Call of the Stream

This post is an addition to my previous post about our time spent fishing in the Eastern Cape Highlands during the Trout Festival in March this year, 2024.

John Gierach one of my favourite fishing story tellers and authors said this of fishing small streams which is much of what we do in the Eastern Cape Highlands, – “Maybe your stature as a fly fisherman isn’t determined by how big a fish you can catch, but by how small a fish you can catch without being disappointed… but never loosing the faith that there’s bigger one in their somewhere.”

Based on my experience and nothing more scientific than that, the average size of the bulk of the trout caught in this region are between 8 and 10 inches. Then a 12 inch fish is considered to be a nice one, a 14 incher a good one and 16 inches is just beginning to knock on the door of trophy. Anything above this is clearly a trophy with bragging rights in the pub or for that matter any captive audience or anyone prepared to listen. The level of bragging rights grow exponentially as the length of the fish grows. In the pub, measurements tend to stretch by the inch for every passing hour. This makes me think of another John Gierach quote, “all fishermen are liars except for you and me ……….. and then sometimes I wonder about you.”

The Dirt Road WTA Trout Festival always produces amongst the small fish, a few in the trophy range. This year, 2024’ was no exception with two fish deserving of bragging rights.

The first, Andrew Mather struck gold with a beast of a Small Mouth Yellowfish caught in the Kraai at Mosheshs Ford. It stretched the tape at nearly 51 cm, or for those like me, just over 20 inches. Just 9cm short of the all time record caught in the mighty Orange River. It fell for nothing other than a GUN from his impressive collection tied in a range of sizes on jig hooks with beads of every conceivable colour and weight. The day following Andrew’s catch I fished the same pool and found the spot on the sandbank where the action had obviously happened with a jumble of boot prints pointing every which-way as if he’d been performing Swanlake. The yellows were feeding, but despite my efforts, I couldn’t encourage even the slightest sniff. Maybe I need to tie some of those GUNs. Interesting Google fact is that “the smallmouth yellowfish (Labeobarbus aeneus) is a species of ray-finned fish in the genus Labeobarbus. It has become an invasive species in rivers of the Eastern Cape, South Africa , such as the Mbhashe River.

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The second was an exceptional rainbow trout also of between 51 and 52 cm caught by Craig Stone on a tiny tributary of the Sterkspruit River. Craig related the story of his catch saying that he came across a small pool, partly brushed in where making a conventional cast was impossible. His only option was to use a bow and arrow cast. At the head of the pool there was a log-jam and a tangle of exposed willow roots and on the opposite side a small rock face. In the pool he spotted 3 good fish, one considerably larger than the others. I won’t go into all the detail of his story and rather leave that for Craig to tell you if there is an opportunity one day. But, it took catching and releasing one of the smaller fish, resting the pool, returning later, standing still in position for a long time until the fish appeared relaxed. On the second cast the big fish sucked the fly in and spat it out before he could strike, another long wait until they started feeding again. The third cast the fly, a little black beadhead nymph, hit the rock face and dropped into the pool. In a split second the big fish grabbed the fly and all hell broke loose with Craig managing to keep it out of the structure without the 5X tippet popping, stepped into the pool and netted it as quickly as possible.  What makes this catch quite remarkable was that it was caught on a Sage TXLf 000 wt, a rod designed more for twig water and smaller fish.

Tom Sutcliffe when describing a really big fish used the analogy, “with a tail fin as wide as a shoe box”. The tail on Craig’s fish has what I think Tom was getting at, fin perfect and wide.

I think timing had something to do with a fish of this size being in such a small stream. It’s very likely that it and the other two slightly small fish had moved up stream ahead of the spawn, signs of which we’d come across elsewhere during the festival.

Photo credits, Andrew Mather and Craig Stone.

All images and copy in this post are copyright Peter Brigg Photography © 2024. All rights reserved

There is no short way of getting to the village of Rhodes in the Eastern Cape Highlands, also known as Centre of the Universe. But each year 45 to 50 flyfishers from around the country make the pilgrimage to attend the WTA Trout Festival, now in its twenty ninth consecutive year and currently sponsored by the Dirt Road Traders. Many, mostly local flyfishers, returning each year for this five-day gathering. They come to hunt the wild trout in the waterways of this region, from tiny high altitude freestone streams to large rivers in the lower pastoral reaches, the thin blue lines in a tapestry that is the magnificent, picturesque landscape of this region. We tend to use the term ‘wild trout’ loosely, but what it means in reality is that those fish we catch, fin perfect and as pretty as a picture, were spawned in the stream as opposed to being stocked from a hatchery. However, wildness in trout is a quality that flyfishers are inclined to rejoice in the authenticity of them, and travel long distances in search of them.

This year’s event even attracted a couple of anglers from outside our borders – an Italian currently living in Harare, Zimbabwe, and an ex South African now English gentleman from Ascot in Berkshire. The festival’s reputation has extended far and wide. Apart from the fishing, the traditions that have been established, it is a social affair that embodies a sense friendship and spirit that must be experienced to be appreciated.

In the time that I’ve been visiting Rhodes, the weather plays a role, sometimes favourable, other times not so. I’ve experienced it in the differing moods of the weather gods, from floods to droughts and then on many occasions when all has perfectly aligned, balmy, blue sky days, prime water conditions and plump, hungry trout.  This year, after good rains in January, the weather in the region changed dramatically. Daytime maximum temperatures rose significantly, South Easterly winds brought lower nighttime temperatures and the rain dried up. It did not bode well for the festival participants who were faced with paper thin levels, half-hearted trickles of current in crystal clear waters. However, undaunted, the intrepid flyfishers scratched amongst the bones of the streams in search of the occasional pool or run crammed, and I don’t mean that flippantly, with nervous fish. We crept and stalked, threw longer than usual casts on long, fine leaders with tiny dry flies and nymphs in the deeper pools. There were fish to be had. It just took a little extra work.

This is a brief summary of my experience over the 4 days of the festival and a few standout moments from my notes.

On day one I joined the KZN boys, Clem Booth, Jay Smit, Rob Hibbert, Grant Visser and Andrew Mather on Bemerside on the Riflespruit. It is a pretty stretch that I have fished a number of times before and one that has always given generously of its spotted beauties. I hadn’t fished in a while before the trip so was a little rusty and it took some time to get up to speed in the conditions. What we did discover was that there were a lot of fish and that if you spooked them, you didn’t, like that proverbial snowballs hope in hell, stand a chance of fooling any. As soon as the jig was up, the pool would erupt with shadows darting across the stream-bed in all directions, away from whatever it was suspicious looming over them. In the still water and slow currents the trout had all the time in the world to inspect the fly – the slightest suspicion would mean a refusal. But, once we began to get to grips with the programme, slowed down, kept low, made careful presentations, and used delicate longer casts. We had fun catching enough fish to keep us interested. Clem, christening his beautifully crafted, out of the box new Boshoff centre axis bamboo rod, caught as I recall, the fish of the day, a solid 13 incher. It turned out to be my best day of the trip as far as fish go ending somewhere north of 20, mostly between 8 and 10 inches. The scene had be set for the next few days so in the late afternoon, we gave it best, packed up and headed for the A Team’s traditional ‘Road Block’ under the willow at the Cleft Hill bridge over the Bokspruit. The fun had started.

On day two I joined the same KZN boys on the Bothwell section of the Bokspruit, a long time favourite of mine. There is some textbook pocket water on this beat that never failed to bring on some trout action. I had high expectations revisiting its promising waters. It was decided to make it a Boshoff bamboo rod day to celebrate Stephens’ exceptional craftsmanship. Sadly on the day the Bokspruit was running on empty with large concentrations of nervous fish trapped in the holding pools and competing for space and food.  I say nervous, but they were perhaps better described as, highly strung, as taught as the strings of GV’s guitar. I had a number of fish come up to inspect the fly and then give me the middle finger and sink back into their lie. Even the most delicate of casts had them fleeing in all directions. It was pretty much one-run-one-cast flyfishing.

Towards the middle of the beat is the ‘Long Pool’ as we know it, running close to the road that leads up to the old farm house at Bothwell. Grant was upstream of me and had fished through it, so I hung back and waited around the tail giving the trout time to settle. It’s funny how quickly your confidence evaporates and that gnawing doubt sets in when you have fished for 3 to 4 hours without so much as a sideways glance. Just as the thought ran through my mind, the small Klinkie I’d dropped into a deepish slot with overhanging grass against the far bank, disappeared and I felt the pull. A heavily spotted 12 inch beauty, white tipped fins and with a hint of that rosy pink flush that is usually a sign that the spawn is not far off. It was my first fish of the day that helped to lift the spirits.

We scrambled a lot between the holding pools all day eventually finishing with a handful of small fish between us.  From conversations with others at the Road Block that evening, it seemed that their fishing had been much the same, a long hard day at the office.

Day 3 turned out to be one of those relaxed slow days where the fishing is almost secondary. After a late Walkerbouts breakfast, Clem and I joined the A Team boys, Russell and Woz for a day on the Upper Bell at Tenahead Lodge. The drive up Naudes was slow, not for any reason other than that Russel drove slowly sightseeing and bird watching along the way. There were Stonechats, Rockjumpers, Grey-winged Francolin, Jackall Buzzards and Lammergier. But, our most exciting sighting, spotted by Woz of all people,  because to him there is only one species of bird, ‘chickens’, was the very rare foreign migrant, the ‘Brown Spotted Boothless Tit’( BSBT), soon to return to northern climes.  Hopefully it’ll be spotted in the area again next year. Towards the top of Naudes you get glimpses of the Bell at around 8000 feet ASL. It was a little troubling to see it so low and I wondered about the prospects of it being even thinner above the lodge at Tenahead.

We eventually made it to Tenahead by around 10 am when it was decided that tea and scones was a good idea in the comfort of the lounge to acclimatise to the altitude, as I recall someone mentioned. At this altitude it gives new meaning to the term, ‘high tea’. From the window overlooking the stream there was a long, narrow run with a fish of about 17 inches, maybe even 18, cruising along the undercuts. Tea and scones over we tackled up and strung our rods and on the strength of the advice of the Tenahead manager we fished up from the lodge.

The tight, narrow stream was desperately thin, skeletal and fragile looking. It was going to be almost impossible to hide our intentions, but we remained hopeful. Woz drew the long straw and had first shot at the big trout we’d seen, but the moment his line creased the surface it was gone and that was that. I needed to make adjustments to my leader so the others went ahead and by the time I caught up with Clem and Woz each had caught a single small fish. There was more walking than fishing as we searched for holding water. The others eventually got well ahead of me so I took my time with each run, standing back, waiting and watching. Then just as I was about to cast to a fish in a promising spot, I took a bad fall into a deep unsighted hole under the tufted grass that is typical up here, hurting an already troublesome knee. And then, as I was recovering a ballistic missile (my initial thought) came out of the sky from behind me with a loud phhrrrrt sound missing my ear and rod tip by a fraction and crashing into the overhanging grass below my feet. Ripples spread across the surface, whatever it was, it was trying to escape. Then out of the corner of my eye I saw the shadow of a large bird on the slope opposite me, the hunter, a raptor circling above that had clearly been spotted timeously by the francolin. The bird eventually made it out of the water and into the long grass – a lucky escape. I never did get the fish I’d seen in the run.

Before I caught up with the others, I took a couple of small fish on a size 20 Griffiths Gnat in quick succession from the tail of a run where they shot out of the undercut like  liquid shadows. Higher in the same run there was a hen of about 14 inches finning over the reds and being constantly irritated by a number of presumably pesky smaller cock fish.  It was a sure sign of early winter spawn. I made a careful approach keeping low in the grass, but she couldn’t be tempted by any of my artificial offerings or those of Clem and Woz who tried later. With no apparent fear of us standing above her on the edge of the run she clearly had other things on her mind.

It had been an enjoyable day in good company with a few memorable moments.  The only complaint being that there was no clotted cream with our scones, but we made do with cheese and jam as a substitute.

We closed the day with a hearty dinner at Walkerbouts followed by the annual auction of donated items. Participants dug deep into their pockets this year raising a record amount of R85 000 for a number of worthwhile causes.

The last day, day four. There had been reports of a good number of small mouth yellows still hanging around at the confluence of the Sterkspruit, Bell and the Kraai at Mosheses Ford. Clem had never caught a yellowfish, so the decision for the KZN boys to book the beat was easy.

Clem with Rob and Andrew fished upstream to the confluence of the Sterkspruit and Bell while Jay, Grant and myself had a long walk downstream along the sandbanks left dry with the water so low. Grant wasted no time and soon well ahead of Jay and I, who were both suffering in the soft sand with wonky knees, but we did eventually find a few fishable runs. I left Jay who was tight into a decent rainbow and found a large pool with signs of surface feeding yellows. Despite my best efforts and number of fly changes from dries to heavily weighted nymphs on jig hooks, there I said it, I couldn’t move a fish. Jay passed me and was about a 100 m downstream fishing a narrow seam as it exited the pool above. Walking down towards him I came across a deepish run with a large boulder at the head. The water bulged slightly as it flowed around the edge and into a blind spot behind the boulder. That sixth sense kicked in and something about the spot said, there’s a fish in here. I cast the little hopper into the current seam with enough slack line so it could drift around the boulder into the blind spot. The water was clear and the sun high, I had nowhere to hide, my intentions were clear. But, if there was a fish there, I couldn’t see it and it couldn’t see me. The second the hopper disappeared from sight, the leader straightened, I heard a splash and felt the weight. It came out from behind the boulder in a spray of silver as it jumped. I immediately knew it was my best fish of the trip. A short, strong fight and I netted it, a lovely, brightly coloured rainbow of 16 inches or just over.

The walk back to the vehicles was painful. I had obviously done some further damage to my knee when I fell the previous day. Nursing it, I sat back against a tree and finished a soggy ham, cheese and lettuce sandwich and a warm liquifruit from what was left in my Walkerbouts lunch pack. Just then Clem arrived from upstream grinning like a Cheshire Cat. He, Rob and Andrew had each caught a number good yellows. Clem’s centre axis Boshoff bamboo and net had once again been put through its paces and won.

The sky to the east was bruised and threatening. The storm that had been brewing for awhile changed direction with a strong wind that came out of nowhere. With a few close lightening strikes and loud claps of thunder, we hurriedly broke down our rods, packed and left for Rhodes in the safety of the vehicles. It had been another good day and memories to bank.

That evening after dinner we said our farewells to friends … even some I’m not quite sure of!

We were on the road home by 6am going through Barkly East and onto Maclear for a quick stop at the Dachshund, our favourite breakfast spot. Clem was flying back to the UK the following day, so those of us in Grant’s vehicle, said our goodbyes at the fuel stop in Kokstad.  We were home by 4ish in the afternoon tired after 4 days of fishing in difficult conditions and long hours on the road, but relaxed and happy. It had been another good trip and festival.

All images and copy in this post are copyright Peter Brigg Photography © 2024. All rights reserved