When I told the Viking about the strong, hard fighting rainbows, ranging in size from three to six pounds, his eyes lit up.
He felt it.
That furious, virulent and commanding tug in fresh, cold water. Fresh cold air.
But before he could marvel and gush too much, I cut in and told him the rest: The litter; The incompetent park staff; The crumbling facilities: The loud day-visitors.
His tone dropped a notch. He concluded that he would not have gone, knowing all this.
Later in the day there came a call from Centimeters. He measures his fish and his money in centimeters, but that is a story for another day.
He had just returned from some or other event. An event with “entrants”, lots of booze , and “winners”. It turns out the “winners” were in deck chairs, fishing a string of plastic Trout eggs, suspended under an oversized carp float. The story doesn’t relate whether fly rods were used, or something else.
My tone dropped a notch. Knowing that, I would not have gone to that shit-show.
So where would I go?
I would go to the Mooi near Tendela and fish over a handful of spooky Browns with two friends who don’t know how to break into cars.
I would go to the cottage near where the murder took place, and catch stockies with three world-class snorers.
I would go, with a direct descendant of the Kraai Buffalo, to witness our friend have his best river day ever, with two 18″ Browns in two casts
I would go alone to tell Skuruja to convey to the King that his mielie and blackjack field needs more work – and to catch spirited Bhungane Browns on hoppers.
I would go spook small Trout in inch-deep water, alone on a hot afternoon, and go back a week later with The Boardermaster to get just one good Brown.
And as I get older, the “FOMO” that saw me grab all opportunities to throw a fly, sees me selecting just the ones that feed my soul.