There's Gold In Them Thar Hills
- Details
- Published on Thursday, 16 August 2012 14:48
- Written by Fred Carrie
Far up in the lonely hills there runs a tumbling stream. Born of the perpetual snow patches in the high, misty corries she hurries onwards towards the distant sea, gathering streamlets and springs, ever widening, never resting. For much of her journey the stream stands apart from the world and its inhabitants, seldom visited, seldom disturbed keeping safe her secrets within the sombre solitude of the glens and grandeur of the hills.
In her infant upper reaches the stream meanders slowly over a beautiful narrow grassy plain between steep braes and high, frost shattered crags of fertile rock. Here rare alpine plants grow safe from the teeth of hungry deer and the golden eagle has her nest. The fertile rocks sweeten her waters and balance the sour run-off from the vast peaty moorlands farther down the glen. This is good for the stream and her charges.
She rapidly gathers pace. Well within the upper reaches her bed soon becomes wide and rocky, her waters frantic. She is overlooked by most, running almost unnoticed. The people of the glen have long departed and visitors now are few and infrequent. Ruined shielings tell of summers past. The laughing children who once played by her waters have gone; silence, save the sound of the rushing water, the trilling curlew, and the mournful call of the golden plover.
Even in her middle reaches, where she occasionally strays quite close to a narrow single track road, she is usually unseen, usually ignored whilst tumbling through dense birch clad gorges.
Her waters, in rare months of summer drought, can dwindle to what appears a mere trickle running crystal clear between the slippery rocks scattered over her bed; she may look benign, safe, even lifeless, but this is a deception. During warm days slowly melting snows in the high corries ensure her waters stay cool, well oxygenated and keep the bright yellow trout that swim there happy, healthy and well fed.
But beware! Even in summertime, and with little or no warning, far off thunderstorms, that a visitor to her middle reaches may not even be aware of, can send down a wall of water transforming the sleepy stream into a raging torrent sweeping aside all that stands before her. To witness the speed and violence is astonishing and one is left wondering how her inhabitants manage to survive from one such catastrophe to the next. But survive they do and when the waters subside there's still gold in them thar hills.
Occasionally, a fly fisher may visit her middle reaches, but the lady has little time for those looking for brief encounters. Her trout seldom run big, a half pounder is a good one, a pounder exceptional, anything bigger is a monster. But size is not everything. Her trout are creatures of exceptional beauty. True wild fish, not dark and half starved, but bright yellow, red spotted, often displaying wide, angry dark bands of aggression. True wild fish, unadulterated by the sorry, sand eel fed inmates of trout farms.
This is strictly the domain of the adventurous fly fisher. Not for the sedentary. For those who love wild places, for those who enjoy picking pockets between boulders in torrents, for those not frightened to walk, to sweat, to climb, to battle through undergrowth, sometimes to bleed. To tackle dangerous wading, to risk the occasional fall and injury. The writer has taken many a tumble into her cold waters, bruising pride, even breaking bones, but such is the allure of the lady, always returning. Risk is as essential to the real wild angler as oxygen. True wild fishing, not simulated, unsanitized. If you take a tumble, you may swear, but then you get up, you shake yourself and get on with it. If you cannot do that you should not be there.
Dry fly fishing on streams like this is not about precise fly choice or long casts. It's all about reading the water and line control. Learning where the fish are likely to be. You will seldom see them rising, so you have to figure this out. It's not all that difficult. The best flies are the most buoyant flies and those that require least maintenance. Hoppers, foam beetles, Elk Hair Caddis, a bushy parachute Adams and the like. You should never be afraid to use big flies. Low maintenance is essential as the flies frequently get dragged under and soaked. If you are smart you will choose a fly that is easy to see on the water and will dry and be ready to go again with a few false casts.
A very common mistake when fishing in rough pocket water is casting too far and using leaders that are far too long. You really want to keep the line and leader as short as possible, keep as much line off the water as you can. Drifts are short, often very short, one or two seconds. The fish don't have long to decide whether to take or ignore a fly. Keep casting, keep moving. It's not leisurely fishing, it's intense, it's totally absorbing; it's good!
So where resides this lady I write of? Well there are some affairs of the heart that romantic old fly fishers with even a smattering of common sense keep to themselves, but safe to say there are very many like her out there if you are prepared to go out and look for them!
When you find your own lady you will appreciate her all the more. Look after her and her fish and keep her location safely under your hat!
Fred Carrie started fishing in the mid 1960's, hillwalking in the 1970's and has been combining the two on and off ever since.
Fred runs the highly successful Wildfisher web site, the busy and popular Wild Fishing Forum and is proprietor of Wildfisher Fly Lines.
A veteran of two Himalayan high alpine plant hunting expeditions and having hiked over almost all of Scotland’s “Munro” peaks and countless lesser hills over the past 40 years, he is no stranger to wild country and enjoys the trek up to a wild hill loch or stream as much as the fishing itself.
Fred is a regular visitor to the fabulous crystal clear rivers of New Zealand's South Island and regards that country along with his native Scotland as trout fishing paradise.