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 Much has been written about fishing in perfect conditions, the conditions that are waxed lyrically in magazines, instructional books and seen on all the TV programs and videos. We all know them, we are all prepared for them, however, we mere mortals seldom get to fish in them, they are just not around every day and you have to spend a lot of time on the water, just to get a feeling that, one day, they might just be there when you’re fishing.
I am talking about the stories of fishing mystical places like Boarmans Chase or Gateshead, with a slight upstream breeze; just enough to cover you’re casting imperfections, with the sound of running water gurgling over the drop offs, to lighten your step, casting to free rising fish, feeding aggressively on the surface.
Or like being on Sterkfontien dam after a rain shower, when the wind drops and the termites decide to send out their new kings and queens, when the surface of this vast expanse of water is as smooth as a mill pond, with the rising fish creating circular rings every few feet. Or like being on the Vaal, when there visibility is huge, I am talking of 3 feet, and the fish are feeding on emerging or cripple Mayflies, when sight fishing to active fish makes the afternoon exhilarating.
Yes, we mere mortals seldom have the experience of fishing these idealistic conditions, yet it is most of what we read or see, and what we all seem to desire. We are out there fishing in all the conditions not explained by the pros most of the time, so when we do have those perfect conditions we have to make the most of them, really make them count.
I can’t say that I have had all those experiences, but I have been lucky enough, privileged should I say, to have fished in a few of them. Mostly though, I have fished in all the conditions one doesn’t dream about…
Boarmans, with Hurricane Hilda screaming downstream with the aggression of the American armored cavalry invading some defenseless middle-eastern state, with so little water, three guys could lie down and drink the stream dry.
Sterkies, with a falling barometer, when the fish are down deep, and refuse to leave the sanctuary of their green water, where not even ripping a strip-leach through them gets a response.
And I can’t remember when last I fished the Vaal with more than a few inches visibility, when chucking a truck and trailer repetitively, up and across, still produces no fish.
So when one of those Zen like days does present itself, I firmly stick out both hands and grab it, and hell, you have to be Hulk Hogan to pry it out of my grubby little paws, if you dare.
Recently, I grabbed, latched on and held tight…
I have a little stream about an hour or so away from my abode; it’s not much of a stream, it’s not even mine, but I like it and it fishes well. So when I invited a new friend to share a day on it, we expected nothing more than a pleasant walk, getting our feet wet and making some arb gestures with a fly rod to represent the fact that we were fishing. When we arrived and drove over the low-water bridge, we were pleasantly surprised to see the occasional fish sipping something from the surface. So after rigging our rods, tightening our boot straps and donning our fishing packs, we were even more surprised to see that there was good visibility in the normally chocolate brown stream, so full of topsoil that ploughing it and planting a crop of maize is sometimes more appropriate than fishing it.
As we started our stroll, we were even more surprised to see that the fish were feeding quite actively, taking insects and fallen terrestrials from the surface, holding in prime lies and often giving their presence away with a flash of gold or a missed placed fin. This was all playing out to be an interesting day, maybe even a stellar one.
By the time we had fished our way through the first run, Byron had cursed about 5 times, missing fish when their takes were soft and slow, not saying that I might be a better fisherman, but I had managed to land 2 beautiful fish, which had eaten my stimulator with confidence. We regrouped at the tail-out of the pool that feeds the run and a change in tactics was discussed. Byron switched to a beetle and on its first visit to the water’s surface, it dragged a beautiful fish up through the water column to sip it and turn away to return to the depths. His first fish of what was turning out to be an interesting morning.
We moved to the next run where fish seemed to be moving through the rocks and picking up insects on every turn, Byron’s beetle was now accompanied by a small nymph, I had dropped a ZAK of the end of my stimulator and the relaxing stroll started becoming more of a day’s fishing. We only cast when we saw the tell tale signs of a fish, presenting the team of flies a few feet above the fish and allowing them to drift slowly into the zone, the response was erratic, some drifts were accepted with confidence, other rejected with scorned, poor presentation was frond upon. But as our exuberation settled and we relaxed into a calm and comfortable rhythm, our offerings were more readily accepted. By the time we move up, the scores were leveled and it was the last time we would discuss the issue until we returned to the car for the drive home.
There was something special about the light, there were patches of blue, but overall the clouds held the sun back and brought out colors and hues that seemed to enhance the experience, so I put my fishing partner into a great little run, seated my fly in its keep and reached into my bag for the camera. Let me state that my photographic skills are still in their infancies, in fact, they are nowhere near what I believe to be presentable, but I enjoy the companionship of the camera and the fly rod, and headed off to, as I once heard, hose the scene down. But exuberance got the better of me and in my haste to capture the emotions, as I discovered later, I left the camera in the wrong settings, and although the shots were nicely composed, they didn’t do it justice. Too soft, almost out of focus and no depth of field, most disappointing, well for me that is. Byron, on the other hand, was so distracted by the fishing; he paid little notice to me, taking fish from the surface with ease.
Lunch was spent back at the car, where we contemplated the morning, discussed our tactics for the afternoon, and then we did it all over again.
Our drive home was marred by a flat tire, however little could dampen our spirits and after receiving some help and a can of tyreweld, we were bantering about the day, contemplating the fishing and enjoying the fact that when it all comes together, it makes for one the most enjoyable experiences imaginable. I felt rejuvenated and inspired, kind of cleansed and the misgivings of the previous year were left behind. I learnt something, as I often do, and realized that my fly boxes were in a shoddy state, really shoddy and have put my hammer to the anvil, so to say, and have been spending time at the vice, tying flies, beetles, hoppers, emergers, drys and nymphs, not only because I needed them, but because it allows me to drift off to a fantasy land were everyday is a perfect day.
A week or so later, a good friend of mine was visiting his parent and was given a day pass for good behavior, so we set off for the same piece of water, and you won’t believe this, the conditions were almost the same. Not quite as much action on the surface, but plenty of fish readily showing themselves and allowing us to cast to them. Not saying they all accepted our humble offerings, but some of them did, bring joy to our smiles.
It’s not often one is rewarded with stellar day, they are few and far between, but on the occasion that one does present itself, unashamed grab it, relax and enjoy it.
Remember it is seldom about the fish, and more often about the fishing… |
