The Ones That Got Away

sandisonIf I had a penny for every fish that I have lost I would be a rich man. And every glass case of my angling dreams would be filled to overflowing with mighty trout. Unforgettable, magnificent wild fish of up to and over 8lb in weight. Yes indeed, all the “ones that got away”.
My consolation is that I know where they live. I know to the exact inch where it was on loch and river that they grabbed my fly. The precise location where I encountered them even if it was for only a brief, exciting moment; the heart-stopping tug, the scream of an angry reel, the agony of the moment when the fly came loose.

These instances mark an angler for life. Things are never the same again. Each succeeding cast awakens the memory of those moments, rekindles the hope that this cast might be the one which consummates the marriage for which all piscators pray: a trout so large that, in telling of it afterwards, we never need to lie.

My first great loss happened above New Water on the River Tweed near Innerleithen. I had been stumbling about, fording the river and getting two bootsfull of ice-cold water in the process, and decided to have a passing cast downstream. The instant the flies landed on the surface, a huge fish grabbed, almost pulling the rod from out of my hand. Then, as quickly, it was gone. I can only guess at the size of the fish, perhaps it was a salmon, but most certainly it would have been “worth the hauding”.

The next came whilst I was fishing a tiny lochan in Caithness, I saw the trout clearly and it was definitely over 5lb in weight. The fish had taken my tail fly, a small Silver Butcher, as it dangled in the water whilst I struggled to untangle the other two flies on the cast from my landing net. The huge fish was unconcerned. I don’t think it realised it was hooked. But I was in shock at the prospect of landing such a monster.

I knew the best chance of securing this prize was to act quickly. Which is how I acquired a life-long loathing of landing nets. I got the wretched thing loose, but it wouldn’t flick open, no matter how hard I flicked. After a minute, the big trout turned lazily and headed off for the middle. My ‘bob’ fly snagged on the disgusting net and the cast broke.

However, not only do I manage to lose my own specimen trout, but I also mange to lose other people’s, even after I have efficiently dispatched them with a well aimed blow to the back of the neck. My wife, Ann, once caught a hefty trout whilst we were fishing a small loch to the north of Helmsdale. She had been stalking the margins, well back from the water’s edge, fishing with barely a couple of yards of line. It was the largest trout Ann had ever hooked.

2008Nov121226522764The_one_that_got_awayAfter I netted the fish for her, tapped it over the head and congratulated its captor, in order to keep the trout in good condition I placed it in a polythene bag staked to a post in the shallows. Half an hour later, on examining the bag, I found to my abject horror that it was empty. The fish had recovered and swum off to fight another day. Which was more than could be said for me. I have never been allowed to forget that incident.

The largest trout I have lost was in a lochan near our home in Tongue, Sutherland. The first time I visited the water I thought it was fishless; dark, difficult of access, lying at the centre of a midge-ridden peat bog. But on my second visit, I hooked a veritable leviathan that tore the line from my reel faster than any fish had ever done before. It ran three times, taking me down to the backing, leaping spectacularly at the end of each run.

Eventually, it tired and I managed to work it back towards the net, which, this time, had opened, responsibly, at first flick. I could see this was, at last, the trout of my dreams; beautifully shaped, deep body, small head and wondrously marked. It was at least 6lb. I pictured the fish in pride of place above the mantelpiece. I saw myself modestly recounting the event to admiring friends on cold winter evenings.

As I slipped the net below its huge frame, the trout, in a final display of power, dashed between my legs. I tried to lift my leg over the line, and, in doing so, toppled backwards into the loch, during which process the fish escaped. If you are an angler, you will understand the depths of my despair. If not, take my word for it, at that at that moment I wanted to die.

Nevertheless, at other times, fate has been kinder. Although nothing as large as the Tongue peat-pool trout has come my way since, I have had a few luckier moments. I remember with pleasure a 2lb 8oz trout from Paradise Wood on the River Don. A superb 3lb 8oz fish from Loch Caladail, one of the famous Durness limestone lochs. A fish of 4lb 8oz from one of the finest trout lochs in Scotland, Loch Heilen in Caithness.

I can’t pretend these creatures were caught due to my angling prowess. Fishermen are basically truthful and honest. Mostly, I was looking the other way when these fish rose to my fly; fiddling with my cast, drinking coffee, watching a black-throated diver…. The Heilen trout took when my rod rested crossways on the boat, flies unattended, lying supine on the surface. In fact, this is a technique I have since developed into a fine art and it is surprising just how often it brings results. Who knows, it might provide the same service for you. Try it. After all, you have nothing to loose other than a monster trout.

 

Bruce Sandison is a writer and journalist and author of nine books, including the definite anglers' guide, 'The Rivers and Lochs of Scotland' which is being revised and updated prior to republishing.

He contributed to 'Trout & Salmon' for 25 years and was angling correspondent for 'The Scotsman' for 20 years. Sandison writes for the magazine 'Fly Fishing and Fly Tying' and provides a weekly angling column in the '
Aberdeen Press & Journal'.

His work, on angling, Scottish history and environmental subjects, has appeared in most UK national papers, including 'The Sunday Times', 'The Telegraph', 'The Daily Mail', 'The Herald', 'Private Eye', 'The Field' and in a number of USA publications.

Sandison has worked extensively on BBC Radio. His series 'Tales of the
Loch' ran for 5 years on Radio Scotland and was also broadcast on BBC Radio 4 and on BBC World Service. His series, 'The Sporting Gentleman's Gentleman' and his programme 'The River of a Thousand Tears', about Strathnaver, established his reputation as a broadcaster.

Sandison has had extensive coverage on television. He wrote and presented two series for the BBC TV Landward programme and has given a number of interviews over the years on factory-forestry, peat extraction, wild fish conservation and fish farming.

Sandison is founding chairman of 'The Salmon Farm Protest Group', an organisation that campaigns for the removal of fish farms from Scottish coastal and freshwater lochs where disease and pollution from these farms is driving wild salmonid populations to extinction.

Bruce  won 'Feature Writer of the Year' in the
Highlands and Islands Press Awards in 2000 and in 2002, and was highly commended in 2005. Bruce lives near Tongue in Sutherland with his wife Ann.