Beneath the tall pine
A tall, solitary pine tree grew beside the lake. From the sun-dappled waters beneath its branches, I caught my first trout with a fly.
It was a little over thirty years ago now.
The pine grew a little way from the water's edge of 'B2' dam in the Usutu Forest of Swaziland.
We really ought to have been a little more creative with the name of the dam.
It was a rainbow trout about a pound in weight. The successful fly was a tadpole imitation called a "Taddy".
I remember the surprise of the trout's violent pull. I had been trying with a fly at the same spot for a week with mounting frustration. I remember being close to the point of giving up.
I recall the onset of panic at the realisation that the fly line which lay at my feet in a crumpled heap could not be reeled in. The line in my hand - a turquoise coloured floating Shakespeare - had come to life. The trout wanted to run but I held on for dear life and somehow my tippet endured. It was only a pound in weight, after all.
I called for the help of my uncle Stuart, who was instrumental in me taking up fly fishing. Stuart came running from the dam wall to help me net it. I remember the sheer euphoria when the trout was snared by the net. The experience was so very tactile and exhilirating. A week's worth of nylon nests forgotten in an instant.
The trout was taken home to show off to my family.
B2 dam was neither the prettiest nor clearest of the dams in the forest but it was generous and became a family favourite.
We cooked breakfasts under the tall pine with a gas skottel braai.
There would be a hatch of small mayflies beside the dam wall like clock work in the summer evenings. The trout would rise to them in a frenzy - usually just beyond our casting range. My mother would gently chase my brother and I to finish up against our protestations of "one last cast, Mom." She disliked driving in the dark.
We returned to the dam to remember my mother. Strong memories linger at this place.
I had last visited the dam around 20 years ago. In the years since a pine cone has found fertile soil and a child now grows in the tall pine's shadow.
New people now operated the land as a plantation. They stopped to ask who we were and why we were there. The forest no longer felt like home.
Trout have not been stocked in many years. The pulp mill closed its doors. The fly fishing club ceased to exist.
How shallow were the roots we laid.
The water was oddly calm. Then a slashing rise beside the reeds broke the stillness. There were bass in this dam and they had no problem spawning, unlike the trout.
Back then, the club's rules required all bass to be killed.
Who's had the last laugh now?
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| One last cast, Mom. |
It's quite striking how nothing seems to be spared from the passing of time. I'm happy you were able to return, sounds like you have wonderful memories there.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Michael. Best to keep making those happy memory caverns along the way - a process wonderfully illustrated in your blog.
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