Autumn Salmon   

When I began to take an interest in serious fly fishing for salmon ("serious" fly-fishing meant fishing with a proper double handed fly rod as opposed to the beefed up trout gear I had been using), a friend told me about a river called the Nith that was only about 40 minutes drive from where I lived and the day tickets cost only about £10. Sounded like my kinda place.  

I booked a couple of Saturdays in a row and the ghillie, a guy known to me only as “Wullie” (come to that, I never did get to know anyone’s second name whilst I fished there) met me on the bridge and took me down through the beat, pointing out the pools and the likely lies as we went. Of course I didn’t pay a blind bit of notice to him, so keen was I to get the rod up and get in the water. I’d splashed out on a "serious" salmon fly rod for the occasion and had also read masses of stuff on the technique of Spey casting; a sort of modified roll-cast wasn’t it? Anyway, my rod was a manageable 13 foot Daiwa effort and I didn’t even have to change my trout reel and 7 weight fly line to use it. Bonus.  

The most expensive item I bought was a pair of Daiwa neoprene chest waders. The first time I put them on though, I discovered that the Nith, where I was fishing at the village of Sanquar, didn’t run any deeper than my thigh in all of the fishable pools. In the unfishable pools it dropped maybe twenty feet or so right off the bank, but hey, at least I was now looking the part and the added danger allowed that I could go out and buy an automatic life preserver. A man can never have enough fishing gear, although usually it is the wrong gear that he buys for any given set of circumstances. 

Anyway, I stood at the side of the water swishing away with my Spey casting, the line flopping first upstream in a heap, then downstream in a heap and finally snaking out to land in a large dog-legged heap vaguely 45 degrees across the stream from where I was standing. The pool was called, I discovered later, The Sawmill though like all salmon pools the origin of the name was lost in the mists of time as there was no sign of any sawmill near the treeless banks.  

Salmon were showing regularly in the pool and, much to my frustration, they simply would not take my fly, even my nice shiny new "serious" salmon flies, even when I managed to land one right in the circle of their rise. What was wrong with these fish? 

Just above me at the neck of the pool, there was a rushing torrent of water and two guys were fixed to the spot. Their technique was unusual; they were using a fly rod and line all right, but the cast consisted of flicking the fly a mere rod length out and letting it trot down the stream. Every so often, I’d hear a shout and turn round to see one or the other bent into a fish. They must have taken at least 5 salmon from that run in quick succession.  

I decided to move on; frustration and jealousy don’t make good companions.  

I headed upstream and bumped into a very strange character who was walking his dog, a large rangy, mangy black beast which bounded up to me and immediately stuck its nose into my groin (the dog that is, the guy just stuck out his hand and said “I’m John”). It seemed appropriate to stop dead in my tracks at this point, just in case. He was a really nice fellow as it turned out, but had a slightly mad look about him, exacerbated by a lopsided face which looked numbed on one side. Perhaps a result of a kind of palsy as a kid, I speculated, but maybe he just woke up unlucky one day.  

John was a Sea trout specialist, it turned out, and he put me onto one of the best pools on the river for these beautiful fish. In my inexperience, however, his pearls of wisdom and freely given information were lost and I never did take a Sea trout from the Nith. I do however still fish the way he told me to and with some considerable success. 

I got to know John quite well over the season, along with several of the other regulars. There was an old guy called Robert who, every time I met him, would say to me “I’m eighty three you know”. He pronounced it “aichty three” and, over lunch, he would sit and tell me all about his previous career as the owner of a painting and decorating business, and his now even busier retirement. He made wine all winter, helped to deliver the meals-on-wheels to the “old folks” most days, drove his grandchildren to school regularly and went fishing as often as he possibly could. I envied the purpose to his life, not to mention the energy required to live it.  

One day I was walking along the road which looks down on the river and I spied the same two guys that had been taking all of the fish from The Sawmill. They were casting square across the stream and then dragging the fly fast across the stream by whipping their rods round level with the water. I watched for a while before I realised that they were, in fact, poaching. The technique is called, I believe, sniggering but it didn’t make me smile. What to do? I was a day-ticket holder with Right on my side but with, perhaps, no rights. These were two guys of unknown standing in the club, but it fairly explained why they had been catching so many fish the last time I saw them. 

I walked back and told Robert, who was sitting in his car eating his lunch. We pondered the situation a bit and, just as we had reached no conclusion whatsoever, the water bailiff showed up. He was a small, game, guy called Jackie and when I told him he demanded to be shown where the perps were.  

With a little apprehension, but feeling like a commando, I sneaked down the bank towards them with Jackie in tow. I started to have doubts about the wisdom of it all. I mean, what if I was wrong? What if it was a big mistake or worse, what if it all turned just plain nasty? I was there to fish, not to fight, so I pointed out where they were and walked back to where Robert was sitting, feeling more than a little guilty all the while for leaving Jackie to deal with it himself.  

After a while, Jackie came back and confirmed that the guys had indeed been sniggering, that he’d not only marched them off the water but had also confiscated their gear and permits. Way to go, Jackie-o. He took my name and details and guaranteed me a season ticket place for next year if I wanted it. I was pleased, but still had that nagging guilt you get when you know you backed down when you really should have stepped up. It’s a guy thing, but reflected glory is better than none I guess. 

I never took a single fish that season; not one. I went down faithfully every week and watched fish after fish being hauled out by the regulars. It was a bonanza year and everyone, except me, was getting more than their share.  

I waited all winter, all the next spring and all summer for my chance again.  

The following year, on my first trip of the new season, I renewed my acquaintance with John, his groin-sniffing dog and also old Robert. “I’m aichty fower noo” said Robert when we met up. John told me that Jackie had died suddenly over the winter. I was moved by this although, apart from that one day, I never really knew the man.  

We looked gloomily at the river. The water was high and was the colour of chocolate. Not even a rank amateur like me thought that it was fishable for salmon with a fly. But I’d travelled a long way so I reasoned that I might as well give it a try. I climbed gingerly into the head of the stream and had only gotten three feet from the bank when I realised that the normally ankle deep water was now pressing against my backside.  

With mounting panic, I could feel my feet losing contact with the bed of the river. I jammed the fly rod under one arm, grabbed hold of the emergency ripcord on the inflatable fishing vest I was wearing and planted my wading stick firmly in front of me for leverage. The pressure of water behind me was unbelievable. I was only three feet from the bank but I simply could not move sideways. Slowly I calmed myself down and started to inch my way forward. One inch forward, one inch sideways. It must have taken me almost half an hour and 30 yards or more downstream before I could haul out onto the bank, terrified out of my wits.  

I looked around at the spot I had landed up at and figured, what the hell, I was there to fish, right? Unhooking the fly from the keeper ring, a large Blue Charm copper tube, I flicked it out into the chocolate torrent. As it swung round, I felt some weight. I lifted the rod and that, nowadays more familiar, nodding pressure was there. It was a fish!  

I honestly can’t recall a single bit of the fight, but I remember getting the fish on the bank, dispatching it and then doing a jig. I had done it; my very first salmon caught “properly”on a fly rod.  

When the old ticker had stopped hammering, I thought I’d have another bash. What's to lose, after all? Just two or three casts later and the line stopped dead. I had another one on! Two salmon on the same day, both on the fly and in a massive spate to boot!  

I got this one in and dispatched it too. It wasn’t going to get any better, I decided, so I determined to pack up and quit while I was ahead – a sound strategy that I wish I still followed today, in more than fishing it has to be said.  

I arrived back at the car to find Robert and Wullie, the ghillie, chatting by the roadside. I grinned fit to break my face and showed them my prizes. 

 “Mmm Hmmm” said Wullie “A bit black, but fine enough”.  

In later years, I have discovered that this translates roughly as “Why the bloody hell did you kill a couple of old kippers like that? Since they’re your first, we’ll let you off, but don’t ever do that again!”  

I never have.

 Chic McSherry

 Load Home Page/Main Menu