HIGHLAND TRIBE

GRADUATION? COMING OF AGE? CALL IT WHAT YOU WILL BUT, WHEN MATT KENNEDY TOOK THE TRIP TO HIGHLAND LODGE IN THE STORMBERG MOUNTAINS OF THE EASTERN CAPE, HE WAS LOOKING TO BE INITIATED INTO THE DOUBLE-DIGIT TROUT CLAN.

With a receding whizz, my drone carried itself away and over the glassy stillness of the morning water. Blanketed by mist and speckled with the horizontal rays of the morning light, bays and channels took shape and disappeared again as the vapour began to burn off.

My initial intentions were to get some epic footage of the Stormberg views from 300m above. However, once the drone was up and flying, it quickly turned into a fishing recce. The zone I intended surveying was a weed bed gully where another guest, Craig “Lodgey” Lodge, had caught a few decent fish the previous day. The dams at Highland Lodge are long and by day four I was tired, both literally and metaphorically, of the guessing game of where to paddle and cast next, constantly wondering if there was greener grass on the other side of the dam.

“Make a few casts! I want some cool footage!” I screamed across the empty flat water at my father, who had just launched his tube. He’d attempted the on-the-water flipper mount, an elaborate move which proved much easier on a windless morning. Once he’d complied with a few casts, I decided to scout the area where Lodgey had hauled in so many trout. As I piloted the drone closer to the water and squinted at my phone’s live feed, small flecks in the water slowly turned into larger fish-like shapes. My heart began beating in my throat. They looked like basking crocodiles. I made a quick count of around 50 fish, most of them large, wallowing in the warming topwater between the weed beds. I wanted to shout to Dad and share the intel but, while I had been dicking around with the drone, he had already set off across the dam and was out of earshot.

I made a mental map of where the fish were, retrieved the drone, jumped into my tube, and began kicking.

It depends on who you talk to, but trout stillwaters in South Africa often get given a bad rap. That’s generally because of the stereotype served up by certain trainingcamp destinations. These are the non-technical places where most of us begin our fly fishing careers. The kind of places where you’re likely to hook onto some mutant zombie stockie.

Further up the ladder are the manicured, private, trophy waters of places like Dullstroom in Mpumalanga, South Africa’s stillwater trout Mecca. Having grown up with our family’s own little go-to concession in the greater Middelpunt, Dullstroom area, I have always had a soft spot for the area and the fishing it offers. From the smell of dry grass and smoking chimneys in the winter, to crisp air, clear skies and a mandatory visit to the fly shop, it’s a place loaded with traditions and sensory triggers. In fact, I start itching if an annual Dullies trip isn’t on the cards. Weekend visits to these waters have always been a simple proposition – easy fishing on the banks of a weir, tossing thick leaders to trout that may have originally been raised on dog pellets, but in time graduate into streamersmashing opportunists. It’s relatively easy fishing, but it has its place and I get immense joy from these trips.

Coming from a tribe of stillwater trout folk, I have fun memories of kicking around with my brothers in those old school donut float tubes, looking like a tribe of Mini-Mes wearing neoprene waders like our dad. As we grew more accomplished on our home waters, we were more fully kitted out with our own rods, fly jackets, tech-clothing, and float tubes. From family holiday to family holiday, we racked up experience in various stillwaters from Mpumalanga to parts of KwaZulu-Natal and later, the Eastern Cape. These trips included fisheries in the Rhodes/Maclear area and, eventually, a visit to Highland Lodge.

I first went there with my family in the winter of 2018. I’ll never forget the cold winds, icicles forming on my rod guides and the layers upon layers of Merino wool and willy warmers necessary to cope with the elements. That trip yielded only one or two fish between us – although they were big and strong enough for us to be content when calling it a day. It was on that trip that the top tier of the South African stillwater trout hierarchy was firmly established for me. I’d only had a taste of what the Eastern Cape, and Highland Lodge specifically, could offer, but I was blown away. The pedigree of a wild-grown fish offered something no stocked fish ever could. Sure, a stockie puts a bend in your rod, but a wild four-year-old fish with attitude, battle scars and tales to tell, is a different animal. I recall leaving that holiday feeling giddy and spooked at the same time, bothered by a sense of unfinished business.

Fast forward a few years and my father and I are rigging up on the banks of Greywing Dam, one of a handful of stillwaters of varying sizes available to visitors at Highland Lodge. While their dams are bolstered by seasonal stockings, the majority of the fish survive the warmer summers, and continue growing naturally.

“What worked last time?” I asked as we made our way up the 4x4 route to the dam. His advice, as always, was to keep it simple – an atomic worm trailing behind a filoplume dragonfly is the go-to.

Through the secondhand telling of my dad’s fishy tales, I’d been obsessing over these trips that Frontier Fly Fishing (Tom Lewin and co) hosted, although I’d never been old or capable enough to tag along. My older brother got to go the year before (with a lot of success). Now, as I was on a break during my postgraduate studies, it was my turn. It felt incredible that, in 10 hours, we’d teleported from the buzzing chaos of Jo’burg into an ethereal realm of wild trout and wilder views. In place of the city’s constant sirens, alarms, and steady rumble of traffic, now squadrons of wild ducks whistled by, a silent raptor circled overhead while a black-headed heron fished on the bank and a herd of black wildebeest sprinted along the hillside away from us.

Seeing as we were the first to arrive, Tom phoned ahead and encouraged us to suit up and get in an afternoon of fishing. On these trips Tom is sort of a guide, but arguably, technically, more of a host as, unless he sits on your float tube and whispers sweet nothings into your ear, the nature of stillwater trout fishing makes it difficult for anyone to really guide you into fish. Left to our own devices we chose to pursue the wilder of the waters –

Greywing – a smaller dam fit only for two anglers who won’t get on one another’s nerves. We blanked that first afternoon, but nothing could dampen our spirits as we returned to the lodge looking forward to a few beers. Introductions completed, ice broken, and blokes showered and fed, we were able to settle comfortably into a night of banter. The group consisted of a handful of successful, middle-aged businessmen, along with Tom and a mild-mannered gap year student (me). Some of the guys had previously toured together while the rest of us made quick work of becoming buddies. Of everyone there, I was the odd one out, by age, by tech (sporting a drone and a camera), by virtue of me having long hair (as opposed to very little) and because I could not contribute to stories of military conscription from way back when. Regardless of our differences, we were all united by the almost eight hours of fishing per day over the four days that lay ahead.

While the control freak/mild-arsonist in me took control over the fire, everyone connected over fishing talk. Every angler’s goal appeared to be to catch a trophy similar to the taxidermy cock fish floating above the mantlepiece. Pictures were being passed around showing off previous records at the lodge and everyone seemed obsessed with the idea of hooking into a double-digit trout. Anything above 10lb meant automatic entry to a distinguished club. The club did not have a name, a membership card, a secret handshake or any obvious benefits, yet it stirred up something in me. To take on the boomers and strike a blow for Gen Z? Not really. I was simply determined to come away with something to brag about, a personal record of sorts, either in size or number of trout caught. So that next time I landed up at a lodge amid grizzled veterans I’d have a war story of my own.

I felt like the chances of this happening were pretty good, because Highland Lodge is known for having big fish –beeeg fish. It resides in the catchment of some of the cleanest, most nutritious, monster-trout growing waters you can find. You could easily hook onto a trophy fish. They can grow at a rate of 3lb per year and a four-year-old trout will grow up to 12lb. These fish get big because they eat big, so you don’t need to be subtle in your fly choice. Fish a juicy dragonfly, or a San Juan Worm even, because they feed on whatever bulk food sources they can find –massive dragonfly nymphs, tadpoles and platannas, and a myriad other nutritious things. That said, as a repeat visitor to Highland Lodge, my dad has had the time to experiment and one of his greatest thrills each trip is to land a fish on one of his size-16 Zaks. While he likes to remind me that, “You see, they don’t just want fat Woolly Buggers,” all of our fish on this trip were caught on dragonflies.

The next few days passed by in a flash and my gung-ho confidence was somewhat tempered by countless hours of kicking and casting for little reward. When you pay to fish, it can start to feel less like a holiday and more like a nine-to-five job. “Here are your hours, this is what’s expected, now make the most of the time.” Being on the water for that long, a figure-eight retrieve becomes as natural as breathing. Hours of casting and retrieving are punctuated by speculative fly swaps, location changes, and leg stretches to ease the ache of constant butterfly kicks. Have you ever experienced bipolar weather? Like gentle zephyrs blowing over Bernard’s Dam, gusted by gale-force winds that could last for hours. Kick as much as you want, your body and float tube’s wind resistance are not unlike that of a Dutch frigate, with the topsail of a peak cap constantly threatening to fly off.

Over days two and three we had each caught a few fish on the various dams, casting into the margins where weed met deeper waters, just a handful of 6-9lb fish, varying in sex and species. Some anglers came home with stories of smashing a dozen fish – Dad and I would give each other the eyebrow and wonder what we were doing wrong. The encroaching twilight meant that you had given it your all, and being off the water came as a relief. We’d pack our wet gear away, stow the float tubes on the roof and head to HQ, where the beer of a lifetime awaited. Once off the water we’d all congregate at the house, mouths watering as the catering ladies dished up our dinner. Sometimes we would all be on time, although often the hardcore headlamp anglers needed excusing. The stereotypical fireside tales included all manner of profanities, sharing of exotic whiskeys and wines, and ending in the dam allocations for the next morning’s fishing.

By the evening of day three, the pressure of being without a decent catch was making me desperate. Around the fire that night Tom told a story about his experience boat-fishing for golden dorado in Argentina. Due to the slippery-when-wet decks and burning sun, Tom wears socks on board when he fishes. After several tough days, in order to win over the fishing gods, he had a bright idea and decided to swap his ergonomic socks around – left sock on right foot, and right sock on left foot – in the hopes of generating some luck. The locals thought it was ludicrous but Tom caught a big dorado that day, and was convinced it was due to the sock swapping. Seated on my single bed on the fourth and final morning, a desperate thought clicked in the superstitious portion of my brain. I was praying to the fishing (and sock) gods that my luck would turn as I swapped my worn L-R fuzzy socks and crossed my fingers before heading out.

That morning started off slowly despite the promising drone scout only hours before. I was closing in on the aforementioned gully, itching to sink my intermediate line and start stripping. Finally, after a long cast into one of the fishier-looking weed banks, there were a few knocks and I was on. That feeling of a bent rod never gets old. Electricity shot through my bones, and I started ticking off my mental boxes – check drag, palm the reel, let the fish run, put my back to the wind and keep kicking. A key part of fighting a fish while on a float tube is to untether your boat from the anchor line, as instructed by my dad over many years, and repeated by Tom on this trip.

The anchor line is kept afloat by a small bicoloured buoy, to help with relocation at a later stage. This stage was completed successfully – its primary goal being to prevent any messy line wraps with the tow line. Unfortunately, and unintentionally, I often skip steps and, on this occasion,

I focused on getting my net ready before the fight was even over. This faffing lead to a lapse in line management and the fish ran between my legs and under the tube. Trying to fight a fish, bending my rod underwater, folding myself into a pretzel to get my flipper underneath the rod to fight the fish straight on again, led to an explosively silent gnoef… And the fish was off. Dad’s soft chirp from nearby, “Jeez buddy, come on man,” boiled my blood. His irritation is always that of a passionate guide who want you to do well and gets angry when the basics are ignored. I knew this but had to cool down myself. The frustration was building.

Eventually we had made our way to the spot I had surveyed earlier – the spot. I knew to fish from a distance, but each failed retrieve further numbed my hopes of hooking into any of those busses I had seen hours before. Water levels were so high at this time of year, that parts of the barbed wire fencing were submerged, along with the fringes of grass tussocks surrounding the dam. Desperately trying to keep my back cast off the water, with one glorious cast I was able to extend my whole line into this sunken grassy goodness. Allowing the fly to sink, I was not even halfway through my counting and I was on. Every mental box was checked off in an instant, and I was able to net a rugby ball of a hen, 11lb on the scale, and my biggest trout yet. Dad, always in earshot, was able to assist, and the trip was made for both of us.

Now it was all about how to break it to the veterans back at the lodge that the long-haired laaitie with the drone had triumphed first in the unspoken double-digit challenge. Once I showed them the drone footage and the fish, it was funny how even the most ardent fly-fishing traditionalists among them seemed to be kicking towards that corner of Bernard’s Dam that afternoon.