In the embrace of a restful night, burdened by the echoes of the previous day's fishing escapades, I rise early to a world bathed in morning mists and the heavy dew of the night. As the sun, a golden painter, softens the sky, the mountain peaks emerge, casting a silent spell across the landscape. The dawn chorus, a harmonious symphony, unfolds with the birds' awakening, and I relish my coffee amidst this awe-inspiring tableau, absorbing the enchanting spectacle of the world waking up.
Today unfolds as a tapestry of magic and frustration. The morning unveils breathtaking views of mists ascending above the valley, the sun's rays gently caressing the landscape, and the village draped in an almost otherworldly aura. However, what commenced optimistically ends in frustration—no elusive salmon graced my endeavours. Venturing into a new part of the river, I found myself entangled with two spirited trout, their voracious pursuit carrying them right up to the riverbank. Conversations with two biologists reveal the river's vibrant life, their diligent exploration in wetsuits adding a dynamic rhythm to the waters.
Witnessing my German and Swiss camp neighbours each land a salmon, albeit on a spinner, sparks conflicting emotions about conservation. The struggle between releasing these vital species and the human impulse to take lingers in my thoughts. Hope clings to the promise of a change in fortune on the morrow, as I plan to explore zones 5 and 3B, seeking the favour of fair weather. I anticipate a hearty dinner, a glass of red wine, and the renewal of the soul for the challenges that tomorrow may bring.
Success graces this day—a triumph that eclipses the earlier frustrations. The weather, fair with a light veil of cloud and sun, accompanies my venture into zone 5. Casting my STOATS tail fly into the current, I let it dance in the water's embrace. A sudden heavy thud and pull signal a formidable opponent, not the pesky trout of the past, but a substantial adversary. Stepping back to the riverbank, the rod bends under the strain of the unseen combatant. The fish, a hidden force beneath the surface, embarks on deep runs, yet the rod, reel, and line prove resilient. After a spirited 20-minute battle, victory is mine—a handsome cock fish adorned in the vibrant hues of autumn spawning. A swift release, a photo to immortalize the encounter, and the fish returns to the water, regaining strength beneath my supportive hand. A triumphant shout escapes me, and my heart swells with the joy of the catch—around 3 kg of untamed beauty. The rest of the day pales in comparison; the memory of that magnificent fish continuing its journey becomes the day's defining note.
In conversation with a fellow "brother of the rod", a local man who has fished the river for years, I learn of the challenges faced this season. Despite abandoning fly casting due to age, he persists with a spinning rod, noting a lack-luster season without a clear cause. The river, usually a dynamic spate river, has maintained a consistent level, suggesting a constant flow of fish. The fish counter tallies 14,000 fish in the river, raising questions about the mysterious patterns of their journey. As I celebrate tonight with a hearty dinner and more wine, the camaraderie with a fellow angler lingers as a testament to the shared passion for the elusive catch.
An assertive wind from the southeast sweeps through the evening, rendering fishing nearly impossible. The camp, resilient in the face of nature's forces, braces against the gale. Though the tent bears the full force of the wind, I check all the ropes and secure the hatches. Despite the valley acting as a wind tunnel, I choose to wait it out next to the rock, finding solace in the unpredictability of nature. As night descends, I hope for a peaceful rest, aware that the challenges of the day are but a prelude to the untold stories awaiting on the morrow.
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