Twenty years in the making, a father and son find the heart of their passion for fly fishing in a fishery that needs you to love it to life. The pair ventured deep into the Atlas Mountains in search of the elusive, endemic and isolated Dadès trout. This fly fishing in Morocco story and photos by Samuel Fretwell first featured in The Mission Issue 45 (May/Jun 24).

PRELUDE

I learned to fly fish in the high desert mountains of New Mexico. It was the summer of 2003, just months before the birth of my first child, Luca, and my dad was coming out for a camping trip. It seemed as good a time as any to try out that fly fishing thing I had seen people do, so I drove over to a local outdoor store where Chris, a dry-humoured former elementary school teacher, hooked me up with the basic gear and even threw in a free casting lesson on the asphalt of the parking lot at the back. Every time my line cracked, that smart ass muttered, “buck-fifty” (the going rate for a basic fly at that time).

“We decided it was worth braving the mostly primitive dirt road to the other side of the mountains.”

A week later my dad and I headed out to a high meadow stream that I had decided, mostly based on photos on the internet, would be the perfect spot. And it might have been if it weren’t for the thundershowers that mercilessly flooded the river and nearly washed away our campsite. So, after a long night huddled up in a rental van, we decided it was worth braving the mostly primitive dirt road to the other side of the mountains.

“Dadès trout occupy a total range of no more than 22km of our planet.”

It was a good decision. The next morning, we made our way to a day-use area where two cascading streams converge before descending out of the pine forest and into the cottonwoods below.

I walked the stream for about 15 minutes before I found a place open enough to try out my rookie casting skills and, whether it was beginner’s luck or hungry fish, I managed to hook six trout from a single pool. It was a new passion, and one that immediately took hold, initially because it was one of the few activities that could completely separate me from the worries of the day. Later on it helped me truly see the nature that I had, until that point, only passively admired. But it would take another 20 years, a full generational turn, before I looked closely enough, like staring at a great work of art, to find it looking back.

AÏT BOUGUEMEZ

“YOU CAN FISH HERE??”

We paused awkwardly before realising it was Karim, our disarmingly affable guide, still chuckling at his own joke, then followed suit. I knew better than to judge a region’s fishing by its urban gateways. Still, Bozeman it was not. With fly gear in tow, Luca, now 19, and I had just stepped conspicuously off a bus onto the hot and dusty streets of Beni-Mellal, Morocco. Like so many cities in Morocco’s interior, variations of peach-coloured concrete walls dominate the view, broken up by miles of shops facing open to the public, displaying their wares with makeshift aisles of packaged goods that often spill far into sidewalks.

Nearly 10 months had passed since I had even touched the smattering of fly fishing gear that I had so adamantly insisted should make the journey across the ocean. In August of 2022 I, along with my wife and two youngest boys, moved to Marrakech for work, while Luca, now graduated, headed off to Oregon for a gap year. Work was busy. Life was busy. And there were no “quick getaways” to fly fish from Marrakech, that much I knew for sure. But by early May I had to get serious. Summer was rapidly approaching and Luca was coming for a visit, and his mind is permanently stuck on that four letter F-word.

“A fish that has survived a geologic age was holding in a stretch that can be walked in 45 minutes.”

Despite all my attempts at DIY research (outdated websites and a few French YouTube videos), I was left with little to go on, save a few new French vocabulary words. Fortunately, after more searching, I was able to connect with Karim Boutellaka, one of Morocco’s only licensed fly fishing guides and someone, in my opinion, who should be chiselled into the fly fishing hall of fame, if for nothing else, for his relentless yet humble approach to conservation.

That night, after a long drive in and out of valleys angled like a child’s imagination, we settled in at a local gîte in the Aït Bouguemez valley where we spent the night before heading to our first destination. The inn perches above terraced orchards and marks the distinct boundary where dirt and rock give way to cartoonish shades of green.

Along the valley floor runs a small stream that is the lifeblood of the local villages. In the twilight before dinner, we walked the narrow stream with fly rods in hand. While most of the villagers were hard at work, often carrying loads twice their body size through the dense brush, a few boys ran along the stream with rods made from sticks and makeshift spinners. Not to be outdone by visitors, they proudly showed off their skills by cunningly lowering a spinner under the overhanging trees where they caught the occasional trout (Salmo macrostigma). They were quick to let us know that spinners and worms are the way to catch fish.

“In the midst of fascination, one couldn’t help but also feel a rising surge of shame for what we’ve taken for granted.”

That evening while we sat among the traditional Moroccan pillows, with the requisite mint tea and tagine, Karim broke into story. He is a self-taught fly fisher and adventurer whose impressive CV is best shared like a Moroccan meal: huddled around a mountain of food. During our meals or while driving, Karim wove through stories of trekking 30km as a child in search of fishing, learning to tie flies with raw materials, countless hours of lobbying a dizzying and corrupt bureaucracy, and patiently networking for gear that could take months to find its way across the Mediterranean, a geographically narrow distance that is, in so many ways, a world apart. In the midst of fascination, one couldn’t help but also feel a rising surge of shame for what we’ve taken for granted.

M’GOUN

The next morning we wound our way over the pass and down into the M’Goun Valley. From the top of the dramatic pass, it was hard to imagine that there was water anywhere in the valley below. Layers of rock staircase the valley with tri-coloured shades of grey distinctly marking the elevation. But as we made our way down into the valley and through a small village, another smaller valley appeared and with it a clear stream flowing between barren white rock. At first impression it appeared as no more than seasonal high mountain snowmelt, which made it even harder to believe that it maintains a trout population.

As is typical in these regions, our presence quickly drew attention. Two gentlemen approached and engaged Karim in friendly conversation. Within minutes the conversation turned to business propositions as one of the gentlemen offered to be the local “guardien”. Since the visits from scientists and tour guides, the locals had become increasingly aware of the profits to be made from conservation.

Anxious to fish, we then made our way up the stream. The M’Goun Valley, though mostly barren, is greenly pockmarked with low-growing abrasive shrubs that will punish a wayward step. Undaunted, herds of goats feed readily as they work their way across the slopes of loose rock. From time to time, stones dislodged and crashed violently into the shallow stream, serving as a poignant reminder to keep a watchful eye. “Stay on this side,” Karim told us at one point. “The rocks fall often.”

“The rocks fall often.”

Once we entered the river valley, we could see the stream winding up into the mountains above. “Approach carefully. They are easily spooked,” Karim reminded us. So I looked ahead and chose my approach at the river’s next bend. As I approached what I over-confidently believed would be the first pocket large enough to hold trout, I heard the familiar “Got it!” Before I had even unhooked the fly from my rod, Luca had already caught a trout that was holding behind a modest-size rock in a shallow and straight stretch of river. I quickly ran back to celebrate the accomplishment.

This was no ordinary fish. The M’Goun River is one of only two remote streams inhabited by Dadès trout, an endemic, isolated, and now endangered species that has miraculously survived over a million years in its genetic state. Although it belongs to the extensive Draa River Basin, which runs 1 200km from the High Atlas range through the desert and eventually to the Atlantic, the Dadès trout survive only at the very apex of the watershed’s sources, occupying a total range of no more than 22km of our planet. Despite possibly being the world’s oldest trout, it has been a mere 10 years since a team of Spanish scientists first studied and classified this species as Salmo multipunctata.

“Despite possibly being the world’s oldest trout, it has been a mere 10 years since a team of Spanish scientists first studied and classified this species as Salmo multipunctata.”

Luca was visibly buzzing with excitement. It was not the catch so much as the encounter, as Luca had decided confidently at a young age to dedicate his life to fishing and conservation. As he gazed at this rare and ancient species, he maintained it just below the surface, close enough to display the profusion of black dots from which it derives its Latin name. “Slowly,” Karim implored, as he readied the camera. Luca gently removed the hook, and then with cupped hands lowered the fish into the water where it found its bearings before darting away. This was a rare catch indeed as it would take nearly an hour-and-a-half for him to catch another.

It had only been 24 days since we’d heard the name Salmo multipunctata and learned that the M’Goun had just opened to legal fishing for the first time. It was not just a new species to add to the list, it was an encounter with the shrouded frontlines of conservation. Morocco inhabits a difficult middle in the fight toward sustainability. It has neither the revenue of a highly developed country nor the high demand that convinces some nations that the profits of fish tourism are worth the conservation efforts.

“I usually begin fishing after the second bend,” Karim told us. The next few hours entailed slowly working our way up the valley and patiently mining each rare pocket and pool with dozens of casts. Around 30 minutes after Luca’s first catch, I found the only undercut bank with vegetation in the entire stretch. Confident that this relative mansion of habitat held trout, I cast repeatedly to the top of the run in the hope of perfectly placing my elk hair nymph into the lower current. After a handful of attempts, my fly pulled deftly into the bank. Bam! I quickly but gently moved the trout into my net. Though only 20cm, this spotted beauty was as thrilling as any I had caught before.

Between pools there were long stretches of nearly unfishable water. We passed herds of goats and sheep and took in the scenery that continuously opened into what seemed like an unending path into the sky. Karim would switch flies often, carefully testing each in this relatively new frontier.

TRANSLUCENT CASCADE

“I’m going up a ways,” I announced to the group.

“No, you can’t,” Karim replied abruptly. Taken aback, I thought perhaps the area was off limits or that our time had run out. As it turned out, only a few minutes away was the literal end, or beginning, rather. High above the stream, clear water gushed out of the mountain side. It was the beginning of a 1 200km journey, and yet, for the Dadès trout it is a potentially deadly barrier that leaves them trapped in an increasingly fragile ecosystem.

Its finality was striking. We had fished to a river’s source before, but never had we been so moved. A fish that has survived a geologic age was holding in a stretch that can be walked in 45 minutes. Bucket lists be damned, I thought. I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else at that moment. Below this “translucent cascade”, as Rilke wrote, “There is no place that does not see you.” If the M’Goun had all the polish of a developed fishery, it would not have spoken so loudly to the need for conservation, sustainability, and mitigation of climate change.

“Despite the beauty, it was a departure, both from the river below and our most significant encounter with nature to date.”

The walk back to the car was direct. Eventually, we climbed onto the narrow irrigation canal that ran swiftly ahead, following a highline down the valley to the villages below. This path is faster than returning by way of the river’s bank and its ankle-challenging rocks. Despite the beauty, it was a departure, both from the river below and our most significant encounter with nature to date. Soon, we made our way down the valley to where the river makes a final turn from where we had parked. “Wait down there,” Karim pointed, “and I’ll bring the car. We’ll have lunch here.”

We stood for a moment looking back at the barren rocky stream before descending the steep patches of weeds, grasses, and wildflowers that thrive on the imperfections of these ancient acequias. It was now early afternoon and only day one of our trip. The next few days were far more productive in terms of catching fish. In remote cascading streams, we caught dozens of brown trout among breathtaking backdrops of cliffs and waterfalls, but the M’Goun, with its Dadès Trout, was the most impactful. It’s a place that needs you to love it to life.

Read the rest of The Mission Issue 45 (May/Jun 2024) below, free as always.