It's good to have Andrew Fowler back this month where he takes us fishing in his back yard in South Africa.
Our river valleys in the foothills of the Drakensberg are clothed in a sea of brilliant green grass in the early summer. This is the zone in the highlands, where cultivated farms give way to cattle country, and that in turn to protected wilderness. It is a truly verdant landscape, made all the more beautiful in the soft glow of morning light.
A day trip will see us starting out soaked to the skin in the fresh morning dew that hangs heavily in the tall riverside grass. That grass is cropped short and covers thickly on the hillsides, but down at the streamside, the fly fisherman must venture through tall stands of thatch-grass, and occasional patches of “ou-hout”, a gnarled and woody shrub that is unforgiving of wayward casts. As the day warms, and it really can get hot, one pushes aside the vegetation ahead and plans every footfall around the absence or otherwise of a snake.
The waters themselves are a delight: youthful streams of cool rain water populated in my home region by small feisty brown trout.
Further north, as well as to the south, rainbows predominate. But for the central regions the wily browns hold fort. Of course they are a little less likely than the rainbows to rise freely to the dry, but that said, they will have days where they will come to any dry, even in the absence of a hatch. It is one of those things: the browns decide, and we accept the day we are dealt. Some days they will be their sulky selves, and few will come to the fly. On others a cool mist or rolling cloud might spur their confidence to feed, and a champagne day is to be had. On others still, they will defy what I term a “bluebell day”, and take a small nymph with confidence all morning.
The mornings are where it is at for my fishing buddies and I. Being easterly flowing streams, the mornings offer the sun at your back, and when the water is running clean, a clear view through the water’s surface, and through to the dappled river stones beneath.
Spotting fish is a challenge, but morning conditions certainly improve the chances. There is nothing quite like the thrill of climbing a large lichen covered boulder near the head of a pool, and peeping over the top to witness an unsuspecting wild fish finning away in the current.
Heat, and wild storms, are constants in our summer fishing. But water temperatures normally top out at around 19 degrees C, and the hot sun shining mercilessly in a cloudless sky, is tamed by the cool bubbling water about one's calves. And calf-depth is what you can expect as you wade upstream, flicking a small nymph or a dry into the deeper pockets. Occasionally you will slide into a hole nearing chest depth, or have to climb out to bypass a truly deep pool.
These always hold the promise of a larger fish, but it is a playful fantasy of us fly fishers, that is regularly dashed by the tug of another little brown of ten to twelve inches. Of course better fish are to be had. Particularly in the slightly lower stretches of the rivers, sixteen to eighteen inch fish are a little more common. But up in the hills, where you are more likely to encounter clean mountain water, and slightly cooler air temperatures, the dry winters see to it that the rivers harbor only little chaps. What beautiful little chaps they are though. Brightly spotted browns, some bearing the red “Von Bher” stipple about their flanks, and others more reminiscent of their Loch Leven ancestors.
These fish delight us, with their quick takes, that typically see the small bright indicator darting off this way or that. So often it signals a brave dash of a fish from beneath an overhanging “ouhot” branch, or from a narrow slither of shaded water tight against the bank, where a cascade of thick grass trails in the water. Wading up river, rock hopping and climbing in and out, we throw hoppers, and #14 beaded nymphs on three weight rods, and lighter, pushing loops in tight against foliage and rock, aiming for the seam from which a lazy brown may refuse to depart. We will wade wet, but in old khaki longs to protect against sun, thorns, and snake-bite.
Hats and sunscreen are mandatory for even the most hardened fishermen, and a backpack would not be fulfilling its full purpose without some rain-gear.
Violent thunderstorms are part of the equation, and shelter by way of a rock overhang is seldom where you need it to be when a storm breaks. So we lay our graphite rods down in the grass a safe distance away and sit out a storm in the open valley. They usually pass quick enough, and the sun breaks through again to bathe the stream in soft light and signal some of the best fishing of the day.
Wet footed and pleasantly tired, we can be back home for supper, such is the proximity of these waters to my home town. Home with some great photos, memories of fish fooled, and with some more scratches on our fishing tackle. Our stream fishing in summer is not the stuff of huge trophies or snow capped backdrops. It is more a mild and sedate venture, but one in which we return sweaty and with leg muscles that remind us how unfit we are. Most importantly we return with fishing stories, and with mental imprints of the beauty of the Drakensberg towering off to the west, the sun and shadow playing upon its craggy face.
To enjoy more from Andrew be sure to visit his excellent website.
