A remote stretch of the Lower Vaal River run by Diamond River Outfitters (diamondriveroutfitters.com) – waters, bejewelled with history, that once lured prospectors and mining companies – beckoned Platon Trakoshis and Jazz Kuschke with an entirely different kind of treasure: Big, elusive largemouth yellowfish, and other hidden gems. As featured in The Mission Issue 48 (Nov/Dec 2024).

The air was still heavy with the night as I lay buried beneath a thick duvet and three blankets to ward off the zero-degree chill in the Diamond River camp. Outside, the Green Kalahari bush slowly unfurled into dawn. The ubiquitous doves cooed their urgent morning song, while Cape francolin called out like sentinels of the scrub (is there a more classic African bush morning sound?). A jackal’s eerie howl cut through the stillness before dissolving into the gentle murmur of the Lower Vaal River not 20 metres away. Then came the sudden sploosh of water – a violent splash: unmistakably a predator at work, not the schooling surface ripple of a baitfish – a reminder that the river is always awake, always moving.

In the predawn cacophony, the place felt timeless, yet human hands had shaped it. Alluvial diamond mining had once scarred these channels and banks, roughing up the land in the hunt for wealth. Now, nature had softened the wounds, reclaiming its space and creating varied yet ideal pools, riffles, and runs for small- and largemouth yellowfish, along with a few other choice species.

In the other cot of our shared safari tent, Platon “Pla” Trakoshis muttered in his sleep. Had he subconsciously heard the largie eat and was now fighting it on his 7-weight in dreamland? Or was he dreaming about the grassie-on-dry action to come later that day?

“The Lower Vaal here is quite unlike anything else on the Vaal and very different from the Lower Orange too. It felt like Montana – crystal-clear riffles stretching for kilometres.”

Turns out, it was none of those.

“I’m a bass guy,” Pla muttered, still groggy but straight into the kind of conversation that skips over morning pleasantries, only possible by day three of bunking together on a trip. He rolled over, sounding almost offended by the thought of who he had become. “And I’m pushing 60 now.” There was a pause before he added, “I’ve wiggled a lot in the past, but never like this – or this much.”

Lesson 1: How to wiggle

Now, Pla used to be a bit of a party cat, but the “wiggle” he was grumbling about isn’t some kind of twerk you’d show off after double brandy number four. No, this one’s all about subtlety, patience, and just the right amount of finesse. Despite its name, it’s a very particular technique for freeing a snagged fly: You give the rod a series of careful, deliberate, loose-lined twitches – left, right, up, down. Don’t stop. It’s part art, part negotiation, all while praying you don’t spook the largie holding deep on the submerged structure below. It’s a necessary skill to fish these waters effectively for largemouth yellows because, as the saying goes, “If you’re not getting fouled, you’re not fishing close enough.”

Along with the wiggle, what was clear from session one is that this section of the Lower Vaal holds the potential for “firsts” for anglers of all skill levels, provided you have a teachable spirit. You could cast your first fly rod here. Catch your first fish on a fly. First 100 smallies in a day; first sighted common carp; first grass carp on dry fly. Your first largie. First largie over 20 pounds. 40 pounds… 50? It’s possible here.

Lesson 2: When (and how) to nymph

My own learning curve started steep and climbed well beyond the wiggle. You see, somewhere between Gqeberha and the Jozi-to-Kimberley transfer on my two-flight trip to this remote wilderness, my gear went AWOL, leaving me to fish the first two days in borrowed kit and with loaned rods (shout out to Diamond River Outfitters head honcho Rob Jeffrey and Pla, I’m eternally thankful). It was a valuable experience to roll with the punches.

“Grass carp sight-fished from shore over a diamond-clear sandbank with a tiny dry, the afterglow was almost engagement-ceremony like.”

As part of making the most of the situation, I delved deep into the technicalities of euro nymphing on an unknown rod. Again, thanks Rob. Because of its history, the Lower Vaal here – a concession of bushveld Cecil John Rhodes once walked – is unique. It’s quite unlike anything else on the Vaal and very different from the Lower Orange too. We dredged teams of nymphs on a section of the river that, at times, felt like Montana – crystal-clear riffles stretching for kilometres. If you’re a numbers guy (which I’m not), you can comfortably stop counting here, content in the knowledge that you’ve bested your PB cricket score.

I prefer swinging streamers and sight-fishing the smallies with small jig buggers and MSP-style flies. And then, of course, coming from a Cape streams background, yellows on dry held huge appeal too. It was this aspect that first opened Rob’s eyes to the possibilities of the section when he first explored it in 2019. Pla and I far from exhausted the smallie options but opted to forego some of the “guaranteed” sessions to go prospecting for real treasure. We both wanted a trophy largie.

Read the rest of this story in The Mission Issue 48 (Nov/Dec 2024) below, for free.