HIGH WATER – A cautionary tale by Ilan Lax
Ours and a few other families travelled to Rhodes to see in the new millennium and hopefully sample some of the area’s famous fly fishing. Unfortunately, the area had experienced the worst drought in living memory and the rain arrived a mere two weeks prior to our arrival; the area was still in the process of greening over and the rivers were full and slightly coloured.
It rained almost every day and the rivers stayed full for the duration of our stay. There was some fishing to be had, however. What follows is a condensed account of the fishing, and a cautionary tale I think anglers who fish in remote areas would do well to note.
We fished a number of beats on the Bell River. The village commonage section fished well, with many small fish and a few between 600 and 700g. The fish were strong in spite of their size, and the full river made for extremely difficult fishing. Most fish were caught on green-and-black nymphs, although I caught a number of fish on my bi-visible pattern with a yellow Wulff wing.
We also fished the Dunley beat, which is a stretch higher up the valley. It was hard fishing but I picked up six reasonable-sized fish and a few smaller ones. There are some deepish pools that in the right conditions will, I’m sure, give up some of the larger fish the area is famous for. Again, my bivisible worked, as did the ever-trusty DDD and the green-and-black nymphs.
A day or two after fishing Dunley saw the Bell running dark brown, and the ever-obliging Dave Walker suggested we try the Bokspruit. We had a great day fishing the area around the confluence of the Bokspruit and Riflespruit, although I ended up falling into a deep hole while wading in the river. Two of my escapee fly boxes were determined to find their way to the west coast, but luckily they snagged on a submerged tree and I was able to sprint downstream and retrieve them. The fishing on these beats is quite hard, with low-hanging willows requiring much roll casting. Nevertheless, we caught and released many fish. The last time I was on this stretch there’d been a hatch of small green caterpillars. The fish were absolutely focused on the colour, and any fly with the slightest bit of green got ravaged. I kept one fish, which had swallowed the fly, and its stomach contents included a rash of small fluorescent green beetles. I tried the Coch-y-Bondhu to see if it really lived up to its reputation as the Welsh beetle, and indeed it did, with much success.
Our final outing was to fish the lower part of a beat called Boarman’s Chase, which is on the Bell about forty-five minutes drive from Rhodes up Naude’s Nek. We’d seen it on our way to and from welcoming in the dawn of the Millennium from the top of the pass. The stretch of river we could see from the road seemed gentle enough, with some rocky runs separating pools of quite water. This turned out to be quite an eventful outing, as you will see.
Our party of five left the village at six in the morning. Not long after turning off the main road and onto the property, we got the non-4-wheel-drive bakkie stuck in some muddy ground. We reckoned that by the time we returned from our day’s fishing the sun would have dried the road out and we’d have no problem getting out and back to Rhodes. Our guide was a fellow we’d met in the pub and who had fished the area a few days earlier. He explained to us that he and a friend had walked to some pools downstream which were absolutely enormous, and which he had heard held some real trophy river fish. We would have to walk for about an hour and a half before heading down into the valley to fish them. The weather seemed fine and some the party didn’t even take their raincoats with them. Fortunately for me, I did. We also took a few things to snack on, but decided we would eat later when we returned to fish the upper sections lying beyond where we had parked the bakkie.
We set off in the bright sunshine and were soon walking though some of the most beautiful mountain terrain I’ve ever been through. Except for a few cattle paths and the occasional fence there was very little sign of people and their impact on the land. After a while we came to the edge of an escarpment and a shepherd pointed the way down to us. We followed a bit of a path down to a ford across the river, from where the plan was to climb over a nek to the pools that we had been told were on the other side. I might mention that the river makes a series of huge S-bends at this point, with steep-sided valleys and quite dense bush along the river edges. We started crossing the river, me leading. I have a fair bit of experience in fishing rivers, and wading in particular. Imagine my surprise, then, when I found myself suddenly sliding arse over kettle down a sort of chute affair and into a pool so deep I couldn’t touch bottom. Somehow I managed to keep upright and avoided breaking my rod or suffering serious injury. I swam to the side and scrambled out to roars of laughter from my companions. I was still on the same side I had started from. Forewarned by my experience, we decided to cross at a safer-looking spot a little further down.
We crossed the river, climbed up to the top of the nek and walked along it for a further half an hour before a vista opened up below us revealing a series of large pools. Halfway down the spur we stopped and had a quick snack, while at the same time deciding who should fish which pool. Then we went our separate ways.
The pool I was to fish was approximately 40m long and about 5m wide. The river cascaded in at its head, with most of the current pushing along a rock face that seemed pretty deep. I managed to creep up to a little patch of high grass on a sort of island and began casting, testing the obvious pockets. After about ten minutes I felt an enormous take, but I wasn’t concentrating sufficiently and the fish shook the hook out. My frayed, battered fly indicated that I had clearly had more takes than I’d realised.
My adrenaline was up and I moved up to the next pool. I could see one of our group fishing the eye and decided to wait a while. I changed to a peacock Woolly Bugger with an orange glass-bead head. (My friend Hugh Grieve had drawn my attention to these beads and suggested I try using them instead of the more usual brass beads.) I fished the pool without a touch and moved upstream, passing some of my friends on the way.
Having had little success with my wet flies, I figured a dry fly might work again, so tied on my bi-visible, opting for a larger #14. Previously I’d been fishing a #16. As I was getting ready to cast, the heavens opened and large, cold drops of rain began peppering the water surface. I donned my raincoat, and, as there was no lightning or thunder about, carried on fishing. The disturbance on the surface meant I could be less cautious and I was soon into a fair-sized trout. In spite of the disturbance caused by the rain I was surprised to see the fish take my bi-visible off the surface. The fish ran me to the end of the pool and I had a hard time turning it in the strong current, but slowly I got it back to the slower water I was now wading in. I landed it and found it had swallowed the fly deep into its gullet, so I had no alternative but to keep it. I immediately cleaned the fish and checked the stomach contents: large green-and-black dragon fly nymphs and a few of those green beetles. I was thus even more surprised that my bi-visible had worked so well, though I guess I shouldn’t have been, as trout can be such opportunistic feeders.
By now some of the others had caught up and we were undecided as to what we should do. Our main concern was the vehicle, but I reckoned it was too late to do anything about, as it had already rained, and I felt that for us to go up at this stage would be a waste of good fishing time. Some of the others agreed and we carried on fishing.
A friend and I were fishing the pool above the one I had caught the trout in, when I noticed the water had become a little discoloured, which I mentioned to him. Just then, however, he had a take and we thought we should wait a little before moving on. Soon the water became quite dirty and we decided to pack it in and move on to see if maybe the water upstream was clearer.
We moved quickly along the bank to catch up to the rest of our group and noticed them about 200 metres ahead of us, where they were slipping and sliding along a rocky stretch precariously situated above the water. Neither my friend nor I were wearing decent boots, and I didn’t fancy my chances on that slippery slope. We decided instead to wade across the river and cross the intervening spur to reach the quieter water further upstream. By now the river was quite full, but not too high to cross, we reckoned.
We inspected the bank and saw where some rocks formed what looked like a quiet eddy, where we proceeded to move into the river. The rocks underfoot were very slippery and the force of the water was literally increasing all the time. About two-thirds of the way across we realised that the water was rising fast and we’d better get as quickly as we could. By now it was too late to go back, so we had no option but to continue trying to get across. I suggested that we throw our rods across into the thick bush, which hopefully would cushion their fall. This left our hands free to swim if necessary. Calling out that he could no longer maintain his balance against the current, my companion started lurching his way towards the other bank. He got swept down, but, being taller than me, he managed to drag himself out after a short distance. Seeing that he was OK, and realising that the water continued to rise, I decided to go for it and sort of threw myself across the river.
I was only about five or so a metres from the other bank, but the current was so strong that it effortlessly swept me downstream at great speed. My first thought was to keep afloat and I reckoned my best bet would be to try and roll across towards the bank. Grabbing at rocks and whatever else I could find in an effort to move myself across, I kicked and rolled and somehow managed to grab hold of a branch on the bank. But it held only long enough to move me a bit closer before it snapped off in my hand. By this time I was going slower, but was still bumping over rocks as the force of the river took me down. I grabbed at another bush, and luckily this one held and I found myself chest deep in a little hole at the edge of the current. I had been washed down a good way, and my friend, who could no longer see me, was shouting to see if I was OK. I shouted back that I was fine and started looking for some way to get out of the river, eventually working my way down to where the bank was low enough for me to climb out. My friend joined me and we set about getting out of there.
We’d ended up in some thick bush: gorse- or bracken-like stuff with sharp thorns, and that spiky grass one finds in the Berg. Added to this were the thorny masses of stands of the wild roses that abound throughout the area. Needless to say, we were a little ragged by the time we climbed above the bush and into the open and headed up to the top of the spur to assess our situation. We wrung out our gear in an effort to dry it and took stock of our injuries. Apart from some bruises, grazes and scrapes, we had got off pretty lightly. We hadn’t lost any gear, and had learned an important lesson about fishing in the mountains in general, and remote areas in particular.
Our saga wasn’t quite over yet, as we were still on the wrong side of the river. My friend pointed down to what not too long before had been a series of pools but was now an unbroken stretch of raging torrent. The water that had seemed so gentle before now looked like the river below Victoria Falls, with huge standing waves and raging cataracts as the various side streams emptied their swollen cargoes into the Bell. I told my friend that there was no way on earth that I would even contemplate going back into that water; rather we should walk our way out. We reached the vehicle two and a half hours later, having first crossed a tributary and swum the Bell much higher up. Thankfully, by the time we arrived, our friends had got the vehicle unstuck. We were glad to be back in one piece. A hot cup of coffee and a stiff shot of whisky hit the spot as we headed back down to the comfort of the village.
The reason I decided to tell this story was to share with readers the potential pitfalls of going into remote areas to fish without being properly equipped. To start with, I was wearing my old squash shoes. I have waded in them on numerous occasions without problem, but that was in areas where I didn’t have to walk hours in mountainous terrain, or negotiate difficult, slippery ground. Next time I’ll be wearing some decent, preferably waterproof, boots. It is essential, if you are going to be out in the mountains, where the weather can change rapidly and without warning, that you stay dry and warm, so take along decent raingear. Fortunately for us the sun came out and our gear could dry out. Spending a night in the Berg in wet clothing could have tragic consequences. If you intend trekking across remote terrain, ensure you have a small backpack with a few provisions and some spare dry, warm clothes.
It is more important than you may sometimes think to keep track of the weather conditions while you are fishing. Not just in your immediate vicinity but over the whole area. The sun may be shining where you are fishing, but higher in the catchment the rain could be coming down. And heavy showers, or just short thunderstorms, in mountainous country can produce a frightening amount of runoff in an unbelievably short time. I still get a few goose bumps when I remember how quickly that placid stream turned into a raging, dangerous torrent.
Finally, if you are going to try and cross rivers in spate, first bear the following in mind. Some years ago, the Mountain Club of South Africa, concerned at the number of people being washed away while crossing mountain streams, set about trying to work out why this was happening. One intrepid member agreed, after being roped up, to cross a swollen stream. He got part way across and then simply disappeared from view. Fortunately they were able to pull him out with the rope. Their findings were that, under high-water conditions, the boulders in the riverbed move. A large rock had rolled onto the volunteer’s foot and anchored him to the spot, whereupon the force of the water simply pulled him under. The rope saved his life.
The bottom line is, if conditions are such that you are not sure about crossing the river safely, rather be patient and wait until the water level drops. If you have the correct gear, you can sit out most situations and come out alive and well, to fish another day.