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The Rock Pool

Started by otter, October 10, 2012, 04:59:39 PM

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otter

The Rock Pool

Every river has pools with wonderful names. Often called after the family that owned the adjoining land, some after a long dead angler that made the pool their own, and others from the geography of its location. The Wood pool, The junction Pool, Weir Pool, the list is endless. Every river has a Rock pool, and it was on such a pool that I first met the old man. Close to a wooded area, popular with walkers, it was not a place to enjoy solitude but it held some fine trout and it would challenge the most skilful of anglers. Though for the most part the woods did provide the angler with some sanctuary the regular barking of dogs and conversations of the hidden walkers distracted from the beauty of the place. I only ever seen one other angler fish here, but that was many years earlier and as far as I could recall he used a small spinning rod which did not interest me, so I never stopped to have a chat. Other older anglers that I had asked about it had simply shrugged their shoulders and declared it unfishable without a boat.



For years I had ignored the rock pool, its twisting currents and difficult wading were not for the faint hearted. The difficulties that it seemed to present were beyond my abilities and though I would often pause and look I would inevitably seek easier water. But as the years passed and I learned my craft I found myself seeking out such water, keen to unlock its secrets, keen to test my skills. Unyielding pools became familiar and with familiarity came success until they too lost their lustre and excitement. The rock pool was the only one whose secrets had not been revealed or sought. Often as I walked upstream I noticed the Old Man, leaning against a pine tree at the upper side of the pool, smoking his pipe, his black and white Collie at his feet. I would always wave and in turn he would lift his pipe and give a small wave back. The distance between us was too far to consider having a conversation and as I continued upstream I would often wonder who he was.

It was early June and I had three days free from work, free from family and all obligations and the call of the river had to be answered. I stopped at a gap in the trees and glanced at the rock pool. The water gleamed as it twisted between the large boulders, dark areas alluding to water of great depth, countless seams and eddies.
A trout rose centre stream, snatching at a hatching caddis in the strong current I mused, it rose a second time and seemed to mock me. I made to move onwards but somehow I was drawn to linger a moment longer.

Looking across I seen the old man resting against the tree, he waved his pipe and then pointed downstream to something on my side. A bush was blocking my view so I manoeuvred closer to the water and looking downstream I could see several trout rising tight to my side in a nice streamy piece of water.
I looked back at the old man and nodded, giving him the thumbs up. I made my way downstream, searching for a gap in the trees that would allow me access. I found gaps but each seemed to open onto deep water and thwarted any chance of getting near those trout. Returning upstream I looked across to the old man and on seeing my puzzled expression he grinned and beckoned for me to go upstream and cross over. I did as bid and soon I was wading through some shallow water, across to where the old man stood waiting my arrival.

He even looked older than I had originally thought, a wizened face, weather worn and full off character. His deep blue eyes however sparkled; I had never seen such bright colourful eyes in one of such an age.
His handshake was firm and full of warmth and I immediately felt at ease in his company. 'Jim's my name and this here is Brody'; he said pointing to the collie at his side. Brody came to my hand, waiting to be patted. 'Aggh, that's good, Brody does not make friends easily, he seems to have taken a shine to you'; Jim laughed and Brody returned to his side, tail wagging in agreement. 'They call me Otter'; I replied at which he looked at me, rather puzzled. 'Oh it's a long story and someday you may have time to listen to it'. 'Otter, it is then. You have never fished the Rock pool, no one does anymore. That's a shame for it holds the finest of trout this river has to offer.' I nodded, 'I have been tempted, but it looks so daunting and I never had the balls to give it a go. I would not even know where to start'; I spoke quietly, showing my respect and fear for this mighty pool.

Jim was quiet for a moment, staring at the river, and then turned to me. 'Otter'; he said; 'Otter, do you fish for pleasure'. I contemplated that for a moment, having never been asked such a question before. 'Jim, I get a lot of pleasure from fishing. But no, I fish for trout and to catch trout is all I seek'; repeating my answer twice as though agreeing with myself. 'That's good, too few anglers fish for trout. Meet me here at 6pm, Brody needs feeding and I need a sleep'. With that he turned and disappeared into the trees, leaving me standing there, unsure what to do for the next few hours and unsure as to what old Jim had in mind. 'Jezus, maybe he was a ghost. I reassured myself thinking the smell of the tobacco from his pipe was real enough. '; strange the effect of being alone in a wooded area, all sorts of weird ideas flood the brain.

I passed a few hours fishing large heavy nymphs under a monstrous dry in pockets on very fast water. This I did occasionally as a welcome change from hatch matching small nymphs and dry's which can at times become all too predictable. There is something about watching a float that mesmerises the brain and though my float was a large dry it was a float nonetheless. You will often watch its progress downstream, willing it to sink as though the sinking of the float was the ultimate aim and the catching of a fish being a bonus.

In a previous life I fished for Salmon using dyed prawns and shrimp, a lead weight a foot or two up from the prawn and a cigar float that ran free on the nylon with a stop knot to set the depth. The rig was cast out and the floats progressed watched, if possible and if the water suited you would walk downstream in line with the float. When the float disappeared you would strike. The problem is that after several hours of this intense watching of a float, many a person asleep in their bed has been unwittingly hit by their partner, striking at a disappearing float in their dreams. It would not surprise me if many were not banned from their marital bed for the whole of a fishing season.

I arrived back near the crossing point an hour or so early, lay against an old fallen tree and setting the alarm on my mobile phone I dozed off to sleep. To sleep in the open air with the warm afternoon sun caressing your face is to sleep the sleep of the gods. The tiredness will ooze from your body and mind and your dreams will always be pleasant. Waking to the buzz of the phone I stood and glanced across the river, Jim and Brody were already there. 'Otter, did anyone ever tell you, you snore louder than a pig'; Jim laughed loudly as I approached.
'Do you care to see my bruised shoulders, where my wife thumps me every night'; I replied.

Jim beckoned me to sit, leaning heavily on his walking stick he too sat on the ground, Brody laying his head on his lap. Usually, when with a stranger, I will interrupt any silence but with Jim I felt at ease and embraced the silence, allowing him to talk if he so chose. He reached into the pocket of his well worn tweed jacket, leather patches at the elbows, taking out his pipe and tobacco he unhurriedly filled from his pouch and lit it. I loved the sweet aroma of pipe tobacco and it filled my nostrils, stirring within a yearning to have a smoke, a yearning that I had fought for many years. Seeing my pleasure he smiled, 'You haven't smoked for a few years, bad habit, I'm too old to quit myself. My doctors keep telling me to quit, the first one to give me that advice is with his maker, as is the second and third one too. When it is your time, its your time and I am not ready to go yet. Oh, I feel Old Nick breathing down my neck occasionally, but I tell Old Nick, I'm not ready to go yet, when old Jim is ready he will let you know'.
He was in command of his life and the wisdoms learned over his many years exuded such a calmness that you truly believed that he could defy death if he so chose.

'Do you live close by', I enquired. ' Close by, I sure do, a few miles that way '; he pointed upriver. ' I've lived in these parts nearly all my life. When I was a young lad I dreamed of being a pirate. Pirate Jim, aye that's what they would have called me. I would have sailed the seven seas, looting and sinking any that would cross my bows. Gold doubloons, I would have had chests full of treasure and a long grey beard and rum, I would drink rum by the gallon and I would have a Skull and Crossbones tattooed onto my forehead – Har Har. At fifteen I ran away from home and joined the merchant navy, I sailed the world lad, from New York to London, from Oslo to Brisbane from the Arctic to the Antarctic, seen it all lad, even them statues on Easter Island. But my papa was right, there is no place like home, so when my pirating days were finished I returned to this river and set to catching a few trout. I never did marry, there was a girl once but Old Nick took her early, it was her time, it was her time lad.'. He paused for a moment, sadness in his eyes as he recalled his lost love. 'No matter, it is not my time and Old Nick is not getting me yet'; his eyes sparkled with defiance




'Otter, what do you know about catching trout ? And tell me the truth not the white lies and the bull that most anglers talk. C'mon Otter, out with it, Old Jim won't be telling anyone your secrets.'

I looked at my watch and considered Jim's question, and replied. 'How long have you got Jim ?, What I know about catching trout could be written on a postcard, but what drives me to catch a trout could fill a book'

Jim smiled, knowingly and wisely, 'That is what I hoped you would say and why I chose to ask you. I've got all the time lad, Old Nick knows I have the time, please tell this old man'.

And so I relived my childhood, digging the worms, fishing for sea trout from the bridge, sitting in my father's boat hand lining for mackerel, trolling for sea trout in the estuary. I gave Jim a sense of the place and of the time. He seemed to be listening intently so I continued.

'Jim, I was twenty two when I started fishing on my own, no longer attached to the strings of my father or brothers, Salmon was the quarry and worms and spinners were my tools, mainly worms as the spinners were expensive and easily lost to the river. When July came , the river was low and where I fished salmon were scarce, held back by the weir downstream. Others fished with flies, a method known as the Bubble and Fly. Fished using a spinning rod with a clear bubble float on the point and a fly or two on droppers a few feet up it was effective in so far as much water could be covered from the bank. Good movement could be imparted to the flies and they could be controlled to fish just subsurface. I acquired a salmon fly and a bubble and soon learned how to fish it. Then I learned that sea trout could be caught at dusk and beyond, sea trout flies were purchased and so I fished for the small sea trout well into the dark of the night.

That journey led to me tying my own flies by hand. A Mustad treble from a spinner, reduced to a double with a pliers, hand tied in an hour from the only four materials I had. If necessity be the mother of invention then poverty is indeed the mother of necessity.
I headed to the parched river armed and ready to do battle with my first two flies.
An hour or so later the miracle happened and the local bishop came downstream and netted a shining silver grilse for me. After receiving a sermon on not carrying a net I offered him my second fly which he immediately declined on seeing the blood stained hackle. Hand tying on a double hook is indeed a perilous pursuit.
He was not very pleased to net my second fish, and left the river quite upset that the King of fish would take such poorly tied flies, I'm sure the man above had to close his ears that night whilst the Bishop said his prayers. I have my own net now, a vice and enough hooks , materials and flies to fish for all eternity, but no fly I will ever tie will ever match the importance of 'The Bloody Shrimp.'



Few could tie their own flies and so on my little stretch of river I became known as the fleaman, able to swap flies for Spinners and worms, I was quite self sufficient in some ways.




When my cousin invited me to fish with him I was to embark on another journey, fishing upstream on waters I had never seen. This was deep water, twelve to twenty foot in places. We fished with Worms , big spinners, and finally with prawns and shrimp. And so I led two angling lives, during the day on the shallower water behind where I lived, developing my skills as a fly tier and finally borrowing an old bamboo fly rod, doing proper fly fishing. In the evenings and on days when my cousin was off work we would go upstream. We dug our own worms, netted and dyed our own prawns, made our lead weights
I cannot recall how it happened but eventually I convinced my cousin to try the Bubble and Fly, we both turned to fly fishing, committing to it totally and though our paths are different now as is our quarry neither of us ever considered returning to other methods.

There is much more I could tell you Jim, I have taken many journeys to get to this point, so much more to tell that even Old Nick would grow impatient.

To answer your question though Jim. To catch more than an occasional trout you first must earn the right by blood, sweat and tears and into every cast you make goes a lifetime of learning and experience. We make our own luck and the harder we try the luckier we become. Learning about fly life, learning about how trout feed and behave, learning how to cast, its all a lifetime of learning and I hope that old Nick leaves me alone as long as he has left you as I have still a lifetime of learning to do'

Jim grinned, 'Otter, slow down, I'll bring a bottle someday, we will sit and sip and you can tell me the rest. You are right off course, it's a quest for knowledge that drives us and the continual finding of problems and their solving is what gives us pleasure. And your current problem is how to fish the Rock Pool. Tomorrow , 11AM'; struggling to his feet , he simply nodded and once again disappeared into the woods.

I arrived at the river at precisely 11AM and as I crossed the shallows Jim and Brody emerged from the trees. Sleep had proved elusive, I was too excited with expectation and twisted and turned, wondering as to what adventure Jim had planned.

Jim carried an old rucksack from which he took a plastic envelope, sealed within a piece of paper. He handed it to me , 'Here Otter, my map of the Rock Pool. Its many years old, accurate in its day, you will need to make your own. The river changes each season, only a fool would rely on old data, you do not seem a fool.'



I looked at the old map, all the boulders laid out, the gaps in the trees that allowed access to the river. Some dotted lines with numbers, Jim explained that these were safe routes up through the pool, the numbers were the number of paces. I searched for years he said, and the routes you see were the only ones I could find. The paths are tricky, even with the map, your feet will be your eyes and by touch alone you will learn to stay on the path.

I gazed in wonderment, glancing from map to river, absorbing it all, understanding the immense task that had culminated in this single piece of paper. Some areas were marked, A,B,C,D when asked Jim explained that these were the main feeding zones when the hatches took place, these are areas where you can fish by the methods that you have learned. I have a second map he explained, a fishing map and dear Otter when you have made your own map of the pool and taken your share of fish from the four zones then I will reveal to you the second map and the secrets it contains.

I started looking at the gaps, trying to pick them out in the trees, Jim at once cottoned on to my confusion and taking a small saw from his backpack he held it up. The gaps are there Otter, but you will have to re-open them as I did many years ago when I created them. He then took a small inflatable life jacket from the rucksack and tossed it to me; saying, ' You will be needing this Otter, we don't want old nick taking you before your time'

Laying my rod and wading jacket to one side, I put on the Life Jacket and stood there like an imbecile, mouth open, unable to speak. 'You words Otter, Blood, sweat and tears... time to sweat a little, and should you pee in your pants from fear, don't worry, I did, many a time'; Jim laughed as he guided me down through the woods to our starting point at gap number 4.

'If the river is kind and has not changed too much then this is your entry point, gap 1 or 2 will be your exits. If you need to pee, do it now, there is no turning back once you enter the water.'; Jim was quite serious now, the joviality put to bed. I stared at the water, it was fast, faster than I would dare consider entering. Jim placed a hand on my shoulder,' Otter, one step at a time, bend your knees and only take a step when the anchored leg is able to keep you balanced. Feel with your foot and never step on an obstruction , feel your way around it. I will draw your map as you progress upstream. Otter , you got to act like a Heron'

With that Jim took a sheaf of old parchment paper and a pencil and eraser from his rucksack. 'Is that pirate paper '; I asked. ' Aye lad, pirate maps should be on pirate paper. Pirate Jim has saved a piece for his new shipmate, har har', Jim covered one eye and winked at me with the other. I could have sworn a parrot was perched on his shoulder.




As I contemplated my likely drowning, Jim drew the outline of the pool on the paper and then slapped me on the back. ' Off you go my furry friend, your kind, otters should not be afraid of a little old pool like this'.

I dropped down from the gap, holding onto some growth, feeling for the bottom, finding solid ground about two and a half feet deep I relaxed and smiled up at Jim; 'One small step for Otter, one giant step for Otters map'

Slowly, feeling with my feet I waded outwards, taking instructions from Jim, following the path that he had found all those years ago. A few obstructions blocked my path but I was able to get around them without much difficulty. The current was not as strong as I had anticipated and with each step my confidence grew, realising that the route Jim had chosen followed strands of slacker water. I zig zagged up through the bottom of the pool without any great difficulty and on coming towards the big boulder in the centre of the pool Jim called, 'Well done Otter, you are at the fork in the path, note this spot. Now we will try and get you up to exit 2 on my side. '

I waded back towards Jim's side and upwards, following instruction as Jim strained below to watch my progress. 'Otter, you should see the exit'; shouted Jim. I scanned the tree lined bank and spotted what appeared to be a possible exit. It was a strain to pull myself up the bank, but I made it. Some judicious cutting with the small saw and I opened a sizeable gap through the bushes and soon had Brody barking at my emergence into a clearing, Jim arrived , cursing loudly as he tripped over a tree root that curved up over ground waiting to catch an unaware traveller.

'Well done Otter, that was easy,eh ?. Now in you go again from the start and this time I will only instruct if you stray off the path.', Jim was clearly in charge. I followed the path up through the pool another dozen or so times, until Jim was satisfied that I could do it without any intervention.  Sitting at the gap at the bottom of the pool, Jim lit his pipe and outlined the main trout lies on the bottom section. I listened quietly as he explained that the pool did not hold big numbers of trout, but many that were there were of  well above average size with a few very large fish. 'Your best chances here are during a good hatch when they leave the sanctuary of their Holts and take up feeding lies in accessible water. The other choice is to fish a very fast sinking line and a big streamer, hard fishing but the prize when it comes is well worth the effort, make sure you have a good supply of streamers for the rocks will claim many a fly.'  He pointed at each set of boulders, pointing out the best gaps between them to fish a streamer. 

He asked to see my fly boxes, so I offered both to him. Opening the box of dries, he nodded occasionally as he carefully prodded each fly, occasionally taking out one and holding it up to view through the sunlight.
Nicely tied he said; a good selection for the rest of the river and a few that would work here. He pointed to a few Deer Hair patterns, 'You will need a few more of this type.' With that he handed me an old tobacco tin;'try these Otter'. Caddis and up wings no more than a half dozen of each, robust buoyant concoctions of deer hair and seals fur.

Opening my wets box his eyes lit up as he viewed my flymphs and spiders. ' Har Har me hearty, this is as good a collection as this old pirate have ever seen. Here are mine'; he said handing me another old box. He had some nice flymphs and soft hackles, many of them  caddis pupa imitations, some sparsely dressed spiders and some enormous heavily weighted hares ear nymphs, at least size 6's, Noticing the puzzled look on my face he laughed loudly, 'You won't find them in any books. They are for the fishing the Holts under the bank he explained. You tie a small streamer to the bend, 8 inches down, drop it tight to the bank and it sinks like a stone. When you feel it hit bottom, a small jig or two of a few inches to give life to the streamer, lift and recast, and when the take comes strike hard, very hard. If there have been heavy hatches of caddis, a nice juice big caddis flymph instead of the streamer and smaller jigs can work'

I felt like a beginner as I listened to his advice, he had a sharp mind and seemed to be able to read my thoughts, answering questions before I even asked them. Seeing a fish turn behind the large boulder mid stream, 'Go get your rod Otter'. When I returned he handed three of his flies, a heavily weighted hare's ear flymph with partridge hackle to go on the point, an olive caddis soft hackle for middle dropper and a huge bushy deer hair dry for the top dropper. Taking out a spool of 6x he guffawed loudly, 'What's the thread for Otter, you need 2x minimum, them is sharp rocks and them is big trout'. With that he threw me an old spool of nylon, simply labelled Sea Fishing Line Made in USA 1962; it was nearly as thick as the butt section of my leader and as old as me. '24 inches between flies, and tie them knots good and strong'; he winked as he spread his hands outlining a trout of monstrous proportions. Despite my reservations about the rope like nylon I tied up the leader without complaint.

Taking the rod, Jim stood at the gap and skilfully cast out a few yards of line 45 degrees upstream. 'You will need a stronger rod Otter, 10ft at least, 9 weight, now watch'. As soon as the cast settled he inched the dry towards himself, pausing then drawing, raising the rod until he was ready to recast, careful to ensure the heavy flymph was near the surface before recasting. His hands worked continuously through the process, deftly manipulating the dry, the flymph and soft hackle rising and falling to the manipulations of the dry. 'Three casts like that and then three like this and then cover new water.' he said. He cast out again and as soon as the cast landed he drew the dry in bigger movements, causing it to skitter on the surface.  'Off you go Otter, up to the first set of boulders', Jim pointed to where the trout had shown.

I stumbled twice as I made my way up to the first set of boulders, there is a world of difference between wading in fishing mode and wading in surveying mode, a lesson was learned and I slowed down, blocking the adrenalin rush. A large boulder, rounded at the edge from the endless flow of water, a few smaller boulders slightly downstream and on its flanks some more almost submerged. I followed the path that I so carefully memorised earlier until I was positioned at an angle to the boulders, level with the ones furthest downstream.

Unhitching the leader I let it drift downstream, a few yards of fly line out of the rod tip. I stared at the gaps between the boulders trying to pick out the flatter seams, trying to analyse this very tricky water. Unable to ascertain exactly the best spots I simply decided that it would be a case of very short drifts over likely spots, without Jim giving direction I was at the mercy of the stream and my own experience. Letting the weight of the heavy flymph anchor my leader I lobbed it over the first spot, the dry landing in some bubbly water, by the time it settled it was floating over the flatter darker seam. I manipulated the dry as instructed by Jim, though I had not made any comment to Jim, I was familiar with this method and comfortable in its execution, though not in water such as this. This was enjoyable fishing, short range work always is as you concentrate more on the fishing than on the casting.

Soon I found myself in a state of total concentration, oblivious to my surroundings, the target water magnifying in my minds eye as I started to tune into the vagaries of the currents as they snaked their way unrelentingly between the rocks and boulders. This was no longer about catching a trout, this was an all consuming experience as you reached deep within, drawing from a lifetime of experience, commanding your leader and flies to act and behave in a manner appropriate to each little piece of water. You cannot teach this type of fishing, it cannot be described in any meaningful way or even be understood through the power of video. This is all about sight, touch and feeling and when a take comes directly from a subtle manipulation that you unconsciously made, it is one of the greatest pleasures that fly fishing can give an angler. Of course when one looks back, any such take may well have been a fortuitous event but at the time you are sure of your own control and sure that it was your mastery that convinced that trout to take your fly and whether or not that was the case is largely irrelevant.

A deep seam ran down the edge of the large boulder, its path deflected by an unseen boulder below, it turned towards me, joined by another seam deflected from the other side. The more I looked the more I was convinced that this was the spot, the conjoining of seams delivering a consistent supply of food. I carefully cast to the upper edge of the boulder, keeping the rod tip high I tracked the dry without manipulation, ensuring it was free to follow the flow without any major amount of drag. It dragged slightly as the two seams met and then settled again. Without any fuss the large dry simply disappeared and I struck solidly, immediately feeling the power of a large fish battling the rod tip. It bored deep between the boulders and the scraping of the leader against rock could be felt in the butt of the rod, boy did I appreciate Jim's Sea fishing nylon. I looked over to Jim who sat at the gap, poker faced, Brody at his side, this was my fight and he would offer no advice.

I could picture the trout, nose down, boring against the strain that I applied, it was in control and I needed to get some sideways strain. This was going to be difficult as I was restricted as to where I could wade. I moved up as far as I could and only the leader and a yard of fly line separated me from the trout. I applied sideways strain but it had no affect other than I could feel the trout easily counteract. This had happened to me once before with a salmon in a narrow gravelly sandy run. In that case I could see the salmon nose down , unmovable and it took dozens of handfuls of gravel tossed over it to annoy so much that it finally moved, I did not have anything to hand. Jim was right, a seven weight or even an eight weight would be a better option.

I took the only option available, it could mean a broken rod but this was a fish of a lifetime and worth the risk. I plunged the rod tip down into the water as close to the river bed as I could get and with a tight line I started to slap the butt with my free hand, hoping that the vibrations transferring through the leader would annoy the trout. After what seemed an eternity I felt a slight movement so I continued, pausing for a few moments and then hitting the butt. When the next movement came I immediately exerted huge sideways strain, pushing the flex of the rod to its very limit. Slowly the trout yielded, rising slowly at first, it then accelerated to the surface and leapt high above the water landing so close that the splashes hit my waders. It was on the move now, accelerating towards the bank probably trying to reach its Holt. I could see some tree roots snaking down the edge of the bank. I dropped the rod tip, pointing it straight at the trout and held on tight, praying the hook would hold. It did and it stopped the trout, it turned and raced upstream and I fought it hard in a more orthodox manner. 

Slowly and inexorably the trout began to tire and though it twice more attempted to reach its Holt, I would feel it weaken and finally it came to the surface. I unhitched my net which was most definitely designed for smaller trout but somehow I managed to net the great trout. Shaking uncontrollably I waded back to Jim, grinning from ear to ear. 'Har Har, me matey, that was a fine display'; Jim reached for the net as I scrambled up the bank.
He carefully laid the trout on the net, removing the flymph which was hooked firmly in the scissors.
I looked at the great trout in awe of its size and beauty, estimating it as being close to four pounds and I was unable to speak. I dropped back into the river, Jim carefully handed me down the trout and I held it for several minutes, feeling its strength return. I stared at the water watching it disappear, washed my hands and climbed out of the river.

Jim shook my still shaking hand, 'Well done lad, not a bad start, you caught one of the small ones'

I looked at Jim in disbelief; thinking if that was a small one what size and what fight could be expected of a big one.

'What did you learn from that Otter'; Jim enquired.  I though for a moment, taking my new map and a pencil from Jims rucksack I wrote the letter H at the spot that I reckoned was the trout's Holt, under the tree roots and handed it to Jim. He looked at the map and grinned, 'You sure are a quick learner Otter and have the eye of a hunter. Let's rest a while before you survey the upper pool'.  Jim recounted some of his own exploits and I soaked up each word, picking out little tit bits of knowledge that someday may be of use to me. He was a fascinating man and a pleasure to be with.





Brody was the most patient of dogs, sitting in the grass listening to our conversation, alert and attentive. If Jim moved, Brody moved in unison, almost understanding what Jim would do next. A close relationship between dog and man is always a joy to behold and the understanding that existed between Jim and Brody had been forged from the many years that they had spent together. Collies are without doubt one of the finest of dogs, their temperament is even and predictable and their loyalty is total and lifelong.

Revitalised from the rest, I scanned over Jims map, following the fork up the far side, changing my gaze from map to river, assimilating as much information as I could. The task ahead would be difficult with many changes of direction. Jim took up position holding my new map and readied to fill in the blanks, his old map at his feet for reference. I dropped into the river and quickly made my way to the fork below the largest boulder and paused, focussing on the task. Moving northwest towards another boulder I encountered no problems, skirted across the downstream edge of the boulder. A narrow seam of deeper water down near the edge of the boulder proved tricky, but taking a bigger step seen me safe to the far side. Heading Southwest a short distance I found my left foot poised over deep water, withdrawing it back onto firm ground I noted my position , this was the end of the path in that direction. Recalling the map I knew that I could move a short distance downstream which would allow me to have totally command over the water near the bank. I could see the froth line that indicated the feeding lane; it seemed water of even flow, the right pace for a dry or dry and nymph.

Moving down about eight paces I once again found deep water. I noted that there a semblance of a gap on the bank directly in front, noting its position and features I turned and followed the route upstream until I was once again blocked by deep water. Again here I could see another gap on the bank, the wily old pirate I thought, that's what those gaps were for, markers for the start and end of this little route and one could also sneak a look to see if fish were rising. Moving four paces just slightly north of east I then changed to northeast and aimed for the next boulder. Jim had moved up to exit two and as I moved upstream he pointed out some places in the deeper water from which his streamers had extracted many a trout, 'If you want treasure lad, you have got to dig deep, the best of trout will lie tight to the bottom in the deep water, half asleep, only a big streamer crossing their nose will get attention.'; Jim once again with his hands outlined an enormous trout.

There were a lot more submerged, smaller boulders towards the neck of the pool, their presence suppressing what should have been a very strong flow, allowing me to wade without too much risk. 'Good spider and soft hackle water when the river is low', shouted Jim, 'When there is a big hatch upstream this area can be productive. Some good trout will move up here, intercepting drowned flies from above, taking hatching caddis. Always worth a try even when the river seems devoid of hatching or returning fly'

Crossing over I found exit number one, once again I had to use the saw but soon made a path through.
Brody barked at my arrival and licked my offered hand, a quick pat on the head and he sat at my feet waiting Jim's arrival. You are a wily old sea dog I told him, making the gaps to match the extremities of the trickier parts. Jim winked, 'Old dog for the hard road young Otter, when you sail the seven seas you have to learn how to think outside the box otherwise you will quickly find yourself in Davy Jones's locker'

Jim handed me my completed map, saying how surprised he was that the river had not changed over the years.
I looked at my rock pool map, proud of our accomplishments, delighted to have two new friends. I asked Jim to sign the bottom of it but he declined, 'It's your map Otter, keep it safe and it will keep you safe as mine kept me safe'.

With that Jim looked at the sky; 'There's a storm coming Otter, bring your strongest rod and fastest sinking line, 9AM to-morrow morning, we will only have an hour or two.' With that Jim and Brody left through the trees. I looked at the sky, not a single cloud to be seen.

I still had Jims saw, so I crossed back to my side and located exits five and six, opened them a little so that I could easily see them from the river. Map in hand I returned to the bottom of the pool and made my first solo wade up its paths and repeated it until my legs felt unable to walk another yard.What an adventure this was turning out to be and what a lucky Otter I was to have the good fortune to meet old Jim.

The sky was clear as I crossed the shallows at 9AM, no sign of any storm. I was armed with a 9ft 6' eight weight rod that I had purchased on holiday for some salt water fishing. An impulse purchase, I had only used it once, as far as fish were concerned it was still a virgin. Jim and Brody arrived as usual just as I reached the bank. Jim seemed very excited and though he kept glancing at the sky I though nothing of it, putting it down simply to the fact that he was enjoying being my mentor and felt responsible for my safety in case his storm arrived.

Seeing that I had a different rod Jim took it from me, examined it closely, testing its weight and balance. Placing the tip against the butt of a tree he flexed it a few times and whistled loudly. 'Otter, this rod is made for this pool; I wish I had one like it when I fished here.'  I was pleased that he liked it, it instilled a confidence and that is always half the battle. I pulled the fast sinking line up through the guides and turned to Jim for advice. Two feet of your stoutest nylon, the stuff I gave you yesterday is perfect. He took out a fly box and handed me a big streamer, a simple pattern, hares fur body, some red seals fur near the eye and a long wing of rabbit fur. I tied it on and tested the knots a dozen times. I trembled a little with anticipation.

As on the previous day, Jim took the rod, walked to the edge, releasing about ten yards of line he beckoned me to join him. 'You will be casting to deep water, tight to the bank; the fly has to get right to the bottom. You could add some shot but that will ruin the natural movement of the streamer. Once again he had anticipated my question, uncanny the way he did that. 'Cast at least ten yards upstream at an angle tight to the bank and throw in a few upstream mends. Hold the rod high and drop it slowly tracking the line as it moves down, allowing everything to sink and when the line comes level with you then raise the rod in short jerky movements. When the rod tip is at its highest hold it there letting the fly line and streamer rise in the current.' I nodded my head indicating that I understood, though to be honest I didn't. The uncanny old pirate looked at me curiously, 'Okay Otter, the idea is to get the streamer to sink as tight to the bank as possible and when it gets down there you have to provide it with some illusion of being an injured prey. Do you understand?' This time my nod was more honest and Jim accepted that I understood. He made a perfect cast as though he had cast this rod a hundred times and showed me his technique.

Wait a moment shouted Jim as I made to drop down to the water. He tossed me a rubber ball about the size of a tennis ball. A knotted string ran through its centre, attached to one end a heavy lead weight. Each knot is a foot apart from the next, and a gentle pull will take the knot through the hole in the ball. This is your tool to check the depth of the water.  You can play with it and learn more about the pool in your own time. I stuffed it into one of my pockets, once again amazed at the old sea dogs attention to detail and at his inventions designed to solve a problem.

I made my way up the pool, casting as directed by Jim. It was hard work, I was way out of my comfort zone and the heavy rod felt cumbersome and alien to me. Though I soon became efficient at the casting and mending I did not feel in control of the streamer, there was a gulf of experience separating me and it. I had no feel for it yet but knew deep down that with perseverance that the touch would come in time.

I was thoroughly exhausted as Jim helped me out of the river and I collapsed on the ground beside Brody.

'Blood sweat and tears, blood sweat and tears'; Jim said quietly. 'You did well lad for your first try, it's a hard way of fishing but the rewards whilst few and not frequent will justify the effort. Wait and see lad, wait and see. Here's another map for you.'  I took the map from Jim, carefully marked along what was the sides of the pool were a number of X's. I looked at Jim; as usual he anticipated the question. ' Har har lad, this is the treasure map lad. X marks the pirate's treasure. Every X is a Holt for the biggest of trout in the pool, not one will be less than seven pounds'. I gasped loudly at his words. 'Show them your streamer lad, pause five minutes between casts and if it isn't taken in ten casts then the Holt is empty, move to another.'

Jim looked to the sky; it had darkened a lot though I had not noticed.

'The storms nearly here lad, old nick is about his business. Remember me Otter when you fish this pool, I have waited a long time, me and Brody watching the pool, waiting for someone that deserved to learn its secrets. Remember Otter, there are not that many trout in the pool, each one won will have to be earned. I have taught you all I can the rest is up to you. When the time comes Otter, yours will be the task of teaching another, keep the maps safe Otter, and should you find the Holt of another big trout mark it on the map I gave you.
Its time Brody, time we were off'; Jim offered his hand and bid me farewell. I shook his hand almost afraid to let go, patted Brody fondly on the head, thanked Jim for his kindness.

'Tis nothing lad, only an old pirate doing his job'

I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as I watched Jim and Brody disappear into the trees, I simply knew that we would never meet again, there had been finality to his words and though I only knew him for a few short days the hurt of it ran deep.

I fished the rock pool every opportunity I got over the following months, regularly glancing at the gaps hoping against hope that Jim and Brody would turn up. I asked every angler that I met on the river had they come across Jim, but all shook their heads. I had guessed that Jim was a lover of solitude and that he and Brody had kept to themselves. He had done a fine job for no one seemed to know anything about him.

Often I would visit the pool, armed only with a notepad, I would walk up its paths, pausing, watching, waiting. Noting the rise of any trout, watching the path of emerging flies, noting hatch times, learning, learning, learning. On other days I waded and plumbed it depths with Jim's rubber ball and string and when suitable parchment paper was located I drew up another map, showing the depths, I now had an almost 3D image of the pool. I would spend the winter tying suitable flies and next season fish the rock pool with serious intent.

Our club that controlled the fishing on the river held a few competitions over the course of the season. These were friendly events, satisfying our competitive streaks and at the same time great fun. This allowed us to meet others that we may not otherwise meet on the river from one end of the season to the next. We were allowed to kill four trout above a certain size, for most of us these would be the only trout we killed all season. I always did reasonably well at them but rarely came in the top three; my competitive streak was not strong enough to see me come out on top.

It was September now and the season was drawing to a close. As the last competition drew near I planned my hunt. I would fish one of Jim's streamers on the Holts, one fish would beat the others bags of four by a country mile. Night after night I dreamed of catching that one trout, it was my last thought before I drifted off to sleep, my awakening thought first thing in the morning. The obsession was total and overwhelming and I enjoyed every moment of it.

Competition day arrived and when I set up my rod in the car park one of my close friends, David came close, he almost choked from laughing. 'Otters going shark fishing, look at the rod and leader'. The others simply shook their heads, wondering had I had a mental breakdown. 'John, will the weighing scales hold a shark'; 'Has he got a twenty foot bag to hold his catch'. I was to be the butt of many jibes and took them without as much as flinching.
My friend pulled me to one side, 'You are up to something Otter, I can see it in your eyes?' I shook his hand and bid him 'Tight Lines and may the best angler win', placed my rod in the car and got ready for the off at 11AM, weigh in to be at 6PM.

I knew the position of each Holt off by heart and entered the Rock Pool with a determination to succeed. Hour after hour I cast out the streamer, recalling Jims instructions, mending, mending, tracking, jerking, re-casting. I fought off any negative thoughts, blood, sweat and tears, if that's what it took I would not be found wanting. Not a fin stirred all day, not a single rise the entire length of the pool, not a single snatch at the streamer. It was close to four O'clock when I entered the bottom of the pool for the sixth time, this would be my final run up it. My muscles ached and each cast and each step was a battle. My resolve and my concentration held, what was to be the outcome was in the lap of the Gods and I knew come success or failure, either way I would have no regrets for I was giving my all to the task.

The take came halfway up the pool, in line with the largest boulder. The line stopped as it drew level with me, instinct kicked in as I was too tired to think. I lifted the rod sharply and I met with a solid resistance, 'Damn', I said out loud, thinking I was stuck in the bottom. I was just about to give it a pull when the line started to draw away slowly upstream and the rod tip kicked over. The reel ticked as line was drawn slowly of the spool and soon it was screeching loudly as the trout gained power and tore upstream. I dipped the reel into the stream to cool it fearing it would warp from the heat generated from the revolving spool. All I could do was hold on. I made many mistakes but the hook held. At one point the trout splashed on the surface thirty yards below me, the backing some twenty yards in front racing downstream. When I could, I recovered line, when it ran I simply held on tight.

It was half past five when I finally netted the great trout; I had fought it for nearly an hour.

Back in the car park, we awaited the arrival of the returning anglers. All conversations on how each angler did, the hatches or lack off hatches, lost trout, fine trout caught. The usual candidates had their limit of four and those that normally blanked kept up their tradition. On asking me how I had fared, when I said one, they offered their commiserations in the age old tradition of abuse. 'Poor Otter, the sharks were not taking today' or 'Otter, almost blanked' and 'Otter, broke in a half pounder with his 50lb leader.'
I smiled at each joke and held my peace.

'That's it'; announced the John at the scales, 'Stephen wins with four trout for 2lbs 13oz'. Everyone clapped, congratulating Stephen; I made my way to my car and returned with my fish. 'Hold it a minute, you have to weigh mine'; I opened the bag allowing the trout to slip to the ground. The boisterous anglers were stunned into silence. Each stared at the immense trout, one angler whistled 'Jezus Otter, that is some trout'.
The scales read 11lb 3oz, the biggest trout many of them had ever seen, and twice the size that any had heard of being caught from our river. All probed me, trying to find out where I caught it, but I held firm and simply replied 'In the river'.

David pulled me to one side, one of the finest anglers and friends that I have ever had the pleasure to fish with. 'Where', he asked, I looked him in the eye and told him that I could not tell him yet. I took old Jim's streamer from my fly box and showed it to him. 'All I can tell you is that I persuaded him from his Holt to grab this streamer and this was the only take I got all day.' David as only a friend would, nodded and asked that someday I would tell him. 'Someday, maybe one day I can'; and we left it at that.

After the weigh in I returned to the Rock Pool and sat quietly. Remembering Jim and Brody, remembering how we surveyed the pool, drawing up the map. I recalled my first tentative step into its waters, afraid that I would sink into an abyss. Standing up I whispered, 'Thank you Jim' and made my way home. The fishing season was over for me now, but the memories of the last few months would see me safely through the winter.

My fly boxes were crammed with flies for the coming season. The greatest pleasure was in the filling of my Rock Pool box, filled with streamers, and big weighted nymphs and flymphs, all copies of Jims flies. With the tying of each streamer I imagined battling a great trout, deceived into leaving its Holt.

January is a month of anticipation, the hours and days passing slowly as we eagerly wait the new fishing season on the first of March. We hold our Club AGM in January and of the one hundred and fifty members there is usually a turnout of at least seventy. Some are familiar faces, others I have only seen at the AGM. Many of the members do not fish the river at all, some infrequently but for one reason or another they turn up each year, proud to belong to this club and be part of its rich history, proud to see themselves as protectors of the river.

The usual matters are discussed, statement of accounts, a draw for a few lucky ones that would get free membership, the election of committee members. There is always an occasional argument over some petty matter, generally fuelled by those with too many pints of Guinness. The Cups for the winners of the various competitions and angler of the Season Award were handed out. When the secretary announced that the winner of the biggest trout caught in all the competitions the previous season was Otter the Shark Hunter with a truly magnificent trout of 11lb 3oz, the room fell silent. Many simply could not believe their ears and the applause when it came was heart warming.

With official matters concluded we adjourned to enjoy some coffee and sandwiches and do some socialising. A man that I did know beckoned me to one side, 'My father would like a word with you'; he pointed to a very frail old man sitting at a bar table. I walked over and introduced myself as Otter. He had bright eyes and I was soon to realise that his memory was not impaired by his age, ninety three he would be next birthday.

'That's a fine nickname, Otter, there used to be a lot of Otters on the river when I was a young lad. Sixty three years I have been a member of this club, served as secretary for many of them. My name is Matthew and that young lad of sixty seven is my son Joe'

He regaled me with stories of the river, tales of anglers that fished before I was born. Though he had not cast a line in more than twenty years he had not lost his enthusiasm for our craft and the love he had of the river shone through every word. He said he had some old pictures and records at home that I might like to see. I immediately accepted his kind offer and arranged to visit him the following day.

Joe answered the door and ushered me into a dark study where old Matthew hunched over an old writing desk. The walls were covered with old photos of trout and rivers and lakes. A few framed sets of flies leaned crookedly between the pictures, all coated with years of dust.
He looked up at me, 'Otter that was a fine trout you caught, it's been many years since the last capture of such a trout. You caught it in the Rock Pool on a streamer'; he said in a matter of fact kind of a of way. With that he handed me an old photo. I gasped; it was Old Jim with Brody at his side and at his feet lay a great trout.

'You recognise him Otter, don't you? Take a look at the back.

Turning the photo I nearly fainted when I read the old faded handwriting. Jim Fitzgerald , 1962 , September Competition 12lb 8oz.

'Jim was seventy two when he caught that trout, it was the last time he ever fished as he took ill that winter and died the spring of 63. Jim was a close and dear friend and on his death bed he told me about the rock pool and his great regret that he never shared its secrets with any other angler. As he slipped away he kept saying 'I have to show someone, it cannot be lost, it cannot be lost,......it cannot be lost. We put Brody to sleep and buried him with Jim on the edge of the woods near the Rock Pool. I am now the only remaining member of the club that remembers Jim, he kept to himself. I think his lonely years at sea stopped him from having many friends. '

He handed me some more old photos and some records of club competitions. Jim had won the award for best trout numerous times but never two years in a row; the wily old pirate did not wish to draw too much attention to him.

I told Matthew my story, every now and again he would interrupt, 'Yes that's Jim all right'.

When I finished I could see the tears running down old Matthews's wrinkled face. 'He is finally at rest, finally at rest. Joe take us to see Jims grave.' He handed me all his old photos and records, 'I think you should have these Otter, Jim would want you to have them.'

It was slow progress through the woods, Matthew could barely walk and we carefully guided his every step.
Finally we came to a small clearing and there stood an old gravestone. I walked over and read the inscription, the truth of it all hitting home.



At first I cried but finally laughed, 'Jim you old sea dog, you have finally found your way to Davy Jones's Locker, Rest in peace my friend'

Over the next twenty years I fished the Rock Pool once a month, adding a few new holts to Jims map and every second September competition I weighed in a great trout. David continued to question me and received the same reply, 'Someday David, someday'.

Fishing the Rock Pool got harder each season, my knees were starting to deteriorate and I knew that soon I would be unable to wade its paths. Often I would go there intending to fish but would simply sit there and smoke my pipe, reliving some great battles and always remembering Jim and Brody. I had a pipe now, for no particular reason one day I walked into a tobacconists shop and bought one.

On such a day I made my way to gap number five, sat quietly against a tree smoking my pipe. I must have fallen asleep for I woke suddenly hearing splashes from the pool. Looking up I could see an angler standing at the bottom gap on the far side. I recognised him, Gary Brown, a young fellow of about forty, a fine angler by all accounts.
He had a spinning rod and was fishing a large red and white egg shaped float, I had used a similar one many years ago when Salmon fishing, Duck Eggs we used to call them. What was he up too, this was fly only water.
I watched for a while then stood and called across, 'Hey Gary, no worm fishing allowed here'. He was startled and it took him a few moments to locate my position and he waved to me. 'Come across', I shouted. He wound in his float and minutes later I met him when he crossed the shallows above the Rock Pool.

'Gary what are you up to '; I enquired.

He laughed, 'Otter, are you well. Don't fret I have no worms, look'; he pointed to a lead weight hanging of the arm of his spinning reel. 'I seen a great trout here a few weeks ago and decided to plumb the pool to see if it is wadeable. I reckon I have found a path up to the first set of boulders'; he was really excited.

'Gary'; I asked, 'Do you fish for pleasure?'

He looked at me curiously, as though my question was a stupid one, 'No Otter, I fish for trout, why else would I fish'.

I smiled the smile of a contented old man, looking at Gary I simply said. 'Meet me here to-morrow at 10 AM and I will assist you in your quest'

THE END

Inchlaggan

Great stuff. Reminds me of a couple of stories in a book I have. Copyright means I can't post them here.
Thanks for that, but it needs to be in wildfisher!
Ken
'til a voice as bad as conscience,
rang interminable changes,
on an everlasting whisper,
day and night repeated so-
"Something hidden, go and find it,
Go and look beyond the ranges,
Something lost beyond the ranges,
Lost and waiting for you,
Go."

alancrob

Otter

I don't usually read the longer posts but that was a wonderful tale beautifully told.

Thanks

A.

Wildfisher

Have been speaking to Norman (otter). I will publish these excellent stories in The Wildfisher as soon as I get my broadband sorted out. It has been  a disaster since BT "upgraded"  the network. Drops out every 5 minutes if I even get that long.  It took 3 attempts to post this reply.

burnie

Superb, thanks for that.

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