The fishy tale of the one that got away…

Scottish Field reader David Syme share his recollections of the one that got away…

In the year 2000 I climbed Mount Kenya with a party of Merchiston Castle schoolboys. The last 200 metres to the walkers’ summit, Point Lenana, consisted of a tongue of steep, icy snow with a long drop below.

Without crampons and ice axes we decided not to risk crossing it and turned back. We can only claim to have ‘nearly’ climbed the mountain. This experience came to mind as I drove south after a day on a Highland river in late June.

My friend and host Alf was quiet as we tackled up at the river. He usually has the salesman’s patter: ‘Plenty of fish seen here in recent days…. good water…. chap had a good fish yesterday….. not too bright, etc,’ but he seemed preoccupied this morning.

David Syme’s host and friend, Alf

A good sign? As a salmon fisher with no great skill I always look for signs, especially negative ones which can be refashioned into excuses when returning home empty-handed. With a nod to his expertise I asked him to select a fly from my box, then tied on the chosen Orange Ally’s Shrimp with a few strands of glittery tail. He took me to the beat’s biggest and best pool and wished me luck.

It had been a couple of years since I last wielded the long two-handed rod, and my first casts must have alerted the pool to the presence of a novice angler with evil intentions. The fish kept well away, except a couple which splashed, possibly curious to see this bungling angler.

I worked my way down the long pool as instructed. Hopeful of a take, I noted my position at each cast by marking a feature on the far bank – a whin bush, red rock, alder bush….. Alf would want to know exactly where a take occurred, so that he could say that he had had several from exactly that spot over the years.

A salmon, lurking in the depths

I also looked at my bank and planned my action on hooking a fish. Beach it over there? Net it down here? Hold it in this wee run to recover before release? There’s a lot to think about!

I was well down the pool when a shout forced me out of these deliberations. Alf was into a fish at the head of the pool, which I had flogged 30 minutes previously. After a spirited fight I netted his hen fish, which we estimated to be 14lbs, in excellent condition. He had caught it on an Orange Ally’s Shrimp with a glittery tail.

After lunch I tried other pools without success. What chance did I have after such a long lay-off? Confidence was fading. Meanwhile, as if to emphasise the skills gap, my fishing partner had netted a second large fish in the big pool. I just had time to admire it enviously before its release.

I was then invited to take the long walk down to the lowest pool of the beat, where I had had some success in the distant past: ‘Try down to the third big rock on the far bank, and if there is nothing doing, put on another fly and do it again, then come back to the big pool.’

A salmon makes its presence known

I put on a Stoat’s Tail and waded down the shallows mid-stream. No reaction. I tied on a Purple Ally and did the same again. As I was preparing to wade back to our bank a large fish splashed one metre from my waders! I had to try one more time, so put on the largest Orange Ally in my box, in deference to the size of the fish I had seen.

Halfway down the pool a fish took me, but made every effort to end our short relationship. It tossed its head like a terrier playing with a stick, it leapt, it bored, it ducked behind stones.

I matched its every move, experiencing again the thrill of duelling with a strong, wild creature. With both hands on the bucking rod I stepped carefully backwards towards the bank. The salmon surfaced close to me, and I could see its long, grey, glistening back and fins. This was another fresh fish of 14-15lbs.

I reached the small sandy beach and stretched my left arm up for the net, which was tucked between my back and tackle bag. As I wrestled it free from the strap, the fish wrestled itself free and disappeared. I had nearly caught it, but it had won the battle between us.

If it had only waited patiently for me to net then release it, we would both have been happy. As it was, I was unhappy, as anyone passing that pool would have heard.

As I approached Edinburgh that evening I changed my mind. Nearly catching a fish is not like nearly reaching the summit of a mountain. It is more like coming second in a duel. While I have no wish to return to reach the actual summit of Mount Kenya I have decided to book three more days on that river. In fishing, nearly is not good enough.

• The author has masked the identity of the river, for fear that the owner of the beat, reading of such sport, might raise the price of a day ticket on his water.