The River
I’d fished this river before with little success. Some spots gave nothing, others only small trout—never more than thirty centimeters. Still, I’d heard from two good sources that big trout lived here. On a trip two months earlier, I’d had some luck and even a couple of heavy bites that felt like larger fish.
On the first day, I started in the wrong place. The weeds were thick and casting was hard. Wading felt like pushing through knee-deep quicksand. The spot ended near a village known for trout, which meant plenty of pressure from other anglers. I moved downstream.
The next stretch wasn’t much better—still weeds everywhere. But it felt wilder, more hidden, and that gave me confidence. I fished with a Megabass Shorluck rod paired with a Daiwa Luvias Airity reel. The longer rod helped me steer the lure through the weeds. I got into a rhythm, switching mostly between two lures: the Jackson Artist FR55 and the Jackall Tricorrol 55S.
Two long hours passed without a bite. The wading was brutal, the weeds endless. Finally, from a higher bank under a tree, I cast out fifteen or twenty meters. From above I could see the lure and anything near it. A trout struck twice but didn’t hold. Hope returned, but another hour went by with nothing.
Then, in a pool where the river dropped and the current raced, I cast upstream and let the lure sweep down. At the edge of the pool, a strike. The reel screamed. I tightened the drag. The trout tore in circles, then shot downstream. I cut it off and worked it toward the net. Landed. A heavy trout. My new personal best—forty-seven centimeters, four better than my old record. I took a quick photo and let it go.
I sat on the bank, ate a snack, and replaced the bent hooks on the Artist. I was happy, whatever else the day brought. Forty minutes later, another trout—smaller, about thirty-five centimeters. I released it and fished on for two more hours, but no more bites came. Tired, I called it a day and planned to return in the morning.
Day Two
A chilly morning, dew on the grass. I began casting into a bend where the river had carved a deep pool. It looked perfect. On the third cast, a hit. I reeled fast, expecting trout. Instead, a pike. Not what I wanted, but a good fight.
I moved on through a beautiful stretch of river, taking my time. The water ran deep and clear of weeds. It felt right, but no fish came. For the next four hours, nothing. The river grew overgrown, the good spots harder to reach.
I stopped at midday. Climbed a hill above the water, ate lunch, and looked down on the river. It felt enough.
