16 minute read
TERONKO
LESOTHO TERONKO
IT’S NOT OFTEN YOU GET GIVEN THE “JOB” OF EXPLORING REMOTE VALLEYS TO FIND TROUT IN UNFISHED RIVERS. WHEN LUKE PANNELL AND FELLOW GUIDE RUHAN KRUGER WENT TO LESOTHO, THEY FOUND ALL THAT, PLUS MYTHICAL WATER-BEASTS, RUNAWAY DONKEYS, MIDNIGHT COWBOYS AND MORE.
Photos. Luke Pannell, Ruhan Kruger
For as long as I can remember the outdoors have fascinated me. As a young boy my family would visit Nylsvley Nature Reserve (in Limpopo
Province) whenever the opportunity presented itself. I remember sitting on my father’s lap while steering the car along the endless dirt roads as he controlled the pedals below my dangling feet. My siblings and I, a trio with nightmarish tendencies, would fight for turns behind the wheel or for the chance to sit on the roof of the old Nissan bakkie. Driving around the park, badgering each other incessantly, it’s a wonder we saw any animals at all.
At times, the car would stop and the three of us would clamber out with our tiny bare feet, free at last from the cramped backseat and on the lookout for any animal that we could ‘hunt’ through the veld. Luckily for us, our enthusiasm far-outshone our stalking abilities. I think it was in those formative years that my affinity with adventure really started to develop. Guiding has given me a platform to search out those places that excite and frighten me, sometimes in equal measure. Although, as time goes on, we all become desensitised to our experiences. It takes just a little bit more risk, the chance of a slightly bigger fish or maybe even the thought of going somewhere less travelled, to really kindle that excitement. None of us is immune to this.
When the opportunity to spend some time exploring remote areas in the Lesotho Highlands on behalf of X-Factor Angling presented itself, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Having recently fished and guided throughout the Eastern Cape as well as Kwa-Zulu Natal, it felt like being so close - how different could it be? Regardless, the mandate was simple - find an unheard of river with the potential for big fish that logistically has the possibility of turning into a product for the company. As with anything good, it does not come easily and so, once briefed, I started the process of sifting through the less mentioned river systems in Lesotho. A week later I stumbled across an old blog post, written by a hiker almost ten years back, in which he detailed his encounters with big brown trout in a lesser-known area of the country. His account made me hold my breath briefly. He spoke about how difficult it was to reach the river and how he had been told that no other fly fisherman had passed through the village at the base of the gorge. This was it. Or was it? Doubt started to creep in. Deliberately, he had not named the river or, for that matter, given any names at all of the surrounding areas. Google Earth, the blog (with some nondescript photos) and a map of the different river systems in that area of the country were superimposed on each other and carefully analysed. Finally, I narrowed it down to two rivers. With winter fast approaching, time was of the essence. The prospect of hiking high into a mountain range, with limited supplies, when temperatures were already expected to drop below minus six degrees Celsius, meant that the sooner we got there the better. The following week, myself and Ruhan left Jo’burg and set off for the border. The idea was to drive to the highest point possible before loading up our packs and pushing, ideally with the help of a donkey, past any villages and into a valley leading to the source of the first river. We would spend three nights there, working our way up the river, before hiking back out and driving another six hours to the next river where we would repeat the process. There were a lot of unknowns. Would the chief allow us to explore the area? Was there even a chief to speak of? How far could two guides, armed with five packs of two-minute noodles, a bag of rice and a tent, make it up the valley? It was time to answer all these questions. When entering Lesotho from the north the one thing that is abundantly clear at the border is that you are travelling upwards. Small hills quickly expand into larger and more ominous shapes. Before you know it, you are zig-zagging up the side of a never-ending mountain pass (Ru and I both questioned how anyone could build a functional road in such a perilous position). By 10 o’clock we had summited the tallest of these passes. Worryingly, the clear skies and bright sun had done little to melt the ice scattered across the escarpment. We drove for another few hours, our only pit-stop being at a bridge above a glacial stream with blue water. We managed to spot and catch a small trout from the bridge before jumping back in the car and pushing on to the first river. We were now even more excited than before.
Arriving at the village was as bemusing as it was exhilarating. Between us we could barely mime our way through filling the car up, the language barrier being one of the worst I have ever experienced. Somehow though, we managed to locate the house of the head chief and were quickly informed that he was away. We were introduced to his wife. She, along with the small crowd gathering, was confused as to why we were there, what we wanted to do up in their valley and, most importantly, whether or not we knew what we were getting ourselves into. We smiled and assured her as best we could that we would be fine, our tent and tiny sleeping bags doing little to comfort her. Warnings of rogue cowboys, dangerous snakes and ice on the river did little to deter us. In any case, after sharing pleasantries and receiving her blessing, along with the promise that her son, Paul, would join us later in our journey, we set off to start our first exploration.
It was now 3 o’clock and the light was dimming in the valley. Knowing that the hike would be difficult and as we were anxious not to be left walking in the dark, we rushed to start. A young Basotho boy, Debello, was introduced to us as we were about to leave the village. He had been asked to show us the best route into the valley and proceeded to set an unimaginable pace along a small goat path. Both Ru and I had overestimated our fitness at such high altitude, my Garmin satellite phone read 2630m above sea level, and the 18kg of weight we each had strapped to our backs (and fronts) made the going slow. Debello pushed us to speed up as he still needed to hike back out of the valley before it became dangerous. When we finally reached our camp for the night, a suitably flat beach, it was almost dark. Debello quickly turned around and started his return leg. We watched him disappear over the looming mountain we had just descended, only for him to reappear half an hour later. Ru and I stood silently as he explained that it was no longer safe to walk home and that he, with nothing more than a thin blanket and collared shirt for warmth, would be staying the night, but not in our tent! When I broke the ice on the fly sheet’s zip the following morning a part of me was scared to look in the direction of Debello’s fire. After our first afternoon’s hike it was abundantly clear that without a donkey we would never cover enough ground with our tight schedule. Debello, after thawing his toes out against the heat of the fire, agreed to meet us higher up the valley that afternoon with his own donkey, Anna. Ru and I decided to explore just below our camp in a very steep area of the gorge. What we found was a succession of massive pools, some so deep we couldn’t see the bottom. We were later told that the deepest of the pools, referred to as ‘Teronko’ (Sesotho for jail), held a water beast with malicious intent. Some villagers had even drowned in the pool and now no-one dared to fish near it. After observing ‘Teronko’ for a short while, Ru spotted movement. A really big shadow crept along the bottom. Slowly it took shape and we cast our eyes on a massive fish, easily over 60cm, lazily moving side to side eating nymphs in the current. I decided to watch from above while Ru made his way down the 40-metre cliff face and into a position that allowed him to present a fly. I watched as he hooked and broke off the same monster twice in the space of five minutes. Unfortunately, 5X tippet just was not going to cut it and the aggression the fish showed when it ate for the second time made it clear that it had no concept of being hooked. We regrouped at our bags and laughed at the sheer insanity of what had just happened. Having heard the tales of Teronko gave us comfort. We knew that this was no ordinary fish but rather a water beast. The following two days were spent ‘cherry-picking’ the best spots we came across while working our way up the river. Every kilometre we covered the river became smaller and the fish became more concentrated in pools. It was pointless trying to count them, there simply were too many to keep track of. Once reunited with Debello, and now Anna, we were able to work huge amounts of water each day and by the time Paul, the chief’s son, joined us, we were some 30km from the village. Our last night on the river was spent around a fire, exhausted and sore but above all consciously spoiled. Our plan for the morning was to wake up early, load Anna with the bags and rush back to the car, hoping to make it to the second valley before sunset.
Upon waking Ru and I swiftly made coffee and packed up camp. We first noticed something was amiss when Debello disappeared, walking off into the distance and in the opposite direction to the car. Paul reassured us that he was just fetching Anna. Thus, Ru and I chose to run down-river to a pool we had seen several big fish holding in the day before. When Paul and Debello caught up to us an hour later, carrying our backpacks, it was clear Anna wouldn’t be around to help. Now, some 30km from the village and without a donkey, we realised the task ahead of us. Rods were packed away and the long trek began. Reaching the car around midday, at least two hours behind schedule, meant there was no way we could complete the six-hour, 4x4 route ahead of us before dark! We gratefully accepted when Paul kindly offered us one of his family’s rondavels in the village that night. The ceiling of the rondavel, stained black by the countless fires that had kept it warm over the years, had a rich woody smell to it. That night we slept like kings. The next morning, we watched the valley shrink in the rear-view mirror as we started our journey to the adjacent valley. Expecting the road to be degraded did little to prepare us for the last six kilometres of our drive, which took close to an hour to navigate. It was clear no cars had driven there in weeks, maybe longer. This was confirmed by the shocked faces on those who watched us as we reached the village. Again, we sought out the chief and were granted permission to fish and to explore the valley. There was a different feeling to the valley though. Faces were less friendly and an air of suspicion followed us as we packed our bags and negotiated the use of a donkey. Cross-border stock theft has people jumpy around these parts. Molata, our new Lesotho Hilux (aka donkey), was old and weathered. You couldn’t help but feel sorry for the poor animal as three bags were strapped across her back. On the advice of our guide, and influenced by our experience of the first day’s hike, we decided to camp just below the village that night. The easy hike into the valley drew a lot of attention as we walked past groups of people. By the time we had settled on a suitable camping spot, a group of curious children had congregated on the rocky outcrop above us. They laughed, even screaming with excitement, as we unpacked and assembled our tent. One of the boys exclaimed in shock “It’s a house!”. You couldn’t help but smile as they slowly grew in confidence and began teasing us from the cliffs. That evening they accompanied me up-river, Ru deciding to stay closer to camp to watch our belongings. Quite obviously, they had never seen someone fly fish, let alone release a fish that they had landed. Angry shouts rang out as I put back a fish just over 40cm. I reassured them that I would give them some fish and proceeded to gift them three thereafter, slightly worried of the repercussions had I not. As the light started to dim in the valley the children started to skip their way up the mountainside, back to the village, with fish in hand. I returned to camp with a fish of my own and two cobs of corn which one of the boys had generously given me in exchange for the fish. A warm fire, a hot cup of coffee and our Lesotho dinner was the perfect way to end our day. By nine o’clock the cold had set in, our lightweight tent doing little to insulate us. We struggled to fall asleep as we shivered. Shouting in the distance cut through the cold air. A few seconds passed and the noise drew nearer. Realising the voices were making a beeline for us, we quickly pulled on some clothes and stepped out of the tent. As our eyes adjusted to the darkness we made out three horsemen, now halfway across the river, riding directly towards us. Loud Basotho shouts and raised sjamboks cut through the air as the cowboys surrounded us. Our nerves were past the edge, they were plummeting off the cliff and adrenaline was coursing through my veins. The language barrier making the stand-off even more frightening. After a few minutes of broken communication, which felt like an interrogation, I decided to mention the fish we had gifted to the children. I still don’t know whether the leader of the group understood what I said or coincidentally lost interest at that point, but they suddenly smiled and turned their horses around, disappearing again into the black.
The following morning, still shaken from our visit the night before, we packed up camp and decided to push as high above the village as possible, hoping to avoid any other confrontation. After hiking for about two hours, we came across a deep pool with trees lining its banks. On the bottom of the pool we counted over forty fish, countless of which were trophy-sized. What followed was some of the most insane nymphing I have ever experienced. Ru and I took turns, one with the rod and the other the camera, and proceeded to land close to 25 fish in the space of an hour. The biggest of the trip came to hand there, a stunning fish, thick and unbelievably strong. The fishing over the next two days continued in a similar vein, with each pool holding large numbers of fish, with the average well over 30cm. What we had found can only be described as trout nirvana and the trout bum in me had never been happier. The morning of our final day greeted us with an unwelcome surprise. Our gas had run out. Continuously boiling water, for all the coffee and oats, had caught us out and we now faced four meals without any suitable pots or a kettle to speak of. Ru, ever the innovator, scratched around in our rubbish bag and pulled out an empty cream-soda can from two days prior. Luckily it hadn’t been stomped on. Two boulders and a branch from a river willow and our make-shift kettle was complete. Tea, coffee, instant oats and noodles were all back on the cards. Noodles,
When they ran out of gas, Luke and Ruhan ate trout and boiled water in an old soda can.
supplemented with a fresh fish, was dinner that evening and made us realise just how unnecessary much of what we had packed was. When we finally caught our last fish, boiled our last tin of tea and loaded the now relatively light bags onto Molata, a mixture of frustration and sadness descended. It was clear from what we had experienced over the past week that we had stumbled onto something special. The fishing was the best either of us had ever seen, both in size and in numbers. The fact that the brown trout had somehow eluded us was immaterial. It was, however, equally obvious that it would be no small feat to run an operation up in these valleys. Whether it was the treacherous rocky passes, which would claim a tyre on our drive out, the physical distance from anything, the mountain cowboys or the fact that there was no infrastructure to speak of, these valleys were a world apart from what we knew. Unsure whether either of us would see those rivers again anytime soon, (if ever), we packed the car in silence and started our slow crawl out of the valley. It wasn’t long before gratitude replaced the despair. Ru and I started to recall events from the week, laughing incessantly in a mixture of disbelief and satisfaction. At the first bridge we came across we stopped the car, clambering out with bare feet and staring into the water, hoping to see just one more fish that we might hunt…
