fly fishing on the uMngeni River

Where would I go?

Picking one’s flyfishing aesthetic. Avoiding crowds and competitions. Being conscious of one’s preferences and deliberate in creating your flyfishing experiences.

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Off with the glove

I am not sure how your glove can fall off in an accident. But I have witnessed it happen. The river was up, you see, and some cross like spring chickens, and others don’t, because….well because they aren’t.  Every time we get together in a group, George expresses his surprise to Tony, that he is still with us. Tony, being the good sport that he is, takes it in his stride. Knowing this about Tony, when he fell in the river,  exercising his right to do so (as a non-spring-chicken), I though it best to just take photos for George.

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Getting happily beaten

A friend made a valid point the other day. It seems obvious now, but consider this: When you fish a stillwater, there is a very good chance that for at least a portion of the day, you will stand there, or sit there in your float tube, and think about work, or some domestic trouble. Now think back to the last day you spent on a river or stream.  You scrambled up banks and slid down into the water, and waded over uneven rocks, and slipped and slithered , and hiked, and focused and cast and watched the dry fly

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a Vote for messy

“So what I am suggesting here  is a complete approach to our waters where the competitive, lip-ripping edge is left back in the fast lane of societal superficialities and the joyful spirit of camaraderie, sportsmanship, and involvement with nature are the main goals”.  Jerry Kustich I get a sense that my fly-fishing is a more messy affair than it is for the guys I bump into around these parts.  Take Squidlips from Smoketown for example:  He  drives his blue Nissan up to the Bushmans on an appointed Saturday, and a day later there are a dozen glossy pictures on social

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To hell with Nemo

Isn’t it funny how, when you are searching for one thing, you find another. We went in search of backpacks stolen from foreign hikers in the mountains and found other things. I had gone looking for trout, and found  cold driving rain at Highmoor. From there we infiltrated the next valley, where vagabonds and miscreants, might descend from the hills and make their getaway with their loot, and we found: A trout stream. And Gaffney. OK, so we knew the Trout stream was there, but I hadn’t been there in a little while, and I wanted to show it to

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no 36

In the last week we have switched on the under-floor heating in the lounge, and I have worn a jacket of some sort most days. By my reckoning that signals the close of number 36….my 36th contiguous flyfishing season since this thing bit me all those years ago. Sitting here in my living room , armed with a good cup of coffee and a reflective mood, I have just paged through my journal, and tried to get a sense of how it was. Tried for a capsule that sums it all up. Something that captures it in a way that

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