Goodbye little Fenland river

I fished the RTMBN for what was probably the last time on Saturday. This was the last weekend of the trout season here. I shall not be returning to it next year because we are moving 'back home' to south Wales in the spring. This means putting our move 'back home' to Colorado on hold for a while. That's fine with me. Wales is my second home, and the fishing is pretty damn good in those green valleys.

I can't say that I shall miss much about Norwich. The city and people are nice enough, but if you don't have an extended family living here (most people seem to), it feels very isolated. I will, however, miss the wild Fenlands very much, and especially this little chalkstream that flows through it.



Phillip Pullman (whose philosophies on God I don't agree with) nevertheless describes the Fenlands in a particularly eloquent way, which I have adapted here:

...the Fens - that wide and never fully mapped wilderness of huge skies and endless marshland in eastern Anglia. The furthest fringe of it mingled indistinguishably with the creeks and tidal inlets of the shallow sea, and the other side of the sea mingled indistinguishably with Holland...parts had never been drained or planted or settled at all, and in the wildest central regions, eels slithered and waterbirds flocked. (Adapted from: Northern Lights).

There is something magical and wonderful about the stark beauty of this place and the little river that flows through it on its short journey to the North Sea. Here is one of my favorite views on the river - looking down from an improved, gravelly section that holds lots of little wild browns with deep red spots. I have deliberately tried to capture more of the fen itself here. A huge barn owl lived and hunted in those far trees:



Here's another, looking upriver towards an old church and a stone bridge that marks the edge of what I consider to be the 'good water.' It was just lovely to stand here on a long summer evening, casting in slanting light to the soft accompaniment of church bells carried on the wind.



I owe a lot to this river in terms of my fishing technique and style. I had to endure 2 months (about 8 sessions) of my own personal longest silence before I managed to catch one of it trout. A nice mayfly hatch helped in that case. But the river did teach me some things, and part of the reason that I did start catching fish more regularly was because I listened to what she had to say.

Above all, she taught me to slow down. I learned that sometimes (more often than not as it turned out) good fishing requires not fishing at all: standing still, watching, and listening, rather than casting. As the season progressed, I moved on from this basic lesson to a better understanding of its application: how to ambush fish.

I was also fortunate to have the place itself, and its surroundings. A place where I could escape, either alone or with my family. Amongst the settled landscape that is England, wild places like the Fenlands are few and precious. Neither the sight of old churches, nor the sound of their bells could detract from the natural beauty of this place. An unquenchable wild spirit awoke in me every time I set off in search of trout amongst the rustling reeds.

Perfection?

It has been a bit longer than I planned since my last post. I guess there are good reasons for that. I've spent some time in S Wales getting reacquainted with the nuances of fishing freestone rivers.

I've also built a fly rod. The blank is from a New Zealand company called CTS - that stands for 'composite tube systems.' They build all sorts of tubes from the amazing material that is carbon fibre, but tubes for fishing are their specialty. More importantly for you technofiles - these blanks do not have a fiberglass scrim. They are all carbon fibre (and a little bit of resin to hold it together). Currently, only a handful of companies (Sage is one of them) have the technology to build an all carbon rod that won't blow up the moment it flexes deeply.

The CTS blank is superb. A nice smooth action with a lot of power on hand when you need it. An almost perfect balance of finesse and zing. You've got to get the timing right to get the most out of it, but when you do - wow. More accurate and 'tight' than any of my Sage rods. Sorry ZXL.

The blank is a 9'6" 4wt, which I was originally intending as a nymph rod, but after fishing dries with it for 3 days straight, I might have to rethink that classification. I must admit that it was romantic visions of nymphing my way delicately through the mist of cold S. Wales mornings that initially prompted the purchase of this rod. That, and the fact that I had recently tried a Z Axis in the same weight and length. In the end, I decided that the Z Axis wasn't worth the money. But I was now acutely aware of a gaping 9'6" hole that had materialised in my 4wt collection. After careful weighing of bank balances and obsessive perusal of manufacturer's websites, I decided to have another go at building a fly rod. Building a rod is cheaper, and theoretically, you get exactly what you want in terms of finish and fittings.

So how did it turn out? Well, if you've ever built a fly rod, you will understand the obsessive pursuit of perfection that goes into building these things. And I'm also pretty sure that at some point in the process you will have come to the realisation that perfection can never be achieved. I found myself going through several classic phases in my eventual (re)acceptance of this premise: denial, bargaining, melancholy and eventual peaceful resignation to the fact that I will always be aware of the minor imperfections in the rod that others will never notice. OK, so some of them are noticeable. But still very minor. I guess you could call it adding 'character' to the rod. I wonder if the major manufacturers ever bother with this concept? Probably not. I'm sure they reached the resignation phase after the first day or so of cranking out 20 rods. I could also make some deep philosophical arguments about pursuing perfection in fishing rather than fishing rods, but I don't think I'll bother. I think I'll go fishing with my new rod instead.

Second chances

Sometimes fly fishing offers us those golden moments of second (and even third) opportunity where everything works out perfectly...in the end at least. This is different from the last cast phenomenon. There are more opportunities for second or third chances in an average fishing day, whereas a last cast by strict definition should only occur once, although I will admit to taking several successive 'last casts' from time to time. There is nothing cosmic about second chances. We make these opportunities for ourselves in two ways - either through deliberately leaving ourselves a way out, or, more commonly, through deep character flaws like impatience, poor drift technique, inaccurate casting, casting a shadow or stepping too heavily. The former, I call higher probability second chances, the latter are low probability second chances. Either way it puts a positive spin on things.

On the RTMBN, the best way to access the beat I fish is through a reasonably dry meadow on the upstream side. You can access the river further downstream, but you'll have to walk aways upstream to where the fish are and you risk being stung to death by nettles or sinking in marsh muck depending on the season. I normally start upstream because I am impatient to begin fishing. Starting upstream puts you right in amongst the beautiful wild trout, but most of them will be downstream from you. This is a tremendous disadvantage on a chalkstream and so creates endless opportunities for second chances. These fish are exceedingly spooky. I've noticed that they aren't so concerned about seeing an angler on the river bank, but they are incredibly sensitive to hearing/ feeling one (I fish better when I wear sandals and have to pick my way very very carefully). They are also exceedingly line and leader shy. On a faster flowing freestone river, drifting a fly downstream can be a good way to catch line/ leader shy trout. But on a glass-smooth chalk stream, this is a really risky strategy. If the fish doesn't take the first time, you have two options: you can either try to lift the line and leader off the water quickly and gently (a tough combination when your line is being pulled away from you and only possible if there are no overhanging trees around), or you can gently strip the fly upstream in the hopes that the fish won't mind that a strange looking bug is defying the laws of physics. The second option rarely yields a second chance. It is decidedly low probability. The first is somewhat more reliable. I'd say it counts as a successful second chance about 25% of the time depending on what the fish sees. If the fish sees the fly line, that probability goes down to about 5-10%.

So, I guess the lesson thus far is to concentrate on more than getting it right the first time. This really just boils down to thinking ahead. There is a tendency in fly fishing to think so immediately about things - you see a rising fish, and you think (probably very briefly) about how to get the fly over him before you fire off a cast and a prayer. The angler that thinks in terms of what will happen after will create more opportunities for successful, higher probability, second chances. There is also something to be said for persistence. You should always take the opportunity for a second chance no matter what the odds. It is still possible, if not probable, that you will raise that difficult fish no matter how badly you flubbed the first presentation. In a way, a poor first attempt takes the pressure off the second (or third etc) try.

Sometimes things go perfectly the first time and still you find that you must hang your hopes on a second chance. Last night the RTMBN, was particularly glassy and still, save for the occasional tsk! noise of trout sipping spent caddis from the surface film. There is a trout in one particular stretch that I have been trying to hook for several weeks now. This fish happens to be conveniently located upstream from the access point, which theoretically increases my odds a little bit. He's not in a particularly difficult spot in terms of current and vegetation, but he lives out in the open, away from the shadow of the trees. He's big and he's very very spooky. You can't get anywhere near him or he just evaporates into the river. The required cast is about 40 feet upstream and to the other side of the river to a spot about 3 feet above him. Tippet only please.

Last night my first cast to that trout was absolutely perfect. I couldn't replicate it in 100 tries. I held my breath as my CDC and deer settled down ever so gently and began its journey. Every angler knows this feeling. Time slows. You experience a moment of absolute mental clarity as you tune into that primal, electrifying tension common to all carnivores about to spring on their prey.

The fly drifted past....nothing. Maybe he's gone hunting for himself? Maybe the otter got him. Maybe someone else caught him and (God forbid) took him. Once the fly was well clear, picked my line off the water and false casted over the field a few times (shaking droplets of water from the leader on the river is another great way to create opportunities for low-probability second chances). I changed direction and fired off a second cast upstream. This one was pretty poor. About 3 feet to the left of where I wanted to be, splashy, and way too much of the thicker butt end of the leader involved. The fly drifted for a second and then transformed itself into a crater in the surface of the river. I set the hook hard and the trout leapt from the water. Two minutes later, as I slipped the barbless hook from his mouth without touching him, I thanked him for giving me a second chance. Did I deserve it? Hard to say. I'm not going to worry too much about it.

52

3 years ago at Christmas I was given a fishing journal by a relative who knows little about the pastime. I was so touched that I was literally speechless. (A very different reaction from the "oh hey...what do you know...that's great" reaction when I open another 'world's greatest angler' towel or socks with coarse fishermen on them).

The book is a pretty little thing, complete with gold gilt edges and spaces to record dates, species, weights and 'remarks' about the fishing. There's not a whole lot of space there, and my handwriting is sometimes difficult for even me to read, but it is enough to record the big events (if there were any) and otherwise to report things like what flies worked and where you fished.

Ideally, one could use this book as a memory marker for every single day of fishing recorded, turning it into a sort of card catalogue of the fishing experience. However, I've found it doesn't exactly work that way, although I am convinced that it does help me remember more. I can easily recall the days for which I have recorded something out of the ordinary: falling in, first time with a new rod, unexpected sea trout etc. The details for more ordinary days are a bit more fuzzy in terms of actual memories. But then, without the journal I probably wouldn't have any recollection of days like that, which goes to my point about remembering more.

I guess the lesson here is to try to record something unique in every entry. That does add to the workload of maintaining the fishing journal though. I try to update the journal after each day of fishing. When I do that, I have little trouble writing a detailed entry that will probably jog my memory about the experience for years to come. However, as with fishing blogs for instance, sometimes you just don't feel like writing all of this stuff down after a long session on the river. Retrospectively reconstructing a day or a week's worth of fishing can be difficult.

Recording details also helps you to better understand your favourite rivers in terms of things like hatches, water temperatures, fish activity and the ways the river changes with the seasons. If put to good use (and recorded in a fairly systematic manner) this sort of data could make you a more effective fisherman. Then again, doing it this way could detract from the fun of keeping a fishing journal, making it seem more like work. I prefer to keep mine as a memory tool rather than a database, and so my entries are more sporadic in nature. I do try to record things like hatches (when I know what they are) water clarity and outside temperature.

I hate to admit it, but when it comes to recording fish sizes and weights, I'll sometimes catch myself exaggerating a little bit. Or maybe a better way to put it is that I sometimes have to stop myself from doing so. When I think about it rationally (out of the fishing mindset), this amounts to the pointless activity of lying to myself. No one else would ever be interested in reading this thing, so who the hell am I trying to impress? Maybe I'm subconsciously trying to construct more grandiose memories. Or maybe my tendency to exaggerate fish sizes and numbers when recounting tales to other fishermen has begun to affect my perceptions of what really happened. Whichever it is, keeping a fishing journal is a great way to self-test your moral character. I'm quite certain I'm not the only angler who has found himself bemusedly correcting an entry of a 15" fish to a 12" fish. I guess its nothing to worry about unless (until) I stop correcting myself.

So why is this post entitled 52? Well, for some time now it has been my goal to fish on at least 52 days in a year (so once per week on average). Whilst many fishermen would probably claim offhand to fish that many days in a year, I can tell you that it is no easy feat - my journal proves it. 52 leaves no room for mistakes or lapses in priorities. If you miss two weeks at Christmas, or whilst on summer holiday in Majorca, then you've got to make them up. Taking extended fishing holidays helps, but that can create serious problems for us married guys. My wife happens to be very understanding of my fishing obsession. She allowed me to take a 9 day fishing trip to Utah/Colorado this year, which boosted my numbers considerably, as did getting a rod on the RTMBN. I try to fish the little chalkstream at least once a week, but of course the trout season only lasts half a year, which means making up the numbers there is more difficult.

Anyway, last night I added up my fishing days for this year so far. I was pleased and surprised to find that I had already fished on 50 days. Barring an act of God (I don't discount the possibility for that) I will have no trouble reaching my goal and more. I am also happy to say that it has all been worth it - at least judging from what I have written and what I can remember.

Fishing images

What kind of mental images come to mind when you think about fishing? Perhaps 'images' isn't the right word. For me, my most vivid fishing memories are made up of sights and sounds and snippets of conversation. If you put them together any-which-way, they make a collage of what fishing is all about for you. If you put them together chronologically, they can also tell a story about your journey as an angler and the people who helped you get there. Here's part of mine:

1980's:
'Trout Haven' - a pay-per-fish lake in Green Mountain Falls, Colorado: You hook into a good rainbow and you are seriously worried that it will pull you in. You are 6 years old.

South Platte River, Colorado: You are fishing salmon eggs with a little Zebco in Eleven Mile canyon. Fishing is slow and you spend most of the time climbing around the house-sized boulders. Your grandfather catches a fish where you had been fishing earlier. He is genuinely apologetic for 'stealing your fish.'

Trout Haven - 6 years on from the first experience: You are fishing a yellow eagle claw fly rod with a size 10 Adams on a level leader. Within 30 minutes you have caught 6 trout. Your dad tells you that you have to stop catching fish because its going to be too expensive. Your heart swells with pride.

Spring Creek, Texas: You spent all of your 13th birthday money on a snazzy Plano tackle box and some bass lures. Lots of the little drawers are still empty, but you filled the first tier. It fits nicely on your skateboard. You cast in a jointed Rapala and jump when a little bluegill instantly rockets out of the water and takes it down. You catch that same fish several times until one day he's gone.

1990's:
Lake Dillon, Colorado: You are fishing little Mepps spinners and power bait for good sized stocked rainbows off a rock shelf about 10 feet out from shore. It is high summer and the light reflecting off the water is electric - dazzling. The mountains in the background are deep blue-green. Soon they will dry out and turn brown, but for now, this is paradise.

Lake Woodmoor, Colorado: First time fishing with an Old Friend. You cast in a small pink jig and almost instantly hook a good sized yellow perch. Truth be told, it is the biggest you have ever caught in this lake, but you want to impress Old Friend, so you act nonchalant about it. This lake becomes the core of your fishing friendship. Later, it gets drained to water a private golf course.

South Platte River, Colorado: Back in Eleven Mile canyon. Your first camping/ fishing trip with an Old Friend. It is April and there is still a crust of ice on the edges of the river. The Old Friend drops your shared jar of 'Pautzkeys' salmon eggs in the river in about 5 feet of water. You can still read the label in the crystal clear water. Old Friend volunteers to strip down and go in after them. You let him.

Poudre River, Colorado: Old Friend is up to visit for Labor day. Its mid-afternoon and the weather is gorgeous. You are skipping your philosophy lecture to go fishing. Old Friend bends over to release a trout and drops a brand new pack of Marlboro 'cowboy killers' into the river. You squint as the pack drifts towards you in the Indian summer light. You dry them out on a rock, but they taste terrible.

Madison River, YNP: Your first fishing road trip with Old Friend. A thunderstorm is brewing in the distance and the wind has come up with the smell of rain. Fish are rising steadily on the far bank - about 25 feet away. You don't have waders and are not proficient enough at casting your fly to reach them from the bank against the wind. Another angler snakes up beside you and starts casting to them. You aren't confident in your knowledge of fishing etiquette, but you're pretty sure this qualifies him as an asshole.

The 00's:
Green River, Pinedale Wyoming: The end of a long and unsuccessful fishing/ pack trip into the Gros Ventre range with the Old Friend. You've just seriously messed up your dad's car by connecting at 70 mph with a doe mule deer. You pull over to settle your nerves and decide to fish the river running under the highway. For three hours you both catch small rainbows almost continuously. You are now forever hooked on fly fishing and vow to do nothing else, at least if you can help it.

South Fork of the Flathead River, Montana: You are five days in to a 9 day pack/ fishing trip into the Bob Marshall wilderness. 9 days' worth is just about all the food you can carry on your back. You drift your sz 8 orange stimulator downstream over a short slick in some otherwise riffly water and it is suddenly engulfed by an enormous white mouth. The fish is on for a minute or so and then it is gone. The next day, the same scene is played out again in the same spot. The image of that white mouth haunts you. You never got a good look at anything else.

North Fork White River, Missouri: Old Friend hooks into a huge brown. The fish of a lifetime. It is early spring and the surrounding woods are still a drab brown, but the river is a beautiful shade of green. As the trout rises to the surface for the first time, you see an enormous eye trained right on you. Old Friend whoops with joy and it echoes through the woods. There's no one around to hear it except you and him.

River Taff, Wales: A cold day in February, but the sun has just come out through the clouds. There is a good-sized trout rising steadily to a hatch of dark olives about 20 feet upstream right in close to the bank. You wait for a break in the wind, and place the fly perfectly about 6 feet in front of the fish. You hold your breath until the trout takes. Suddenly you are connected to a golden torpedo that tail walks out into the main current, throwing diamond droplets of water around it in the pale sunlight.

Green River, Utah: The spring BWO hatch is in full swing. The river is crowded. You and Old Friend have been catching big trout steadily on small dries all day long. As you set the hook into a particularly nice one, you inadvertently shout out: 'this is the greatest day of my life!' You feel a bit sheepish, but Old Friend doesn't judge. Maybe its not entirely true, but then many men have sold their greatest day for much less. You turn back to the river to play the fish and watch a guy on the far bank shouting into a cell phone.

RTMBN, Norfolk: It is pissing down with rain. The river remains clear. There's a pool up here where you know several wild brown trout hang out. They are next to impossible to catch, but you suspect that the dimpled water and fading light might work to your advantage. You cast a large sedge pattern to the far bank, and it is almost instantly taken by an 8 inch brownie. You have just enough time to laugh out loud before it jumps clear out of the water and into the bushes on the far bank. It throws the barbless hook and flips back into the water. You are still laughing.

The river that musn't be named

Tonight I had a few glasses of cider (which I won as part of a 'cider hamper' on father's day from my local pub/family eatery here in sunny Norfolk). I've never won anything in a prize draw before, so I was pretty pleased.

Anyway, I am feeling emboldened by the delicious cider, and so have decided to post some first pictures of the river that I fish on in Norfolk for salmo trutta, including the sea going variety. Yes. You read that last part right.

Why do I need to be emboldened to talk about it? Well...because its a secret. And the other club members, some of whose names you will recognize from the fly fishing 'tabloids', are fairly adamant that it should remain so. In fact, I was warned by the committee not to publicize it, because we didn't want 'the others' poking their noses in. It seems that there are all sorts of groups that might count as the opposition in terms of keeping a river pristine for fishing (which might not be the same thing as keeping it pristine for other sorts of activities like bird watching, irrigation/ livestock or poaching).

Sooo - I will play along and not reveal its location or name. After all, I've got some of my own money sunk in the membership fees (which are a bit steeper than what I'm used to paying in S. Wales...or the US for that matter). It is therefore in my economic interest to keep it quiet. And probably my sporting interests too. So from now on, I will refer to it as the River That Mustn't be Named (RTMBN). I like that, because the last three letters are my initials.

On the other hand, it is probably not going to hurt to post some carefully composed shots of the river from time to time in order to add a bit of context to my ramblings. I do spend a lot of time in these surroundings, and its nice for other anglers to 'have a butchers' at the other guy's patch. So here's a couple to just introduce you to where I fish...or at least one place where I do it often:




And of course, the obligatory fish porn shot. This guy will go about 2 pounds. He will not be easy to catch in that spot. These fish spook at the slightest hint of rod movement. A long drift and a stealthy approach are required for success here. Note the boil - top left- where I spooked another trout when I poked the camera lens out of the bushes too quickly.

The Knowledge

This past week I was in Wales, visiting family and generally trying to do as much fishing as I could whilst staying under the radar. It's always a delicate balance between fishing and home life (I won't even mention 'worklife'). I like to think I get it right by prioritising fishing, unless my other priorities get in the way. Maybe that's just a psychologically more appealing way of saying, "I fish whenever I can" - where my 'can' may be different to your 'can.'

I had bought a day on the river Monnow on the Welsh borders and had also arranged to meet a friend on a new section of the Taff. I had fished both rivers before and I had called ahead to ask about what state they were in. Consequently, I knew what to expect in terms of river conditions, hatches and what flies would probably work at this time of the year. In my opinion, this basic knowledge probably covers 75% of 'the game.' If you know these things, and the conditions are right, and you can fish a half-decent drift, then you're probably gonna hook up with a few fish.

That said, the difference between an average day and a good or really great day can sometimes come down to the knowledge - the extra 25% added by knowing a particular stream or stretch intimately. I'm not just talking about having fished a particular stretch or run before. I'm talking about getting to the point where you can recognise how the physical and biological character of the river changes with the seasons (of which there are more than four on most rivers) and how those changes affect where the fish are at and what they are doing. Unfortunately, there are very few spots I know like this. Maybe that's not such a bad thing. I could say that I've cultivated a deeper relationship with a couple of rivers, rather than having a series of meaningless flings.

Having the knowledge (or not) affects the overall quality of the fishing experience in ways that go beyond catching fish (or not). Try as I might, I don't seem to be able to stick to one spot on new water for very long, no matter how good it is. I'm always concerned that I'm missing something really good just round the next bend. 'The grass is greener' and all that. One of these days, I'll learn to be satisfied with what I've got right in front of me - at least to the point that I have worked the water thoroughly. But I've found that's a lot easier to do when you actually do know what's around the next bend. On rivers where I have the knowledge, I can take my time and really work a section without feeling like I'm cheating myself.

Coming back to the art of catching fish, my experience is that sometimes the extra 25% from the knowledge pays dividends and sometimes it doesn't. More often than not, it does. As it turned out, the knowledge didn't really factor on the Monnow. The fish were hungry and willing to eat just about anything I threw at them. But on the Taff, it was only due to the knowledge (and generosity) of a friend, that I didn't blank. I owe you one G.

TL