THE VALLEY OF FLAMES

AT A REMOTE, SECRET SPOT, LEROY BOTHA AND JAZZ KUSCHKE MAKE A MEAL OF THEIR FISHING. AND LEARN SOMETHING IN THE PROCESS… OR DO THEY?

Photos. LeRoy Botha, Jazz Kuschke

Life Of Pie

“You ready for that pie?” I asked my regular fishing buddy LeRoy.

LeRoy is not a man who feeds all too often. He’s more of a nibbler, really, preferring to graze like a tiny red fin minnow rather than inhale anything as edible as a fourpound largemouth bass would. When he does snack, he usually keeps it fairly carb and gluten-free. The man rolls like this even on full-day treks. I’m kind of the opposite. I guess it’s a throwback to my previous life as a marathon cyclist – eat often, drink all the time.

“Pepper steak… it’s proper,” I offered, mouth half full, pastry flakes dusting my goatee and bits of gooey pie-gunk sticking to the corner of my mouth. I’d packed my usual protein bars and energy gels, hydrated on electrolyte mix. Right then, this “real” lunch felt like something beyond indulgent. I couldn’t help but marvel at the flavours. It was as if an avant-garde punk rocker of a young open-flame chef had prepared a Madagascan pepper corn-crusted fillet cooked to just past rare and paired it with twiceroasted rosemary potato wedges. All I needed was a fiveyear-old Malbec and I was in a culinary utopia.

After seven long hours in the baking valley heat, with 10km in the legs and at least a baker’s dozen bass in the books, LeRoy couldn’t resist either.

“I need that,” came his reply, eyes still fixed on the water after yet another cast off the point. “I need that right now,” he reeled up and sauntered over to where I was lounging on the bank.

Now, while they tasted as though they’d been served in a Michelin-star establishment, the pies in question were a mushy, squashed version of their former selves. Roadkill even. Sal (my way-too-kind-hearted, long-suffering wife) had brought them from a local deli the previous day – sustenance enough to fuel our climb out of the deep valley. She’d given them to me the night before as I was counting out my energy bars and filling my hydration bladder. She’d had enough of the dizzying tales of hunger and dehydration from out of the valley. From our stories of past sojourns, she knew the risks and she’d established that a pie each would provide enough complex carbs and protein to get us out, while being small enough to fit in my backpack.

The valley is close enough to home that you can sleep in your own bed and safely consume a pie purchased the previous day, but it’s remote enough that you’re going to burn a good few litres of diesel and test your bakkie’s suspension on the way in. There’s no cellphone reception except on the tallest ridges and, if you get hurt, your mate will need to organise a helicopter rescue.

It’s the kind of place where leopards aren’t shy and the kudu bulls that roam the forested gullies are three-turnsto-the-horn specimens. Once you leave the vehicle, the only path to the water is via the game trails the animals have trod.

Only those who know are allowed to go there and the precious few who do, guard the secret closely enough that those kudus will die of old age. Their eyes are among the privileged few to have witnessed the blood-red winter aloes set fire to The Kloof.

But back to the pie. The setting made it a feast. And the prelude. Not the item. Just before dining, I had landed (in quick succession) a beautiful smallmouth and a largemouth on a topwater frog creation whichw LeRoy had gifted me. It looked good enough to auction rather than to be lobbed in the middle of the blazing day. But such was the quality of the day. Those are the kinds of games you can play once you’ve stopped counting, every fly you’ve tried has worked, and you’re satiated with the number and quality of the fish and the absolute privilege of walking the valley.

“Good pie is where you’re at, bru,” LeRoy mused. Even the fish agreed.

The day didn’t start that well though. At least not for me. The first hour or so was about as good as spending half the night hugging the toilet after a bad garage pie. LeRoy picks up the story before redemption came… These are his words:

Getting Burnt

With a view to finding a large patch of unexplored water we’d seen on our maps, I was bashing the shit out of some bundus when I came across a small, sequestered pool. It was still early in the day. We’d worked the first large bit of accessible water quickly to maximise exploration time. I was already on the board and skipping ahead as Jazz lingered to work the last few likely-looking spots.

“Jaaazz?”

“Yo?”

“You must see this cute little pool, bru!”

“Look good?”

“Tiiiiny. Could be quite amusing if there’s a fish in here!” The pool was maybe 20-odd square feet – most swimming pools are bigger – surrounded by thick bush and with no apparent way in or out.

I could almost hear Jazz trying to decide whether or not to bash through to my location when I spot something:

“Bru, bluegills! I haven’t seen bluegills in donkey’s yonks!” I dumped my gear and readied my 3-weight and dry fly, keeping an eye on the small school of ’gills. Clearly a bit of flirting going on. One Chad of a bluegill stood out and I showed him the fly. He ate it, naturally, and, naturally… I fright struck!

The bluegills scattered, Chad with my fly in his pie-hole. “Bru, wait up, can I get a bluegill just to get the hell on the board?” Jazz, laughing at his own expense and mine, made the request as I heard the cracking and bashing of bushes.

“THE VALLEY IS CLOSE ENOUGH TO HOME THAT YOU CAN SLEEP IN YOUR OWN BED AND SAFELY CONSUME A PIE PURCHASED THE PREVIOUS DAY, BUT IT’S REMOTE ENOUGH THAT YOU’RE GOING TO BURN A GOOD FEW LITRES OF DIESEL”

“Of course, bru, come, I’ll hang back…”

“Think they’ll eat a black dry?”

“Yes, bru, can’t go wrong with that!” I was getting better at this.

Jazz arrived on the opposite side of the pool, spotted the ’gills, and made a cast. They refused the damn black fly and somehow disappeared. At the same time, a sizable largemouth bass materialised less than a rod length from me, claiming a spot in the shade of an overhang. Jazz and I were visually separated at this point by a small “island” of reeds in the middle of the pool.

“Big bass, right here by me! Come smoke him, bru?” I said.

I believe very strongly in managing your expectations on a fishing trip with mates. Collaboration holds the potential for much sweeter times than competition; maybe not always but straight fact: no one likes a hog. But then I’m not Santa either, so I would make it clear and appreciate your recognition of the fact that I didn’t think twice about letting Jazz take this shot. He flat-out deserved it.

Or did he?

“You sure, bru?”

“For defs, masekind [sweet child]. Can you see him?” At around this point, I believe the fish fever took a hold of brother Jazz.

“No, I think you’ll have to guide me, and I don’t have the right fly on,” he replied, as he started wading anxiously in my general direction.

I believe all the bass we’d taken in The Kloof so far had fallen for a particular golden Clouser Minnow, one of which I had tied onto my 6-weight. Jazz, you will recall, had a black dry fly, which in hindsight could have worked just fine.

“Grab my rod, bru?” I was gonna ask if he could catch, but this is Jazz. Of course he can catch.

I javelin-launched the Scott to Jazz who was barely visible behind the grass island before he could respond in any other way than to catch it… but only just. Jump the gun, job’s done, that bass is grass. Or is it?

Meanwhile, the bass was parking cheesy, flapping his happy little pec fins in the shade.

“Can you see it? In the shade right next to me, you wanna try and pitch that fly right in under these branches.” I imagine myself in his shoes as I type this. Adding that sort of pressure so early on was a dick move, I see that now. What followed happened in slow motion and warp speed all at once. Not kidding, temporal shenanigans happened. Mistakes happened, repeatedly, as if on a loop.

Fright striking, FYI, is a majestic if somewhat inefficient hook-setting method, usually employed when you don’t expect the bite, or because you expect it too much. You either miss the fish or lose the fly, there is no other outcome. A good fright strike is all about the drama. Jazz has witnessed me fright striking more times than one should be able to forgive, so I’d wager we’ll survive this: Allow me to recount how this day, Jazz took the Art of Setting the Hook to a new and beautiful level all his own. “OK cool,” he replied, but what he was thinking was, “I don’t wanna hang this fly in that branch and spook that fish.” I know this because that’s what anyone would have thought. So, he cast short. Way short.

“A tiny bit short, bru, go… Wait, he’s coming for it!”

“Where is he?” Jazz had yet to get a fix on the target. The bass ate, held and spat out the fly. Time warps there. It is the only explanation.

“He got it!” I yelled reactively after seeing the rejection, at which point Jazz momentarily froze before sort of setting the hook.

The hookset bounced the fly, which triggered the bass into murdering it again.

“Yes, bru!” I yelped, as the bass swirled the fly around in its mouth. I realised later that saying “Strike!” would’ve been more helpful under the circumstances.

“… errr, STRIKE!” I corrected myself. The bass spat the fly, Jazz lifted the rod, but not quite hard enough, all in an order I can’t quite be sure of.

“Noooooo! How? You must hit him, bru!” I lamented, as the fish re-engaged the fly. He really dug the way Jazz was striking.

“I don’t wanna break your rod, man,” Jazz offered sincerely. He knows I love that old Scott and I’m suddenly reliving a moment some years ago when I witnessed Jazz go a new shade of green, having accidentally shit-mixed a famous guide’s new and stupidly expensive fly rod.

“Never, dude, give it to him!” I replied as the bass ate the fly a third time. Jazz responded with what I would call a beginner fright strike. Not enough drama. The hook doesn’t stick and the fish kind of spits it as you would a bug that flew into your mouth.

“Bro!” I say ‘bro’ instead of ‘bru’ when the threat level rises and my inner 90s kid wakes up. “I have fright struck the fear of Satan into more fish with that rod than I remember. It can take it!”

I didn’t have to explain any more, the fly was already swimming again, what with time doing its own thing and all that. Also, because Jazz was frantically punching short casts in an effort to locate a fish that I claimed to be suicide bombing his fly. It ate, again. I yelled “strike!” in time and Jazz hit the crap out of the fish and the fly right out of its mouth. That time it rightfully took offence and made for cover quicker than you can say “rookie mistakes”.

Now, I was seeing the humour in all of this, but Jazz had a defeated “WTF” written all over his face. He’s no rookie. He had fish fever. I could feel his pain, man.

“What the hell just happened, Jazz?… Listen. We never have to tell anyone what happened here today.” Liar, liar, Valley of Fire.

We were mumbling explanations, dumb struck, when I finally internalised the fact that Jazz had yet to see this fish and for all he knew none of this drama could be shown to have happened for any good reason. Hell, he hadn’t even felt the bites and yet, he was an emotional wreck and we were both out of breath.

So, we took a moment to calm down. And so did the bass. As I lit a reset smoke, he reappeared from under the grass island, and Jazz saw him. We peered through the fog of war. This time the presentation was spot on, the bass’s hunger no less urgent, and Jazz’s hookset, majestic. We’re freaking good at this! Or... are we?

That tiny pool had no shortage of cover, and the bass was losing its mind trying to find some.

“Pull, bru!”

“Your rod!”

“Pull hiimmm!!” By then I could barely see through the tears. I was laughing my ass off.

The bass found a beautifully thick mess to dig into, and the rod stopped bucking.

“No.” I grabbed my net and dug into the salad, and ripped it back out of what I’m guessing was a good time. I was only vaguely aware of Jazz questioning the wisdom of my actions in the background. The net came out full of bass and grass, and low and behold, right next to the bass’s mouth lay the fly Chad Bluegill had stolen a few minutes before.

“Bru?” I conveyed my wonder.

“Could… the bass have..?” Jazz, now grinning from ear to ear, is smelling what I’m stepping in.

“Let’s not speculate, masekind. But I told you it’d be amusing if there was a fish in here,” I don’t think I’ve enjoyed three minutes of fishing so much in my whole life. “Let’s get some pics of that bass. Well fished, bru.”

The Real Pie Of Life

I will never unsee that bass coming to net. And I love the story. And the way LeRoy yarns it. It was a crazy little-big moment. But then, as he’ll also tell you, accessing the bass fishing bounty in the rocky pools of the Kloof requires a touch of madness. It’s a place where you learn things about yourself as you push through dense undergrowth, overgrowth, old growth and regrowth, sweat stinging your eyes as the gnarled branches, vines and thorns conspire to skin you and devour your fly tackle.

Much like in Life of Pi, the 2012 movie directed by Ang Lee, based on the novel of the same name by Yann Martel. If you’re unfamiliar with it, the movie follows the story of a young Indian boy named Pi who survives a shipwreck and finds himself stranded on a lifeboat with a Bengal tiger named Richard Parker.

The film explores themes of survival and faith, and offers a powerful message about the resilience of the human spirit and the importance of storytelling in our lives. The movie encourages us to embrace our own beliefs and to find the courage to face the challenges that life throws our way, even if it means bundu bashing after fussy bluegills. Oh, and it tells us how important it is to eat.