Nothing to hear but the call of Fish Eagles and the wind in the trees. Nothing to do but catch trout, decide which part of the lake you're going to row next, or make up your mind whether to have a Capn'n'Coke or a 10yr old Single Malt.
In short, this was how life is supposed to be...all the time.
I'd asked my folks to join us on the weekend, partly to get them out of the house and see some different scenery for a short while, but primarily to spend some time fly fishing with my dad as it's something we've never done together and I'd always wanted to do.
We met the folks at the Underberg Inn as arranged, had a quick draught and then made our way along the last 13km to the lodge after arranging some ice and another bottle of the Capn's finest. Three nights, two bottles, should be okay as Steph and mum together don't drink as much rum as I do.
The last two kilometres of the road was some of the roughest dirt road I'd ever experienced and my dad remarked as such when we eventually got to the lodge. His Beamer had reportedly scraped her "skirts" a couple of times along the road, but there were no bits missing.
On our arrival, we were met by a pack of hounds resembling Australian Dingoes which, as we were later told, is exactly what they were although they were interbred with various other species (one of which I suspect was a Grizzly Bear). Our host, Wolf Avni, renown in the SA fly fiching scene, met us at the door and becalmed the Baskerville beasts.
Taken from a publication I read on occasion, "Wolf Avni is one of those characters that needs no introduction! 'A Mean-Mouthed Hook-Jawed Bad-News Son-of-a-Fish' is his first book and is undoubtedly a defining moment in South African piscatorial literature! You may want to read this book with a copy of the concise English dictionary at hand as Mr Avni’s superior intellect will broaden your vocabulary as well as delight and inform you as he takes you along through his 50 odd years of piscatorial pursuits. Full of humor and flyfishing lore, Mr Avni has set a standard and you would be hard pressed to find a more delightful read."
I agree wholeheartedly with the summary as I have read the book and it was one of those that, once started, is not put down easily. Needless to say that, when we were leaving three days later, I bought a copy of the book from Wolf and had it autographed at the very spot he penned it.
Anyway...we tottered off to our cabin and, although I was a little disappointed at what I was spending R1000 a night on, found the little house to be comfortable with every amenity we needed. After unloading the cars, Dad and I headed off down to the lake and surveyed where we'd be spending a great amount of time over the next few days. There were a few fish rising on the evening Mayfly hatch, which gave us the urge to get our rods rigged up and get fishing as soon as we could. However, we resisted, and instead settled down on the garden chairs with a cold one. The rest of the evening was spent chatting, having a couple of drinks and retiring to bed early, half past bloody nine!! I think the last time I went to bed that early I was two weeks old!!
Up at 6am on Saturday morning, the weather was perfect for fly fishing. Not a breeze, not a cloud, and we got the little rowing boat out of the "boat house" (fuckin' lapa on the water, more like) and head out, very uncoordinated, to the middle of the lake. Until just before 11am we don't get a single fish, hardly even a pull, so we decide to give it up for a while and head home for breakfast. I also end up having a snooze while trying to read.
Somewhere around 3pm we decide to give the fishing another crack and head out on our skiff again, this time finding a spot where the wind that has picked up will push us not too close to the weed beds as they are really shallow, sometimes catching the boat to such an extent that it stops it dead in the water and makes fishing impossible. We drift around for a while, rowing out of weed beds into the wind and, upon hearing another fisherman talking to his brother about the fish he just caught and on what fly, we change our tactics.
The aforementioned fishermen were both on float tubes and, having to paddle against the wind too, found that they caught fish while their flies were being trawled through the water. We decide this was the way to do it as we had been fishing traditional fly methods until now. Straight away we are into a couple of fish, land a couple and lose some too. In total, we land seven fish, all of which we release. For their relatively small size, around 350gm, they take the fly and fight like they were 2kg in weight. Just by the fight you can feel that they are not hatchery-bred weaklings, but have to fight for survival in their lake.
We call it a day just before dark and head in, satisfied at having at least caught some fish. Back at the house, we light the braai fire and I braai some lamb chops and chicken kebabs, and we settle down for our meal and a couple of drinks. I round the evening off with a nice 10yr old Ardbeg single malt, then head off for a bath and bed around 10pm.
Up at the crack of dawn on Sunday cos my dad has a habit of bringing Steph a cup of tea every morning, dressed and out on the water at 6h30am, we employ the same fishing tactics as the previous evening, which works and we catch a few more fish, despite the strong westerly wind which picks up early with the promise of rain later. As with the previous day, we break for lunch and a snooze, and are back on the water at 3pm but by now the wind is howling and when we look at the water weed it's as if we've got an outboard motor on the boat, we're going so fast. This makes it more difficult to fish, but by the end of the day we have caught six fish, four of which we kept as Steph was whinging that we weren't bringing any home for her. The ones we keep are a nice pan size so she's happy. As usual, we have an evening meal and a couple of drinks and head to bath and bed early-ish.
When we wake on Monday morning, the weather has turned ugly. There's a strong wind blowing from the east this time and the mist has moved in, totally covering the lake in an eerie cloak of grey spray. Luckily, we had packed raincoats, and we head out onto the water for the last time, a short spell of fishing before we have to pack up and head back to Shit Towne. In the three or so hours we're on the water, we catch and release another seven fish and retire the skiff to the boathouse, then retire ourselves cold and hungry to the house. A quick shower and brunch and we're packed and ready to leave this beautiful place, very reluctantly, I must add.
The drive back to Shit Towne is chaotic and resembles the annual Lemming Run when all the December holiday makers return home. The highway is packed and we have to drive very carefully due to the large numbers of fuckwit asshole hooligans in their Beamers, Audis and Volvos causing havoc on the roads. Thankfully, we get home unscathed, unpack the car and cases quite quickly and settle down in front of the TV for the evening.
Apart from the disappointment at what we got for our money which, as I said, I thought was a bit excessive (even though it worked out to R250/pp/pn) it was a wonderfully relaxing weekend and one which I will remember as I got to spend some quality time with my dad, something we haven't really done until now. Hopefully, we'll be able to do it again sometime soon.
