The August sky burns a violent red as it
draws out the last of winter’s chill and
signifies the dawn of spring. Not unlike
florists scurrying to meet the colourful
requests of courting males and tie the final
ribbon on yet another bouquet, there are
barmen who break their backs hauling in
crates of beer, bar snacks and who start
warming up their draught-lever-pulling arm.
These bar tenders do not man the cocktail
counters of quaint boutiques in suburbia but
inhabit the amber stained space behind dark
wooden bar counters; floating in clouds of
smoke with various bottles of ‘liquid
courage’ as the backdrop to their stage as
they put up a show of splendid proportions
serving their somewhat peculiar clientele.
St. Bernards Hotel (Swartberg,KZN),
Walkerbouts (Rhodes, EC), Keg & Trout
(Hillcrest, KZN), Himeville Arms (Himeville,
KZN) and Nottingham Road Hotel (Nottingham
Road, KZN) all fall within their migratory
pattern and the dawn of spring carries with
it the promise of a restlessness evening
spent listening to the fishing tales, trials
and tribulations of flyfisherman serving
copious amounts of beer, whisky and
Jägermeisters.
In the realm of
flyfishing, 1 September signifies the start
of a new river season and the promise to
once again tempt wild trout with a fly; to
allow for undisturbed spawning and the
sustainability of future generations, trout
streams managed by various clubs throughout
South Africa close from May to September,
sending the majority of anglers on a
submissive sabbatical.
Securing the
final nail in the casket is the notion that
this time will be spent in the womb of yet
another icy South African winter; 07h30
sunrises, iced up windscreens, uncomfortable
winter garments and increased electricity
bills. Yes, through the eyes of the
flyfishing stream explorer this is
undoubtedly a dreary period. Fortunately
there is a large, reverberating BUT in the
equation. Our lakes and stillwaters are
magically transformed into winter
wonderlands, with arresting scenery and
large trout. All this increases
exponentially the longer are the tracks you
will leave behind on the previously unbeaten
track. As the season opens and you discover
the bottom of yet another brew, nostalgia
sets in from a winter spent lost in the
presence of trout.
I have always been
fortunate to either live close to areas that
offer immaculate stream fishing
opportunities, one might say I’ve been
spoilt for choice. Though, nine years ago I
made a conscious decision to broaden my
horizons and not spend winter hibernating
behind the fly-tying vise. Doing some
serious research into the various options
that lay before me, I decided to make the
tiring trip from Stellenbosch to the
towering mountains of the Southern
Drakensberg.
Even on a student
budget I managed to find ‘comfortable’
accommodation outside the town of Underberg.
Arriving after midnight I was distraught to
find that my fridge had stopped working, the
taps were briefed to defrost by midday and
that the thatch roof was still thatch-less
and I had fallen upon the cottage during the
brainstorming phase.
I shivered
through my first night dressed in every item
of clothing I had lugged along, including
the ‘space blanket’ I took from my first-aid
kit. Eventful as it was to count the
shooting stars streaking across my
star-studded ceiling, warding off the field
mice raiding my supplies, by the time the
first rays crawled their way through the
window and my limbs had thawed, I was geared
for murder!
The scenery that painted
the world around my cottage remained
secluded until I was able to pry open my
frost encrusted glass doors and avoid the
field mice stampede. Pure, unspoilt and
serene beauty cannot be captured in print
and I lack the ability as a writer to
describe what lay before me. On my doorstep
was a glass-surfaced stillwater, ringed by
mountains and so clear that the dabchicks
gliding across the surface was the only
indication that there was actually water in
this valley.
The trout came to the
fly without hesitation, were as strong as
John Deere tractors and filled my net from
rim to handle. My accommodation woes turned
into an adventure as I named each of the
mice (numerically from 1-1000 of course).
The frozen goods remained so I simply left
the cooler box outside in the evenings and
ventured into the culinary arts of
‘braaivleis’ and stirfry ice-lollies; simple
fact, I was not leaving heaven willingly.
Spending the month in the area, though
the accommodation did improve, every
stillwater that I stumbled upon offered
equally, if not more jaw-dropping scenery
under a ceiling of deep blue skies and
rolling clouds. Their names as poetic and
appropriate as the trout that send ripples
across their surfaces; Lifton, Crystal
Waters, Hopewell and Lake St. Bernards all
have the ability to entrench themselves
within your soul and leave a distinguishable
mark.
Slightly less obtrusive as a
‘Warning Sign’ but more as a word of
caution, this is wild trout country and
though sand, stone, concrete and electricity
are able to tame the elements once confined
indoors, only your first winter stillwater
trip can prepare you for what lies outside.
Afternoons are comfortable and the need for
a light jacket becomes a matter of personal
preference but winter is a disgruntled
mistress and her claws sink deep. I have had
a pair of wet wading boots freeze solid in
Swartberg during a night that the
thermometer registered 10 below zero, so
much so that I was unable to wear them for
two days!
Early morning casting
attempts become noisy as the ice that forms
on your line scrapes through the guides of
the rod, only briefly silenced as you pause
to break off the icicles dangling from each
guide. We have come across substantial-sized
inlet streams whose surfaces were covered in
a layer of ice more than 6mm thick. But the
clearest affirmation of winter’s fury that I
have come across was when we came across a
section of ice in between the reeds as we
were exploring a new piece of water; it took
three grown men jumping in sync to crack its
surface and we eventually managed to
excavate a piece over 12 cm thick.
All this aside, once you don every piece of
clothing you packed (be sure to go to the
toilet first!), slipped into your waders and
boots, exploded through the front door and
cracked the ice off the edges of the area
you intend to fish from; all is forgotten as
that first winter trout seizes your fly and
in a bent-rod-and-screaming-reel blur it all
merges into utter perfection. The crisp
mountain air, the surge of adrenaline as you
release your trophy into the depths from
which it came and the acknowledgement that
you have just been a passenger on the ‘Wild
Trout Express’ is what makes it all
worthwhile.
I do not simply practise
flyfishing for the fish, but because of
every thread that makes up its gaudy
tapestry – the vibrant characters I fish
with, the poetry of nature, the unspoilt
surroundings, the crystal clear waters, the
warmth and magnitude of the literature; and
simply being out there.
Winter time
offers an unanticipated glimpse into yet
another chapter of the ‘Great Exploration of
South African Trout Waters’ and there are
many more pages waiting to be filled. Your
explorations and aspirations should not be
affected by the season. Just adapt
accordingly and allow for yet another
perfect day spent under the African sun.
