Midsummer Madness
- Details
- Published on Sunday, 11 December 2011 10:06
- Written by Iain Johnston
I get bored easily, even with fishing (although my wife would never believe it), so to me variety really is the spice of life. Much as I enjoy stripping blobs on a DI-7 at Rutland, it loses its appeal pretty quickly and I yearn for another fly-fishing fix to keep my interest levels high,
so I was delighted when my fishing buddy Neil asked if I would like to go and fish in the far north-west of Scotland, in an area of Sutherland called Cape Wrath.
The name itself is enough to inspire many to visit, but Neil’s tales of an extremely high average weight for the wild brown trout in the many limestone lochs, coupled with his stuffed five-and-a-half-pounder were enough for me to seek permission from the Domestic Fishing Authority for a trip in midsummer.
We were due to stay in the now-defunct Cape Wrath Hotel, but part of the plan was to visit a remote hill loch en route, reputed to be the Holy Grail of Scottish trout fishing, and camp out to take advantage of the evening rise. Being (then) relatively inexperienced with outdoor living, Neil was relying on my experience in the Army to ensure we survived the trip intact, although as he had been visiting the area for several years, I was trusting his knowledge of the local conditions as much as he was trusting me. This later proved to be an education for us both.
Stopping off at our respective parents’ houses gave me the opportunity to check the weather forecast, which for anyone who regularly strays away from the comforts of our towns and cities is an essential element of planning, even in midsummer. Neil had insisted that with twenty hours of daylight, we would be able to fish late, have a couple of hours of rest by the loch and then get up early to catch our breakfast.
Ordinarily that would have been fine, but with northerly winds due to come straight from the Arctic, I was slightly dubious at his optimism, so a stop at the camping shop in Aviemore was scheduled. My suggestion that Neil purchase a sleeping bag fell on deaf ears; an extra sweater the only concession made to my moaning.
Having made the long journey north, we bought our tickets from the estate office then, having gained permission, drove my Land Rover as far along the track as we could. We then set off on foot along the shrinking track, before turning left and beginning the long, steep ascent through peat hag and a series of false summits. It was at this point that I started questioning my packing as Neil’s daysack looked considerably lighter than my rucksack, allowing him to keep well ahead of me, despite me allegedly being the one used to lugging a heavy bergen across all terrains for a living.
Some two-and-a-half hours later we arrived on the shores of a reasonably-sized hill loch, on top of a limestone plateau.
The aching legs were quickly forgotten and rods assembled in anticipation of some quality fishing for us both. Floating lines and mini-muddlers were the chosen tactic, as the trout tend to notice anything appearing
in their patch and slashing rises can follow instantly. Within seconds I heard Neil cry out that he was into a fish. After a spirited battle he returned a handsome brownie well over the pound mark. I was impressed with the fish and its capture spurred me on to catch one myself. A few minutes later, another cry, another fish for Neil, and nothing for me. Sadly this was to become a familiar pattern for the evening, with Neil’s cries getting more excited as the fish just seemed to get bigger, with my leaders becoming tangled as I thrashed the water in a display of dim-witted fishing that I hope never to repeat.
Eventually the fishing slowed, with Neil taking nine cracking brownies between one pound and two-and-a-half pounds and me taking nothing. I was unsure as to what had gone wrong, as we were both fishing the same tactics, but my focus quickly changed as a glance to the north revealed an approaching weather front that was black with precipitation.
Neil enquired as to whether we should make a break for the car, but the trip down steep, rocky slopes and peat hag in darkness, in the middle of a storm was not advisable, so it was with a certain degree of self-satisfaction that I suggested we put the tent up. This met with a positive reply as Neil had no idea I had brought it with me. Safely ensconced under canvas, it was remarkable the level of comfort afforded by my old faithful tent, a veteran of many camping adventures.
The feeling of being thoroughly demoralised by not catching any fish was replaced when, as the horizontal rain and sleet started, I reached into the rucksack and pulled out a stove, some super noodles and a tin of hot dogs. Neil now realised why I had been puffing away up the steep slopes, as we both tucked into an unforgettable meal that truly warmed us from the inside-out and replaced expended calories. 
The weather was by now utterly miserable and, as it was late, we decided to get some sleep. Neil put his extra sweater on to counter the cold and settled down for the night, while again, I reached into the rucksack. I don’t believe I have ever seen eyes greener than his as I pulled out a sleeping bag. Oh the feeling of smugness!
During the night, after the cold front had passed, Neil had to go for a jog around the loch as he was so cold and could not sleep. Over breakfast he instructed me to write him a shopping list of camping essentials as
he did not want to repeat the experience of unpreparedness and I made a mental note to watch him fish to learn how to catch those magnificent wild trout.
The rest of the holiday was fantastic, with both of us enjoying some exceptional sport in the Durness limestone lochs, various hill lochs and also in the sea, but it was the trip into the mountains, and the lessons learned, that will stay with us forever.
Iain Johnston has been fascinated with fish and fishing since the age of 4. Service as an Army helicopter pilot and instructor for 16 years took him round the globe, always with a fishing rod readily to hand. Now living and working in the south of England, he makes the trip north of the border whenever he can, usually with a boat, a mountain bike and half-a-dozen fly rods in tow.