Autumn Brown by Alex Gillett

A good brownie resident close to the confluence of our two main rivers ahd eluded capture for some considerable time. We had near contact quite a few times but until recently he evaded such wiles as I brought to bear. All things come to he who waits, they say, and if this is not always so, one does occasionally get it right. With as much modesty as I can summon up, let me record how the matter was resolved between us.

It may be recalled I had noted this fish has favoured the same territory for some weeks. Two or three times he had shown interest in offerings such as a small Greenwell’s Glory, a cicada and various nymphs, but had wisely pulled up short of a direct take. His robust, macho activity in shallow water at the margins of a gravel spit separating the meeting of the two rivers convinced me he was a jack. An arguable opinion, of course, but one often tends to attribute anthropomorphic characteristics even to fish. He was an aggressive feeder, charging boldly at floating flies and bulldozing nymphs from under stones in the shallows. I put him, with natural optimism, at perhaps four pounds, which is a good weight, certainly in a fly fishing context, for our river.

It was a midsummer when he first came to my notice and, since I fish the area on a regular basis, on each visit I would spend a short time at least in trying to make him see reason before proceeding elsewhere up or down the stream. But it was late in May before the fateful day dawned. Heavy rain had kept the water high for three weeks or more but at last had come relief, and falling levels revealed some of the gravel spit dividing the confluence.

Initially I went downstream to where the rivers combine in a fast run of 100 metres or more, merging to a deeper and slower stretch. In the faster run especially I have had some success on a number of occasions. This time, only two adolescent rainbows come to the Pheasant Tail/Gold-ribbed Hare’s Ear combo (one to each) and after a further fruitless hour I wandered back upstream to the confluence. I had changed to a slow-sinking line in deference to the brisk downstream breeze, since I don’t enjoy casting straight into the wind and my performance suffers to some degree. Anyway, it’s easier and the downstream nymph, fished properly (I may have more to say about this in a separate article), I find just as effective.

Considering the previous hour or so I was hardly oozing confidence but the day was reasonably fine and the surroundings, for me, are a continuous delight. I wondered if my adversary might still be in residence despite changed conditions or if he might have succumbed to the urgent call of connubial bliss in mountain headwaters.

I waded ankle deep, throwing a line up and across towards the faster margins close to the once-placid shallows beside the gravel shoal, mending a couple of times and stripping line to obtain as much free drift as was possible. As the nymphs swung across current I lifted the rod, coiled in and cast again. Halfway through the drift the rod tip pulled down almost in slow motion and I was into something. It was a solid contact and for a moment I imagined a snag. Then the snag moved powerfully but with no great speed to hold in faster water upstream. There seemed no urgency on the fish’s part as I held the rod arched well back over my shoulder. Still he didn’t run, although the rod tip jerked spasmodically as he shook his head. I began to move slowly back towards the beach and he grudgingly came with me. Now I saw him as he turned just under the surface, and I had the impression of perhaps a three-pounder before he made a strong turn downstream taking some 12 to 15 metres from the stuttering reel.

Now on dry land moving down to him, I shortened line and walked him steadily towards the shallows. Again he came grudgingly, saw me as he felt gravel on his belly and flashed away to midstream and deeper water. Four times I walked him back into the shallows on a short line, and each time as I tried to get behind him, away he went again. At least ten minutes elapsed before I had him on his flank in ankle-deep shallows. Reaching down I encircled his wrist with thumb and forefinger to heave him ashore at last. My heart pounded and I felt quite out of breath. 'He must be seven pounds!', I told myself but, conscious of previous miscalculations, took off my glasses and looked again. Well at least six pound, anyway. It was indeed a lovely, hookjawed cock fish in splendid condition. He had taken the little No.16 Pheasant Tail, barely hooked into a loose scrap of skin behind his upper front teeth.

Having delivered the last rites I placed him carefully out of the sun under a log. I return most fish, certainly anything under two pounds; but despite an uneasy conscience, this one I was going to keep. I fished on for a while, well aware that anything else would be, to say the least, the essence of anticlimax. However, nothing eventuated to support comparison. At home, more than two hours later, I weighed him. The scales showed five pounds twelve ounces. I like to think he would have made six pounds fresh from the water. And how did I feel?  Pretty elated and with a feeling of immodest accomplishment. Shortly after weighing, I gutted the beautiful fish. There was nothing in the gut tract, but close by were two fat pods of milt. That made me think a bit; mostly with a niggling sense of guilt. We’re a strange lot, aren’t we?