Witels Memories

Witels Memories

Itโ€™s been a surprisingly long time since I firstย walked up the Witels River. It was my third year of varsity that my partner inย crime, Rex Fey, and I donned backpacks and set off up this mystical river.

Mysticalย because for so long I had struggled to find any decent literature on this pieceย of water, no one could tell me who controlled it or how to get access and whenย it was spoken about โ€“ which wasnโ€™t often โ€“ the conversation always seemed toย drop slightly in volume. I always felt like every snippet of info we gainedย about the river was a hard won secret extracted from the closed circles of someย secret fly fishing fraternity.

Rex and a Witels Beauty on one of his later trips.
Whileย this may be exaggerated slightly, it is how we felt. All we had collectivelyย learned about this โ€œPrince of Streamsโ€ was that it could getย dangerous if you were caught in the rain, there were rumours of big brown troutย that ate dries and that the lower sections, while in the past being the primeย waters, where now a shadow their former glory.

Itย was a simple decision really, for us. Grab the topographical, our backpacks,ย stuff them with the basics โ€“ sleeping bag, bread, cheese bangers, a couple cansย of condensed milk, coffee, the hiking pots and, of course, a couple of bottlesย of cheap whisky. The plan was straight forward: Park downstream of theย junction, walk up the N1 to where the stream enters the upper reaches of theย Breede River and see how far we could get. JFDI is still today Rexโ€™s motto.

โ€œLetโ€™s Just F****ng Do Itโ€ was the summing up of most hare-brainedย scheme conversations and a statement that forced any misgivings about saidย scheme to be happily pushed aside, caution to be thrown to the wind and resultedย in many of the funnest, craziest fishing trips with exceptional fishing andย memories!

Andย so, we found ourselves late one Friday afternoon, standing under theย precipitous Castle Rock. The peak stood proud and, as one does when in theย presence of such magnificence, I felt intimidated by nature. I couldnโ€™t wait toย get up into the kloof. We had decided to hike as far as the afternoon lightย would let us get and make camp as soon as it started getting dark. Fishingย would commence the following day in great earnest. The stunning valley wasย steep sided and I soon realised why a heavy rain could cause trouble forย hikers. This was serious countryside that was not to be trifled with. And I fellย immediately in love with it.

Castle Rock looking over the entrance to the Kloof
Aย fire, hearty camp meal and a bottle of whisky made for a cracker evening. Notย even the bag of rolls growing a striped tail and disappearing into the darknessย could distract us from the magnificence that surrounded us. We were happy and Iโ€™m sure that the Genet that was feasting on our fresh rolls was too.

ย 

Iย was woken by shouts from Rex that he had hooked one. I opened my eyes to see aย half-naked diary farmerโ€™s son with a bent fly rod. He had been brushing his teeth when he saw a rise and, hygiene forgotten, sent our first fly onto theย Witels. He promptly hooked into his first (of many) Witels Brownies.

Theย day that followed still rates as one of my favourite days of fishing ever. Theย browns were eating dries like there was no tomorrow; the fish would come upย from the bottom of the deepest pools to smash the big DDDs and hoppers. It wasย magic. Every corner that the river followed up the kloof snaked around and ledย to new, fascinating and glorious water. And the browns kept coming. Fish after fishย after fish. Never before nor since have I had such exceptional brown troutย fishing.

That night, after having explored up the Happy Valleyย and through a few of the swims, we decided that we had discovered heaven. Iย most certainly slept well.

Thisย trip started a love affair with a river that few will understand. Strangely, Rexย and I never made it up that river again together. We did however, at different timesย explore it higher and higher, right up to where the narrow swims seem to be entrances to new worlds.

I never truly understood my fatherโ€™s deep seatedย connection to the Loteni until after one of my numerous future trips up the Witels. Like him, I grew to know my river intimately. Which incoming weatherย patterns meant good fishing โ€“ and which meant stay away. I recognised, fromย summer to summer, the changes wrought by the rushing winter floods. Even theย path that lay in disrepair wasnโ€™t needed; I had my own meander up the river andย through its boulders. We explored, used the old fishermanโ€™s path over theย mountain from Ceres and even found different sets of bushman paintings in smallย eerie caves. It was my happy place up there.

Weย caught some big fish up there over the years. The biggest was a fish that mustย have run 3 and half pounds which Rex brought to hand. Over time, word spreadย (not that this river was unknown โ€“ just less spoken about) and its popularity grew.ย We even bumped into other anglers up there, but never right at the top, in my hallowedย grounds.

Whoeverย of you may fish this water, remember, it is a bigger place than us; a lastย refuge for the explorer and seeker of quiet places. Keep it so. It is a place where we mayย let the soul fly free. The fishing is awesome but the experience is better.

This and all the below photos are from that first trip up the Witels, a long time ago and taken on a little point and shoot. Rex and one of many.
Me and a cracking speciman of Witels perfection.
Timing, as always, is everything.
Cooling off on the return trip – packs and all. It was far easier to swim down the river and float on our packs that actually bundu bash down the neglected path.
One of my happy places in this world… Happy Valley…

4 thoughts on “Witels Memories”

  1. Fred, your post was very touching to me. You have finally put into words how I feel about some of the waters that I used to fish not too far away from the Witels (which I fished 3 times and got skunked 3 times). There is some deep and incredible to intimately get to know a piece of water, to see it in its different moods, its different faces. For me, it was Wemmershoek dam, Olifants river around Bulshoek and the Elandspad. They lay many thousands of miles away now, but I still think of them; wonder how they are doing and what mood they are in right now.
    Thanks Fred; this was a great post to read.

    Reply
  2. Thanks Brent. Really stoked you enjoyed the piece. There is something intimate in the relationship one forms with their favourite fishing spots.

    Reply
  3. Wow, that sent chills down my spine! Something strayed across my facebookpage yesterday. A picture of the Elandspad. I was immediately brought back to a time when I was still in Highschool in the mid 90’s and I was a member of the CPS. I cut my fly fishing teeth on those Limietberg streams as a kid. All the training I ever needed to lay waste to the millions of miles of trout streams in my new home in USA. Reading your epic story has prompted me to return home for a visit and fish the prince of streams. Thanks for the inspiration!

    Reply

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