In fishing terms, guide James Topham of Alphonse Fishing Co, Osen in Norway and Tierra del Fuego has probably been there, done that and seen more than most. Exotic locations, trophy fish, clients from all corners of the world and ever-changing conditions, are all part of his job. But no matter where guiding takes him, he has a constant companion wherever he goes. Sometimes burning bright, sometimes fickle, sometimes shy – the moon, through all its phases, casts a different light on each location and lends a certain magic to each fishing experience. A fly fishing story from The Mission Issue 10.
It was mid-summer and I could smell the citrus blossom from the valley below.
It was one of those late nights or, rather, early morning tying sessions, when my back started feeling a little stiff and my bladder a little full. My back gets sore pretty quickly these days, and while it may have a lot to do with my slouchy posture at the vice, Iโm sure itโs mostly from rolling 44 gallon drums up the beach or lifting 90hp outboards off the back of our skiffs during season at Astove. Either way I needed a stretch so I rested the bobbin on the desk to stop it from spinning and walked out the door of my cottage and into the warm Lowveld night. It was mid-summer and I could smell the citrus blossom from the valley below.
Finding a spot for relief was easy enough with the full moon washing the ground with its ghostly light. Once Iโd found my bush (small leaves to prevent splash, slightly downhill to prevent stream from returning to my bare feet) I got on with it and took in the moonlit valley, the nightjar calling and the moon shadow falling from the Mobola plumb tree in my garden. It was a beautiful evening and naturally my gaze turned to the full moon. A complete and perfect disk, too bright to make out the old man or even to look at for too long. It left spots in my vision when I had to look away and made me think of all the other times Iโd looked up at it and where Iโd been and how important the moon and its waxing and waning had been to my life as a guide.
Astove
Itโs 21:00 on Astove island and the guests are having post dinner drinks in the dining room. Iโm standing at the entrance to the old coral block guest house having a smoke and trying my best to ignore the three billion mosquitoes that have overcome the bug zapper by clogging it kamakazi style and are now trying to fly up my nose and into my mouth. The moon is so bright on the sand it feels like twilight, despite the sun having gone down two hours ago. The tide is so high that the waves are running into the takamaka bushes at the top of the dunes.
Somewhere a giant green turtle will be laying her eggs in a deep pit dug by her flippers. Itโs been a long day. Iโve walked close to eight miles in the surf and along the soft dunes and the limestone cliffs and Iโm shattered. The noise level from the dining room briefly overtakes the crashing of the nearby surf, and I can tell that Jim or Bob or Tom or Dick- one of the Texans I spent the day with- is re-telling the story of the shark and the GT.
โI have the GT on, but the goddamn thing is coming straight for me and the shark is trying to eat his ass and the GT swims between my feet and then the shark is trying to eat MY ass and the guide yells, โGet out the fuckinโ water!โโ
They laugh hysterically and they drink more rum.
They laugh hysterically and they drink more rum. I donโt laugh – mostly because I am too tired and it worries me that he doesnโt know how close he was to being bitten by a shark and what that would have meant for him seeing as heโs about two flights and many, many thousands of kilometres from the closest hospital. Tomorrow morning the moon will disappear and the tide will recede.
Fishing will be tough to start but when it drops to the point that old coral heads start to show on the surf flats, we can start catching big bones and triggers as they tail in the shallow water. Weโll catch fish and have fun, but I will get asked where the GTs are. Iโll have to explain that, as it is a large fish and requires more than eight inches of water, weโll have to wait for the pushing tide. For the rest of the morning on the hour every hour Iโll be asked if the tide is pushing yet.
Shortly after that a scum line of hot yellow foam washes towards us, and behind it come the sharks.
โNoโ, Iโll have to say, โOnly at three oโclock. Youโll feel it, itโs going to come in hard.โ Explaining that there will be no GTs before lunch is a blow to morale, despite catching 6lb bonefish at will and the odd crafty trigger. Eventually the flats completely dry out, there are only Picasso triggerfish left in tiny rockpools, and pepper morays slithering over hot, sharp coral rocks.
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Lunch is served at the lodge under the aircon, and I eat mine sitting on the cool tiled kitchen floor. It would normally take a lot of motivation to walk out into the searing midday heat, but the tide is about to push. We have to be in the right place when it does. Jess drops us off in the buggy at the southern tip of the lagoon. The shallow water is hot and unpleasant to walk through. I can feel a barrage of doubtful thoughts radiating from my two guests. I explain that we have to walk just short of a kilometre in this hot water to the confluence of two shallow channels called Czech Point. โItโs a walk but it should be worth it,โ I have to add. Once we reach the desired location the stakeout begins. Waiting, blind casting, sighing, asking when the tide will push.
Everything is fast and rushed and there is someone shouting all the time and GTs streaming up the channels
And then it does. At first the water in the draining channels slows, as if the lagoon has finally emptied, and then the current stops altogether. Shortly after that a scum line of hot yellow foam washes towards us, and behind it come the sharks. The water is suddenly cool, almost cold. Once more, โIs the tide pushing?โ and this time I can smile and affirm, and caution to keep eyes peeled.
Then the water begins to rush, and the channels become rivers and the turtles and big sharks and rays stream past. Shoals of mullet explode on the shallower flats, a GT comes out of the glare of the setting sun and nearly beaches itself trying to get to the mullet. There is no more sighing or slow, lazy, blind casting.
Everything is fast and rushed and there is someone shouting all the time and GTs streaming up the channels and backing whistling through rod guides and the sound of a 12-weight rod snapping and still more yelling and I realise itโs my voice and there are fish to be tailed and photographs to be taken. In the lull the line cuts and lacerations from tail scoots are patched up and the spare 12-weight is rigged. There is laughing and reminiscing until a large lemon shark is spotted finning on the flats. There is more noise and excitement and swearing and re casting and the fish slamming the fly and the guest letting out all the adrenaline and relief in one loud yell.
Opposite the pink horizon the moon begins to rise and the purple sky tells us itโs time to go home, but the sighs are happy and contented.
Tierra del Fuego
Full moon does not mean good fishing. More accurately, full moon often means excellent fishing, but in a very limited time frame. In Tierra Del Fuego the days are long and the wind is cold and relentless. The gale blows from early morning until the late evening. It rips the doors off cars if you park them facing in the wrong direction. Throws a constant spray of water in your face, soaking you even though there isnโt a cloud in the sky. It takes constant effort to stay on your feet and the dried goose shit gets blown off the gravel beds and hits you with the force of a paintball. The fishing is tough all day, because youโre fishing for sea-run browns and they sulk during the daylight.
While this all might sound like a chore – and I guess it is a bit – you know that evening is approaching.My guests often start catching fish during this transcendent light show, but it is almost a disappointment to tear your eyes away, despite waiting all day to see a fish. The real fishing only starts when it is so dark there is only a silver reflection from the moon on the surface of the water to tell you where to cast. “
Continue reading this fly fishing story
This is an excerpt from James Topham’s fly fishing story, “The Man and The Moon”, from The Mission Issue 10. Read the rest below.