trutta, Author at Truttablog

Is this real? Affluenza and the sport of fly-fishing.

The other day I was on a piece of river with a fellow fly-fisherman, and with my camera around my neck as usual. The going was really tough. We caught nothing on this stretch (again!). Apart from catching nothing, the stream was full of logs and trees and sticks, from a government tree clearing initiative gone wrong. We scrambled under fallen trunks, slipped down eroding muddy banks, got scratched by invasive American bramble. Our socks were full of black-jack seeds. The rocks were covered (in places) in fine layers of silt from erosion upstream. This doesn’t sound pretty does it!

16 October 2013

Journeys through the journal (2)

Just after ‘new years’ this year, we were staying in a farm cottage in the midlands. It so happens that we have permission to fish the dam on the neighbouring farm. And so, most days that we were there, we drove across there at some point to throw a line. We were catching fish every day. Nothing spectacular. Just rainbows of a pound or two, but all very pleasant. On the 6th January, we ventured out later than usual, because of stormy weather. In fact my journal records that it stormed at lunch time, after a hot morning, and

9 October 2013

Scum of the river.

I remember once peering into a deep pool on a river somewhere, and not being able to see much, because of a layer of “scum” for want of a better word, and PD turning to me and saying (with the most subtle tones of disdain), “you like that stuff don’t you!”. Yes I do. The truth be told, such scum is often an accumulation of wattle pollen or flowers, and pollutants of unknown origin, and is blown into a pool by an awful berg wind, all of which I dislike with a passion. I have previously written of my inconsistent

2 October 2013

Confessions of a Trout snob

When reading Duncan Browns book recently, (Are Trout South African), I became aware of the depth of my prejudices. Duncan does a fine job of pointing out the nuances and peculiarities that we apply in deciding if something is indigenous or not, and it is a thought provoking read. I go for Trout , with a capital T, (Alien) and definitely not bass (with a lower case B), ( also alien). I strongly dislike wattles and brambles (Alien), but love the sight of a stand of poplars (also alien). I don’t care much for scalies [AKA “yellowfish”] (indigenous), and I

26 September 2013

Journeys through the journal (1)

On 29th September, Mick and I headed out to what was then Natal Fly-Fishers Club water: Silverdale on the Mooi River. We parked at the bridge, where we tackled up, and headed upstream on the South bank, crossing the river here and there. We started in a few hundred yards up the valley. Mick was just below me, on a large flat pool. I crossed the river and moved ahead to a set of rapids above. It was a warm spring day. The veld was still brown from winter, but with the green shoots of spring coming through everywhere. The

17 September 2013

The Slinky Damsel: a step by step

I started tying this pattern about 10 years ago. The idea was to have a smooth body, and at one stage the thorax was smooth too, to represent the exoskeletal properties of the naturals. In other words I wanted to steer away from a “fuzzy” fly, and stick with a sleek profile, with well defined eyes and legs. This sleek profile helps the fly to sink with minimal additional weight: a worthwhile property, in that it allows for delicate presentations in the shallows. I started off with a single plastic bead at the front, and then moved to a

9 September 2013

First rains

Oh September rain You drench my folded vale. Your cold and cheerless mist Like linen, soft and pale. But you seduce. You persist. And your verdant prize Is my Holy Grail. Gone be fawn and dust. Out with brown and drought! It is your sparkling stream for which I lust. And water for my Trout. Come grace us with your driving squalls, And saturate us in your dew. Oh how I have prayed for you! Explanation. August here in the KZN midlands is not a pretty time of year. At the end of a long winter, the

30 August 2013

Feathers: buying decent marabou

The other evening, I was tying up a few flies for still-water, and I was getting to the end of a pack of marabou. When I remarked to the family that I was running out of feathers, I got some funny looks. That’s because as I said that there were wisps drifting about me in the air, there was some getting in my nose, and there were black feathers all over the place. But they were the wrong feathers you see. Those who use marabou, will know what what I am talking about, feathers with thin, sharp ends. No fluff

27 August 2013

More cranes

Normally when you crest the hill and find a flock of cranes in front of you, they take to the air before you can grab your camera. This day I was lucky:

18 August 2013

A few lines on a cloudy winter morning

A cloudy winter dawn The first light of day brings honking geese Hinting at what lies beyond the drawn curtains, and out across the drab patchwork landscape: Low slung cloud, and dampened dust, Odours of dead wet kikuyu grass, and a wafting hint of silage, hanging in the still morning air. And farmyard sounds that carry in the silence Pervading morning memories of childhood on the farm. Nostalgia nestled in the moment, Like my sleepy being in this warm bed. Commentary/explanation

14 August 2013