A personal account surrounding a never ending fascination with the authenticity, vastness and true simplicity that stitches together the epic beauty that is Rhodes and Barkly East as seen from behind a fly rod.

            For those of you heading up to the waters of the Wild Trout Association (WTA) for the first time, or to heading back to continue a lifelong love affair with the region, your initial incentive is likely to be the hope of speckled trout in wild abundance. I recall my first ever visit to this region a number of years ago and tentatively asking Tom Sutcliffe what to expect. “Be prepared to be blown away,” was his reply. On that visit, conditions were sublime and we caught trout from 8 inches to 16 inches in abundance, all on dancing dry flies, in each and every stream we picked for the day at hand.

            Since then I’ve fished the region through thick and thin and, although the fishing sometimes hasn’t been the greatest, the experience has always been phenomenal. I find great spirituality in fly fishing small mountain streams, so a couple of times a year I break the shackles of metropolitan torture and lap up the 800kms of tar and dirt that leads me to a place and time where simplicity is abundant, people are genuine and the valleys are seamed with silver ribbons of pure water.

            The WTA is in itself a modern marvel. That so many farmers and landowners allow visitors access to hundreds of kilometres of mountain streams is something unique, and we anglers owe them a huge debt of gratitude.

            But to get back to this region. There are few fly fishing places I know of that are this vast, this sparse, this pristine and accessible, that you will find yourself spellbound. It's an environment that is deeply weathered by real harshness and yet it somehow still seems so fragile.

I leave each stream with a strong urge to become its custodian. For big-city dwellers with our typically perverse sense of ownership, it can be a little intimidating to turn up on someone’s farm with your permit in hand for a day’s fishing. But I have yet to meet a farmer who doesn’t welcome you or greet you with a friendly wave. On most of the beats they simply leave you to your own devices, trusting that you will honour the day permit rules and in the knowledge that most fly fishers prepared to travel hundreds of kilometres to fish their streams are, at heart, also likely to be people who are conscious of the natural environment.

            Why I love this place is hard to define, yet easy to explain. Once you’ve chose a venue to visit from the WTA's enticing list, you soon enough find yourself ankle-deep in a cool freestone stream that is either emerald green and slow flowing, or tumbling down staircases of sandstone blocks eroded by eons of time. If, like me, you enjoy the solitude of fishing alone, you can find the inner child in yourself coming out here, in that you are suddenly free to explore, discover and run wild in a world that probably last existed way back when you were a five year old child. The best sections have no cell phone reception, so you can allow yourself to switch off. You’re more likely to bump into a snake than another living soul on many of the beats, and if you fancy a nap, just pull up under the shade of a willow, slide your hat over your eyes and drift off.

            Dave Walker asked me why I find the region so interesting. To answer his question would take volumes, and I find words fail to encompass the full experience that always absorbs me from the moment I hit the dirt road just out of Barkly East. So it’s as much about the place as it is about what happens to me when I’m there. And the pace of each day is as I choose to play it out.

            The actual stream and beat you decide on visiting each day is just a matter of flipping through the WTA guide book and making your choice. First time visitors rarely grasp the sheer size of the region, or the huge variety of fishing available through the WTA, until they're actually standing there early one morning paging through the WTA brochure.

            Something that never ceases to amaze me is the heady clarity of the air in these mountains. I go on at length about it; even my weather-beaten eyes can see details for miles and this adds to the remarkable splendour of views that seem larger than life as you motor through mountains with their imposing sandstone buttresses and the through the endlessly pretty valleys . These landscapes are huge and spectacular and they make me realise that I am just a speck in space and time, and lucky enough to be passing this way at all. And in these landscapes I find an inner perspective on all that ails me in city life. Sometimes I catch a few trout along the way, but I always leave each stream in the evening feeling blessed for the whole rich experience.

            So what of the fish? The humble trout is the pivot of my pursuit, and I've caught them varying from really small, right the way through to those muscular, lithe river fish that are as wild as feral cats. I’ve managed fish up to 18 inches, but the vast majority have been under 12. Each has been beautiful in its own way, and somehow uniquely adapted to the streams they call home. For example, the fish from the lower Bell differ subtly from those you’ll catch in the upper Rifle. But the region is so vast, it takes time to make discoveries like this on your own, which cements the point I was trying to get across earlier in this piece. 

            And to me, each fish remains a minor miracle, a gem of its own making, in that once I begin to understand the environment these trout carve out a living in, and the challenges they overcome each day, I end up feeling in awe of them, and grateful that these trout, the very progeny of those introduced over 100 years ago, still persist this far down the line. The fact that you will catch many fish that are fully mature at 12 inches (when trout from nearby dams will easily stretch 5 pounds), gives you an insight into the hardships they face and the authenticity of their wildness. Needless to say ,when Shaun Carstens visits with a Bell River resident  conditions are right the trout                                                                         feed  with abandon and catching them can be as easy as fishing gets. But in tough, dry years, there have been times when I could have sworn the fish had all just dried up and vanished. From my experience, that's why we all put so much store by the levels in the streams.

            I find that taking a fly rod up any of the seemingly untouched streams in this region is one of the most rewarding ways to spend a day. We pack a lunch, start around midmorning, and spend the entire day on the stream. The best sandwiches I’ve ever eaten have been on the banks of these waters. Nothing fancy, just regulars like ham, cheese and pickles. Simple pleasures reign supreme here. I carry a small tin mug hooked onto my backpack and I’ve drunk from the headwaters of most of the streams in the region. The water is sweet, cool and pure. The fact that it hasn’t come from a plastic bottle somehow delights my love of naturalness. There's also a comforting sense freedom I find that comes from being able to head up a little-known, wild stream carrying everything you will need for the day in one simple backpack.

            Rhodes as a town is hard to define. The dirt road into it is perfect and I hope they never tar it. Driving into the village is like entering a time capsule that takes you back a hundred odd years. You can walk down the main street in your waders without raising an eyebrow and you can stop in the middle of the road with your car door wide open chatting to fellow fly fishers you never met in your life, who are maybe looking for directions, or just wanting to know about conditions in neighbouring valleys. It’s one of the few places where fly fishers are recognized as eco tourists and not as oddballs. Nothing about the place is fake. The weathering on the old Victorian houses is real and the few locals you’ll might meet are often genuinely off-centre enough to be really interesting people.

            We always make a stop at the Walkerbouts Inn for a cold one and to catch up on the latest fishing news. It’s a great place to bump into other visiting anglers and the banter, the cold beers and the thin air always makes for interesting discussions on the walk or drive back to your lodgings. I have also been fortunate to meet farmers in the region and, thanks to Basie and Carien Vosloo, regularly stay at Branksome House on the banks of the Sterkspruit River. They always give us insights into what a farmer's life is like in this part of the world. We’ve been lucky, because somehow they've always been able to accommodate us, often at short notice. You see, I don’t plan trips to this region; rather I fight back the urge and desire to go every day, until my long-suffering, lovely and understanding wife takes off my leash and says, “Go run free boy”. She's a smart woman, though, because she knows that when I return, having shaken off the ails of living in a big city and having recovered my soul, I’ll be my old self for a long, long while.

            So, if you’re fortunate enough to be heading up to the waters of the WTA for the first time, I envy you the discoveries you’re about to make. And my envy is not just limited to uncovering the vast mountains, the massive sandstone sculptures, the truly wild streams – and their trout - but the discovery that you can lose yourself in these remote valleys, and maybe then find out who you really are.