THE BOAT RACE
Loch fishing is an experienced angler’s game, and as far as Michael Wigan is concerned, persistence prevails when trolling the waters in search of a big catch
Persistence prevails when it comes to loch fishing, and resident expert Michael Wigan is in search of a big catch
Amuscle is wrenched in my back so I have to cast gingerly. I took the boat out trout fishing. It was grand to be on the water again. The wind was easterly and chill, but lacking the hailstones and sleet which persisted through into May. On 5 May I had driven through four inches of wet snow on a local road. The trout loch wind was kind by comparison, the water colour clear. The only indication there might be some fly-life somewhere was sand martins scooting around, clipping the water-surface.
I peeled line off the reel and rowed against it, watching it slide out of the stern into the black rippling water. I studied the cast. Nothing bushy was wobbling on the top, so that was alright. The line was clean and straight, a box ticked. I rowed into the wind enjoying the sense of stretch which rowing gives, the steady breathing, and listening out for sounds of birds and water-edge life.
There was nothing. Loch fishing is like that. One moment it seems the world is asleep, the next it catches you unawares, waking suddenly. On this occasion it didn’t wake. More nothing happened. I rowed nearly the length of the loch, just under a mile, and decided to change the fly-team. The boat crunched into the bank and gently rocked, un-inclined to move, sleek to the wind, whilst I looked at the flies. Of three one was silver and one was thickly-dressed. I changed both these two, for nondescript brownish specimens from the box. They pleased me, as flies are meant to, and might therefore please wild trout.
I tried casting from the boat, longer and longer, changing the angle. The drama of nothing persisted. As I applied the oars and edged away from the bank I had two takes, neither adhering, more like flipping at the fly. At the tail of the loch the wave was flatter and the black water blacker. I trolled across the wind, the flies getting swing as well as forward motion.
Folk can be sniffy about trolling. Not real fishing, they say. I don’t agree. The biggest wild trout caught in Scotland was a record once held by a local man fishing Loch Awe trolling from a boat. He followed the thermocline round the loch for hour after hour, puttering along on a small outboard, the mountains balefully spectating. Thermocline sounds fancy, but actually it is the falling off from shallow into deep water that every fisherman learns. Fish cruise this ledge, both for deep-water things coming up and for shallow-water things seeking murkier shelter. On Loch Awe, as this angler knew, the biggest brown trout patrolled the thermocline for enough light to highlight prey against the sky.
He caught some trout over twenty pounds. The bigger the bait, the bigger the trout. Eventually satiated with the monotony, and seeking bigger fish to fry, he ended up in the Scottish Parliament, amongst birds of a very different feather. As I crossed and re-crossed the wave I thought about these things, lost in drifting speculations and memories. I have known this loch a long time.
Still with the boat empty I thought it time for home. I got into the middle of the loch swinging the fly in a gentle sweep by turning the boat and backpedalling the oars. The line trailing out the bank jerked. The rod-tip bent the knee to something which had dived. My isolation was over.
I seized the rod and reeled. The distant line was diving and zipping sideways. It was so far off that when the trout saluted its departure the loss of its weight took a moment to register. I made for the pontoon bay not disappointed but encouraged. This loch had been ice-covered for nine weeks through January, February and early March. Down deep had been this inhabitant. Awakening to spring it had ventured nearer the surface. The game was on.
“The biggest wild trout caught in Scotland was a record once held by a local man fishing Loch Awe