“Stop the car!” said my aged Gogo. “Stop the car!”. We were in my uncle’s new Land Cruiser. The one my Dad nicknamed Mbejwana, after the forward facing hook beneath the front bumper. It was a super sturdy vehicle, with a big engine that growled under the hood, and my uncle was enjoying putting it through its paces. Grandma had one hand pressed against the dashboard, the other against the roof. “Stop the car!”…she tried again, as we sped down the Dargle road past the D17.
When Doctor Harry said “Stop he car!”, I was more co-operative in heeding the call. I lingered only to find a suitable place to pull off. We were on the Dargle road again, but it was 50 years later. My uncle doesn’t drive anymore, but it has nothing to do with his mother or her panicked look that day. He is getting on.
Doctor Harry had spotted some trees which were familiar. He had been watching videos sent to him by yours truly, normally on Tuesday mornings, or perhaps Thursday afternoons. I sent them to him with the express intention of getting his heart rate up. On each occasion I was stalking this beast of a Brown, which I still haven’t managed to land. On each occasion these same trees would have been in the background. I would have said “He has just risen over there under those roots…I am going to climb out and try him from the other bank” and then I would sign off, imagining that I had left him with a shaking scalpel and thoughts of his malpractice insurance. I hadn’t yet managed to get to the point where I then send him a picture of the great big dripping, golden leviathan.
I hadn’t got that right.
I still haven’t got it right, and I fear that the damned fish will die of old age before I pull that off. We will see if he is still there in September.
Anyway: Dr Harry would be on a flight home the following day. He had recognised the trees after I made eye contact with him there in the passenger seat, and nodded in the direction. “That’s the spot, isn’t it!” He exclaimed. And I grinned. It was indeed.
“Stop the car!”
I should have known he would do that. We were tired after seven straight days on other rivers and we were half an hour from home and a hot shower. And pizza.
But I “stopped the car”, and at the doctor’s insistence we climbed the fence and worked our way through the undergrowth to the river’s edge. It was a muddy mess: in spate after all the rain in these parts. The vegetation was over our heads. On the one hand I was disappointed for him. He wouldn’t get another chance. On the other hand, if he didn’t get to catch it, I could goad him with more videos as soon as he was safely flown out to his home province. So I wasn’t exactly devastated for him.
“OK” He said. “Here’s the deal. If there is just a single rise, I am rigging up a rod!” With that, a fish rose against the far bank. Against all odds. And Dr Harry was rushing for the car to set up.
“We don’t have permission to be here you know.” I said. “We would be poaching, and the owner’s house is just over there.”
“I don’t care” he said. “We are doing this!”. And he did.
Well. He tried anyway. The poor bugger had bushes at his back, overhanging trees above, fast muddy flow in front, and fading light.
The Brown kept rising, and Dr Harry kept trying. His roll casts received all his effort. All his skill. All his determination. But each time the fly landed close to the bank above the fish, the current grabbed it and skated it past the Trout’s position a yard to its left.
As the open season approaches, I lie in bed at night planning new and more enticing camera angles and narratives. I am thinking of trying 8 am on a Monday, and 10 am on a Wednesday. Of course the torture is dependent on me catching the fish, and shoving its nose into the camera with a big irritating grin to send to the doc. That will be the tricky part.
I suspect Karma may not be on my side on this one.
Damn I hope that big brown hasn’t died of old age.
This could be good.