In search of legends

Mystical rivers, legendary fish – words to incite a spirit of adventure in any true fly fisher. TCFF Editor PJ Jacobs and friends journeyed to the land of the maharajas for the ultimate yellowfish experience – mahseer on fly.

India is a sensory overload. We had come prepared – or so we thought. Background information gleaned from the Internet, rods, reels, lines, a vast array of tackle and, being anglers, a truckload of optimism. It was not enough. Outside New Delhi Airport, hot, humid air assaulted our senses, the noise of the traffic exploding like a sonic boom in our faces. Stray dogs and cows skillfully avoided cars, motorcycles, trucks, bicycles and the odd towage, all driven by maniacs intent on blowing open a space on the overloaded freeway with their horns. People, people and more people everywhere. Strange place to go fish, you’d think. We had arrived in one of the most densely populated countries in the world, armed with fly rods and a sense of adventure, and we were about to attempt something I doubt any South African had ever done before – catch a mahseer on fly!

I have been infatuated with mahseer since childhood when I first saw a picture of Barbus tor mussulah in National Geographic magazine. Fixated by the sight of an armour-plated beast almost as long as I was tall, I knew then that one day our paths would cross. Now, many years later, the siren call of the wild Himalayas and its legendary golden mahseer had seduced me to wander far-off lands and rivers in search of this mystical fish. Mahseer have a reputation for being the fiercest fighters among all the world’s fresh water fishes, even outclassing the mighty Atlantic salmon for their ability to destroy tackle and humble anglers. And, with a reputation like that, who would not want to do battle with the great mahseer?

A bit of history

The mahseer of India (of which Rudyard Kipling wrote “besides whom, the tarpon is but a herring”) is an awe-inspiring fish, reaching weights in excess of 150lb – and some say 200lb. Although from the same family as our yellowfish, its attributes do not align it to any particular species; rather, it carries the characteristics of several – smallmouth, largemouth, smallscale and largescale in particular. Stunningly beautiful, its colouration is similar to yellowfish, but also reminiscent of tigerfish. However, it is unmistakably a yellowfish, and the uninitiated could easily mistake it for one of our largemouth.

In India the fish is highly regarded for its culinary qualities and also its fighting abilities. Those who have tested their mettle against it speak in hushed tones when asked about mahseer. Fishing legends and unbelievable stories abound, many dating back two centuries. In his book The Rod in India (third edition, 1897), Henry Sullivan Thomas extols the virtues of the mahseer: “In my own opinion, and in that of others that I have met, the mahseer shows more sport for its size than salmon.” In Thomas’s day the British and maharajas popularised fishing for the species, and for some it became a rite of passage akin to killing a tiger. But the fly rod was not the weapon of choice for those who went in search of the mighty mahseer. Stout tackle was the order of the day – and often even that did not measure up to the power and brute force exerted by these fish.

Such was its popularity as a sporting fish that the maharajas and the British set about protecting mahseer. (Sadly, this was more for the pleasure of the sport than for conservation.) Poachers were prosecuted mercilessly, sometimes being subjected to horrible beatings and/or worse. During this period the mahseer prospered, as did angling for them. Fish of 50, 60, 70, and up to and over 100lb were regularly caught on rod and reel. Notable catches included CE Murray-Aynsley’s fish in 1906, the first of over 100lb. In 1919 the raconteur hunter/fisherman Lt-Col. JS Rivett-Carnac caught a fish of 119lb, which became the all-India tackle record and held sway until 1946 when a taxidermist by the name of J de Wet Van Ingen, a master mahseer angler, caught a slightly bigger fish of 120lb. Unconfirmed reports of many larger fish (as well as of monsters hooked and lost) proliferated, and it was thought that it would only be a matter of time before a sports angler would bring a really large fish to shore.

But things were set to change, and so they did. After India’s independence in 1947, protecting the mahseer was not high on the new government’s list of priorities. Consequently poaching became rife, the favoured method being “bombing” – a stick of dynamite thrown into the river, very effective for killing not only mahseer but also all kinds of other indigenous species (including the odd poacher). The problem persists to this day, we having heard of “bombings” shortly before our arrival. However, our tour host assured us that it was on the decrease. Local villagers are now educated on conservation issues and have started to realise the value of tourism. Also, the use of dynamite has largely been outlawed, although understandably this is difficult to police.

The adventure begins

Our party consisted of four friends, of whom three are dedicated (some would say obsessed) fly anglers, and my best friend, my wife (who, very conveniently, happens to be a photographer). Kobus Fourie and I were confident that years spent pursuing yellowfish would stand us in good stead for catching a fish that looked like a largemouth on steroids, and that thanks to Lizelle, we would have the photographs to prove it. The other member of our party was from Wales, an experienced angler and, judging from what their rugby team did to England recently, eminently capable of taming a mahseer.

We left Delhi at 04h00, and if not bushy-tailed and bright-eyed when boarding our little bus, we certainly were wide awake within ten minutes of being flung into the traffic. Did I say traffic? That normally has some sense of direction, or semblance of order – not so in India. In Delhi itself it was busy, but bearable. However, once outside of Delhi it became a free-for-all, where the only rule of the road is to avoid being hit and (preferably) not hitting someone else. As for the rest (how fast, how slow, which direction, side of the road etc.), that is entirely up to the driver – and for the first 100km I was convinced ours was doing his best to kill us all. Calling the trip a shocker is an understatement, so I am not even going to attempt to describe it to you. Once experiencing it yourself you will never again complain about South Africa’s traffic, road conditions or taxi drivers.

Roughly eight hours later, thoroughly shaken and more than a little stirred, we entered the foothills of the Himalayas. Here the topography changed dramatically: big leafy trees reaching high into a hazy, shimmering sky, towering peaks mysteriously shielding sweeping valleys and terraced villages, sharp turns, breathtaking views and stomach-churning sheer cliffs keeping us wide awake.

The river at last

Our destination was the Saryu River, a spring-fed mountain river in the district of Champawat. One of the oldest and most holy rivers in India, it has much historical significance. During the time of our visit (April) it was roughly the size of some of our larger KZN rivers. Three months hence and it will become a roaring torrent, mightily flinging its monsoon-driven fury against boulders as big as houses in a headlong rush to its confluence with the Mahakali River which forms the border between India and Nepal. We were ecstatic – the river was everything we had hoped it to be! Crystal clear, its deep emerald pools pledged big mahseer. And, in the white frothing rapids there were sure to be fish ready and willing to come to the fly.

For the first time since our departure 14 hours earlier, our driver seemed hesitant to follow the Jeep (that had met us at a designated point a few kilometres from base camp) up a narrow, winding path leading towards the river and our camp. However, assured that the road was wide enough and in good order, he soon deposited us on a sprawling white beach on the banks of the Saryu River. A table sparkling with white linen, complete with camp chairs and refreshments greeted us – but all eyes were on the river. Right from the outset we could see that the Himalayan Outback (our hosts) is a professionally run operation: the camping setup was one of the best I have ever experienced, the service and food outstanding, and the accommodation and ablution facilities of a high standard. I caught a glimpse of Lizelle eyeing the rapids at the head of the pool below the camp, knowing that we (and all our gear) had to run it early the next morning. I put her mind at ease and finally sat down for a toast to the Saryu and its mahseer. We had arrived!

The Saryu beckons

Early the next morning we donned white water gear, crash helmets and lifejackets, and rafted downstream.
I know saying that a river talks to you sounds like a cliché, but the Saryu did. It whispered and alternately roared – about its fish and ancient times, about the tigers and leopards that stalked its banks, the mountain people that live high on the slopes surrounding the river, the mighty fish that swim its waters, and the promise to deliver them if we measured up. Apprehension about traversing the rapids proved to be totally groundless, as we soon learnt that our oarsmen were experts at the task. Along the way we caught glimpses of colourful villages high up on the slopes, their steep terraced sides bristling with corn. Here and there we solicited a wave and a smile, but mostly the gaily dressed villagers went about their tasks as they have done for hundreds of years. We were simply of passing interest, brought along by the river, and taken away by it.

At one point we stopped to fish, tentatively at first and later with more vigour. The water looked promising, but strangely devoid of fish. This I put down to inexperience on our part, and stubbornness on the part of the river. She was going to make us work for it. Then again, I had never expected that it was going to be easy. A late afternoon session saw two of the group embracing the river, for they returned with smiles as bright as morning and photographs to support their claims. Mahseer! Not big, mind you, but in the Vaal they would have been pretty respectable fish. I had chosen to fish a different type of water, and had nothing but a tired shoulder to show for my efforts.

Success at last

The next day saw us break through the barrier. I had set the sights of our expedition on catching a double-figure mahseer, considered to be big in fly fishing terms. Although the Saryu is reputed to hold fish of up to 50lb, the biggest fish that had come from this river on fly was around 16lb – so any double-figure fish was not to be sneezed at.

Kobus was waiting at camp when we returned from a fishless morning, tired from a long walk and a hot, merciless sun. Almost nonchalantly he let drop that he had already achieved our goal with an 11lb fish, and was immediately swamped with questions. Colin Russ had some pretty respectable fish to his credit as well, and that told me that I was fishing the wrong type of water. They had caught their fish in the faster water and rapids, while I was still exploring the pools where I had been able to observe and sight-cast to several bigger fish of up to 20lb and over. However, as yet I had not tempted them to the fly and wanted to try once more that afternoon.

Apart from two small fish (hardly big enough to be used as live bait for Kobus’ fish), I returned to camp that evening tired and a little more educated, but almost defeated. It had been a long day; a dayof countless casts, blistering sun, kilometres walked, stumbling over boulder-strewn riverbeds – and continued, flat-out refusal by the mahseer to take the fly. By 20h30 it was pitch dark. I finally sat down on the riverbank, handed my fly rod to my wife and told her I was done. So much effort and so little success, I thought. For the first time in my life I was almost fished out, tired to the bone. Back at camp my mates were kind enough not to needle me, for although the monkey was off my back, I still had to catch a respectable fish.

Somewhere down the crazy river

The next day Colin, who had been nursing a flu that had dogged him all the way from Wales, gave in to the warning signs of a dehydrated and overexerted body, and stayed in camp to try and get shot of it once and for all. A good night’s rest had my spirits up, and I instinctively knew that it was going to be a good day, and indeed it was. Several fish came to a dragon pattern fished in the rapids, but as they were relatively small, I could not properly judge their fighting ability. Notwithstanding, they were the prettiest fresh water fish I had ever seen, and cradling their golden, butter yellow and silver flanks in my hands with the sun bouncing off orange-tipped fins, they were something really special to behold. So was the experience – especially being in the middle of the Himalayas, somewhere down the crazy river (to quote one of my favourite books on the subject).

The last camp

We broke camp early the next morning, the anglers and guides having gone ahead to fish the water before the rafts moved through. Colin was still recovering, and wisely decided to rest for another day. Both Kobus and I caught fish before the rafts came through, and at the campfire that night I calculated that eight good fish had come to my flies. We were beginning to get a glimpse of what type of water the bigger mahseer seemed to prefer, and which fly patterns worked best and how to fish them. Our tally for the day was good for any type of fishery, and we were all in agreement that the river held a lot more fish than we had given it credit for. We realised that it was us and not the fish who had to measure up. The mahseer were there – we just had to learn how to catch them.

Our second last day in camp saw us up early, roused by a cacophony of bird song. The wind direction had changed; the hot, dry east wind that had singed us for days gave way to a soothing, cool breeze from the west. A good omen, I felt. Kobus and I decided to fish below camp towards the confluence, and by 09h00 both of us had several fish under our belts. Suddenly I picked up a fish that immediately made me realise that the 6-wt would be no match for it. It came off, but now forewarned I geared up the 9-wt and on the next cast hooked into a 6lb fish. This was soon followed by two 7lb fish, which put up a game struggle on the 9-wt. Several others followed, then came a 10-pounder, and all of a sudden I began to realise where the legend emanated from. The 9-wt pulsated with the power of the mahseer as it sought refuge in the strong currents, holding against the rush of the rapid and the pull of the rod with ease. I was over the moon! Our trip was made. Two double-figure fish clinched it. But the fat lady had not yet sung.

I made a quick haul and threw most of the fly line, the fly landing inches from the opposite bank. A quick sink, strip, strip, and wham! It felt like being hit by a freight train. For a moment time stood still – the river froze, as did the fish. Nothing moved. A frantic thought rushed through my mind (had I hooked up on the bottom?), only to be replaced with another of panic when a surge of power broke the Mexican stand-off, and I was pulled forward, stumbling on the slippery river- bed as I tried to regain my balance. Now in warpspeed mode, the fish was heading downstream, contemptuously pulling backing off the reel at a blistering pace, with the ratchet loudly singing praise to the ancient legend of the mahseer. I mentally prepared for a hard fight and smiled – the time had come to pay homage… A while later, gently cradling the beautiful golden fish in his arms, my guide put it at around 20lb, a radiant smile on his face signalling that he was as thrilled as I. Estimated at 37 inches, it was a good, solid fish, and an inkling of the power that big mahseer can wield. The rush still high, I made a few more casts and was rewarded with another two good fish, although not close to the size I had already taken. My tally for the morning had stacked up to 17 fish and I was satisfied. The Saryu had delivered on her promises, and more.

Perspective

Our last day in camp was uneventful, apart from the fact that around coffee the staff spoke in hushed tones about the leopard that had come down from the mountain to drink just before first light, its spoor still clearly visible in the soft sand in front of our camp. Unperturbed, we later went fishing and all caught fish, but the urgency was gone. As I finally reeled up, I noticed someone on the rocks over on the opposite bank. My guide remarked that it was Jeremy Wade, mahseer fishing guru and co-author of Somewhere Down the Crazy River, a must-read if you ever wish to visit India and fish for mahseer. I waved. Quite fitting to see him in the dying hours of our fishing trip, I thought. The experience was now complete. It had been a good one, fishing- and company-wise, but the long road was beckoning. It was time to go home.

The road back was a lot easier on the nerves. For one, we were now used to it, and two, at the halfway point we boarded a comfortable overnight train to Delhi, an experience in itself, but a story for another time.

So, what of India and its mahseer, you may ask? I realise now that both have left an indelible impression on me. India changes one; it certainly has me. It also gave me perspective about a lot of things I had previously taken for granted. The country is now in my heart – for everything it is, but mostly for what it is not.

And the golden mahseer of the Himalayas? My dreams are haunted by them and, as I write this, my soul rides on the white rapids of the Saryu.

There are fish… and then there are legends.