Who would believe that the drought would ever end? Until just the other day, the picture of a flowing Upper Gouritz was nothing but a memory from the good old days, when the days were still good. I thought I’d never see it again.

But then it rained and rained, enough for the valleys to flame up in flower and then grow new and green, and the crusty carcass of the Little Karoo came back to life. Of course, if your eyes are open, you’ll realise that given the current socio-political climate, no amount of rain can change the fact that the earth only has a few weeks left. So, my eldest, Adam, and I, despite having little time for such things these days, took a weekend recently to make hay while the sun beats down. Besides, we miss the shit out of the Gouritz, and it can rain again any minute. World ending or not, it was time.

There was no way to know what we’d find, and I was unprepared for how beautiful it would turn out to be.  For just about the whole trip, I carried a lump in my throat: part nostalgia, part gratitude for seeing the river run powerful and clear again, amazement that (spoiler alert) the fish had survived, and pride in sharing it with my boy. At seventeen, he’s his own fisherman, and I kinda resent that I only brought him here for the first time when he was ten. I had my reasons, chief of which being that a little kid getting hurt out there could be a disaster. But by the time I got him there, it was a whole natural disaster: There was nothing left. The gorge was dead and cloaked in dust and silence. What precious little water remained, looked and smelled like Fish Hell. He ended up cutting his fly fishing teeth on smallstream trout hiding in remarkably resilient spring creeks, and carp and saltwater species closer to home. I doubted he’d ever get to fish the Upper Gouritz.

The Pre-Drought Upper Gouritz was home to the finest smallmouth bass and smallmouth yellowfish I’d ever caught, although the fishing was never easy. One paradox was how the biggest bass ate small flies, while the biggest yellows noshed clouser minnows. But for a good time, a 3wt with a medium-sized woolly bugger was all you needed.

This time around, bigger fish were few and far between, but by that I mean between a whole lot of epic 3wt action. Most fish were taken on my two favourite trout nymphs, of all things. Adam managed his first yellowfish. We lost count of how many yellows and carp we clowned as they fed in clear and shallow glides. Some healthy largemouth bass and a tilapia on a tiny home-made “fly-rod-crankbait” rounded out the tally.

Along the way we always pay attention to the birds and do some ‘herping’. We saw puffies, agamas and little padloper tortoises, and found the nest of a breeding pair of booted eagles. One of them was a dark morph and the other a light morph. You don’t see that every day, and it’s the kind of thing my kids and I get a hell of a kick out of.

In South Africa we’re not supposed to lament a lack of smallmouth bass. They were the dominant predator in the Upper Gouritz for years , but it was obvious that the drought knocked them hard. I won’t lie, I was relieved when the final fish of this trip was a juvenile smallmouth bass. For nostalgia’s sake, I’d like to keep just one good smallmouth bass fishery, man. I know. I’ll see myself out. For now, they’re scarce anyway, but the sheer number of young yellowfish predicts a few seasons of great fishing on the Gouritz.

That is, if you don’t get murdered out there. Just because you are out in the middle of nowhere doesn’t mean you’re safe. Okay? Here’s why:

An hour or so before last light on our first evening in the gorge, Adam went for a few ‘last casts’. I got sausages sizzling on the little gas stove and brewed coffee on the latest model of my DIY Pepsi-can alcohol burner. It was the best cup of coffee ever made and I loved having it while watching my boy work his chosen stretches of water. Somewhere down the valley I could hear what I soon recognised as the cacophony of a large troop of riled-up baboons. They sound exactly like a crowd of quarrelling drunks and out-of-control kids. At least, to me they do.

I stepped down to the bank and peered down the river. About two hundred metres downstream of Adam, who was roughly one hundred metres downstream of me, the troop was doing baboon things as loudly as they do. They were playing on a stretch of the bank comprised mostly of white river rock, so from where I was standing, they were obvious. Adam was completely oblivious, or just couldn’t be arsed as he focused on getting one more fish. I was impressed. I got back to my gourmet cooking, and figured he would holler if he got something.

“Dad!”  

Ah, there it is. Sounded serious! Must be a good one.

I downed the coffee and hopped back down the bank, only to see Adam urgently making his way back to camp, looking over his shoulder every second or two. “What is it?” I yelled, to which he shushed me and pointed downstream.

He was white as snow when he reached me. “Can’t you hear that!?” Eyes wide, “Somebody’s getting murdered down there, I swear!”

“By the baboons?” I burst out laughing.

“What??? No! There are people down there and someone’s getting killed!”

“You’re telling me you didn’t see them?”

“Who!?”

“It’s a troop of baboons, Adam.”

“Dad! They were speaking English!!! Do you think I’m deaf?”

I lost it. I mean my sides freaking split, man. Did not know that it had rained enough for me to laugh this hard ever again in my life. But here we were.

“English??? Haaaaaaaaahahahaha!!!” I wiped my tears, put one arm around his shoulders and pointed to the white bank downstream. It took him a while to spot both the baboons and the humour in the situation. By the time we were both back to a normal heartrate, smashing coffees and snacks, we  laughed and laughed. Then we chatted and joked deep into the night; Adam collected “dad lore”, apparently, and I got nostalgic, and we slept under the stars on the back of the bakkie. This is how the good old days are made.

We got up early the next morning. I started the coffee. Adam grabbed a fly rod, his eyes still thick of that near-dead camp sleep.

“I’m gonna get a fish before the coffee’s even ready,” he yawned.

“Yeah? Just don’t let the baboons murder you first.”

He flipped me off and sure enough caught a fish in no time.  

And, sure enough, on the cliff overlooking the river gorge, a large baboon surveyed his territory in the morning sunlight. Well aware of us, I’m sure he was impressed with the strong aroma of the best fresh brew in the world, as it filled the gorge for all to savour. “Baaaa-ho!” he shouted.

“You hear that, Adam? … English!”

I should let it go. I won’t.