Giant kingfishers in pine trees. That is a bit weird right? So is killing a fish within a microsecond of hooking it. It felt like murder when the stockie smacked the side of the canoe. I mean, I was quick on the strike, but gee…I couldn’t have known it would be small enough to take flight like that. That was my excuse. Culpable homicide perhaps? It was just a small fish. Perhaps I could be let off lightly?
Small or not, there were stockies about. The Fish Eagles called repeatedly, their hauntingly beautiful voices echoing across the water from the deep dark pines on the opposite shore. They called at sunset when the pines threw a devilish black shadow beneath the crimson sky, and they called at dawn when sunlight filled the pine-and-lake echo chamber with a warm glow. I would say that those eagles were satisfied. I could also have sworn that the cormorant which flew past, had a grin on its face. That judgement comes after it had made several passes.
When you stay on the water, you notice these things, and we were staying. Staying at Vagabond cottage…not wandering about without a home or job. If you want to fish the fabled Lyndhurst and see its murderous smiling cormorants and hear its smug Fish Eagles, you will have to stay there. At Vagabond Cottage. That is the only way to get access to the 58 hectare lake and its trout, be they lunkers or stockies.
Unless of course you buy a house there. But it is more practical to book a stay at the cottage and get that magic key to the mountain pass. The mountain pass beyond the first locked gate, with a forested chasm off to your right, baboons on the rocky outcrops watching you ascend, and Samango Monkeys announcing your arrival. As you climb the stairs to your fisherman’s nirvana, Inhlezela mountain peers down on you from the east as if to say, judgementally “who let you in?”. The second key gets you through the next gate, and out on top. That puts you in easy reach of the hereto forbidden waters. Inhlezela be damned…you are in!
This is exclusive stuff. I have lived in the area for a lot longer than the Fish Eagle and the cormorant put together, and this was my first shot at Lyndhurst. The Cop had fished it more recently. Perhaps he had had business up there. The Irishman had been up too, but not for several years. The Viking and I were greenhorns. Funny thing is, I think the Viking and I were the last on the water each time we ventured out. Perhaps that tells you something. Why did the more experienced guys take this opportunity seriously? Did they know something?
What I now know is that Vagabond is snug, compact and comfortable. I also know that you can see the trout rising in the bay from the dorma window of the upstairs bedroom, but that extracting yourself from the generous warm bedding on a cool autumn morning takes effort. You need to brace yourself for that.
You also need to brace yourself for some paddling. By that I mean canoe or float tube paddling. A straight line across the water from our launch spot to the inviting inlet is over a kilometre and a half in length. This water is suited to a floating craft. As a guest you technically have access to the entire perimeter, but many sections are rimmed with pines and other vegetation. I also wouldn’t feel comfortable fishing off the front lawns of the other nine homes around the shoreline, notwithstanding the fact that they are often unoccupied. With a canoe, float tube or kick boat, the lake is your oyster. We ventured right across the oyster to explore the inlet, a promising piece of rocky shore, and the island. The water was crystal clear, and we found ourselves peering down, looking for the drop-offs. We thought that is where the fish would be when under clear blue skies. Then we looked for sheer depth to plumb. We later learned that the rocky shore was where we should have been, but it was far out of earshot, not that anyone was shouting an invitation to join them.
The north wind picked up a bit and the unspoken wisdom was to make our way upwind, and closer to our abode for the evening rise. Closer to whiskey. The Cop got cramps. I pulled rank and insisted on a paddling partner. It was the least he could do after hogging the rocky shore. When you need whiskey you don’t want exhaustion and aching arms to deter you.
Nipping back for whiskey (or coffee/lunch etc): another good reason to stay on any piece of water. There is no rushing back home here. You would have two gates, a mountain pass, and that glaring mountain to contend with. You had might as well stay. There is a bit of cellphone signal for you to tell them you won’t be back. And no electricity to re-charge the phone to explain further. Perfect!
Sigh. Take it all in…sit out on the veranda overlooking the water with steak sizzling on the covered braai at your elbow. Leave your rod rigged. No point in taking it down. It will be needed just as soon as you are done with your energy replenishment. (Also known as sleeping and eating….that is all a fisherman needs a cottage for, right?)
At night, The Viking tied flies under the gas lights. That says something about The Viking and his needs, but I guess also about the neat, piped gas lighting throughout. It reminds me of the old Dargle Church down the road which we frequented in my childhood. Steep roof. Quaint. Mind you, the sounds in Vagabond cottage bore no resemblance: these gas lanterns somehow don’t hiss like the old Church ones, and it must be said that our language was not always befitting of a Church. But that is what happens when you are out on the water and you see a Trout in excess of five pounds just cruise casually by. When you encounter Giant Kingfishers roosting in pine trees. Or when one in your midst murders an innocent stockie with his 80 Kg canoe. The utterances aren’t a whole lot better when four grown men are trying to match the microscopic hatch amidst a frenzied rise of trout, no matter their size. The trout I mean.
These were the topics that kept us up long after the fire had died down. We had long days on the water, and inevitably our conversation died too, and the sounds of a lake shore on an inky night took over. The soft sounds of lapping waves, and the breeze hushing in the pines. The sounds of our day echoed in our evening thoughts. The short sharp quack of the fleeing kingfisher. The giggle of a Dabchick. The splash of a feisty rainbow trout. The voices of the cottage occupants holding a braai way down the shore. Fisherman’s Church, you might call it.
They were tired (cramped?) legs that climbed the steep stairs to the loft to collapse into bed at night.
Our motley crew are a little camera shy, so they conspired to catch their trout when at least a kilometre away from the shutter button, but I did manage to sneak up on one of them when he got a better fish. We were also full of excuses: Atmospheric pressure, changing seasons, comfortable beds, not enough time to get to grips with a water this big.
I reached out to an old acquaintance who cut his teeth on the place. He sent me pictures of some big fish. Rainbows mainly, but a few browns too. He spoke of averages in the four to five pound band, and fish of up to seven pounds with the odd one at eight. That was over a few decades, and not what we encountered on our visit. Our best was about four pounds, and it has to be said that we worked hard for anything other than the stockies, but these things ebb and flow. There was some discussion about the browns breeding in the feeder stream. Stockies are known to grow too, and a lake this big is bound to carry its secrets and surprises. I feel we just didn’t get to grips with all that water. If we could just have stayed on for Monday, perhaps……
One Response
Ah, Andrew, a wonderful piece of water indeed. I have been lucky enough to stay there – caught my first trout on a dry fly in front of the cottage we were staying in! A walk up the hills to view the source of the Umgeni was also quite spectacular!