together in familiar places at familiar times to connect, well, with just about everything. Some of us have been doing it for more years than we can recall, some in the group are regulars  others join for a season or two and then move on. 

In my case it is no more evident than in the annual camping trips to hidden places in the mountains. It starts with the usual emails among the core group detailing plans, dates, travel, gear, food, all pretty much the same year after year – the familiar. We use the same camp sites each season, the tents are pitched in the same positions, guy ropes pegged and attached to the same trees and wet clothing is draped over the same branches. The kitchen is set up where it has been for years. We even have our fixed seating places, we always cook the same meals and enjoy a few pan fried fresh trout on the third evening. We have our own pool and rock in the stream where we bath, well, rather more of a splash-n-dash in the frigid water. We drink a bit in the evenings. If truth be told, usually more whisky than we should.  We relate many of the same stories, embellished a little from previous years, we laugh at the same jokes and a few new ones and marvel at the endless idiocies of modern existence. After breaking camp there is always a group photo and the ceremony of spearing our most successful fly into the trunk of a tree on the edge of the stream.

H

That is more or less is how these annual events play out and a few of the traditions and rituals are repeated year after year. Many flyfishers today travel the globe fishing new and exotic places, perusing new species on fly, meeting new people, revelling in new experiences and endlessly searching for, well, something. But, at least once a year we gather with our core group of friends, head for the same familiar places, strictly follow the same script, less in our heads than in our hearts.

A brief break from the endless humdrum of our daily routines, jobs and city life, to places where the fish make fun of us and our friends try their best to do so too.

We ARE creatures of habit.

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

STORYTELLING

The sandstone rim across the stream cuts a dark edge against the silver sky. I crawl out of my sleeping bag to start the coffee water. My boots and socks are still wet from yesterday’s adventures. I pad barefoot to the kitchen against the big boulder. I kneel and pump the stove, it ignites, I grind fresh coffee. Moments after the hum, sun transmutes the dark rim to a warm glow. The zipper from the other tent further undoing the stillness. A dishevelled apparition emerges, a reminder of a long night of storytelling and too many whiskeys.

Chores in hand I hobble down the rough path to the stream. I choose a perfect spot to splash my face, two sole-friendly stones a hearts width apart and dry. Across the stream, pink light unfurls above the haze of trees, ancient roots curl from the undercut bank and drift on the purling water. I splash my face with cold water, good morning, morning. 

My companions join me, three of us lined up as motionless and attentive herons along a fish whispering riffle – morning flowing through us, all motion, all stillness, numb feet and rose-coloured eyeballs, an ear full of bird chatter, breath of trees and peppermint toothpaste. Oh, and the coffee. 

I head back to the camp. Bunched in a pool of filtered sunshine, my companions hold out their cups, smiling. On this third morning in wilderness, we seemed to have arrived.

A new day, new stories to make.

I have always chosen my companions carefully, sage advice from an old friend long since freed from his mortal coil. I learned that someone’s value to a extended trip can be determined by their storytelling skills – lingering on the details, timing, describing and interpreting the setting, a touch of embellishment, waiting as long as possible before saying the obvious – skills that are not frivolous.

Storytelling is part of the culture.

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

STOCKING BOXES

I closed the back cover of the book gifted to me by Tom Sutcliffe a year or so ago, The Dettes. A Catskill Legend by Eric Leiser.  A fascinating read and an insight into not just the personal life of this family, but their unique vantage point and significant contributions to fly tying techniques – a charming history of a legendary family and the Catskills.

I slipped it back into its place in the bookcase next my collection of others on the Catskills, my thoughts drifted to the fact that the new river season is upon us. Aside from withdrawal symptoms from a long closed season and the anticipation of the tug of cold currents and wild trout, a surge of mild anguish burst the bubble of euphoria – there are flies to tie before opening day, just a few days away.

The quiet before the storm.

Looking into my fly box, there are vast stretches of unpopulated foam, where Zaks, Pheasant Tail nymphs, GRHEs and others lived, all burned through last season or lost to hook thieving vegetation and nimble-fingered fishing companions. There is a forlorn survivor of a once immense swarm of Para-RABs, it’s post out of shape and hackle spiraling outwards, lone Hoppers and Wolf Spiders in compartments. Tucked into a corner behind a row of semi-colon sized midge pupae, expectantly tied, but never used, is a sole surviving #16 DDD, it’s once beautifully manicured deer-hair body chewed raw and what’s left of its hackle, bedraggled and matted with dried fish slim.

Leftovers from last season, battered and beaten.

I know because it’s happened before after a layoff at the tying desk, the reflexes for minute intricate movements and dexterity of fingers are rusty, even the thread of patterns need refreshing. I fumble with beads, threads break under tension or tails and wings skew under not enough. Anger surfaces at discovering that moths have out-evolved the protective halo of eponymous balls and the platinum grade hackle has been turned into a wasteland of naked quills and lung choking powder.

 

A journal entry from a few years back suggests it will improve – “ I tied my first flies today. They went from unacceptable to acceptable after the first 6. By number 12 they were ‘not bad’, ‘much better’ by 18, ‘good’ around 24 and by 36 I had delusions of expertise – I even convinced myself that I was technically accomplished, artistic and moderately creative.”

I see anticipation in all the flies for another fishing season, for times spent on streams and rivers, alone or with old companions of past seasons and expectantly, new ones.

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

A FIRESIDE CHAT

I have been following the activities of the Women in Waders group on various social media sites for awhile now. Having noticed that they are focused largely of fishing stillwaters, nothing wrong with that of course, I felt the need to offer to share with them the infectious charms of fishing  rivers and streams. I suggested to Roxanne Stegen, a leading light in the group that we spend a day on a Drakensberg stream early in the new season with any of the ladies that may have an interest in exploring the basics of river fly fishing. Rox liked the idea but felt that it would be too long to wait, and so the idea of a Fireside Chat was born.

The well organised event came together on the evening of Friday 29 June, hosted by another of the founder members Alison Smith, in the Lapa at her beautiful Hilton Safari Lodge .

With a roaring fire going we settled into the intimate, cosy ambiance of the lapa, a few glasses of wine under the belt and a spread of delicious food, it turned into a very enjoyable, memorable evening of friendship, discussion around the theory of fly fishing rivers and streams, questions, stories, banter and laughter – the foundation for a day or two on a stream in October for some practical instruction was set.

If truth be told, it was daunting (pleasantly distracting 😉) initially talking to an entirely female group, but I was soon put at ease with their willingness to participate, show of interest and pertinent questions – and, the outlook had a beauty about it that is absent with the mostly scruffy, unshaven men I’m used to.

I knew before hand that their group was made up of individuals keen to learn, some with experience, others starting out. Their enthusiasm, energy and keenness to grow the diversity of a currently testosterone, male dominated sport by encouraging more of the fairer sex to participate, is nothing less than inspiring – I have no doubts that they will succeed.

I look forward ladies to when we meet again on the banks of a stream, to walk, talk wade and fish.

I leave you with a few thoughts ……. the fundamentals of fly fishing take time and effort to learn, but once you get the hang of them you’ll have days when you fish beautifully …. and, never be despondent, there will be days when you don’t, it’s the enigma of trout. I have had to work hard at it, but I do have my moments. I have been fly fishing for what seems a lifetime, I guess it is. I’m not the best wader, caster, fish spotter, or fly tyer, but I have learned to fish well within my limitations as I once heard it said, “like a three-legged dog that can still go for a nice long walk”. You naturally bring everything you know to every day of fishing. Through repetition neural pathways will gradually be worn and the process will become instinctive – the fly rod that once seemed strange and awkward will become thoughtlessly familiar and the push and pull of the currents and the slippery, uneven bottom will no longer be surprising – it’s achieving a simple competence. After all the years I have been at it, I feel that I may just be reaching that point, but who knows.

I was honoured to be part of this event. Special thanks to Sindi-Leigh Mcbain for the use of her photographs above other than the last couple, to Rox and Brigitte for putting it all together, to all the ladies that attend for your valued participation and to Alison Smth for her kindness and generosity in providing Colleen and I with 5 star accommodation for the night in the Honeymoon suite of her Lodge – if only I’d known in advance   😉

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

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.

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