Going Toe to Toe with the Loch Ness Monster

For a forty-four-year-old man (at the time) who had been fly fishing since the age of seven, I should have known when to give up. But this was Loch Ness. Not the famous one in the Scottish Highlands. This is a small mountain lake in South Africa, in the Eastern Cape village of Rhodes, where only a year before I had caught my personal best: a beautifully sleek 27-inch rainbow trout. I only get to fish this lake a few times every December when I visit, and this was my last morning there.

The day started way too early when my alarm went off at 5am. It had been raining the whole night and, when I peeked through the curtains to see what the storm had left in its wake, it didn't look very inviting. Staying overnight at the Tiffindel Ski Resort was a major win though, as it was just a two-minute drive down to the lake. After a quick coffee and a few layers of clothing to ward off the early morning chill, I arrived at the lake ready for the last few precious hours of fishing. I had the beautiful place entirely to myself. Life truly didn't get better than this. Or so I thought.

The lake was heavily weeded in most parts, so I had set up with a floating line to keep my flies from snagging on the bottom. I was fishing a slightly heavier line than usual too, after nearly losing a good fish to the weeds the previous day. Still thinking through my plan of attack, I decided to cast out a floating grasshopper fly, a dry fly designed to sit on the surface and imitate an insect, that had drawn some interest in the previous afternoon's session. For good measure I tied a short piece of line to the bend of the grasshopper’s hook and then attached a buzzer fly, a small nymph pattern. (Known as a New Zealand rig). There was a slight wind at my back and I sent the pair out about 15 metres, landing them neatly between two weed beds.

It was at this point that I made my first mistake of the morning. I put the rod down.

Mistake One: I Put the Rod Down

I started digging through my fly box to see what other tasty offerings I could tempt the fussy, well-hidden trout with. With the faintest of ripples, an extremely energetic trout inhaled the grasshopper and started ripping off line. Before I could get any solid tension on it, this silver projectile launched itself out of the water and torpedoed straight into a large clump of weeds about 20 metres from where I was standing.

It was stuck solid. I tried winching it out, making the line sing in protest, but it was not budging. No big deal, I thought. It's a gradual shelf and I'd just wade out, free it, and recommence the battle.

Mistake Two: I Got In the Water

I had seen something similar happen a few years before, when my best mate stepped off an unseen ledge whilst wearing waders on a freezing Dullstroom morning. I was still laughing when I got home two days later.

"I was still laughing when I got home two days later."

This was to be my fate too, thankfully without the waders. Reeling in and trying to keep the line taut, stepping as carefully as possible into the murky, rain-churned cold water towards my buried fish, the excitement got the better of me and down I went, soaked up to my neck in freezing water. Not so bad, I thought. I've survived worse. I even managed a little giggle at how this little fish had made such a big fool out of me. I wasn't going to get any wetter, so once I'd scrambled back onto the ledge I decided to use my close proximity to the fish to try applying pressure from different angles. It still wouldn't budge.

"This was like a massive bowl of titanium green spaghetti."

Judging by the amount of line showing, the fish was at least 2.5 metres away, off into the abyss of weeds. And these were no ordinary weeds. This was like a massive bowl of titanium green spaghetti.

I needed to regroup and gather my thoughts. My brain was slowly freezing over but the clearest idea I could come up with was to shed some clothes and see if I could tread water and free the fish using my feet.

I returned to the shore, still fairly upbeat, rod in hand, maintaining just enough tension so the stubborn little lady wouldn't shake herself loose in my absence.

Mistake Three: I Got In Again

Wading out again wearing just my boxer shorts, a wet t-shirt, my trusty fishing hat, and Mako sunglasses, I was ready to get this done.

Once I'd reached the ledge I took the plunge as I clamped the rod handle in my mouth and took the line gently in my hands, holding it just firmly enough to gauge the direction of the fish, but not so tightly that the line would snap if she spooked and made a run for it when she saw my muddy feet. And this is exactly what happened. The slimy she-devil charged off deeper into the weeds the very second she spotted my desperately paddling feet clawing at her new-found nest.

Above water, things were equally ugly. I am not the greatest swimmer. Panting and on the verge of hypothermia, arms doing what they could to keep me afloat, rod handle jammed firmly in my mouth, all peaceful thoughts of landing this infernal beast evaporated when, in the wake of the rapidly departing fish, the buzzer fly I had so thoughtfully tied on found its home deep into my middle toe.

It wasn't the initial pain that bothered me most. It was the fact that I knew the knots were good and that the force needed to snap the line was going to do considerably more damage to my toe than I was willing to accept. Decisions needed to be made. Fast.

Dragged to a watery death by a feisty old trout is not the epitaph I'd rest peacefully with.

Survival First. Hat Second. Fish Third.

The now perilous situation forced me to hastily draw up a list of priorities in my equally hastily freezing head. Survival at the top, followed closely by my trusty hat, then rod, sunglasses, and finally that God-awful creature attached to the end of my line and, by default, to my now throbbing, frozen toe.

Totally committed, I submerged, eyes closed, right hand fumbling for the fly that had so dramatically missed its intended target for the day. When I finally grabbed hold of it, I almost thanked myself for choosing a larger buzzer than normal, as I could get quite a good grip on it despite my fingers taking on an icy, numb life of their own. A silent count of 1, 2, 3 and I ripped it free and floated back to the surface.

My body was starting to shut down. And yet my fisherman's idiotic instinct was still raging.

I gathered my sinking rod and made my way back to the bank, this time not really caring whether the line was still taut or not. Upon checking though, I could still feel the fish was connected. This was now personal.

It must be said that a good 40 minutes had passed since I first entered the water.

6am. 2,500 metres above sea level. A good breeze blowing. My body was starting to shut down. And yet my fisherman's idiotic instinct was still raging.

She Swam Off Strongly

And so I went in again. Head first this time, grabbing fistfuls of weeds with my free hand, my left hand keeping a gauge on the line and any sudden movements from below. And just like that, she started to move in a direction that signalled the battle was almost won. If someone had been watching from the bank they would have said my face looked more shell-shocked than triumphant, but beneath my trembling torso, as I hand-lined the modest little hen trout to shore, there was a deep sense of satisfaction in my faintly beating heart. Even more so when she swam off strongly on release.

In the moments of reflection shortly after, attempting naked jumping jacks to stave off hypothermia (thanks Bear Grylls), I couldn't help but wonder why this mountain lake never ceases to produce a worthwhile story nearly every year I visit her. It's like she's toying with me. Laughing. Who knows what she has planned for next year. I'll bring a spare change of clothes.