The 2020 trip

 I was flummoxed. I had stalked this big, I mean BIG, brown trout all morning, since the new day first lit up its lie. Nothing I tried had worked. The others were having a leisurely breakfast, this being our very last morning, we would be en route to the airport this afternoon. Last night, the drinks had been flowing like the bonhomie; it had been a fabulous week’s fishing, the lodge staff and guides had been great, and we were all firm friends now. There had been no muzziness or headache when I crept from my bed just before dawn, because my mind was too busy planning a campaign to catch the big bruiser I had spotted when we were wearily trudging back to the lodge in the evening’s last light. I didn’t speak of it during our revelry for two reasons: it might not actually be there this morning, and if it was, then I wanted to take my parting shot alone.

 Amazingly, the fish was still there. As the light strengthened, I could see it was feeding unhurriedly, white flashes of opened mouth when its head moved to either side, even one or two sips from, or close to, the surface. I took my time, an eternity, to get into position below, and did not make a cast until I was sure the beautiful creature was really unaware of my presence, behind and slightly across the glide. A tiny caddis pupa had been my first choice, accompanied by the beat of my racing pulse, and my maiden cast was on the money. Six times, but no take, although I was pretty sure it glanced towards my offering at least twice. I changed fly, knotting on a tiny nymph, once again an infinite pause until I was sure the fish was still confident and feeding. Five, maybe seven casts, with long moments of rest in between, but still the quarry did not take my offering. Again, I stared into the flybox, mind feverish; what to try? I hadn’t observed much on the wing, couldn’t spot anything on, or in, the water. Something small, but what?

 Maybe this size 20 RS2, a tiny emerger? Another long wait until I was certain the trout was still in the zone. Time seemed to stand still, but the hands of my watch betrayed it. On the third cast, this time two feet further upstream than the previous ones, the fish moved onto the line I thought my little fly was tracking. Obviously, I couldn’t see my tiny offerings in the stream’s hurly burly, but you get this sixth sense for where your fly is. Suddenly, that unmistakeable white flash, I tightened instinctively, and it was on! It was immediately apparent that the fish was much bigger than I had thought, it must have been holding much deeper in the pellucid flow, and I had not appreciated how big it really was, but now there was no doubt, the weight and power as it forged away upstream had my reel screaming. I knew I had to follow and keep as tight as I dared, if I stayed put it would just smash me.

 I stumbled after it, water splashing everywhere, soaking my upper body, spattering face and polaroids, both arms aloft holding rod and reel above my head, trying to keep as much line above the water as I could while the fish ran between rocks in the shallow rapid ahead. Running clumsily, staggering as fast as I could, I glanced left to see how far away the bank was; out of the water I would be faster and hopefully could gain on the wild dash of the fish heading upriver. At that moment, my right foot caught solidly in something submerged, I lost my balance, pitching forward hard, arms still overhead, trying to maintain contact as I fell. I saw the boulder too late and pitched headlong onto it. There was a brilliant flash, then cold darkness. Nothing.

 I was next aware of a sound. I can’t tell you what, just something, and I opened my eyes, unsure, gradually realising I was somewhere warm, not like the cold river. I was in bed, then I understood. It had been just a HD dream, all thanks to the shack nasties this cursed Covid19 has brought upon us!