Andrew Pieterse makes an early season trip to the Wye in search of salmon
This was our 2nd trip to the famed Goodrich Court on the Wye; it seems it’s becoming an annual pilgrimage for Adrian and me. This time things were a bit different from our previous trip during the summer of 2017. Then the Ross Gauge read around 0.5 m – ideal conditions according to gillie Mick; the person who “knows everything there is to know about Goodrich Court.” Now it’s been a very wet April 2018 and the very same gauge is reading 0.83 m and it’s more like “… at least there is still a chance with a spinner, if the water doesn’t colour any further.”
So herewith my first conundrum: Do I stick with the fly as is my distinct preference or do I succumb to the dreaded Flying C? If I was determined to stick to the fly, I would have to blow out two days' fishing; two days I’d been looking forward to all winter. But if I gave over to the dark side… Last year we had not a pull, so faced with the high water and a coloured river, it’s the Flying C for me because – at least there’s a chance.
We had arrived early doors on the Friday and it was wet and cold; our waterproof gear was put to the test. My wife had protested vehemently when I told her I desperately needed that new top-of-the-line Orvis Sonic wading jacket at great expense. Today it was worth every cent and the extra hours of household chores required to eventually placate the beast. My new jacket (and waders) kept me bone dry. With three layers underneath my waders I at least managed to stay some semblance of warm, but everything on the outside of my waterproof barrier was getting thoroughly soaked.
The Welsh valleys are beautiful in the rain, green and lush. It’s just that they lose some of their glamour when you’re actually standing in that rain for hours on end. They’re probably better to be viewed from a comfy B&B window, but then we were there to catch a famed Wye Springer and it’s a long throw from the nearest B&B. Mick declared it “… the worst day of the year.” The going underfoot on the banks resembled an ice-rink at times, with the ground being well and truly soaked into a muddy existence. Adrian’s felt soled boots, so good on the boulders of Dartmoor, became somewhat of a liability. My hands eventually started to turn blue, but we saw not a fish that Friday.
Saturday came and started much the same, grey and wet, but after a day and a half of soaking cold, the sun started to make an appearance and then the whole mood of the river started to change. The air was suddenly filled with a plethora of insects and the odd yellow mayfly made an appearance. The salmon seemed to like this.
Like a rocket from the deep, a 20lb fish broke the surface in a porpoise dive – straight over my line. It’s a good thing gillies are hardened to expletives, it must be the first line of any good gillie's job description: “Rods may use offensive language from time-to-time.” Mick looked at me and grinned, “I’ve heard worse.” Shortly afterwards another fish made itself know with a similar porpoise dive through the run. Now some excitement was really starting to build. Some glimmer of confidence started to creep into our soggy souls - could this be the start of a run? Further upstream the occasional splash started to catch our eye. It seemed yet another fish was making itself know. I stayed fishing on the Bend while Adrian and Mick were further upstream. Eventually I saw the two of them move off further up towards the top the Vanstone Pool. 10 minutes more of cast-wind-cast-wind and I see Mick’s face appear above the ridge, reaching out for the keep net, he looked at me and said: “Adrian’s hooked that fish.”
I scrambled up the stairs and as I rounded the bend on the top of the ridge I saw Adrian with his ABU Salmo Seeker bent deep into a considerable fish. Excitement coursed through me. He’s done it! Finally, he’s done it! Reaching the top of the bank I saw the fish dive towards a known snag, I held my breath, but Adrian expertly applied just the right amount of side-strain to move the fish away and into open water, before finally bringing it closer to shore. Then it’s head rose above the water and Mick gave the instruction to bring it to the net. It was in – elation! I knew Adrian had worked hard and he could have lost that fish a hundred times over, but he’d done it and it was in the net. The moments that followed were pure joy. After such a long slog it was incredible to finally see such a beautiful creature up close - 18 lbs of it. Mick whipped the hook out and returned it to the water. Slowly we watched it gain its strength back and swim off - a job well done.
And herewith the start of my second conundrum: I fished hard for the next few hours, but the day was getting late and the river was starting to rise more rapidly and then the colour started changing from a dark root beer to a cloudy light-brown - not good. Slowly despair and confusion started to grow, but I’d fished just as hard, so why me! So while I’m exceedingly glad that one of us managed a fish, I was leaving the river feeling rather less ecstatic, mostly just soggy, tired and cold. So how should I feel about this? My faithful fishing friend landed a beautiful Wye Springer and I had caught naught.
Well, what if we had both blanked on the trip? I know Adrian would have loved the time out regardless; he has an exceedingly positive demeanour when it comes to fishing. However, there was little doubt that he had an extra spring in his step after landing such a remarkable fish. After hours of fishing it may seem like we deserve a fish, but then salmon fishing doesn’t always seem to work that way. We may well increase our chances by having our lure in the water, but sometimes it just isn’t our day – salmon don’t owe us a thing.
