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.”

 

 

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

KLINKIE

There were times early in the season when I went to the mountains to fish only to find the streams running on empty, their ribs showing. I choose not to fish at these times, the fish are stressed with limited holding water, they’re vulnerable to predators, water temperatures are high, oxygen content low, I don’t need to exacerbate their problems – the rains will come, the rivers will flow again and the trout will still be there – I can wait.

It was mid-January, It was one of those rare days at the height of the devastating drought that has ravaged the country – temperatures cooled, skies clouded and there were intermittent  rain showers binging some temporary relief. The garden outside the window looked rejuvenated, a new beginning, there was a freshness in the air and that wonderful earthy scent of damp earth.

 

I sat at my fly tying desk, with the sound of the welcome rain on the roof, replenishing favourite flies for when the streams would be flowing strongly again. Among them was a Klinkhamer tied like the original Hans van Klinken pattern – what could I do to perhaps make it more attractive to the trout? Simple changes – replace the dubbed abdomen with stripped quill or similar so that it will hang better below the surface as an emerger should and add a few squirrel tail hairs over the eye tied in Para RAB style to add to the general bugginess as a searching pattern.

 

Little did I know on that rainy day that the variation would prove to be so appealing to trout from the rivers of Wild Trout Country to the upland streams of the KZN Drakensberg. I first fished it on the Upper Bell River above Rhodes, where it accounted for 10 or 12 rainbows including a couple of 14 inch fish and another larger fish lost at the net, out of this Lilliput water. Since then I have had days on my home-waters when I have used the Klinkie almost exclusively – it’s a good fly.

Photo Andrew Mather

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

CAMP FOOD …. bugs-n-all

It has been a long day on the river, the straps of the daypack begin to cut into the shoulders, tired muscles ache from wading and boulder hopping and there is a distinct feeling of running on empty. The sun dips behind the jagged escarpment; light fades and chill envelopes the valley as the mercury drops quickly. The fishing has been good and after a wash and change into warm, dry clothes, there will be a few stories to relate while a welcome supper is prepared.

As darkness descends, the faint glow of the gas light illuminates the tree canopy and the sight of the tents nestled in the forest clearing gives the place a homely ambiance. The others Piet, Phil and Craig, had already washed and changed and the cheerful banter suggested that they too had some stories of their own.

At this time of the day any camp site always has a certain buzz about it, a time to relax and get carried along on the conversation with the prospect of a hearty meal and later the inviting warmth and comparative comfort of sliding into a sleeping bag inside the protection of the tent. But, it is the main meal of that day that is the focus and around which most other things in camp revolve.

I finally managed to get a slot for my story. ……. It was one of those special moments: it wasn’t the biggest fish of the day, but a classic, a stand-out catch as if the script had been written and all the years of experience paid off. I was fishing a long run with Craig – he took the left bank and I the right. It was an inviting run split by a quick central current. At the head the stream was divided by a large boulder. I slowly worked my way up taking a couple of 10 inch browns just off the edge of the fast water. Were the fork of the split met there was a small peninsular held together by tall tussock grasses. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a fish rise in the deep shade of over-hanging vegetation up the slower, right fork. I stood for a few moments using the grass as cover and watched it feeding, turning regularly just below the surface. My first cast was short and wide for fear of hanging up in the vegetation. I flicked the line out again, this time it landed just where I wanted it – tight in against the bank. The little indicator slid down on the current through the shade and as it emerged into sunlight again, it stopped momentarily – I lifted the rod. The line tightened and I felt the resistance – the brownie fought bravely – after a few strong darts for freedom I held it in my hand for a second to marvel at the beauty, then with a flick of its tail, it evaporated into its dappled world – text book stuff, indelibly etched in the memory.

In case you are planning a fishing trip under canvas (now rip-stop nylon) that involves some hiking, here are a few tried and test recipes for camp food that I was persuaded to share. There are limits to space and weight on trips like this so you need to choose ingredients carefully to get the best out of them – someone has to carry it, usually divided as fairly as possible among the group to make it just that little easier. The kind of thing I’m getting at is leave the pocket of potatoes and pack the Smash. A few tins always find their way in somehow; just find someone else to carry them! Also, there is no refrigeration up there so stuff that can handle temperature fluctuation is a must or use it first. You can go the expensive dehydrated food route. Its great advantage is its light and compact, but unless you get the good stuff, it can be a little like eating damp sawdust – powdery and tasteless and flatulence the next day is likely to cause a dust storm.

Here are a few of ‘Beadhead’s Camp Recipes’ based on four hungry flyfishers, including one that eats more in one day than I do in four.

Ring-sting with boerrie-n-relish.

Three to four foot of boerewors.

A tin of boerrie relish.

A tin of broad beans.

A chilli or two, seed-n-all.

The magic ingredient of most camp food – basil pesto.

Salt and black pepper.

Smash (11/2 to 2 packets)

 

Smashed with Pig-n-chicken.

250 g tinned ham.

4 smoked chicken breasts

A tin of broad beans.

One small tin of tomato and onion.

Medium size onion.

Basil Pesto.

Salt and Black Pepper.

Smash (11/2 to 2 Packets).

Paella up the creek.

Two tins of tuna chunks or 2 packets of lemon and herb tuna or both.

A tin of muscles.

A tin of sweet corn

One small tin of tomato and onion.

Juice from half a lemon.

Basil Pesto.

Salt and black pepper.

Spicy brown rice.

And, on the way home ………….

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

WHERE DID YOU SAY IT IS?

Rivers
A short while ago I came across this quote by the late Mel Krieger. The truth of it resonated with me –
“I don’t know why I fish or why others never fish except that we like it and that it makes us think and feel. But, I also know if it were not for the strong, quick life of rivers, for the sparkle in the sunshine, for the cold greyness of them under rain and the feel of them about my legs as I set my feet hard down on rocks, or sand or gravel, I should fish less often. A river is never quite silent, it can never of its very nature be quite still. It is never quite the same from one day to the next. It has its own life and its own beauty and the creatures it nourishes are alive and beautiful also. Perhaps fishing is for me only an excuse to be near rivers – so I’m glad I thought of it.”

Maps
“Maps encourage boldness. They’re cryptic love letters. They make anything seem possible.” Mark Jenkins
I have spent many a winters evening pouring over maps and now Google Earth following the thin blue lines into the mountains to where the contours are tightly drawn – the feeder streams to known waterways, far from named pools and worn paths – places that are probably unfished or ignored and where anything more than a 2-weight is a handicap. The gradient is steep and the cold water like liquid crystal, rushes quickly, cascading through pockets and where there is a wrinkle in the earth, the occasional deep slot – the small trout are wild, heavily spotted and on nervous fins disappear at a hint of anything weird – one minute they are there and then in a blink of an eye, gone. Perfect habitats far from human settlement and where the only means of getting there is leg power, a backpack with all one needs for a few days. Adrenaline rushes at the thought of adventure, of the unknown and the prospect of the fishing – it must be said that today, very few are secret by way of the true definition of the word. We also have no right to claim them as our own, but we do have a responsibility to protect and conserve these places. If size and the number of fish are your measure, don’t waste the energy – avoid the disappointment.

‘Secret’ Places
The quandary I’m always faced with is whether or not I share these places with others. I do suffer from feelings of guilt for not, but take consolation in the fact that if I don’t, these fragile stream environments will be shielded for a while at least, from the impacts of too much fishing pressure.
There is an opposing view – advocates of a thought that greater use brings more awareness for the protection of these streams. For me the jury is still out on the merits of this philosophy and make no apologies for my position. It took many years, the letting of blood and sweat, literally, to discover some of the hidden gems. I know a handful of others that have done the same and are still doing it – there is a kind of mutual understanding between us that we don’t talk openly about these places, especially not through tantalising photographs and cryptic comments on social media that will needlessly pique curiosity and raise questions – it will expose them.

I’m reminded of the words of Tom Sutcliffe that to some extent satisfies both beliefs –  “I share these places with you in the certain knowledge that if, by chance you happen to go there, you will treat them as sacred, as a venue that will need all our efforts, all our finest ethics, to keep it unspoiled.”

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

Rock Art Heritage

My interest in the Bushman was first ignited as a young boy when on holidays at our family trading store at Thaba Lesoba near Sterkspruit in the North Eastern Cape. My father took me on his trips into the mountains on the western border of Lesotho searching for caves, for paintings and collecting the odd item of interest. He taught me how to photograph the paintings without touching or wetting them to draw out the colour, and to never attempt chipping the rock face in the hope of a souvenir.

The area around the trading store was rich in this heritage – many of the caves and rock-overhangs dripped with murals of their paintings we found stone implements and discarded flints and even discovered many fossilised animal skeletons dating back thousands of years.

A hunting scene

A selection of stone implements

More recently while exploring the KZN Drakensberg Mountains, hiking with my great friends, John Hone and Dave Osborne (sadly no longer with us) and fly fishing high altitude streams, we visited most of the known sites and discovered a few yet unknown, now recorded. We scrambled through pristine wilderness, below ancient sandstone rock-bands, photographing those we found, marvelling at the beauty of the paintings and speculating at the stories and meaning behind them. We even have a site previously unknown, discovered on a fishing trip some years ago, now officially recorded as the “Dog Nobbler Shelter” after the name of our small band of flyfishers – a mural consisting of bees and beehive, trance figures and a few antelope.

John Hone and our guide admiring a mural of paintings in a Drakensberg cave

The Dog Nobbler Shelter above and the painting of bees below. Zoom in and you will see the two white wings and small body in red ochre.

The Drakensberg is steeped in rich cultural heritage and was home to the Bushman from late Stone Age times until as recently as the nineteenth century – a testament to their way of life depicted through their paintings. Over 35 000 individual recorded images at over 600 sites can be seen in the Drakensberg region – making up 35% of all of South Africa’s rock art sites. It was partly the significance of these rock art sites that led to the Ukhahlamba-Drakensberg Park being declared a World Heritage Site in 2000.

This depicts a battle scene between Bushmen and what appears to be Zulu warriors.

Bushman spearing fishing in the NE Cape before trout and C&R was the norm.

I have been privileged to have been able experience this priceless heritage

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

THE ADAMS

Today I have been married to a very special lady for 48 years. On the same day I came across a lonely, battered and fish-scarred old Adams (unlike my beautiful wife), tucked away in the corner of my fly box – in some symbolic way it felt like renewing our vows. There was a time when it was a favourite fly; it should still be (like my wife).

The Adams started its life as a general Caddis or Midge imitation with the feather tip wings tied over the abdomen caddis style. It was designed by Leonard Halladay from Mayfield, USA in 1922, at the request of his friend Charles Adams who used it on the Boardman River in Michigan and where it began to gain popularity as a trout fly.  The wings have gradually evolved more permanently into an upright position to imitate Mayfly duns. It has had a universal appeal and depending on sizes from #10 down to #20 it was used in hatches from the large Green Drakes to the small Blue Winged Olives. I may be sticking my neck out and inviting debate, but the Adams is if not the most, pretty close to being recognised as the most popular, versatile, effective dry fly since its creation.

It was John Geirach and AK Best when discussing the ubiquitous Adams said this about it – it looks a little like everything, not exactly like anything and seems to have great totemic powers. 

That pretty much sums it up – an iconic fly that is symbolic with fly fishing.

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