Early memories - trout
Judging by the family photos I caught my first trout at the tender age of four years, although contrary to the experiences of my colleagues, I have no recollection of that momentous event.
My memories seem to start at about the same time as I landed the elusive first ever wild brown of over a pound, somewhere in my sixth year. The fish was memorable not only due to its size but more because I was alone and had no one to witness the progression from a lucky laatjie to an accomplished angler. That was probably just as well as the fish had taken a lobworm on a size 10.
Those early days seem to have a particular clarity and freshness in one’s memory even when compared to more recent expeditions. Maybe it was due to the exuberance of youth or the fact that whilst learning certain things they tend to stay fixed in the grey matter a bit longer. Either way the clarity of the water, the smell of freshly mown fields and the quiet humming of streamside insects can be recalled in my memory in the time it takes to close the eyes.
I remember my father patiently explaining where trout are likely to be found, why they would be there and what they would likely be feeding on. He would then disappear upstream and immerse himself in the overhanging brambles and nettles, only to be spotted by the tip of a rod dancing its magical act as yet another fish felt the prick of iron in its jaws. Meanwhile I would have anxiously tackled up, 7ft cane spinning rod, Mitchell 300 reel filled with 6lb line straight through to a #10 with a fresh lobworm impaled on it. This may not seem exactly sporting to those of us who have embraced the long rod, but upstream worming is a delicate skill that requires all of the subtle presentation and depth control that nymphing for yellows requires. Once mastered, it is also rather deadly, and as a result I soon learned to be quick on the strike in order to avoid deep hooking, as well as how to play the fish in order to release it quickly without spoiling the water.
I recall sitting at the lodge after an afternoons fishing when the owner of the fishery, Bob, walked up with his traditional glass of milk (I was to learn later that the Doctor had prescribed it to alleviate some problems caused by a reliance upon Scotland’s finest – which Bob promptly mixed with the milk anyway) and proceeded to mention that flyfishing was the only way in which a gentlemen pursued gamefish.
With this information ingrained upon my young mind, it took little persuasion to get Dad to invest in an 8ft 6 wt Daiwa fibreglass fly rod with a through action, satin black finish and snake eyes whipped with an emerald green thread. I could not afford a fly reel at that time and ended up borrowing an old centre-pin which used to be used for trotting the Hampshire Avon for barbel (the European version) and chub. This was quickly filled with a cheap mill end line from the local auction, attached to the rod and I set forth to practise.
I had set myself a target of the far end of the lawn, and convinced Dad that when I could cast that far, it would be nice to try my new found skills on one of our local stillwaters. (at that time Rockbourne, Damerham and Avington were on all my doorstep).
One cool autumn morning a few weeks later saw us tackling up on the banks of Damerham Trout Lakes, one of the finest such venues at the time.
I had devoured as many books as I could find on the subject of flyfishing, and constantly probed my fathers mind as to what fly, what depth, how fast etc. His answer was always the same, what they are feeding on, where they are and as slow as you can go. Sage advise indeed.
With trembling hands I got everything rigged, tied on a sparsely dressed damsel nymph with a bit of lead in the thorax, straightened the tippet, degreased it to sink better, moistened the fly and promptly lost it in the reeds behind me on my first back cast. Undaunted I repeated the exercise only this time I managed to whip my hat off my head and into the dam. I used this as a good excuse to wet the landing net in preparation of what was surely to come.
After thrashing the water for a while I decided that perhaps the fish were fed up with damsels and I tried a corixa type pattern. Whilst in the process of tying this on, I became aware of a heron like figure just off to my left, standing in the shadows under one of the larger willow trees that encompassed the dam. He uttered a greeting and said that whilst he was waiting for the water to warm up (a euphemism for allowing the fish to settle after my aerial bombardment of them) would I mind if he gave me some tips. He quickly explained more about trout behaviour in Stillwater, feeding routines, patterns to try and concluded by a quick casting lesson. His name was Bill Sibbons and he became probably one of the finest big fish stalkers in history.
As the morning warmed up the fish became more noticeable and it wasn’t long before I had a few follows and then at last, a take. I’m not sure who was more surprised, myself or the trout as I pulled a perfectly tied imitation of his lunch out of his mouth and into the reeds behind me again. I think that trout had my name on it, as no sooner had I extricated the fly from the weeds and plopped it back into the water, the fish swam up and simply opened its mouth and inhaled the fly. I struck and suddenly realised that the through action rod was actually a circular actioned one as the tip came around in a perfect circle and practically touched the butt. As the fish streaked across the dam and sought sanctuary first in the weeds and then, through a series of leaps in the sky, I knew that I had found my nirvana. Later that day he weighed in at three pounds eight ounces and was the first of five. I met up with Dad at the bottom dam which tended to be a bit murkier and was more weed filled. He was also thrilled at my catch and I think he knew then that a life long love affair was about to start. Once back at the lodge and with the congratulations having faded away, it finally dawned on me that Dad didn’t have any fish with him. I smugly asked if he wanted to
take one of mine to show Mom. Instead, with a gleam in his eye he opened the freezer and pulled out a monster of 13lbs 9oz which he had caught earlier. It was larger than all of mine together.
45 years and many trout later the old man still manages to extract more and larger trout than I, even without the advantages of good eyesight, modern tackle and the mobility of youth. I received a note last month with a picture of his latest, 8lbs 10oz, totally wild from a stream that you can jump across in places. He followed this up with another of 7 1/2 just to prove it was no fluke.
Judging by the family photos I caught my first trout at the tender age of four years, although contrary to the experiences of my colleagues, I have no recollection of that momentous event.
My memories seem to start at about the same time as I landed the elusive first ever wild brown of over a pound, somewhere in my sixth year. The fish was memorable not only due to its size but more because I was alone and had no one to witness the progression from a lucky laatjie to an accomplished angler. That was probably just as well as the fish had taken a lobworm on a size 10.
Those early days seem to have a particular clarity and freshness in one’s memory even when compared to more recent expeditions. Maybe it was due to the exuberance of youth or the fact that whilst learning certain things they tend to stay fixed in the grey matter a bit longer. Either way the clarity of the water, the smell of freshly mown fields and the quiet humming of streamside insects can be recalled in my memory in the time it takes to close the eyes.
I remember my father patiently explaining where trout are likely to be found, why they would be there and what they would likely be feeding on. He would then disappear upstream and immerse himself in the overhanging brambles and nettles, only to be spotted by the tip of a rod dancing its magical act as yet another fish felt the prick of iron in its jaws. Meanwhile I would have anxiously tackled up, 7ft cane spinning rod, Mitchell 300 reel filled with 6lb line straight through to a #10 with a fresh lobworm impaled on it. This may not seem exactly sporting to those of us who have embraced the long rod, but upstream worming is a delicate skill that requires all of the subtle presentation and depth control that nymphing for yellows requires. Once mastered, it is also rather deadly, and as a result I soon learned to be quick on the strike in order to avoid deep hooking, as well as how to play the fish in order to release it quickly without spoiling the water.
I recall sitting at the lodge after an afternoons fishing when the owner of the fishery, Bob, walked up with his traditional glass of milk (I was to learn later that the Doctor had prescribed it to alleviate some problems caused by a reliance upon Scotland’s finest – which Bob promptly mixed with the milk anyway) and proceeded to mention that flyfishing was the only way in which a gentlemen pursued gamefish.
With this information ingrained upon my young mind, it took little persuasion to get Dad to invest in an 8ft 6 wt Daiwa fibreglass fly rod with a through action, satin black finish and snake eyes whipped with an emerald green thread. I could not afford a fly reel at that time and ended up borrowing an old centre-pin which used to be used for trotting the Hampshire Avon for barbel (the European version) and chub. This was quickly filled with a cheap mill end line from the local auction, attached to the rod and I set forth to practise.
I had set myself a target of the far end of the lawn, and convinced Dad that when I could cast that far, it would be nice to try my new found skills on one of our local stillwaters. (at that time Rockbourne, Damerham and Avington were on all my doorstep).
One cool autumn morning a few weeks later saw us tackling up on the banks of Damerham Trout Lakes, one of the finest such venues at the time.
I had devoured as many books as I could find on the subject of flyfishing, and constantly probed my fathers mind as to what fly, what depth, how fast etc. His answer was always the same, what they are feeding on, where they are and as slow as you can go. Sage advise indeed.
With trembling hands I got everything rigged, tied on a sparsely dressed damsel nymph with a bit of lead in the thorax, straightened the tippet, degreased it to sink better, moistened the fly and promptly lost it in the reeds behind me on my first back cast. Undaunted I repeated the exercise only this time I managed to whip my hat off my head and into the dam. I used this as a good excuse to wet the landing net in preparation of what was surely to come.
After thrashing the water for a while I decided that perhaps the fish were fed up with damsels and I tried a corixa type pattern. Whilst in the process of tying this on, I became aware of a heron like figure just off to my left, standing in the shadows under one of the larger willow trees that encompassed the dam. He uttered a greeting and said that whilst he was waiting for the water to warm up (a euphemism for allowing the fish to settle after my aerial bombardment of them) would I mind if he gave me some tips. He quickly explained more about trout behaviour in Stillwater, feeding routines, patterns to try and concluded by a quick casting lesson. His name was Bill Sibbons and he became probably one of the finest big fish stalkers in history.
As the morning warmed up the fish became more noticeable and it wasn’t long before I had a few follows and then at last, a take. I’m not sure who was more surprised, myself or the trout as I pulled a perfectly tied imitation of his lunch out of his mouth and into the reeds behind me again. I think that trout had my name on it, as no sooner had I extricated the fly from the weeds and plopped it back into the water, the fish swam up and simply opened its mouth and inhaled the fly. I struck and suddenly realised that the through action rod was actually a circular actioned one as the tip came around in a perfect circle and practically touched the butt. As the fish streaked across the dam and sought sanctuary first in the weeds and then, through a series of leaps in the sky, I knew that I had found my nirvana. Later that day he weighed in at three pounds eight ounces and was the first of five. I met up with Dad at the bottom dam which tended to be a bit murkier and was more weed filled. He was also thrilled at my catch and I think he knew then that a life long love affair was about to start. Once back at the lodge and with the congratulations having faded away, it finally dawned on me that Dad didn’t have any fish with him. I smugly asked if he wanted to
take one of mine to show Mom. Instead, with a gleam in his eye he opened the freezer and pulled out a monster of 13lbs 9oz which he had caught earlier. It was larger than all of mine together.
45 years and many trout later the old man still manages to extract more and larger trout than I, even without the advantages of good eyesight, modern tackle and the mobility of youth. I received a note last month with a picture of his latest, 8lbs 10oz, totally wild from a stream that you can jump across in places. He followed this up with another of 7 1/2 just to prove it was no fluke.