Bakkies, dust and lost reels

Every now and then, the eight to five world of suburbia, commitments and credit cards, releases me for more than just a day trip. In other words, every once in a while, I somehow find a gap, and head out on one of those fly fishing trips that involves a night or two in a fishing cottage. Not a few stolen hours, in which you are watching the time. I am talking about two or more days at a trot on the water. It is heaven! The anticipation of those trips is childlike in my case. It is childlike in

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Dust and smoke in the Midlands

Yesterday I headed out along the Kamberg road.  Sunday past, this had been the scene of a wild and awful wind. One that lashed the dry veld angrily, kicking up dust and tossing branches. Inevitably, fire had been involved too. The farmers were now on guard. Houses, and even lives were lost down Kokstad way. Yesterday was calm. In  fact it was calm all day, and with Sunday’s wind fresh in everyones memory, the farmers were out in force burning fire breaks. Palls of smoke rose from a few spots up the valley. Something was burning up in the berg,

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Going further up

Skimming through fishing magazines, websites and books, I can’t help but notice the prevalence of articles espousing the wildness of the fishing. The secret location is so remote that a helicopter was the only way in. The bigger fish are in the headwaters above the waterfall, and it takes several hours to hike in. For the best fishing, you have to walk further. And so it goes. And we want to be the one who DID walk further. The one who went higher into the mountains, beyond where your unfit mates would ever go. We hope that the fishing there

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A chance encounter

If you carry a camera around on Trout waters long enough, you eventually bump into a co-operative Rainbow.   It wouldn’t take a fly, but after I had photographed it, I caught it with my hands. Yes, I returned it. No, there were no witnesses.

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