Salmon Fishing

Seconds before the police arrived...
Flashing blue lights just out of shot.

Having nursed the vague ambition to catch a salmon for several years and never really known where to begin, I bought a thirteen foot rod this summer and started to make some vague forays into the mysterious court of the King of Fish. I am keen to try every kind of fieldsport at least once, and the sheer breadth and variety presented by hunting, shooting and fishing has allowed me to participate in everything from beagling and fell hunting to ferreting, stalking, falconry and foreshore wildfowling.

With the exception of full-blown fox hunting, which is out of bounds to me on account of its dependency on pony horses (which I despise), the glaring omission in my sporting education has been salmon. As much as I have loved catching trout, the main appeal of that sport has been the wonderful reliability of the human vs fish gambit. He’s somewhere in that loch, and you’ve got to winkle him out.

With salmon, there are a million different variables; the river is a world away from the loch. The line keeps washing off downstream and you get tangled on things that weren’t there yesterday. One day there is too much water, the next there is not enough. And now it’s too dark, too peaty, flowing so swiftly that you need to use a spinner. And perhaps they’re not running, or maybe they’re not rising, and perhaps they’re doing both but still not taking. If indeed they’re there at all. It is a world of complexity to an outsider, aggravated beyond reason by that extra ingredient in the human/fish equation: other humans.

Everyone I asked for help had different theories, and everyone ventured a different list of indispensable kit. Within the offered support was a kind of arm’s-length pseudo-Masonic middle finger to me as an “outsider”, and this was something like a red rag to my jaded eye. The best piece of advice I was given was that fishermen talk more rubbish about salmon than any other sportsmen do about any other sport combined. Having fished all my life in shorts and t-shirt, I couldn’t believe that catching a salmon required the angler to looking like an olive green volcanologist, literally bristling with accoutrements. Wherefore the ubiquitous baseball caps and glossy fly-eye sunglasses?

Naturally reclusive and protective of my personal space (particularly in my own time), I found it hard to reconcile myself to a sport which can only be prosecuted around a few small pools on a few rivers – a factor which attracts concentrations of people like rats to a hen house. The draw of trout (particularly in a place like Galloway) is the luxury of knowing that if someone else appears where you are fishing, you can simply pack up and wander half a mile in any direction and find another loch to whip in pristine solitude.

Standing back from the Dee earlier in the summer, I saw fishermen clustered in groups like herons around the rumbling water, while several others lounged back in an effete little bothy with racks for their rods to rest against. It felt rather like an unpleasant suburban collision between golf and fishing, and snatches of their conversation revealed that having brands and labels on show was every bit as important as using the latest acronyms and jargonisms.

This all seemed at odds with the essential nature of the fish itself – the kind of beast that is steeped in a mythical and deeply primal world. Fascinated by the spectacle of jumping salmon, even as a child those monstrous bars of flesh seemed to stir in me some atavistic desire to catch and eat; to garner some kind of relationship with them so that I could possess something of that gut-twisting shape. I pictured them lurking in the alder roots in the shallow burns of the Chayne, carving their redds in the dark gravel below the heather. When the water roars under the cavernous brigs and the soil reeks of mould and swirling leaves – that is when I wanted to be in amongst them, panicking the dippers and slipping on the moss-packed stones – not on some wide, limpid river where the contours were subtle and the fish moved evenly through the lowland fields.

Unable to reconcile my guts with the sport as I saw it, my decision to buy a rod and concede to the rules of engagement was a compromise. On my first attempt, I was apprehended by police and water bailiffs on the River Nith for having failed to observe some minor small-print regulation. I had all of my preconceptions confirmed by a great deal of finger wagging and fumed at having to learn and recite screeds of bye-laws which seemed to vary at random in a world where every passer-by was a rule-book pounding fascist with the Sheriff Court on speed-dial.

Earlier in the summer, I bought two days on the River Ettrick at the Heather Trust charity auction and took one of them near Selkirk on Saturday. Within seconds of arriving on the riverside, I was thrown back into the politics of the game amongst a crowd of fellow anglers. They muttered between themselves as I endeavoured to show them the best of my much vaunted roll casts, and when one of them came over to talk to me, I tried to imagine the minute transgression that had prompted this new “telling off”. Perhaps I had trod on Auld Tam’s boulder (we never stand on Auld Tam’s boulder), or maybe the kind of fly I was using was not permitted on Saturdays. As it was, he wanted to drop in below me and passed by with a manly nod, which I returned with a square jaw and a slight frown as befitting an equally manly sort of chap.

While we had seen fish jumping the ladder at Philiphaugh that morning and there were certainly some salmon in this tributary of the Tweed, they were not for taking the fly. Fortunately, nobody else was catching anything either, otherwise my patience for this wind-blasted charade would have been very short indeed. One of my waders leaked, and the piece of string I was using to keep them up was digging into the back of my neck. The other fishermen came very close to me, and I could see myself reflected in their sunglasses, which twinkled like beetle wing cases. I decided that if I hanked one of them with my back cast, then they would only have themselves to blame. I focussed on my snap-D, which had been hurriedly thrust upon me by a fraught instructor during a 15 minute lesson at the Scottish Game Fair. Every second cast snagged a leaf from the rushing water which needed to be painstakingly removed at the expense of time and patience.

And then there was a salmon. Almost at my hip, a monstrous fish rose like a porpoise in the ripple. I could see his eye watching me, and the beginning of his broad brown back soared up as the water lapped over him. The piece I could see might have been eighteen inches long. For two full seconds, we looked right at one another, then the second, third and fourth ripple slipped over his back and the apparition melted away into the water. Numbed with excitement, the thought of casting to him never even occurred to me. I probably had a leaf on my fly anyway.

And so I came to the conclusion that while the posturing hustle and bustle of my fellow anglers was generally repellent to a very high degree, the fish which lies at the foundation of all this regulatory bumf and silliness is so phenomenally exciting and talismanic that I can’t just walk away from it. I know that salmon fishing inspires tremendous passion and stirs great emotions amongst its acolytes, several of whom are good friends of mine. Far be it from me to pick holes in another man’s game when my own often seems bizarre and inexplicable, but  perhaps it will never be the “be all and end all” of my life.

However, I have redoubled my determination to catch a salmon, even if my first two attempts have taught me far more about human beings (in general and myself in particular) than the fish I had hoped to meet.

Signs of Autumn

Changing seasons
Changing seasons

With all the chaos and confusion around moving house and going on honeymoon, I realised that I had not been up to the Chayne for ten days – my longest absence in six years. Heading up the hill for a quick spin and a mouthful of fresh air, I felt as happy as the proverbial pig, despite the rain and low cloud.

The hill has slumped into deep orange, and the bracken lies like the wreckage of some awful disaster. Down in the hollows by the broken stones the myrtle is mouldering and the final shreds of colour are being washed off the bony asphodel rattles.

The last few migrant wheatears have now been replaced by stalwart squadrons of Scandinavian redwings and thrushes. The rushes are dying and the doe and her twins which all summer have glowed in autumnal tones are now chocolate brown silhouettes of their former selves. The tell-tale chins flit ghost-like behind the naked rowans where the blackbirds rake out the odd berry still hanging.

Although it was only a quick walk, I found that I had stopped for half an hour to watch three harriers hunting down through the bog – ringtails hanging at waist height into the wind, turning back after each questing sweep to start again at the top. A pipit was found and dismantled, but the grasses are empty now by comparison to their rustling abundance in August when every tump and twist concealed a vibrant scrap of meat.

In the absence of pipits, there are now scores of snipe in the long grass. Having followed the moon, these dainty wanderers are busily staining the black chowder soil with blotches of white shit. The ground has taken a long time to soften after several months of baking. A film of mud lies on the peat like skin on a shin, and where the water has pooled long enough to sog and soak, there are some signs of narrow-beaked riddling, particularly around the cowpats which have attracted hosts of greasy-capped toadstools.

And with a twist of maddening fate, the dog pushed a fox out by my feet and they ran together almost within touching distance. The villain parted the grasses with his nose, ears pressed back into his mane. The two ran past me and up the track towards the birches while I stood behind and swore lustily and at length. I even bent down to pick up a stone to throw, but dropped it again.

Much has changed during my absence, and I must get back to work.

Roaring Wester Ross

Looking down ***
Looking down ***

After a fantastic honeymoon in Wester Ross, we returned from the distant North and hit the ground running, trying to catch up with work and the maddening minutiae of moving house. There has been time to type up a few bits and pieces of notes from the trip, including this block of text from an ascent of Beinn Dearg:

Two eagles circled together over Gleann na Sguaib. One had cruised over in the stillness from the soaking bones of Creag na h-lolaire and it was soon joined by a second bird. They turned together in total silence, long black fingers swept upwards at the end of each massive arm which sailed in the wind like a child’s bedsheet. Through the binoculars it was possible to see their talons bunched up like fists beneath them, and as they turned again and moved back towards Loch Broom, a tiny crow like a gnat wheezed carefully behind them at a respectfully defiant distance.

But the aerial performance was soon overshadowed by a far more demanding presence. For three days we had endured the constant thunder of roaring all around the cottage by the shore at Letters, and when I had gone down to water’s edge to watch the divers sleekly pouncing, the overture had almost become oppressive. Several stags were bawling on the hill above Leckmelm, and the sound found it easy to rumble through the intervening half mile of water and stone. By night under the moon they had roared on until it was possible to identify individuals from the comfort of my bed, and it seemed as though the noise made the curtains tremble under the stars.

In amongst the beasts on the steep sided glen, the noise rolled back and forth between the scree and the heather, lingering among the yellow birches and battling the rattle of the burn as it tumbled in strips of foaming white through the stone. For a timid lowlander used only to the surly yap of a roe, this opera was more than a little intimidating. Some of them drawled with a lazy, almost bovine moan, but others were infinitely more sinister – deep, schisty bellows drawn from some raw vein of intolerance. Silhouettes flitted around the saw-toothed horizon – heads and ears distended by wrist-thick bars of horn which were invisible to the naked eye but which resolved into fearsome tools through the binoculars.

Crowds of hinds browsed uneasily between these fretful monsters. Grey calves jostled between them and turned to look down at us as we laboured up the path far below them. This path would ultimately lead us up to the cloud strewn summit of Beinn Dearg, from where all of Wester Ross would lie prostrate before us. But until we gained that height, we were intruders from below, inspiring sneers and curled lips from those who held the higher ground.

Once we stopped to watch a stag with his party of hinds. Dripping with peat and piss, he fretted back and forth amongst his harem, singling out individuals and working frantically like a deranged collie dog. His nearest rival called and he could not resist a wild, drawn-out response. The hair on his neck had split into a row of sodden dags, leaving gaps like the gills on a dogfish. A beat after he was finished, the sound reached us – a torrent of torment and exhaustion. Clouds of steam and vapour looked sulfurous as they rose from this vision of hellish, ked-infested fury.

The sound still rang as we crossed into the world of ptarmigan. A pristine burn gurgled into placid stillness as it looped between the gnarled chunks of quartz and granite. Tucked in beneath the vertical faces of Cadh’ an Amadain, we were forced to call it a day by a darkening sky and the onset of some minute flakes of rain – what promised to be the first of many. We had covered six miles and suddenly felt overwhelmed by the enormity of the dripping cliffs above us. When we spoke, we did so in whispers. The horizon was divided by the monstrous bealach between Beinn Dearg and Meall nan Ceapraichean – a low slung trough in the high and breathless space. In the windows of bright sun, half of this world was bright and wincing while the other sulked in gloomy silence.

Somewhere up on the sheer faces, the sound of goats rang musically between the gutters. Searching for ten minutes, I finally picked out the blue roan figure of a billy goat wandering carelessly through a vertigo nightmare like a urine-stained satyr. I had to crane my neck so far back that I felt sure that if he had fallen, he would certainly have landed in my lap. I had to remind myself that goats don’t fall. I prepared to dodge, just in case.

Having come to within a few hundred yards of the peak, we looked back down to the sea. Cloud lay on the Minch and blotted out the shapes of Harris, but several of the smaller isles were easy to see as the wind picked up and carried snatches of rattling water back into this forgotten trough between horizontal and vertical.

Gruinard island squatted like a tortoise shell, and still the roaring of deer rolled over the white crumbs of scree overhead. There were more stags up there, with hinds like chamois gliding through the shreds of red grass. I watched one black hummel lie down on a cushion of lichen and grit, resting his frame on the sliding discs of stone. The budget which had been meant for antlers had been squandered instead on bulk and fatness like a luxuriant eunuch.

We turned for home as the ravens clocked the time, back down into the jungle of alder spoons and red pine stems.


never far off theme
Never far off theme

Worth a moment’s explanation for why this blog has been so quiet over the past week – alongside moving house, I have also been getting married. Huge thanks to all friends and contacts from this blog who sent on words of encouragement on Saturday, and now that the job is done, “my wife and I” are on the way up for a week in Torridon, where the stags are roaring fit to make the scree rattle.

The above picture was taken near the registry office in Glasgow where the deed was done – I may do many things on this blog, but let it never be said that I stray far from the theme. I’m usually nonplussed by graffiti, but certainly approve of this “street art” on Ingram Street.