BLANK DAYS

We call them blank days, but are they really? I suppose it’s intended to mean we had no luck, didn’t catch any fish, nothing, zilch, zip, zero. I have had many, but never quite blank …… I say that because any day on a stream, fish or no fish, it is never a blank. If I’m lucky enough and they are obliging to give themselves up, it’s the icing on the cake, if not, I’m seldom disappointed.

Last weekend I was invited to join the Underberg Himeville Trout Fishing Club as the guest speaker at their AGM and annual dinner.  I was also allocated a beat on the lower section of the small Umzimkulwana stream, a tributary of the Umzimkulu River, as part of the club’s weekend festivities – I’d had never fished this water before.

The most promising of all the runs, but not a fish in sight.

My first impression – not my usual freestone stream – rather a meadow stream with long slow runs between high grassy banks and just the occasional cascade and riffle. To make matters worse with little or no spring rain the water level was very low, marginal flow, high temperatures and slippery silt laden rocks – never the master at ice skating! But, I tried hard, searching for movement, shadows on the streambed, I stalked and crept at the pace of a snail – nothing. Two hours of it and nothing – if the trout were there, I couldn’t find them, they weren’t answering the door – hiding perhaps, stressed because of conditions, struggling for oxygen and keeping out of sight of anything strange – I gave it best. With one eye on the water, I sat for a while, enjoyed the solitude, the sights and sounds, took in the birdlife, cattle grazing nearby, the baboons in the rock bands above me and did a little photography – all before a wind came out of nowhere and threatened to shift the mountains .

Fishing over I made my way home – I caught no fish, but it wasn’t a blank day.

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

PICKING POCKETS

It has been a frustrating wait – again as in the past few seasons there has been little or no spring rain to speak of and nothing to write home about as far as winter snowfalls were concerned. For 3 weeks I have resisted the temptation to drive the 2 ½ hours to my home waters because of the very low water levels – simple, I don’t like fishing in those conditions and think its unfair on the stressed and skittish trout. But with reports of some patchy rain in the mountains over the last week, Steve Hughes and I decided it was time.

A misty early morning start turned into a bright clear day, wide blue skies, heat and breezes that couldn’t make up their minds which direction to blow in – at times a challenge to present wispy dry flies on light tippets. The stream was still low and to my experienced finger using the now regular, ‘tip test’, showed the water temperatures to be a little warmer than perfect.

We picked pockets amongst the bones of the Bushmans – the fin perfect, spotted wild brownies were there, some willing, others less so – many bolting for cover in a blink at the hint of anything weird or nothing less than perfect presentation and drift. They hid not in the deeper, slow, calmer pools, but in the oxygenated tight spots, under riffles, turbulent surfaces, below plunges and current seams – we used stealth, short casts and high sticking. They were mostly small, around 8 inches and a few trophy beauties that surprised us of between 10 and 12 inches.

The larger dries like Pete’s Hoppers and wide flies like the Wolf Spider, were sometimes closely inspected otherwise an attempt made to drown them rather than strike. It was the smaller flies that did the damage – size 18 Royal Caddis and Para RAB with purposefully shortened squirrel hackle. Also a size 18 Berg Emerger and size 18 ginger hackled RAB that will need the addition of a few turns of white hackle behind the eye if I am going to be able to see this one in the drift – back to the vice it goes.

Royal Caddis

Berg Emerger

Ginger RAB

 

With the frustration over for a while, I will wait now for the rains to come, for water levels to rise by at least 6 inches and for the trout to be free again to be comfortable in their liquid cocoon – picking pockets can be fun, but give trout a chance.

STARTING OUT

I stood in the shade of an old yellow-wood tree and watched my grandson as he fished towards me picking his way through the rocky bones of a stream laid bare after a particularly dry winter. He covered the water ahead of him as best he could with a small elk hair caddis, tracing the faint current in the thin water. It was tough going, the kind of conditions often experienced before the spring rains come.

We had hiked into the mountains to get to a stream I have fished more times than I can remember. The experience was a baptism of fire for him, a terrestrial introduction that up until then he had thought was an aquatic pursuit – hours of clambering through shoulder high grass and thickets of budlia and nichichi bush, over ankle-turning boulders and tangled drift wood.  He began to develop a better understanding of what I meant when I said, “the best wild trout waters are mostly in hidden, hard to reach places”. By the time we made it to my favourite stretch, foot-sore, scratched and sweat soaked, he was eager to cast a fly.

The conditions for fishing were poor – bright skies betrayed every cast, the trout were as skittish as blindfolded race-horses, conditions where observation, patience and perseverance are paramount – knowledge is gained. We turned over rocks to reveal scurrying mayfly nymphs and a few caddis, I pointed out the insect’s distinctive features and we talked about fly construction.

I put him into the tail of each good looking run and soaked up the pleasure of watching him fish, the concentration and determination to improve with every cast. We fished together, leapfrogging the pools, comparing notes. The stream seemed like an empty stage, but we spotted a few respectable 12 inch trout that spooked out of what seemed impossible places.

I promised him that as the season progressed and the skeletal conditions improved, we would work at perfecting his casting, avoiding drag, using longer, finer leaders and smaller flies.

During our lunch break he worked on his casting and out of the blue hooked a suicidal 8 inch rainbow. He looked at it thoughtfully in the palm of his hand, bright and wild – he was about to be confirmed in this pursuit, or conclude that it was no more than a waste of time. We still had the afternoon ahead of us. I asked him if he’d had enough – it was his call – we fished until sunset – I was delighted.

In fading light I sat on a rock above the stream admiring his focus, his patient attempts – watching, casting, drifting, wading carefully forward, then watching and flicking his line out again. He already understood to fish the stream slowly and completely – the current edges, bank undercuts, below over-hanging vegetation and around structure.  The rest would take care of itself in time.

There would be better days after the spring rains bring the rhythm of life back to the stream – hungry trout will recklessly charge his drifting fly, they will fight for escape and he will feel the wildness strung to his bent fly rod, his own keen senses tight to the trout.

Today was a dog-days fishing, we had scrambled and wet-waded up a mountain stream until he was whacked. He had become part of the landscape, the first obligation of an upland flyfisher. It was almost dark as he fished towards me, the stream in essence laid out before him and the art of flyfishing taking hold with each fresh cast, drift and careful step forward.

The true mark of a prospective flyfisher is how much he enjoys the trials of his first experiences, preferably surrounded by wilderness in places that are important for their own sake, if not for ours. We can feel a true sense of hope when we have wild places to go to, where the earth still works its magic, where we can rekindle our fundamental relationship with the natural world. And, if we are able follow our pursuit in these places and at the same time introduce a kid to its wonders and teach them that there is more to life than cell phones, computer games and television, then we can rest assured that the future of flyfishing lies in good hands. ……….  take the time to teach a kid to flyfish this season.

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

WHA ZAT?

Like the imperceptible development of reason in a young three year old, so does age creep up on all of us without warning. It probably becomes noticeable first in companions ten or more years older. In the case of flyfishers, they don’t move with the same ease or speed that they once did and fuss a little longer with tackling up – as if there is some invisible haze.

 You notice the once accurate cast so perfectly presented land awkwardly. They begin to wilt before the day is done. You see it in the squint, the occasional stretch to lessen the nagging back pain and the more frequent stops for a breather. It gets blamed on the flu last week, an old rugby injury – everything but the real truth – signs that will come to us all, sooner or later.

I knew MK for most of my life. I can’t recall the number of times we fished together – it was many. I don’t remember him slowing down. At 60 he seemed pretty much like he was in his thirties, animated, quick of movement and always with a positive outlook on life. 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 flyfishing, in some ways was surprising. When he reached his late fifties, his struggles this time with health started all over again – 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.

MK 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 MK called, “the sweet of the year”, then once again entering the chill of winter. It is a cycle, a rhythm that we are keyed into – there is no other way.

All of these make up the greater pattern of life – for flyfishers, a fishing life that started with an inexplicable draw to water, a link through our line to the pulse of life that swam below and into our hearts. Now a few years younger than when I caught my first small rainbow in the Buffalo River deep in the Eastern Cape’s Amatola Mountains, my grandsons have taken to asking about everything from a pin to a beetle, “wha zat?” – the beginning of knowledge. I don’t think I was any different. I asked the same question, “wha zat?” Amongst 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, I discovered more about the trout and unraveled some of the enigma of life and the rhythms of the stream.

There was the hunger for more knowledge. It led to a 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 – 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. 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. We resist acknowledging the changes – 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 a painful hip after a long day on the stream. Growing old is not easy like the reasons for stumbling or clumsiness – it’s the harsh reality.

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, and know that there is no such thing as an expert in our sport and that we can still learn and enjoy flyfishing in the years we have left.

We are in the cycle of life (some of us perhaps nearer to the finishing post than the starting gates), linked to its rhythms, poised between what we can do and can’t, still passionate about flyfishing, but maybe accepting of a little less. There are still many undreamed of and new answers – but, I will never stop asking that question of my youth with the same enthusiasm and vigor, “Wha zat?”

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

TROUT BUM

I don’t know if I qualify? No I don’t because I know some real trout bums and I’m not even close, but I have done a few things that get me onto the ‘wanabe’ page.

I wrote a while ago about confessing to secret trips I did alone (https://callofthestream.wordpress.com/2014/08/01/untruths-and-solitude-2/). Not clever, but in retrospect they were experiences with a lot of soul searching – solitude does that to you especially in the dark, a sensory overload. The fishing was good though.

These are my recollections ……………

The pack was light, few luxuries except the coffee pot and some whiskey. I planned on eating trout – I do that occasionally!

At one point on the hike in I got pretty close to a pair of innocent Francolin and considered getting one with a rock – I had this momentary olfactory hallucination of roasting it, I would have probably missed.

Moving on, it’s late afternoon and the gorge is shaded, the stream has a lot of pocket water and some nice looking runs with deliciously looking undercuts. I find a level spot a cast away from the stream with trees to secure the bivouac. It’s shirtsleeve warm with just a hint of evening chill; I hear the screech of a Jackal Buzzard somewhere above the treetops.

Time for a few casts – on the third I take a nice plump 12-inch rainbow on a spent mayfly spinner; it would be my supper. I read somewhere, “if you’re gonna keep fish, go ahead and keep ‘em. If you wait till the last two you’ll be eating beans”. So I tapped the next two10-inchers on the head. The last fish was a solid brownie with colours that reminded me of the Eastern Cape in autumn, I released him. Browns are rare here and I have a thing about treating them like my kids – I never eat them. Supper is pan-fried rainbow trout and whiskey cut lightly with sweet, cold stream water. It doesn’t get much better.

It’s dark, really dark. In the sleeping bag I think of the trout, the hike home, people, family, the past and guilt at being alone. It’s a restless night on rough ground. With every sound, grunt or rustle, my imagination runs wild. I’m convinced I’m about to be attacked, stung, bitten or eaten – but I make it through to morning. I get the stove fired up and start water for coffee. After the first cup I go to the stream and without ceremony take a 12-inch rainbow for breakfast and down another cup of strong black coffee.

The morning is gray and cold with the clouds out to the west perforated, with a few promising blue holes – it was clear by mid-morning. Pack loaded I head off upstream wading and casting; an art in itself just avoiding unplanned swims, it’s clumsy. I concentrate on the best looking water spooking a few good fish from unlikely places – there’s that enigma again, just when I thought I was getting the hang of their game.  The trout are eager and there is a strike nearly every time I put a half decent cast over a rising fish

.

It’s a good day; it eventually comes to an end as the sun slips behind the escarpment, the light fades and the temperature plummets. I eat supper; more trout in the chilly twilight, the darkness and sounds of the night seem a little more familiar. I sleep better, until the rain starts. I’m cold and wet so I drink cups of coffee laced with what’s left of the whiskey – fortified, my anxiousness and discomfort eases. Dawn arrives – I’m soaking wet and freezing. Luckily the sky is clear and the sun’s fingers spread warmth out over the gorge. Packed, I leave the stream. Three hours later I reach the road, my shoulders ache from the pack. I stop an already overloaded local taxi, pay my dues and squeeze in between the intrigued passengers. It’s a short cramped, deafening boom, boom (what IS that music?) ride back to the Park Camp.

Hiking and camping alone is not something I do normally – I have no regrets for the experience. I prefer to now share it with close friends, trout bums.  The horrors of the night are no longer.

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

IN THE BEGINNING

Last week I gave a presentation to the Fly Fishers Association about small stream flyfishing, not some ‘expert’ instruction, (I was once told that, that means a drip under pressure?) but rather what has worked for me from my experience. I started with how my fly fishing journey began in 1954, the 5^th April to be exact! I enjoyed revisiting that momentous day, all of 61 years and 81 days ago and counting.

It went something like this…… My parents woke me early, thank goodness not for school, Uncle Lake was picking me up at 5 am. I was ready and he was on time. I slid into the passenger seat, hardly able to see over the dashboard of the old Ford truck without the extra cushion – it smelt of leather and heady pipe tobacco. A wave goodbye to my Dad at the front gate and we were on our way. The headlights lit up the road ahead and the occasional spring hare scampering on the side blinded by the lights. The old truck rattled, shook and squeaked its way along the winding, corrugated gravel road, the hills almost seemed in motion, rising and falling like ocean swells while a trail of dust marked our passage to Pirie and Maden Dam, just 15 or so miles from King William’s Town. The intermittent voice of Eric Egan on Springbok radio crackled away in the background. I talked a lot, bursting with anticipation for the day ahead. It was my job to open the two farm gates riding on the Ford’s running board between them; the fresh cold wind in my face and eyes watering, my nose dripped, the freezing gate latches were finger numbing – it didn’t matter, my excitement clouded the discomfort.

Maden Dam at Pirie at the base of the Amatola Mountains

This was my first trip alone with Uncle Lake; a tall imposing figure dressed in grey flannels, khaki shirt, weather beaten hat, brown sports jacket and leather boots – his fishing clothes. It was here where my piscatorial tutorial in trout angling would begin – with a child’s rabid devotion I would observe the old man fishing for hours on end. Here I would pass my flyfishing apprenticeship, meticulously watching every move, hanging on every wise experienced word, observing and memorising it all. Looking back I wouldn’t change any of it even for the books and internet that I enjoy today, but then I’m as old as dirt!

Uncle Lake and his wife (not in his fishing oufit!)

We arrived at Maden Dam just as the sun lit up the forested slopes of the Amatola Mountains, a backdrop to the mirrored surface of the dam, a place as pretty as you will find anywhere. After a cup of sweet, strong coffee, an indulgence not allowed at home, Uncle Lake readied himself for the fishing. I followed him along the path around the western shore until we reached the river inlet where it emerged from the forest at the top end of the dam. Unlike previous visits when we continued around the dam to his favourite spots, we made our way into the forest along the stream – a world of beautiful lush indigenous vegetation, lichen covered ancient Yellowood trees, shadows, thin alleys of sunlight lighting up patches of the soft under-foot, damp, leaf littered forest floor. Dew drops, spider webs, bird song, damp earthy smells and the sounds of nature – through the leafy screen, the bubbling chatter and liquid trills of the stream, plunging and gliding between slippery moss covered boulders and fallen leaves. We stopped at the head of a quick run where the water splashed over a small waterfall. The current seam flowed between two large boulders. Uncle Lake selected a Red Tailed Invicta from his small tin of flies, tied it onto the line, freed a length of line from the reel that sounded a little like a Gatling gun and cast down to the tail of the run. He made a few figure of eight twists, turned to me and uttered the words that resonate with me to this day, “here Pete this one is for you”. I took a second or two to react and then with my heart pounding realised what had just happened. I took it from him in trembling hands felt the warmth of the cork grip and then the tug, there was life at the end of the line as the small wild rainbow fought valiantly for freedom and lost. Netted and dispatched I stared proudly at that 10 inch silver, pink speckled beauty, my first trout – a red letter day and the beginning of my fly fishing journey that has taken me to countless beautiful places, introduced me to remarkable people, some who have become lifelong friends. It has enriched my life, brought me joy, rewards, adventure and excitement all laced with indelible memories. And, it is not yet over.

My rod, net and fly box with a selection of traditional flies

I proudly carried the little trout together with Uncle Lake’s brace of one and a half pounders taken from the dam later. We were back at the truck by 9 am. Uncle Lake fired up the old primus stove, heated the fire blackened frying pan, dropped in a healthy quarter pound of butter and placed his two fish into the sizzling pan – the aroma was mouth watering; five minutes and they were done, salted and peppered with a squeeze of lemon we feasted on the succulent pink flesh with a slice of well-buttered brown bread, a ritual that I was to enjoy many times with my mentor, fishing Maden Dam, the streams of the Amatola Mountains and legendary Wolf River near Hogsback. This was the beginning of a piscatorial obsession, it became my presbytery, my basilica, and if that sounds too strong, lets just say it became my passion, running deep in my soul.

Mementos from the early days. For the record, I didn’t smoke, the Three Nuns tin is my Father’s turned into my first fly box 

 I don’t know what became of the dried out, skin wrinkled little trout, but more than likely it found its way into the bin after being carried around for most of the day and proudly shown to my supportive parents with I’m pretty sure, a richly embellished story– a sad ending for that one little fish that gave of its life, but remembered and honoured every day I spend in the pursuit of trout.

Apologies for the quality of some of the photographs re-photographed from old family albums.

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

THE LONG AND WINDING ROAD

As the name implies, Vergelegen, is at the end of a long and winding track, the last stop before the mountains take over and wilderness begins.

It is has a feeling of being on the very edge of the earth – here birds sing all day, tall grasses wave in the breeze and there is an ever changing kaleidoscope of light and shade over the rolling hills and towering escarpment. At times the clouds paint the sky in shades of white and grey bringing relief from the heat of summer and life-giving rain to all. In the valley the Mkhomazi flows steadily like a blue ribbon, clear and cool with an almost glacial tinge – over smooth multi-coloured pebbled runs, riffles and deep slots, between grassy under-cut banks and shimmering pools – a chorus of sounds and liquid trills.

The small brown trout population has lived in these pristine waters for nearly a century, buttery brown, heavily spotted, always challenging and wary. There are days when they seem to disappear like shadows in the mist and other times when a few can be fooled, but they are never easy.

I spent last weekend at Vergelegen with a few friends, Andrew Fowler, Graeme Steart and Grant Visser – the weather wasn’t perfect, but the company, just like the whiskey and the fire-side guitar music provided by Grant were better than good. The fishing was slow, but that’s what you can expect on the Mkhomazi – it makes the surprise of a wild brown of 16 inches that much better, a sense of achievement that for once you managed to get it right – right fly, gentle cast and a perfect drift. Although the fish are seldom plentiful I always have a sense of reward, of priceless pleasure and of spending unencumbered time along a beautiful stream in the presence of wild trout. I guess I’m obsessed with the trout of the Mkhomazi because I’m perplexed and delighted by them – creatures that are secretive and deserving of respect, recalcitrant, intractable and defiant – almost everything spooks them, sending them swimming for cover, for survival.

Here is a small selection of pictures from a memorable weekend – better than a 1000 words.

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

THENDELA FLY FISHING

It is not a pristine mountain stream, but it is an interesting and promising stretch of brown trout water. It is wedged between the Kamberg Nature Reserve lower boundary and Riverside farm upper boundary. It flows through tribal land owned by the Thendela Community and the exciting part of all of this is under the leadership of community member, Richard Khumalo, a conservation endeavor, the Thendela Community Fly Fishing Project (TCFFP), has been established – with the guidance, support and assistance of members of the KZN Fly Fishing Association and Wildfly.

Richard in his office at the Community Centre.

The project involves cleaning up this section of the Mooi River that has over the years become degraded and polluted mainly with litter. And, the introduction of controls that ensures its protection as a fishery into the future for anglers to enjoy in the midst of the daily life of a friendly, welcoming, rural community. There is a daily fishing fee per angler, C&R and barbless hooks are not negotiable.

Richard and our guides for the day.

 

I together with my son Craig and friend Mark Pardey spent the best part of a day exploring a few of the clearly marked beats. After meeting Richard at the Community Centre where the TFFCP is based, and being given an enthusiastic run-down on the project, how it started and plans for the future, he showed us our beats and left us in the hands of 3 of his guides. His enthusiasm for the project was infectious.

Good fishing in the midst of African rural life.

The Mooi was flowing near perfectly despite being tinged with colour, but not entirely uncommon at this level and the rain preceding our trip. But, it had all the promise for an enjoyable days fishing in long slow, deep runs, in quick water at the head of mysterious looking pools and in places pebbled riffles with some inviting pocket water. It didn’t disappoint, we caught enough good conditioned brown trout tween 10 and 14 inches to keep us interested, and then we were surprised by a couple that ran in at the 18 inch class – unfortunately one managed to straighten Craig’s hook and the other got the better of me and the 7X tippet at the net but not before having my heart skip a beat or two at the sight of the spotted broad shouldered fish during the head-bashing struggle for freedom. Earlier with a wry smile, Richard had warned us of the possibility of surprises of this kind! We will be back not just for the fishing, but to follow the progress of this inspiring and worthy conservation project and hopefully in some small way, to be part of it.

A pretty brown from the Thendela waters on the Mooi River.

A happy group of local youngsters hamming it up for the camera.

If anyone is interested in finding out more, you can contact me through this post or to help in some way, or wanting to fish the Thendela waters, you can contact Richard at thendelaflyfishing@gmail.com All images and copy in this post are copyright Peter Brigg Photography © 2015. All rights reserved

FAMILY BONDING, SNAKES AND TROUT.

The late spring rains arrived. The trout held deep – behind structure, in crevices, undercut banks, in calmer back eddies, in places where the strong currents were weaker – nature’s life-blood rushed, swirled and plunged above them in a torrent on its downstream rush to the eastern seaboard. To say that the fishing was a challenge is a gross understatement, we cast heavily weighted nymphs, with large tungsten beads, some also pregnant with lead, and still watched as natures force swept them away with no respect for our efforts – there was little hope getting them down to where the trout were in hiding. We tried all the techniques we knew, but none worked effectively, even using back eddies and whirlpools to suck the flies down brought no reward and the trout were impossible to pry from their deep lies.

But, the weekend with three generations of the Brigg family in Snowflake cottage on the banks of the Bushmans River, all keen flyfishers, was a time to remember, of indelible memories. We walked, talked, laughed, had fun and explored all around us reveling in the beauty and fauna and flora of the Drakensberg Mountain environment.

 

The rain stopped and by day three the water level had dropped by 24 inches and although still fast and tinged with colour, conditions were improving and the bottom structure was beginning to show in places. We were up early to get in an hour fishing before packing and pointing the SUV’s nose away from the mountains and towards our home in the east. I eventually managed to net and release three browns a small 8 incher and two around the 16 inch mark, all solid, butter brown and heavily spotted. They fell to a Mooi River Hooker MRH – not my usual fly for small streams, but the fishing demanded desperate measures!

The MRH!

Provided the rain Gods were understanding and backed off for a while, I knew from experience, that in another two days the river would be in prime condition, clear, flowing steadily and the trout would be on the prod, rising to the dry fly this time – the heavily weighted weapons of mass destruction relegated to a dark corner of the fly box. But, the dry fly would be for another day.  As we drove down the freeway, back to the rush of another kind – the city, traffic, people, grim and noise – we spoke of plans for our next trip to this little slice of paradise – the trout whisperers will be back.

All images and copy in this post are copyright Peter Brigg Photography © 2014. All rights reserved.

THE PLACE OF THE WELL FED DOG

Around this time last year Grant Visser and I did a fishing trip to Injisuthi. It was a day of leaden skies, rain, high water and difficult trout. Grant and I with Mark Pardey in tow this time went back there despite the unfavorable weather reports, a drive through rain, pea-soup mist and in places, slippery gravel roads. But, how wrong can predictions be at times – it was over cast and some mist hung over the high peaks, but there was no rain, the air temperature was comfortable, little or no wind and a stream in near perfect condition, give or take a few inches.

After a bite to eat and a welcome cup of coffee we tackled up as the feathery cap of mist lifted and a weak hazy sun did its best to brighten up the landscape, the majestic peaks revealing themselves occasionally.

The small wild rainbows rose energetically to our flies. My newly constructed Hopper was a favourite and other than changing to a Wolf Spider in an attempt to tempt a fish of nearly 14 inches that I’d pricked earlier, it was all I used all day.

The trout were small, on average 8 to 10 inches with a few around 12 and one as I said of, I’d guess, 14 inches which slipped the barbless hook from his lip after a short, strong fight for freedom. The many fish brought to the net, tested the metal of the Stephen Boshoff bamboo rod, named Didima after a similar Lilliputian Berg stream (https://callofthestream.wordpress.com/2013/08/26/a-rod-named-didima-2/). A delicate wand, accurate, and for the sceptics, with surprising backbone – deserving of nothing less than those pretty small streams, the so called thinner than the thin blue lines and stream born trout – quick, clear as the mountain air, with pockets, runs and plunge pools protected by a natural mountain wilderness. There is a symbiotic relationship between minimalist bamboo rods and perfect, natural mountain streams. It is in my blood.

We gave it best for the day just as the crack and spit of lightening and rumbling thunder over the mountains like meteorological indigestion and build up to some great event, convinced us that it was a sign to leave and to return home until our next visit to the Injisuthi – translated, “The Place of the Well Fed Dog”

All images and copy in this post are copyright Peter Brigg Photography © 2014. All rights reserved.