Almost five kilos of trout on a dry fly

"You can’t possibly keep using that bloody fish as an alibi for not being a good fly fisher any longer. That’s history, that’s water under the bridge, that’s boring and that makes me kind of sick", my good friend Jarle Strandberg cried with a disgusted look upon his face. I just smiled the kind of smile that’s equivalent with pouring gas on a smouldering fire, knowing very well that Jarle is a better fly fisher than I will ever become, but also being aware of the undeniable fact that his personal best when it comes to brown trout is a good two kilos under the fish of a lifetime that I caught four years ago.

This is a scenario that repeats itself regularly, almost always initiated by a seemingly innocent question like: "Jarle, please tell me about the biggest trout you’ve caught on a dry fly. I must be getting old, because I keep forgetting". I always ask this question when Jarle tries to make fun of my not being able to strike at the right time or in the right way, or of the way the damn dry fly starts dragging just before it floats over the hot spot.

"Not that fish again", he sighs. "You know as well as I do that Tor (our mutual friend Tor Grøthe, Mr. Hemsila ( www.hemsila.no ), a fantastic guide who knows the river better than anyone) had to hold your soft, big city hand and literally lead you to the pool, patiently tell you four or five times that the fish was actually eating duns off the surface before your myopic eyes were able to realise what was going on".

"Yes, of course", I say, with that already mentioned smile that always pisses him off, knowing very well my own limitations, "but perhaps you should be a little less cocky until you catch a decent trout yourself"?

And here we leave that well rehearsed quarrel for a slightly more biographical version of what really took place that afternoon at the end of June (did you register the rhyme, by the way?) four years ago.

Being a better fly caster than fly fisher, has its advantages, especially if you combine it with a genuine interest in practical teaching. Since 1999 I had been responsible for educating fly casting instructors for the Norwegian Hunting and Fishing Association and last year a cheerful young man from Hemsedal had entered one of my clinics. Such a clinic consists of two 20 hour weekends, including a final exam you have to pass to become a certified fly casting instructor. Tor Grøthe had passed with flying honours and invited me to fish with him in Hemsila the next summer. "At the end of June the big may fly Aurivilli normally hatch in impressing numbers and usually make even big trout go completely bananas", he said and I knew I was hooked.

One year later I drove my aging Mercedes from Oslo the 230 kilometres to Hemsedal. I normally hate leaving my precious bed too early in the morning, but prospects of good fly fishing is one of the things that could make me skip parts of my beauty sleep without too much crying.

Norwegian roads aren’t the best in the world and the percentage of motorways with more than one lane in each direction is shockingly low, but as I left Oslo five thirty in the morning, I was pretty much alone during most of the two and a half hour drive. I had already sunk deep into fly fishing mode and was unable to admire the beautiful scenery around me, focusing only on keeping the car on the road.

Tor met me on a part of the river not too far from the main road. He was very enthusiastic about the prospects of the day. Tor combines his guiding business with farming, but as he had already sent his sheep up in the mountains to grace throughout the summer, he had all the time in the world to either guide fishermen or fish. Today would be a combination. A client of his, a Swede by the name of Thomas, was tagging along with me and Bjørn, another fly casting instructor I’d certified the year before.

As we assembled the gear, Tor explained the basics. These well bred trout were extremely cautious and long leaders with thin tippets were absolutely necessary. In fact, Tor was normally using leaders of up to three rod lengths and tippets of nothing thicker than 5X. Most of the time the trick was to present a downstream the fly to the fish, so that the fly was the first thing entering the fish’s window. On the riffled parts of the river, even an upstream presentation would work, as long as no part of the fly line was visible to the fish, thus the long leader. Were we started fishing; it was all about long casts and downstream presentations. We would be using imitations of the dun stage of the Aurivilli may fly in sizes 12 and 14 and I started with one of Tor’s own creations, a delicate thing with a bound up hackle allowing the fly to sit high on the water, just like the yellowy naturals. "Remember not to lift the rod vertically when you strike, but horizontally around yourself and upstream because of the long leader", Tor told me before he pointed to a rising fish towards the other side of the river. I nodded and felt the familiar shaking as the friendly fever washed through my veins. With water to my gut in a surprisingly tough current, I started casting to the fish that Tor told me was probably between three and four pounds. On the sixth float, it rose and opened its mouth to gulp down this seemingly edible mouthful and as usual, my instincts took over in a vertical strike worthy of a black marlin, that removed the fly long before the poor fish could blink (if trout were able to blink). Tor shook his head in disgust. "Patience, old man, patience", he adviced me.

Four similarly uncontrolled strikes later, after all of the others had released at least one good sized fish each, Tor laughed heartily. "You’re a better fly caster than fly fisher; that’s for sure. I think it’s time to visit another arena. Riffled current this time and a pool named "The Big Fish Pool", but you’ve better improve on your strikes if you want to land one of the big ones".

Because of a steep bank full of trees, "The Big Fish Pool" didn’t allow overhead casting. I had to wade out as far as possible on slippery rocks and trust my spey casting abilities in a strong and testing downstream wind. Spotting rising fish on the riffled surface proved more difficult than I would have thought and Tor saw something dangerously big eat duns three times before my nearsighted eyes finally focused on the right spot. Making nine meters of leader turn over in the strong wind was entirely impossible and I decided (or Tor decided for me) to cut off most of it. I ended up with only three meters and a 4X tip and on the 34th attempt I was finally able to present the fly in the right lane.

Suddenly time seemed to stop. Whether you believe in sixth senses or psychics doesn’t really matter, but the moment I felt my hackles rise and the familiar tingle creep up my spine, I just knew that something spectacular was about to take place. Seconds later an enormous head broke the surface as the same spine once again took over in another totally uncontrolled strike. This time though, there was enough slack in the line to ensure a timing that was as perfect as it was unintended and I felt undeniably live resistance at the other end of my line. "Bloody hell", Tor screamed, "that’s a huge one. Did you see the size of that head? At least six pounds".

As the fish raced downstream, I power waded towards the bank, slipping and sliding on the dangerous rocks. Safe back on dry land I had to run like crazy after a trout that looked bigger by the second. My poor little heart threatened to leave my chest cavity as the monster neared the end of the pool. If it went over, all would be lost, but the stupid idiot luckily misinterpreted the situation and took a break. A panting Tor behind me was still screaming: "It’s even bigger, Mathias; probably more than eight pounds and definitely a fish for the history books". "Careful now", he added. "This is not a fish you want to lose". I just looked at him as he delivered that last line and knew I would cry like a baby if this giant got away. Having fished almost entirely for salmon and sea trout during the last six years, I remembered what I would have done if this situation had occurred on a salmon river. To "walk the dog" is an old trick for salmon dangerously close to leaving a pool for a possible downstream disaster. Ever so slowly I started moving upstream and the poor thing actually followed. I walked the trout all the 80 meters to the upper part of the pool before I increased the pressure. A second later, the monster trout broke the surface and looked at me indignantly before once again taking off downstream like a madman. "That beast must be over 10 pounds", whispered Tor behind me. He looked even more nervous than I felt.

History has a tendency of repeating itself and the dog trick worked a second time. This time, when I, safely back at the top of the pool, once again increased the pressure; I could sense an oncoming fatigue. No downstream rush this time, but the telltale circles of a big fish with an increasing amount of lactic acid in his bloodstream. For the first time I actually dared hope for a happy ending and five long minutes later, Tor sneaked up from behind and netted the fish of my life. Relief washed over me as I admired this incredible creature gasping for water and both Tor and I went down on our knees in the shallow water. We looked at each other and suddenly an impressive primal scream duet washed over the valley. Bjørn and Thomas congratulated me and took dozens of pictures of fisherman, guide and monster trout. The first fish I’d ever caught in this river proved to be the biggest ever caught on a fly in Hemsila. Not because of my skills, but mainly because of a very good guide, one good cast and vast amounts of pure luck. We measured 77 centimetres and 4,6 kilos. The rest of the day slowly passed on soft clouds of pure euphoria….

Back in the present, I opened my eyes and focused on the threatening pose of last years Norwegian Fly Fishing Champion. "By the way, Jarle", I said; "what is the biggest trout you’ve ever caught on a dry fly?" I sidestepped just in time to avoid the meaty fist aimed for my gut.