BY PETE TYJAS
I often drive to the river in silence. My mind works at a fast pace and I struggle at times to keep up. The quiet allows it to slow a little and I can catch up for a while.
Not today though, the music is on and as I hear the first few notes of the picked guitar intro I turn the volume up.
‘He was born in the summer of his twenty-seventh year, coming home to a place he’d never been before…’
I turn it up some more and start to sing along.
The song, Rocky Mountain High by John Denver, is a love letter to the place he made home; Colorado.
I was ten years older when I did something similar;threw in a job and moved with my family to Devon.
It was easy, really. I saw a picture in a book of someone fishing a stream on Dartmoor and that was it.We bought a house between Dartmoor and Exmoor and the many rivers that flow off them. You might think this a lucky coincidence. It isn’t.
I’d play the song constantly. It was my song.
My dog, Montana, sits on the back seat of the van.
He has made this fifteen-minute journey all of his nine years.
He is a fishing dog. We trained him not to rush into the water like most labradors do, instead he’ll wade alongside me. He gets a little excited when
I hook a fish and I’ve lost a few, even some really nice ones because of it.
I don’t mind though, I’d much rather have him with me.
The road follows the river most of the way. I get a look every now and again.
The further we drive, the little trout stream grows in size until we swing to the left and pass over a bridge where the biggest tributary of the system joins the main river.
It takes on a different character now. Bigger, wider; Spey rod territory.
There were a number of fishing inns and hotels along the length of the river. Nearly all of them are gone now. As the salmon runs dwindled, the anglers left and found somewhere else to fish.
One of them, perched above the famous junction pool had an owner, who after being shown the catches of anglers, could tell whether the fish were caught in the tributary or main river by the way they looked. Apparently there was a subtle difference between them.
There are a couple of hotels still battling on these days that make the bulk of their money from weddings or events. They are more hotels that just happen to have some fishing.
It isn’t salmon I’m after today, it’s trout. It’s late spring, the water has dropped away and the fish are starting to rise. This river takes some time to warm up.
It has all of the early season hatches but the fish don’t rise to them. I’ve learnt to be patient.
My song finishes. I hit replay.
I’m on the last leg of the drive and I dodge the potholes on the road, weaving carefully around them.
I know the access points to many of the beats here and look for cars of anglers. There are none today. Most are only interested in salmon and fish as the sun sets.
When I do spot a car or an angler I always sound my horn just in case.
I want them to know someone else is out and doing the same as they are.
I turn off the main road, pass over a bridge and stop the van. I hop out and slide the door open for the dog. He knows it takes me a few moments to get into my waders and wanders off to sniff a few things.
The waders are covered in patches and keep me mostly dry. The rod is nearly ten years old now. I bought it second-hand from someone I knew. It does everything I need it to. My vest is a little battered and I have one of my lucky caps on.
I can’t pin down exactly why a cap is lucky but know when it isn’t. The breaking in period is a short one and I’ll pass it on to a friend without explaining why I no longer want it. Unlucky might be a lost fish or a bad day
of casting. It isn’t the cap’s fault of course, but I blame it anyway.
The gate squeals as I unlock it. I mean to oil it sometime but I wonder if it is just the farmer’s early warning system that lets him know someone, usually me, is about.
The dog and I walk down the field heading to our left. The pool I want to fish first is an indicator of the mood of the river. I’ll often just sit patiently to see if a fish will rise, or move if nothing happens.
The spot I choose is mid-way down the pool where the flow runs against the far bank at a nice steady pace. An oak tree reaches across towards where I sit.
My dog sits next to me.
We wait, it isn’t long before a small fish slashes at a fly.
Someone I used to guide, Brian, called rises like these ‘teenager fish’; full of energy and enthusiasm, but not fully street-smart yet.
I leave the youngster alone but see something move tight to the bank.
The rise is subtle, and at first I’m not sure, but I watch intently. I see it again.
It’s definitely a trout.
I make my way downstream of the fish and get into what feels like a good spot to make a cast from.
As I pull line from my reel, I start to sing.
“Rocky mountain high, Colorado…”
It is out of tune but it doesn’t matter.
No one can hear me except my dog who doesn’t seem bothered by it.
He’s heard it many times before.
Piscator 