“Cats on the fly is a bit like JR Hartley meets The Texas Chainsaw Massacre”
“The idea of catching a catfish on game tackle seemed eccentric”
IT’S ALWAYS good to know you’re not the only slightly unhinged angler out there. Luckily, every time we hear those lazy words about there being nothing new in fishing, something refreshingly nuts comes along.
Even for someone who has caught barbel and tench on the fly, though, the idea of catching a Wels catfish on game tackle seemed eccentric. Just consider these monsters’ poor eyesight, moody appetites and extreme power and it sounded like a recipe for not only extreme patience but a rod designed to stop a train.
A tiny number of anglers have shown it’s possible, though. So naturally, when Gary Pearson and Rodney Wevill of Turrall Flies found a suitable lake in darkest Devon, I fancied it.
Just looking at the tackle we’d assembled, it was sure to be interesting. Big, gruesome flies, thick leaders and 10 to 12 weight rods were par for this deranged course. Knowing the hell that catfish can raise with a carp rod, let alone fly tackle, it felt scarily exciting. Indeed, the whole idea of cats on the fly is a bit like JR Hartley meets the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
Long before any change of underpants might be required, though, we had to actually find and hook a fish. Cats are notoriously moody, even when you manage to find a good number in a smallish lake, and so we had to steel ourselves for hours of effort.
After a day of awful weather and hundreds of fruitless casts, however, the moment of truth finally arrived. Having seen a big heave of water at the surface in a little back channel, I rapidly moved spots and made a cast.
The take was surprisingly mild, like a gentle knock on the door, before the line pulled away. Then, the abrupt transition from mild annoyance to utter fury was terrifying!
The power of the thing was relentless and brutal. Thirty yards of line disappeared in just a few heart-stopping seconds, as my stomach and brain attempted to change places.
Just as I hoped I might have a prayer, however, the fight changed from straight boxing to a pub brawl. The fish steamed under the near bank like a thing possessed. Try as I might to wrestle it into open water again, it had become a weedy stalemate. Moments later, all I was left with was a sick feeling and one very mangled fly.
I wish I could tell you I got another shot at redemption, or that my friends landed a 50-pounder. But in the whole session, only one other fish was hooked and lost by Rodney.
Even so, it was one of the most compelling and visceral fishing thrills I’ve had in a long time. And, if my nerves can stand it, I’m already hoping for round two and my revenge.