Big Fish, Bruised Egos and Bionic Flies

 

Somehow the phenomenon of fly fishing at Thrift stirs your soul. Part of the 'Thrift phenomenon' is the constant mood swings of the weather Gods, Aeolus and Zeus, which expose any weakness in your character, strategy and fly fishing ability. From casting in gale force winds, braving sub-zero temperatures or sweltering summer days, to soliloquising when you have just been smashed up by a brute, fishing 12lbs tippet. It's the ultimate adrenalin rush when you hook a fish that leaves you with finger burns and bruised knuckles as it torpedoes away from you, leaping out of the water to size up its opponent. It's also the absolute joy of successfully landing a fish and then releasing it, satisfyingly knowing it is going to grow bigger to be caught on another day.

 

Planning provides most of the anticipation, and at Thrift you need to bring everything with you, as your home is a stone cottage at the water’s edge, with cold water and, only recently, a flushing loo. It is this connection to bare necessities and being exposed to the metal of Mother Nature where one has very little other human interaction and a direct line to the fish that you learn exactly what sort of a fly fisherman you are.

 

To experience all that Thift had to offer was Ruben from Port Elizabeth, Pierre from Graaff-Reinet, Eugene from Johannesburg and Al and myself, the two locals. Eugene and I had pre-planned this trip two years ago, with the view of offering fly fishing trips from Gauteng, travelling by train. After meeting up at the Cookhouse Railway Station, in the Eastern Cape, we drove via Cradock and Tarkastad for just over two hours before arriving at Thrift Dam. The dam is huge, nearly 2 kilometres long and 12 metres deep, and this massive water on top of the escarpment, in the middle of nowhere, can be overwhelming for the first time. Where do you start? The sun was still tucked behind the mountain and clouds stirred nervously over the massive cauldron of water, our anticipation equally agitated. Plotting strategies whilst travelling, we kept our secret weapons discretely hidden in our fly boxes. Each of us had tied or acquired 'the' magic fly for the trip. Pierre a Bunny Leach, Eugene a Wiggler Minky, Ruben a Crystal Bugger, Al a Zonker Mrs Simpson and I had developed a Bionic Dragon. These were our weapons of mass destruction! The excited chatter ceased as we stared at the mist being burnt off the water. Having assembled our weapons like well drilled special forces soldiers we all vanished into the mist in different directions.