it to the water because it had been badly damaged and was bleeding.
It happened because, due to the casting difficulty already described,
I had been trailing the fly in the current while making my way along
the bank. The fish had caught itself in the process. At this point Rick
was nowhere in sight : my progress upstream had become more rapid
than was wise because of the lack of action in all the likely-looking
lies I had explored. I was becoming discouraged by failure and tried
and trusted tactics were abandoned for clumsy, untested techniques.
Eventually I decided to have a break while waiting for Rick to catch
up, and sat down on a rock on the bank. My eyes were fixed on the
water, focussed on nothing in particular, when he appeared.
“I had no idea it was going to be so bloody hot!” was his greeting.
“You were right to discourage me early this morning from wearing
a jersey.” He sat down next to me and lit a cigarette. “Tell me what
do these fish look like? They arent exactly on the bite, are they?”
“No”, I agreed. “They certainly arent.” I felt in my pocket for
the little fish I had killed. “They look something like this”, I offered,
displaying the corpse which fitted easily into the palm of my hand,
“but usually much bigger.”
“You mean one of these?” he asked. He drew a magnificent
fifteen inch feral from his windcheater. “I wasnt sure whether it was
big enough to keep,” he said . His voice had a quiver. “But judging
by that one of yours,” he went on, the quiver having now developed
into a fully-fledged snigger, “It seems O.K.”
“How,” I enquired, biting off the words, “did you manage that?”
I was mortally wounded. “Spear-fishing is not allowed.”
“It was easy”, he said, ignoring the sarcasm. “I have no idea of
how to cast so I had to come up with a substitute.” The snigger was
absent but I could tell that it was not far away. “So I parked myself
on a rock mid-stream and let out a long line with a big bushy fly
on the end of it. I think you said it was a Zulu red-tail, if Im not
mistaken.” He paused. “I wonder if you have another you could
spare?” he asked, “I lost it on a snag either that or a very big fish.”
He seemed to be sincere; I could detect no irony.
“So this fly was on the surface?” I asked, ignoring the
request.
“That’s right,” he agreed enthusiastically, “it was bouncing and
skittering around on the top. It was quite a surprise when the fish
nailed it. I nearly fell in with the shock!”
“I see”, I intoned. “Yes, I see.” I handed him another Zulu. I
think it was size six or thereabouts. Something you would only use
Neil had already promised, the night previous, that he would
prepare a repast fit for royalty.
on a dam. I suppose...
“Look!” Rick interrupted, staring over my shoulder and speaking
excitedly, “a rise! Only one I’ve seen today!”
I turned my head and at that moment the fish rose again. A
chance to redress things was my immediate thought. The trout was
about thirty feet out, slightly to the side of the main flow. It was well
within range, but I realized at once that my approach would have to
be by wading: the vegetation in the immediate
area meant that I could not employ my natural,
left-hand cast. The plan would be to enter the
river some way downstream of the target and
get as far out into the water as was necessary
to allow an unhindered cast. This reading of
the situation took a split second. I explained to
Rick what I was going to do and was gratified
to hear him concede that the proposal was way
beyond his ability.
I approached the stream, rod held in left
hand, coiled line in the right. I paused on
the lip of the bank waiting for the next rise.
It soon came. The trout was clearly feeding
and now I knew its precise location. I stepped
carefully into the river, eyes fixed firmly on
where I would direct the fly, neglecting to
notice that the water at this point was about
eight feet deep.
When I emerged, rod in hand, gasping and
spluttering, the first sight I had was of Rick. He
was still sitting in the position where I had left
The intention was to introduce two novices to the delights of trout fishing. Doug and
him, knees cl