On the way down we spotted a large herd of deer, perhaps already getting psyched for autumn’s shennanigans. Trying to get close enough for a photo we dropped behind a bluff, then poking our heads above the ridge line the deer were nowhere to be seen. It’s amazing how they melt away.

Down at the river and things weren’t looking too promising. We came up to it at a series of impassable rapids, and opted to walk upstream. Some bushwacking later and we came across an ancient ruined dwelling perched on the steep hillside just above the river. Almost completely hidden by bracken and hill grass, it was enough to make one pause and consider the remoteness of a life lived in such a spot. It really was just about as properly remote as things get in the UK. Getting through winter must have been an interesting challenge. The mind boggles.

Further bushwacking and we came to a wide, shallow pool. Off with the boots and we were soon across and getting a bit of lunch on the go. It was such an enticing pool that I decided it was worth the faff of setting up a rod, and within seconds trout were rising to the little deer hair sedge.

Half a dozen pretty little trout later and we packed up and struck off towards our goal. The first job was to find the path we’d seen from high on the ridge. It had looked promisingly clear and solid from far, but we soon discovered it to be exceptionally bog-like and disliking of leaky footwear. Much bog-trotting followed.

After that we did more bog-trotting. I think there was a dry section of path at one point, but I might be making that up. Things were damp.

After a bit more boggy wading we found ourselves at the head of the big loch and ready to turn and head up to the hidden lochan that was our final destination. Unsurprisingly the off-road section required for this goal was boggy and very wet, so the bog trotting didn’t stop. I’m not sure if I forgot to mention, but it was very damp.

At long last we came up and over the final rise, and there before us lay a rather magical scene. A Lost Loch snaking away between the steep sides of a remote glen. And sure enough, the spreading rings of rising trout pepperd over the surface close to the near shore.

It was 4.30pm. It had taken a bit longer to get here than planned (ahem). I quickly scouted around for a suitable tent pitching spot, but was rewarded with nothing but extremely boggy ground anywhere close to the loch shore. Even the attractive sandy beach that should have allowed for some extreme Scottish sunbathing was completely under water.

Beginning to feel just a touch uncomfotable at the prospect of the night to come I climbed part way back up the hillside and searched hard for a flattish spot. There were one or two, and you’ll never guess, they were boggy as hell. So a decision had to be made between pitching on lovely dry, bare rock at angles ranging from 30-90 degrees to the horizontal, or on profoundly boggy ground. Time to test that ground sheet waterproofing.

So at last to the fishing. There were some issues. The aforementioned flooded beach was the main culpret. It created a barrier of 6″ deep water about 10 metres wide between the solid(ish) shore and the slightly deeper water where fish were rising. I tried casting over it and succeeded in spooking all fish within a 30m radius. I had to get closer, and the only way was to strip off and wet wade up to the thighs. Swimming in highland lochs is one thing, can be very fun in fact, but standing still and casting for a couple of hours in the same water is somewhat more invigorating on the legs.

Luckily the fish liked the look of the little dry shipman’s buzzer I offered them. One after another they supped it down for the next couple of hours. Quite a wonderful thing to catch trout in such a wild place, truly surrounded by mountains and up to the knackers in baltic water. So much fun in fact that we got rather carried away and neglected to take any photos. You’ll have to trust me when I say that the trout were very pretty and all that, but they really were. The only thing which rivalled their shining forms was the incredible sunset which accompanied our dinner shortly afterwards. As pots of noodles simmered gently the western sky blazed the most intense pink I’ve ever seen, sending rays bouncing off the loch below.

It was soon quite profoundly dark, enhanced by the thick cloud that rolled over, blocking out all star and moonlight. Sleep was fitfull, dampened by the pounding rain that hammered off the tent canvas for most of the night.

I’ll spare details of the following day’s walk out, except to say that it was long, involved ticks in all sorts of places, and provided endless views of spectacular mountain scenery. Despite the grumbling over bogginess, we were actually remarkably lucky with the weather as it only properly rained during the nights. It was a really wonderful chance to spend a slightly more extended period of time away in the hills than I usually manage. Having the Lost Loch as a destination was in some ways unimportant. What mattered was that it was a long way away and required a bit of graft to reach. It’s just a shame it wasn’t boggier.

Read Part I of ‘The Lost Loch’ here.

All the same, the two video clips below are from the same day of spring fishing on a favourite stretch of river back in April 2009. Scores of March browns coming off the top, plenty of rising trout. One of them even ate my deer hair sedge, and turned out to be the largest sea trout I’ve ever caught. Somewhere around 4lb I seem to remember. Slightly wobbly video, but I was combating the competing urges of returning the fish asap and getting a bit of footage of a rare moment (for me anyway).

After a Friday evening stopover in Glen Etive on the way north, we found ourselves in Fort William wasting time in outdoor shops, wondering what items might have been forgotten. My propensitiy to be drawn into outdoor gear shops, even when I know I wish to buy nothing, is something I really must address. Terrible consumerism and an unholy waste of time.

My initial purpose was perfectly reasonable. I wanted a lightweight trowel with which to bury the natural waste of eating and walking long distances. Alas the lightest trowel I could find weighed almost as much as the (heavy) trangia I was already carrying. I finally decided that with all the rain the ground was sure to be pliable enough that the camp spoon could be put to a new and interesting use.

To further digress, dare I say to rant, I must recount my conversation with an assistant (that’s a funny word) at one particular camping shop on the high street. After asking him if the shop had any trowels, he looked at me as if I’d just shat on the carpet right there and then, and stated, “We don’t sell things like that here.” I suppose I must have missed the secret method his regular customers no doubt adopt for turding in the wild, perhaps involving standing side on to the breeze and grimacing intently.

A couple of pies later, the venison version of which would go on to help provide a memorable night and bring the camp spoon into earlier use than expected, and we were driving ever north and west through sheets of rain. Every five miles or so the clouds parted as the rain subsided, only for another shower to be met around the next corner. Spirits didn’t flag though, as the always reliable highland weather forecast suggested that Sunday would be better.

We arrived at the parking spot and kitted up. Normally this is a brief affair, but with me around it tends to get somewhat slowed down as camera equipment is strapped on. This time it was further retarded by the fact that somehow 3 days of camping and fishing and walking gear didn’t want to fit into my 45L rucksac. Some emergency discarding helped a bit, but only in combination with wearing all clothes and offloading (ahem) the fishing bag to my kind companion would the lid shut. In my defence I was carrying the tent…

Thus we were on our way. For about 10 minutes. At which point it became immediately obvious that the first river wasn’t going to be crossed without swimming. Much hard staring at the map and an alternative start point was proposed. Back to the car.

Along the way to the revised start point an interesting looking bridge, which is maybe stretching the use of the word, was almost tempting enough to draw us across. But given the state of my balance, and the 80-year old knees located at my leg hinges, we kept going for the last mile up to the top of the road and thus avoided the river altogether.

All this arsing about had cost us another hour of light, which together with the Great Fort William Turd Scoop Debacle (GFWTSD) meant that we were not going to eat into very many miles before sunset. We thus took a more direct route towards our destination, which involved climbing quite steeply up to gain a long ridge, but which saved a couple of miles of low level trudging. Arriving on the ridge we were greeted with one hell of a nice view, including the sight of a sinking sun and beautiful splashes of colour on the surrounding mountains. The tent was quickly errected on the flattest raised spot we could find, which was nonetheless waterlogged.

Meanwhile SP went off to get some cooking water and I whipped out the camera and started photo-spamming. I spend so much of my regular time imagining being in places like that ridge at the right time of day, that to actually be there was really quite wonderful. Clouds danced around the higher summits and occasional patches of whispy mist passed under our feet. It seemed quite unreal that simply by plodding one foot in front of the other you could attain such a location and view. It gave the understanding that there really is no great trickery in the beautiful photos of folk like Colin Prior and Richard Childs, just a lot of trudging and patience (to go along with a healthy dose of skill and technique of course).

With dinner duties finished (it’s always worth taking that block of cheese and French sausage..) we watched the sky deepen through all imaginable shades of blue, until at last a few stars revealed themselves. I took a few long exposure photographs with the camera propped on rocks (the tripod was one of those emergency discarded objects), managing to simulataneously photograph Ursa Major and scratch the hell out of the LCD screen.

Squeezing through the tent door I produced the first suggestion of what the night would hold, but pretended it was just gas released from the bog under the groundsheet. The brother wasn’t buying it, but did decide to join in. Fun fun times in a cramped space. A few generous sips of whisky and off to sleep. I’ll spare the rest of the details.

Read Part II of ‘The Lost Loch’ here.

Didn’t catch anything except a little sunshine and a tinge of happiness. I’m not complaining.

There have been precisely two trips since the end of June. One was a miserable, rainy blank, about as far from certain other people’s hero-shot glory as is possible… The other was a 2 hour targeted strike last week, at dusk, down a local river. Whereas I usually arrive early on such evenings, this time it was well past 9pm before the leader touched the first riffle.

Moving up through the run it was an odd feeling to use the 3 weight for only the second or third time this year. Spaghetti came to mind at first, but it became natural quickly enough. A bit more colour to the water than usual (and it’s usually a bit coloured), and a distinct smell of mankind-derived-fumes (MDF) mixed in with wildflowers and damp grass.

Up at the big quiet pool there were trout rising as usual. Spinners buzzed around and showed on the water, but the splashy rises inspired the choice of a foam beetle. This didn’t work at all. Many refusals later and on with the quintessential summer evening fly, the size 16 sherry spinner. An immediate response, and there followed an hour or so of lovely quiet fishing to free rising little trout. The largest was still south of 1/2lb, but gave a great tussle on the light gear.

The highlight came from a nice trout that was rising right under branches, and protected on the far side by a protruding log. A couple of branches caught, followed by mild oaths, then a good cast and a calm take and the line was running around in circles, matching my own heightened mood of optimism.

Short evening sessions break up the worky drag of a week quite beautifully. Quick enough to fit in, even after some dinner, but memorable enough to wonder about the next day whilst sipping tea and thinking of the 173rd novel procrastinatory solution to life’s problems.

I trudged up the hill to the car, waiting in hot anticipation for that blasted dog to howl at me again. Instead I was serenaded by swooping bats, not that I could hear them of course. Across the valley a full moon rose and everything shimmered in pale blue. That sense of slight coolness on the face at this late hour, balanced by the warmth of the wader-clad walk. It felt like summer.

Grabbed a quick evening last weekend while up in Assynt. God’s country if ever there was. Easterly breeze, cold, and 3 hours without a sign of a fish. Going through the motions, enjoying the light and land more than the casting. Last cast (actually a genuine last cast) at the end of the loch and suddenly the line is pulling away, deep into the pale peaty water. A fly of improvised tying, butcher-like with some extra tassles. Probably didn’t matter anyway, but what did matter was that it sat on the edge of the mouth of a beautiful brown trout.

Work commitments took up the main part of the week, which left the weekend for some exploration. First port of call was a fly shop. Twenty five minutes and a short walk followed by the 522 bus took me north of the town centre to a nice fly shop called the Avid Angler.

As I explained my predicament I noticed a slight uneasiness come across the face of the nice gentleman shopkeeper dude. I was too soon for the rivers, they were still pumping brown sludge from the winter runoff. Lakes were not much of an option given my lack of floatation. Despite protestations that I was indeed full of hot air and likely to float, he wasn’t convinced it was worth the risk. So what to do? His considered recommendation instantly perked my interest. Sea-run cutthroat trout, in the sea (as in the salty water).

I went on to discover that the Puget Sound area is full of small trout streams that aren’t really large enough to sustain high densities of adult trout. This means that young fish quickly migrate into the estuaries to feed and grow. It sounded very similar to the sea trout of the UK’s west coast; I’m thinking of the West Highlands in particular. The main difference: there are still plenty of trout in the Puget Sound, if you can find them…

I bought a selection of silvery-minnowy-streamery type flies along with a couple of foam-based items. Apparently the cutties sometimes like to smash flies on the top. I was told to look for pebbly beaches, to fish the moving water before and after high tide and to look for current rips. So with my map suitably marked at half a dozen possible starting spots, I was keen to get going. I picked up the hire car and made for the Tacoma Narrows bridge.

A treepool on the Puget Sound from Mike Tamanawis on Vimeo.

It turns out that cutthroat trout can be harder to find than a generous tip in Yorkshire. The first afternoon on a west facing beach was beautiful, with views to the snow-capped Olympics mountain range. It produced one ‘proper’ sized trout of about 7″, and a small legion of parr/smolts (what I think we’d call finnock in the UK). Very difficult to say the least; I probably made about 500 casts for that beautiful little silver fish. If I’d realised what I was doing, I’d have known to switch beaches after about 100..

The second day was considerably worse. I decided to venture a little further across to the Hood Canal area and try a new beach. I tried. For about 6 hours. I caught nothing, but did get plenty of casting practice in the wind. It turns out that casting for 6 hours in the wind, with your fly getting gunked up every second cast, isn’t as fun as you’d think.

As I sat in my motel room that night I pondered giving up and not bothering to go out for the third day. On a bit of a whim I did some googling and ended up sending a few messages to folks on the Washing Fly Fishing forum. Why I didn’t do this in advance of travelling to Seattle is a mystery only understandable through the distorted, procrastinatious mind of someone who’s been in universities for too long. A kind soul made one or two suggestions, some of which I was already aware. But one place in particular was new and perked my interest, and I felt a new rush of determination to catch a proper-sized sea-run cuttie.

That’s a bald eagle on top of the pylon. He was harassed continuously for an hour by a large crow/rook but just sat there watching the sea.

I arrived early at my chosen spot for a final attempt. The tide wasn’t really ‘on the move’ yet, but I set up anyway and starting casting at floating seaweed. I continued to cast at floating seaweed for about 2 hours. I caught plenty of it.

I neared the end of the beach, where it swung around to the left and below a bridge. This was a narrow point in the estuary and a channel was formed between the opposite side and my beach. I became aware that there was more energy in the water, and that the wind had picked up. It was quite bizzare, there was this sense of things in motion and working towards a climax. High tide was only an hour away, and water was now pouring into the inlet in front of me, from across my right hand side.

A fish broke the surface 10 yards out. I clumsily chucked the cast out into the wind and the line immediately began to swing at some pace with the incoming tide. As the cast fished around almost into dead water the fish absolutely nailed the streamer and I was at last attatched to a little silver bullet. An excellent scrap and a beautiful fish of maybe 12″. Bright yellow pectorals, greenish back, bright silver flanks and heavily spotted. What a beautiful creature.

I fished on and found myself standing above a huge swirling back edy of a pool. Baitfish were zipping about, buffeted by the rotating vortices and rising water. Casts into the pool produced nothing. I sent a longer cast below the main swirl, and received another very solid take. This fish jumped repeatedly and even stripped line off the reel. Another angler came around the corner as I beached the fish and we both admired its gleaming form for a few seconds. In the busy water and confusion I opted not to photograph and in a flash it was gone. He must have been about 14″ and in wonderful bright condition.

Sometimes after releasing a really memorable fish I feel almost detached from the experience, as if it didn’t really happen. One moment there are spots and bright colours cradled in your hand and a moment later you are grasping water. No matter how hard I try to look at a fish and take it all in, I can never quite escape the feeling. Perhaps that explains my obsession with photographs. In the end, as the images in memory fade into increasingly abstract and condensed forms, it’s perhaps just the raw feeling that you try to hold on to the tightest. It felt good.

It’s easy to over romanticise fishing trips, even those that aren’t very successful in terms of fish numbers. In terms of angling effort I found my 2 and a bit days of fishing/casting in the Puget Sound extremely tough. Easily as challenging as any fishing I’ve ever done. I felt rather confused most of the time (even more than usual), not sure if I should be changing location, fly, retrieve and so on. That defines learning I suppose, and is an effect magnified by new and unfamiliar waters.

I ended up, however, feeling like I’d glimpsed under the magic carpet of cutthroat fishing in the sea, and it was with some sadness that I stepped onto the flight home. My final view of the Pacific Northwest was a vast expanse of channels and inlets stretching away to the Olympic Peninsula, and then we were in the cloud.

..in the sea. Not the usual blank rate. But the blank rate times three.

On this trip I’d managed to bring along a simple setup, which included a 5 weight rod, reel, a box of flies and one or two other accessories. No waders, no heavy wading boots, just a pair of sandles. More about this in a moment..

On the evening before my earmarked fishing day I finally found my way to a small fishing shop (Denis Guichard I think was the owner) in Guilherand-Granges, a town which lies next to Valence, on the Ardeche side of the Rhone river. He summarised the ticket options for me and kindly pointed out a few likely streams. I love the simplicity involved in fishing most countries outside of the UK. Buy a permit, fish anywhere. No skipping past the large Manse stretch of X and X a river, where the fishing is reserved for their-stuck-up-privyships Lord and Lady Whoha. Just miles of river and the chance to escape for a few hours.

The morning arrived and I set off early with no definite plan. The joy of an uncertain day awaited, where fishing could be had wherever you found yourself. I headed up the D533 road and into the heart of Ardeche. This is possibly the windiest road I’ve ever driven. By the time I arrived in Lamastre I felt like I’d been to the gym.

At this point it was time to make a decision. Right or left. Slightly nearer or slightly further away. I opted to maximise fishing time so turned right and headed up to a remote corner of the upper river Doux (known as the haut Doux).

We now interrupt proceedings to mention perhaps the greatest joy of fishing in rural France. As I passed through a small town called Desaignes I stopped to pick up some tucker. Oh what tucker… Unlike many small towns in the UK, places like Desaignes (and seemingly most of the others besides) have retained small, independent bakers, butchers and grocers. You can rock up at any time of day and buy exquisite bread, beautiful locally-made sausage-products and whatever else you care to eat. As a fan of the aforementioned sausage-products I duly purchased some swine and found myself in a porky heaven. With my larder now amply stocked I was ready for the river.

At a bridge I parked the car and stepped into a day of warm sunshine and light wind. The river was exceptionally clear and rather low. Extensive bankside herbage forced me to slip on the manly polyprop tights, socks and sexy sandles. Boots would have made more sense, but then ‘sense’ doesn’t seem to be very connected to the warm, gentle baggage policy of everyone’s favourite Irish-based budget airline. As I gingerly stepped into the streamy water and the end of the first pool, my feet and ankles produced some muted protestations, before slowly quieting down into a numbed stupor.

The river was small, at turns 1m to 5m or so across. It seemed to be particularly rich in invertebrates. Ranks of cased caddis lined the surfaces of most rocks, and turning up a few stones revealed lots of squirming upwinged nymphs. Many of the bankside trees were also covered in the shucks of hatched flies. There was certainly an abundance of trout food. Now to find some trout..

I sat on a rock at the bottom of the first pool. It was a beautiful combination of a tumbling run-in at the head, a deep scoured channel next to some large rocks, a bit of flat water at the tail, before more rapids leading to the next pool. This was my first visit to fish a river on the continent, so I had no experience of locally-recommend flies or tactics. But where there are caddis and upwings there must surely be deer hair sedges and dirty dusters, so on went one of the latter in a size 16.

A small rise revealed that there were fish here. I felt uncommonly excited about this. Perhaps it was the outstanding beauty of the surroundings and the apparent solitude of this particular bit of stream. More likely I suppose it was the possibility of catching a trout on a different island to my own home waters.

I made a few duff casts before getting caught in a tree on one of my backcasts. Did I mention that the water was clear? As I struggled to get my line and fly back, I think I probably spooked this and several other pools. A few more failed casts with the retrieved line and I moved on.

This turned out to be the basic state of play for most of the rest of the day. Struggling to make casts whilst hemmed in by trees, feet and lower legs feeling more and more detached from my body. Lots of cockups, lots of lost flies. But it was all great fun really, stalking up and trying to spot fish. Making too much noise and not spotting any fish. You get the idea.

Eventually I came to a particularly enticing pool. Wide and fast run in at the head, the stream then turned abruptly to the right and calmed down to flow alongside a huge boulder. A careful cast and a fish took but didn’t stay on. A little further up and success at last as a beautiful little trout decided that the haggis-flavoured sedge was worth eating after all. Time for a pause then, a trout had been caught, success was assured and I felt a bit chuffed if I may say so.

Over the next few hours I worked up and up the stream, with a handful of similarly-sized small trout. I spooked plenty of other fish, but never saw anything that might be called ‘large’ (i.e. over 1/2lb). Nonetheless, they were very pretty fish and felt like a fair reward for my now deep-purple coloured feet. At one stage I switched to a small nymph underneath a bit of sheep’s wool as an indicator, and caught the nicest fish of the day from a tiny little divot behind a rock.

Time wore on, and with the thought of 2 hours of that road back to Valence, I called it a day and started the squelchy trudge back down to the car. On my way I stopped briefly to talk to a farmer who had been driving in and out of the river in his tractor performing some unknown task. I noticed his eyes immediately drawn to my deliciously attractive wet leggings and sandles. He motioned and asked if I’d been walking in the river. I said I had. He said I should have been here last week, it was much warmer. There was something fitting and reassuring in this information. No matter where you fish, at what time of year, you’re always a week too late.

A gallery of all my photos from a day out in Ardeche. Click the full screen button for a 3D-like immersive experience.