Kris Kent sent us a piece of work that he feels didn't need pictures, we agree
The Journey
The bright morning light streams through the flimsy guest room curtains. You make a mental note not to drink so much red wine in future. You’ve stayed with friends who live an hour closer to the river than you. It seems like a good excuse to catch up on work, kids and home improvements, plus you get more time on the water. Having showered, dressed and packed you get distracted by a well-laid breakfast table. Hugs and ’see you soons’ out of the way you end up leaving an hour later than planned, so much for more time on the water!
It’s a bright warm morning, the mid-May sky is a crisp blue and large fluffy, marshmallow clouds tinged grey on their underside float along, slightly too briskly for your liking. The roads are quiet and you quickly get away from the town, out into the countryside. The fields are still that youthful shade of green and the cows look a little sleepy as they munch at their breakfast. Suddenly the mobile phone rings, you wonder whether to answer then notice it is your previous night's host. You’ve left the flask of strong black coffee on the kitchen table. You make a mental note to not do that again. Do you turn back and lose another half hour's fishing or push on, you push on asking the friend to leave the flask on the doorstep and you’ll pick it up on the way home tonight.
The road winds along a broad country road climbing away from the town and out of the valley onto a plateau; small fields, hedges, coppice and woodland stretching away to the horizon. You pass by farms, some small and neat others large and sprawling, and on though small hamlets. You make a mental note to stop at that petrol station on the way home for provisions and that pub for a quick pint and a bite to eat. You spot a small store and stop to see if they sell thermos flasks, no luck. Now and then the road rises over a small bridge and you glimpse a small stream gliding by beneath. You stretch to try and see how the water is, what height it’s running at and whether there is anything hatching but it’s gone in a flash, you wish you’d stopped but the fishing is calling.
Before you realise the turning for the farm is upon you and you have to brake a little too briskly to make the turn, prompting a hard stare from the driver following behind. You exchange pleasantries with the lady at the farm, as she writes out your fishing permit, wondering if she knows how the fishing is, what’s hatching, which are the best pools. She seems more concerned with the knot of puppies writhing around her feet, her young bitch is struggling to round the puppies up whilst keeping a weather eye on you.
It’s a short drive now to the little parking spot. You turn off the road and park the car in a shady spot close to the picnic bench you’ll use to spread all the equipment out on as you kit up, it also offers a comfortable seat for you as you wriggle in to your waders. You aren’t going to be able to actually wade but they will offer some protection and they make it feel like a proper fishing trip. You decide to try out the new backpack come fishing vest, vest/pack, the earnest young man in the posh fishing outfitters sold you for your overseas trip. You transfer all your bits and pieces over from your old stained vest into the new pack with all its pockets, straps, adjustable this and thats. Lots of room for everything. You miss the flask but are glad you remembered a water bottle. Which fly boxes should you take? In the end you pop the dry fly boxes in the front pockets on the vest/pack and stuff all the rest in the backpack, just in case. Before you set off for the river you go through the mental checklist to make sure you have everything.
The plan is to walk out for about half an hour, cut in and find the river and then fish back upstream towards where you have left the car. If you have time you might try nymphing back downstream for a while. You head off following the road, glad for the thoughtful drivers that swing out and cursing those who don’t, almost knocking you in to the ditch. You suddenly think how strange you must look in your chest waders, studded boots, peaked cap, back pack and those wraparound sunglasses that make you look like some giant bug. You stop to loosen the laces on your wading boots, fine for standing still by the river but too tight for the short hike in. You are concentrating, not wanting to miss the gap in the hedge where you turn off the road. t seems to take longer than last time to reach it. The noise of the traffic quickly fades as you traverse the field and turn onto a more clearly defined track. The trees start to close in around you, gradually changing from the open deciduous field fringe to the dense coniferous forest. You remember your last visit when you came face to face with the fox in the dark wood and how you’d watched him earlier hunting mice and voles in the quite pastures. Beneath your feet the ants scamper to and fro gathering needles to build their nests higher and higher. As the forest starts to open out you turn across some boggy ground, through a thick willow copse and out into the water meadows.
The River
The river comes on you all of a sudden. It meanders lazily across the water meadows a couple of feet below ground level silent but for the occasional splash of a frisky juvenile fish. The meadows here are not cut or grazed so the tussocks of grass are high and they further shield the river from the passer by; last year’s growth crunches under foot and you wonder if the fish can hear it. The river is not wide, never more than a couple of rod lengths, but you know it will still be tricky to get the fly into the right spot against the far bank. The water meadow is boggy, studded with marsh marigold, buttercups and fringed by willow. The river is generally open but here and there it rubs up against the edge of the floodplain and the far bank is crowded with oak and willow. Occasionally a drainage ditch slices through the meadow, they are just wide enough to make you stop and make a well-judged leap to reach the far side. You stare into the river. Here and there a thick strand of water crowfoot sways in the current the white and yellow flowers just starting to open. The riverbed is sandy and the banks the same, soft and yielding underfoot. Too soft to wade. You make a mental note not to get too close to the edge. The river cuts in under the bank and you mark spots where a large trout might tuck itself in, out of the main current. The river is mostly shallow and although it is a little coloured, good malt whisky you think, you can see the bottom. Here and there the bed dips away in to a deep languid pool and you picture running a heavier nymph through one for the leviathan lurking in its depths.
Life is all around you. As you make up your rod a sparrowhawk sweeps low then climbs, quickly surfing the stiffening wind, it quarters across the meadow and then drops behind a low rounded clump of willow. Later it is joined by a dark buzzard riding the afternoon thermals. Whilst you hover near the river’s edge a rustle makes you look down just to see a small lizard dart across your wading boot. On your last visit the kingfisher darted back and forth along the river, that familiar flash of blue low over the water.
You impress yourself with your river craft as you scout through the trees and along the river’s edge studying the spider’s webs for recent hatches, plucking a crumpled shuck from the meniscus. Some of the insects even come to you as two large dark caddis land on the back of your hand. You think how odd it is how people always talk about the daddy long legs, crane fly, as a late season fly because the meadow is teaming with them. You wonder if a large imitation might tempt out a big trout? You scan the river in the hope of a clear unequivocal hatch but to no avail. There is just the usual broad assortment of small indistinct flies of so and so genus hovering over the water but the fish don’t seem to be taking them. You’ve seen a fish steadily, rhythmically rising to some passing morsel that you can’t make out and then you watch as a large perfectly formed mayfly in classic sailing boat stance floats down the pool straight over the fish, there is no movement and moments later the mayfly lifts off toward the meadow. You push back your peaked cap, scratch your head and wonder why the fish showed no interest in such a large tasty snack.
The Fly
You have already committed to fishing upstream and with the dry fly. The occasional rising fish whets the appetite. You carefully assemble the rod. The second hand Sage 9 foot for a 4 weight feels delicate and fragile in your large hands. You remember how the guy in the local tackle shop talked you into buying it with tales of monster fish from the four corners of the world and how you wondered why he was selling such a mythical rod. You now wonder how someone who works in a tackle shop can afford Sage rods and trips to New Zealand, Chile and the legendary Henry’s Fork? You make a mental note to look into getting a job at a tackle shop. The inexpensive reel holds the new dull grey double taper line that you feed through the snake guides checking you haven’t missed one or run it around the rod. The words of Hugh Falkus ring in your ears and you run off all the fly line from the reel and then rewind it neatly.
But what should fill that all-important gap between the fly line and the fly. On your last visit you admired your host's handmade leader, each carefully matched length of mono neatly knotted to the next and nail knotted on to the fly line. You remember a previous mental note to make up a few of your own leaders, but you forgot. You now leaf through a selection of pre-made tapered leaders and cast an eye over the loop connection on the end of your fly line. It is going to have to be a balance between delicacy and cast-ability. The fish here are not heavily fished, you will probably have the river to yourself today, and they are not too leader shy, despite the clear water but you still feel the need for a longer leader. However the wind is stiffer than you would like and yards of light tippet and small dry flies are going to get blown all over the place. You choose a 15-foot 3lb copolymer leader and cut it back to more like 12 foot. This gives you a long stiff butt and a shorter tippet that should be easier to manage in the blustery wind but still gives a delicate connection to the fly.
And now the fly. You take out the three dry fly boxes and lay them out in front of you. You remember all those articles by imminent fishermen about only needing six flies for the whole season. It sounds sensible but what about all those beautiful flies that you can’t resist, lovingly tied or beautifully displayed in the tackle shops. Isn’t half the fun trying something new? Your river craft hasn’t revealed any obvious fly choice. There is no obvious hatch but the fish are rising. Then you remember all that advice about the rise form telling you whether the fish are feeding just below, just in or just on the surface and therefore whether you need an emerger, adult, spent or …… whatever pattern. You go back and stare at the rising fish and discover you can hardly spot the rise, let alone whether it is nosing, head and tailing, slurping ….. whatever. As it is still just morning you dip into one of the boxes and pull out a tangle of Klinkhammers. Rationally you think the fish are probably feeding on the emerger, irrationally you just like the Klinkhammer as it's caught you fish before and it looks right. If in doubt small and black always works so you pry a small black version with a silver rib out of the tangle and thoughtfully tie it on.
The first two knots break as you pull them tight. Better now than when attached to that huge fish, you think as you try a third time. This time it holds true. You now realise that you haven’t transferred everything over into the new vest/pack and that your clipper is still attached to the old reliable fishing vest back in the boot of the car. You make a mental note to buy twenty more clippers and to attach them to every vest, pack, bag, shirt or set of waders you might ever use. As you try to bite off the tag end of the tippet as close to the fly as possible you make a mental note to book a dentist's appointment.
You reach into the front pocket of the chest waders and pull out a host of lotions and potions. You squeeze a drop of floatant onto the hackle and gently massage it in. You rub a little Fullers Earth along the leader to remove any shine or flash.
You are ready. You consider having a coffee and a puff before you make the first cast, unseemly haste would not do, but remember that you left the flask at your friends. Instead you take a gulp of water and start towards the water. You can have a puff once the first fish has been released.
The Fish
You check where the sun is, making sure you aren’t casting a shadow over the water. You note the direction of the wind and try to judge any adjustment in cast to compensate. As you carefully approach you can see the fish is still rising. It is erratic but ongoing. You lengthen line and false cast away from the rising fish trying to estimate length. You cast short to check the current and how the fly rides the water. There are a few tricky eddies but you should be able to get a few feet of drift before drag kicks in. You let the fly pass below you before you lift off and just as you turn to start the cast a small fish rises through the water and takes the fly. It never ceases to amaze you how very small fish will take very large flies, and on the drag! You manage to flick the tiddler off and try to regain composure. Your target is still rising. You lengthen once more and put out a reasonable cast, the fly trotting down the run and straight over the fish. Nothing happens, no movement, no rise, nothing. You try again, nothing. You pause to check if the fish is still rising, it is. The next two casts are blown off line. You try to judge the wind and put the next cast out in a lull and then bang. The fly disappears in a swirl as you raise the rod and draw down on the line. The fish senses the pressure and turns, boring down into the current. You feel the line strumming as the fish tries to shake off the hook, to no avail. The fish is a good size but your leader is stout and you bring the fish in as quickly as possible. Now you realise that you have also forgotten the landing net, normally the fish are small and can be brought to the hand easily but here the bank is well above the river and this fish too big to lift clear of the water. You manoeuvre into a spot where the bank has collapsed a little and you can get closer to the water. As your left leg disappears past the knee into the soft wet sand you are glad you wore the chest waders. As you draw the fish closer you reach forward taking the leader in your hand and simultaneously lay your rod down on the bank. Wetting your hands you take hold of the fish and marvel at its iridescence, firm body and bright eyes. A quick flick and the fly is free and the fish returned to the water, energetically swimming down into the safety of the weeds. You drag yourself free of the cloying mud and lay back on the bank the adrenaline pumping through your system, your senses heightened. You’ve caught your first grayling and you didn’t even stop to measure or weigh it. Now it’s time for a puff.
Biography:
Kris Kent has been fly fishing and trotting for brown trout and grayling for over 20 years in the UK, Europe and Scandinavia. He is PR Officer for the Grayling Society and helps out The Wild Trout Trust with their online communications and events.