TROUT BOXING

WE SENT LEONARD FLEMMING OFF TO TACKLE AFRICAN WATERS’ INAUGURAL BOKONG FLYATHLON WITH A CLEAR BRIEF: CATCH ALL THE FISH, DRINK ALL THE BEER, CRUSH THE OPPOSITION, WIN THE RACE. FIGHTING ALTITUDE, EGO AND A FIELD OF TRAILRUNNING RACING SNAKES, IT DIDN’T GO QUITE AS PLANNED.

Iglanced over the slippery cliff edge and for a moment entertained one of those fleeting suicidal thoughts that tend to come packaged with precarious heights.

“I can’t breathe…”

“My whole body is aching.”

“I’m defeated.”

“I may as well... jump.”

Brains do weird things when exhausted. While enduring the worst muscle cramps I’ve ever had from running, I guess my brain went into gallows-humour mode but, the truth, is I did feel absolutely finished. While I am used to hiking long distances in the Western Cape mountains to reach relatively untouched waters, jogging nearly continuously for 20km in the thin air of the Lesotho Highlands (with a dad bod) was evidently a completely different ballgame. Altitude was taking its toll. The lack of oxygen gave me muscle spasms and had me panting like a dog chasing feral pigs.

Speaking of pigs, I was no longer worried about the main pig, a chap called Aidan du Preez, who had received special mention during the briefing the previous evening. You see, Aidan is an ichthyologist who works at one of the trout farms on Katse Dam, which the Bokong flows into. Tipped as the favourite, he had been training hard for this endurance fest by running and riding his bike in the surrounding mountains, so he was used to the altitude and familiar with the terrain. Being a fish scientist and a keen fly fisherman from a farm in the Eastern Cape, he was clearly also a clever fishy guy. Everyone considered him to be the main threat and the man to box out with a clever game plan.

The Inaugural Bokong Flyathlon

Where: African Waters’ Makhangoa Community Camp, Bokong River, Lesotho

What: A 20km trail run (the initial five-hour period was extended to six hours during the briefing) next to the Bokong River and participants had to catch at least one fish during the run to qualify (maximum of three fish allowed, of which the length in cm would be deducted from the participant’s running timaze) and drink beer at the end of the race. The concept of combining trail running, fly fishing and drinking beer was born in the States: www. runningrivers.org/flyathlon.

Why: Flyathlon events are used to raise funds to improve river and trail projects. The Makhangoa Community Camp Flyathlon was arranged by African Waters to raise funds for rebuilding a footbridge for school children and community members to safely cross the Bokong River.

On the subject of boxing, it probably makes sense to explain the challenges inherent in an event like this because, make no mistake, a flyathlon is no simple race. A bit like the bizarre mash-up sport of chess boxing where opponents take each other on in alternate rounds of chess and boxing, this race would require both extreme physical exertion (boxing/trail running) and calm, strategic thinking (chess/fly fishing for selective fish). And, of course, nutrition (beer).

By the time I found myself on that cliff I was, however, no longer on Aidan’s back. Like an angry wild boar running away from catch dogs, Aidan was already kilometres ahead of us and I was certain that he’d be the match winner. However, the day before the race, Aidan wasn’t the only competition I’d identified.

There was the boss man, African Waters’ Keith Clover, a marathon athlete, who entered himself and his two pointers into the flyathlon. A bunch of Keith’s trail-running mates from the town of Hilton had also tagged along to Lesotho, and they were all as slim as salmonids and keen fly fishers. Talk about stiff competition!

While there were clearly tough competitors to knock out in the group of runners, I was confident that my choice of pools and knowledge of trout and yellowfish could still come in handy and give me somewhat of a competitive advantage. Afterall, one had to catch at least one fish to qualify for the standings and there was potential to ‘weigh in’ with three fish (photographed with your cellphone next to a tape measure) that could give a lucky fisherman the lead.

Before driving to Lesotho from my home in the Western Cape, I had spent the greater part of my last working day checking out all the big pools on Google Earth. While plotting out the trail online, I found a series of deep cascades about halfway up the designated route. There were four big pools fairly close to each other in this stretch of river and from the dark colour of the water on the satellite image, it was evident that some of them were also lekker deep. Perfect water to hold yellowfish and big trout, or so I thought.

I was wrong. When Michelle, my wife, and I stood next to the pools during the race there were only tiny rainbow trout rising all over the place. We caught a small rainbow each to get off the mark and then started moving up, scratching for bigger fish, only to find Keith and his pointers were already just upstream of us on one of the juiciest-looking pools of the lot. “Bloody bastard!” I said, pointing him out to Michelle. Finding the boss man there, at least I knew we were on good water. The previous day we had caught several big rainbow trout further downstream on the Bokong yet, weirdly enough, during the race and in fact for the entire field of the flyathlon, no yellows or big trout were caught. So it turned into a tiny trout boxing match.

While gasping for air, we still had to formulate our strategy. Do we make a quick move to prevent a check mate position for both of us? Do we risk taking the time to try to find and catch big fish or do we leave the water immediately and finish the race? My fish sense kicked in and I realised that the big fish were simply not on the bite that day and that it would be a wise move to rather push on with the running part of the equation.

We trudged up a steep hill to find the footpath, which seemed more like an animal trail in places, and headed on to the 10km turning point with heavy feet. This is when I could feel things start to go wrong with my legs. I continued to jog down descending sections with Michelle right on my tail, but I had to stop frequently, gasping for air, when marching uphill.

After downing a cold Coke at the guide’s station on the halfway mark, we turned onto the home stretch. About 5km from the finish line we passed one of the African Waters guides on horseback who said, “Keep it up, you guys are just behind Aidan.” Surprised by our position in the race, we pushed a little harder to try to make up some ground.

But then my right leg locked in an untimely fashion, like a telescopic landing net. I sat down in the footpath. Michelle stopped next to me and like a true partner and supportive teammate she tried to motivate me to get up and continue running. “I’m not leaving you here like this!” she said in a determined voice, almost scolding me for telling her to leave me to sulk in peace.

“GO! Just go, otherwise both of us will be dead last,” I scolded back, hoping that she’d actually listen to me for a change.

Surprised and a little heartbroken, I watched my wife turn her back on me and continue running. She got the message and with the bigger picture in mind (her own survival in the race), left me to die like a survivor abandoning their injured climbing partners on K2. I tried to get up and walk the steep hill but stalled close to the top with both legs cramping up on a narrow, slippery section of the path above a cliff face. I was in a proper stalemate situation.

That’s when I peered over the edge of the cliff with mildly suicidal thoughts. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, a chap called Pete Jacobs came shunting past me.

‘Whaaaat de faaaaark?’ I thought as he trotted up the hill like a Basotho pony. As he said, “Good luck mate! Crikey, this run is tough.” I watched him glide past Michelle ahead of me and I understood that I was in deep trouble. With both my legs cramping, which was making me walk like a stickman, I realised people were clearly catching up. The last two and a half kilometres left of the race suddenly looked impossible.

With no drinking water left in my hydration bladder, a dry mouth and pain coursing through my body (and my ego), I eventually wobbled up the last hill before the Makhangoa Community Camp and finished behind Michelle. The cold Maluti Lagers at the end of the race were a welcome refresher and provided much needed electrolytes. While I knew Michelle had won the ladies’ division, I was content just to finish the trout boxing match.

At the dinner/prizegiving, everyone was very surprised that Pete, a trail runner/spearfisherman/fly fisherman from Durban, had beaten Aidan. Pete managed to catch three sizeable rainbows which gave him the edge as their collective length in centimetres deducted enough minutes from his running time to box Aidan out of first place. Talk about a dark horse snatching the win!

Regardless of placings, nearly all participants received a prize at this event. I got the prize for the person with the most cramps and, with that, a new Scientific Anglers fly line, three spools of tippet material, and a box of anticramp tablets. The tablets came in very handy the next day, which was spent with Michelle fishing upstream of camp when some beautiful smallmouth yellowfish and trout that had been hiding during the race made an appearance.