Una delle caratteristiche salienti degli esseri viventi è la capacità di adattarsi ai cambiamenti e su questa evidenza si sono scatenate le teorie evoluzionistiche del secolo scorso. Senza scomodare Darwin, anche noi pescatori con alcune primavere sulle spalle, ci accorgiamo che l’ambiente di pesca, le abitudini alimentari, le schiuse cambiano con una repentinità percepibile. I pesci bollano con minore frequenza anche a causa della comparsa dei dannati cormorani e gli insetti che eravamo soliti attenderci in un determinato periodo dell’anno, non sempre si presentano all’appuntamento nella quantità e con le caratteristiche attese.

Un esempio emblematico di questa realtà sono i chronomi, ovvero quegli insetti dell’ordine dei ditteri (fanno parte della stessa famiglia delle tipule e delle mosche comuni e sono morfologicamente simili alle zanzare, senza la fastidiosa necessità di succhiare sangue per procreare) che schiudono pressoché ovunque e fanno sempre più parte della dieta dei pinnuti da noi insidiati.

Si tratta di una specie molto diffusa in tutte le acque del globo (specie in quelle a rilevante eutrofizzazione), resistente a sbalzi di temperature davvero notevoli,

bisognosa di una limitata quantità di ossigeno per sopravvivere e gradita ai pesci sia nella forma larvale, sia in quella pupale o di emergente, sia in quella adulta. Questa capacità di vivere anche dove il livello di ossigeno è particolarmente ridotto è dovuta all’atla concentrazione di emoglobina nell’emolinfa del corpo che consente ai ditteri di utilizzare al meglio il prezioso gas disciolto nell’acqua. Ciò non è tipico di altre specie subacquee e pertanto i chironomi operano una specie di sostituzione: al diminuire del titolo di ossigeno, si contrae il numero di effimere, tricotteri e specialmente plecotteri ed aumentano in maniera esponenziale i citati ditteri.

La diminuzione dell’ossigeno può essere causata da una serie di fattori. Quello maggiormente frequente è l’immissione nel corpo d’acqua di sostanze che necessitano chimicamente di ossigeno, come ad esempio scarichi fognari, agricoli o di allevamento di animali, tutte condizioni, ahimè, piuttosto usuali nelle nostre acque dolci che – in barba a leggi, decreti e regolamenti – sono il ricettacolo ultimo dell’altrui opera.

E’evidente che la maggiore capacità di convivere con fattori inquinanti e la minore sensibilità alle variazioni climatiche rende possibili schiuse di chironomi durante tutto l’anno: anzi, proprio nei periodi invernali quando tutte le altre specie sono pressoché assenti, i chironomi la fanno da padrone.

Un tempo, in periodi di chiusura della pesca alla trota e specialmente durante i giorni più freddi dell’anno, si poteva assistere alla schiusa di qualche sparuta effimera nelle ore più calde del giorno.

Provate oggi ad andare a valle dello scarico di un depuratore di acque reflue urbane a verificare la presenza di insetti: quasi certamente si noteranno sciami di chironomi che si alzano dall’acqua ad ondate durante tutta la giornata.

Attesa quindi l’importanza di tale insetto per la pesca con la mosca anche in acque nostrane, sorge l’obbligo di comprendere – per sommi capi – la tecnica necessaria a pescare anche con le sue imitazioni.

La larva è di tipo bentonico, in altre parole, vive e si nutre sul fondo e lo stadio larvale è di interesse specialmente per il pescatore di lago. Gli inglesi ne hanno fatta una scienza della pesca con il “buzzer”: coda intermedia ed una calata di tre/quattro mosche lanciate in favore di corrente, lasciate derivare e recuperate con movimenti lentissimi e massima attenzione per percepire anche la più sottile esitazione causata da un’abboccata. Per questa pesca specialistica si utilizzano imitazioni della larva cartterizzate da amo curvo, corpo con visibile rigaggio su colori vari (nero, rosso, verde) e torace più pronunciato. Spesse volte le imitazioni di buzzer incorporano colori sgargianti e materiale riflettente, proprio a riprodurre il colore rosso vivo dovuto alla robusta quantità di emoglobina presente nell’emolinfa della larva (non a caso alcune imitazioni di chironomo allo stadio larvale portano la denominazione di “bloodworm” o verme di sangue).

Lo stadio maggiormente interessante per chi pesca in acque correnti è quello di emergente ed adulto.

Il chironomo si avvicina alla superficie e attraverso i tubi branchiali assorbe aria dall’esterno per completare la sua metamorfosi: in questi brevi istanti, l’insetto si trova in una posizione particolarmente riconoscibile e vulnerabile. Appare come una specie di virgola segmentata, appesa appena sotto la superficie dell’acqua, assolutamente inerme ed incapace di muoversi per un lasso di tempo sufficiente al pesce per avvicinarsi e ghermirlo. Nelle acque più calme e nei rigiri di corrente, spesso capita di osservare pesci che rimangono nei pressi della superficie e si spostano percorrendo una traiettoria circolare che permette loro di individuare e predare svariati chironomi emergenti, prima di ritornare alla postazione originaria. Fra l’altro, la bollata sul chironomo è caratteristica, poiché avviene nella maggior parte dei casi subito sotto la superficie, senza la creazione di bolle causate dall’aspirazione di aria.

Questo comportamento differisce da quello adottato in presenza di altri insetti: con le effimere il pesce resta ben saldo nei pressi della sua posizione, spostandosi verticalmente per intercettare l’insetto; con i chironomi la traiettoria è imprevedibile e risulta indispensabile prevedere il percorso del pesce al fine di presentare l’esca nella posizione più adatta. Ci si dovrà munire di finali sufficientemente minuti e di code leggere che permettano pose lievi, tali da non spaventare la preda, e di imitazioni che siano fedeli e visibili a noi ed al pesce. Le imitazioni di larva di chironomo sono semplicissime da costruire poiché devono rappresentare un elementare vermetto rossiccio di dimensioni minute: un esempio di larva è il celebre San Juan Worm americano, costruito con un segmento di ciniglia floccata, rastremata alle estremità e fissata al gambo dell’amo con poche spire di filo di montaggio. Non ci si lasci tentare dalla facile scorciatoia di realizzare artificiali di dimersioni vicine a lombrichi da giardino: la grande maggioranza di larve di chironomo rinvenibili nelle acque nostrane raggiunge il centimetro e mezzo di lunghezza e non di più. In superficie, molti sono i dressing ideati per raffigurare l’insetto adulto di chironomo fra cui il celebre Griffith’s Gnat di George Griffith, uno dei fondatori di Trout Unlimited, che consiste in un semplicissimo herl di pavone avvolto attorno al gambo dell’amo, seguito da una hackle di gallo grizzly. Si tratta di un’imitazione non specifica, ma è buon compromesso per chi deve realizzare un’esca minuta, galleggiante e facile da scorgere. L’errore nel quale involontariamente si cade, è quello di comporre un artificiale troppo voluminoso e ricco di hackle. Se pensiamo alla leggerezza di una zanzara (come detto, parente stretta del chironomo e morfologicamente simile), avremo la percezione di quanto debba essere scarno il nostro artificiale. Un solo herl di pavone avvolto in spire non troppo serrate ed una hackle grizzly, possibilmente privata delle fibre di un lato del calamo per renderne ancora più rada la densità. La mosca, seppur ridotta, galleggerà benone ed avrà motle più possibilità di ingannare il nostro avversario.

Un’altra imitazione che può esere utiilzzata con successo è una mosca dalle molteplici origini, conosciuta sotto diversi nomi: Exquise o Diabolo per dirla alla francese, Fore and Aft or Knotted Midge per gli anglofoni. Si tratta di una mosca che presenta due collari di hackle, uno in testa ed uno in coda. Il corpo è in genere formato dallo stesso filo di montaggio senza un rigaggio specifico. Anche in questo caso, i collari di hackle devono essere sufficienti a sorreggere il peso dell’amo, ma non di più: l’effetto lieve dell’imitazione va preservato ed è spesso necessario farsi violenza per evitare di aggiungere quel paio di spire che ci sembrano ovvie e che rischiano di compromettere l’apparenza  di una mosca che deve sembrare quasi impalpabile.

I chironomi possono misurare da pochi millimetri ad un centimetro e mezzo di lunghezza: sono – ovviamente e per il piacere massimo di noi pescatori – molto più frequenti nelle dimensioni più minute e pertanto risultano non semplici da imitare e soprattutto non facili a vedersi una volta poggiati sulla superficie dell’acqua. Al contrario, un’imitazzione facile da costruire e da vedere e che ha dimostrato negli anni la sua efficacia è lo Shuttlecock o palla da volano, elaborata dai costruttori inglesi negli anni passati. Si tratta di un corpo di chironomo montato su di un amo curvo, accoppiato con un ciuffo di fibre di CDC in testa : l’amo perfora la superficie dell’acqua, mentre il CDC rimane all’esterno a segnalare la posizione dell’artificiale. È un’accoppiata ideale poiché l’esca si allinea perfettamente, con il corpo in verticale (proprio come il naturale nel momento della schiusa) e con il ciuffo che svetta , permettendoci di scorgere l’esca anche a notevole distanza e senza eccessivi sforzi visivi. A pagina 74-75 trovate il montaggio di una delle versioni di Shuttlecock che ha dimostrato la sua efficacia anche per le trote che popolano le nostre acque; i colori possono essere variati, tenendo presente che i naturali presentano toni di grigio, verde, talora rosso e molto spesso nero. Se a ciò aggiungiamo che il pesce vede il chironomo contro uno sfondo chiaro, ci convinceremo dell’inutilità di riempire le scatole nostre e dei nostri amici con mosche costruite con una pletora di colori differenti. La Shuttlecock è semplice da montare e rappresenta un buon compromesso imitativo del chironomo nella sua fase emergente, quando è maggiormente vulnerabile e facile preda di trote, temoli e pesci che bollano. La pesca con il chironomo tuttavia, non è semplice da attuare: i pesci si muovono in acque perlopiù lente ed hanno tutto il tempo per soffermarsi ad ispezionare la nostra insidiosa offerta. Non ci si attenda, quindi, un’abboccata ad ogni lancio, ma piuttosto un numero imprecisato di tentativi nel proporre l’esca, cercando ogni volta di migliorare la presentazione, allungando il terminale e scendendo di diametro sino al livello di massima pericolosità.

Se fosse tutto facile, che gusto ci sarebbe ?

Have you ever been on a fishing trip, long planned and much anticipated, where nothing seems to go right for you? You arse up just stepping out of the helicopter and give yourself a good one on the shin, a bruise that over the following days blossoms plump and purple like a Baccara rose. And that’s just the beginning.

You promptly trump this with another act, stepping on the loose end of a vine with one foot, with the other tripping over the noose you’ve thus created. You want to break the fall with your hands, but they are full of camping gear and heavy supermarket bags, and your backpack, well, it’s just big and inert enough to prevent a recovery.

Your companions help you up and give you puzzled looks. They are probably thinking: “What’s up with him?

We all like a good drink but this is ridiculous. It’s not even lunchtime yet.” And you, too, wonder: what the hell is going on? Is this me or some nasty taniwha whose home ground I have just entered and who clearly does not want me here?

Soon enough you’re convinced it’s probably both, because things get worse from there. On the river, you tangle up repeatedly, spook every trout you see, hook yourself with your own fly, and naturally it is one of only a handful in the fly box that have not been de-barbed.

To further compound the aggravation, your companions are having the time of their lives. That first night in the headwaters of the Rangitikei, one of the best and most remote of the North Island backcountry rivers, after we set up a camp of three tents and a large “living room” tarp in the forest clearing, Michel Dedual trotted off for an evening hunt and only ten minutes up the creek bagged a decent-sized sika deer. He brought it down, dressed and hung it inside a large mesh meat safe, then, going down to the creek to wash his hands, he spotted a fish rising in the camp pool. He ran up to get his rod, ran back, and hooked the six-pound trout with his first cast. Pool below, I was with Marc, watching him hook and fight an equally magnificent rainbow. When night fell all I had to show for the day was a limp, a grazed elbow, and an increasingly foul mood.

But then we were all three back in the camp, and the fire, wine and good food worked their purifying wizardry. I stared into the flames, sipping another glass of red and thought: “Hey, anyone can have a false start, a bad day, and mine was just about over.” Earlier, I had poured some wine on the dry ground and the beech leaves that cushioned it, a kind of peace offering to the taniwha, if there was one. You never know, better safe than sorry. I certainly did not want to fight it for another day, or fight my ten-thumbs, two-left-feet self.

The upper Rangitikei, clear as spring water, snakes a contorted passage through the volcanic hills of the Kaimanawa Forest Park, east of the Tongariro River. The fishing here is hard and honest at the best of times, without added challenges or handicaps. You don’t come here to “clean up pools.” Every fish is a hard win, a major victory, and that’s providing you are at your best, assertive and sharp. Tomorrow, I promised myself, was a fresh start, a tabula rasa I would fill with perfect first casts and beautiful fighting fish. No pratfalls and blunders. No goof-ups. No excuses. I fell asleep with visions of rainbows racing each other to take those beautiful CDC dries Marc was tying.

I have to tell you about Marc. This, after all, was his trip, his story. He had travelled halfway around the world for these five days on the Rangitikei, and Michel especially did all in his considerable power to make them a memorable outing, at least as far as organising went. Once on the river Marc needed no help at all. As Pasteur said, “Good fortune favours the prepared mind”, and Marc Petitjean was more prepared than most. “If you define the problem, the solution is often obvious”, he told me that first night, apropos of nothing. “People often get pissed off with themselves, and they don’t know why. They never take time to precisely identify what bugs them. If they did, the remedy would be self-evident”. These were wise words, but they were lost on me at the time.

Next morning, while doing the dishes on the riverbank, I scooped a large mayfly nymph – probably a Nesameletus – out of the river and into my stainless steel mug. It was hard not to. The aquatic insect life in the Rangitikei is so prolific that every time you dip a pot, plate or even cupped hands in the water you’re likely to capture one or more of the little beasts. No wonder the trout grow so large here.

I took the mug with the critter swimming in circles along the bottom back to the camp. Marc examined it closely, then set up his tying vise and whipped up a dozen or so imitations in three sizes, with tungsten heads and all-CDC bodies. Then he tied a handful of CDC dries, his generic mayfly pattern with an added white parachute post for high visibility. These would serve us as indicators, with the post made from the tail hair of the sika deer that was hanging from a nearby tree. Though we had brought with us enough flies to start a riverside tackle shop, in the end these two patterns were the only ones we would use. The Rangitikei fish either took them within the first couple of casts, or took nothing at all.

After Marc had his nymph pattern figured out, Michel Dedual, a Turangi fisheries scientist and the nemesis of red and sika deer, wild pigs and Taupo trout, took the mug back to the river, a walk of some 20 metres or so, and upended it, releasing the critter back into its home water, muttering something about la pauvre bête. It was a small gesture, but a telling one. I knew that, taniwhas or my own demons notwithstanding, I was in fine company.

We were fishing in French. This was only natural, since both Marc and Michel come from the French-speaking Swiss canton of Fribourg, and I once lived not far from there and have always been something of a closet Francophile – even when, after the Rainbow Warrior and Chirac’s follies at Moruroa, the simple act of buying ink cartridges for a French-made fountain pen in New Zealand was considered an act of national treason.

It is an obscure and oft-overlooked historical fact – a classic case of the butterfly effect – that if, at the decisive moment of the European colonisation of the Pacific, a certain Monsieur Langlois had driven his whaling ship Cachalot with just a little bit more haste, the way the French usually drive, the South Island could well have been not part of the Commonwealth but the Nouvelle-France of the South. Imagine that. We could have had topless beaches and chocolate from the Côte d’Or, boeuf braisé and coq au vin instead of pies and KFC, champignons instead, of mushrooms, vineyards as thick as native forests and scholarships at La Sorbonne. The two islands would be like England and France, with the Cook Strait for the Channel. How different things could have been … how drôle ! At times, I still feel a certain nostalgie for such scenario.

I have also always had a fondness for French fishermen and women because most of those I’ve met have in small or profound ways influenced my own way of fly fishing. I’ve yet to meet a French angler who was a hack, whose casting was less than masterly, whose fly box wasn’t a treasure trove of ideas and surprises. Whatever they do, the French usually do it with passion and abandon, and these they match with an overkill of skill and the best and most innovative gear money can buy. You’d be hard pushed to find a better example of all that than Marc Petitjean.

French born but living and working in Switzerland, Petitjean is the man responsible for the modern-day renaissance of CDC flies, both dries and nymphs, and especially the CDC-only flies which are one of his own contributions to our art and pursuit. When he is tying, his hands are a blur, a testimony to some 25,000 flies he has produced each year for the past decade, using up over a quarter tonne of Croupion de Canard (bastardised into Cul de Canard, cul being a slang word for the backside, where the duck’s waterproofing gland is located.) Think about it: a quarter tonne of CDC is a quack-load of ducks.

Apart from earning himself the title “the pope of CDC,” Marc has brought a Swiss-army-knife style of technology and engineering to the world and the fly-tying bench of anglers. His vise, vest and fly-tying accessories and tools, after you’ve seen them for the first time, instantly fall into a must-have category, if you’re lucky enough to obtain them. His bobbin holders, for example, as easy to thread as striking a match, are in such demand he cannot produce enough of them. And now, from first-hand experience, I can tell you he is as good an angler as he is an engineer and inventor. Watching him fish, laying out long and accurate casts and adjusting them just so with measured mends, is as pleasurable as doing it yourself. In my sorry asinine state on the Rangitikei, it was actually better than doing it myself.

In the morning we started up the river, zigzagging against its meanders, linking up shoulder to shoulder for the crossings, stalking the tails and eyes of every pool. The middle parts of pools, sandy, deep and slow-moving, were impossible. The fish, like submarines, were either parked right at the bottom or finned leisurely in circles, nymphing among the dust devils of debris, completely out of reach. With good sunlight, against the background of mossy cliffs and forest, the fish were easy to see, but catching one – well, for the first few hours at least it seemed beyond the ability of any of us.

Though the water was not yet heavily fished this season – only a few parties had visited thus far – the trout were exceptionally wary, probably due more to the water  clarity than angling pressure. Browns you could not touch. Even lifting a rod to initiate a cast was enough to send them off at speed. Rainbows were more forgiving, but only slightly. One in three or four fish offered what I’d consider a fair chance of being caught, and these odds did not take into account human error or gaucherie.

With three of us on the river, I had only two opportunities that day. On the first I hung up a cast, and by the time I untangled my line the fish was gone. On the second, an unexpected gust of downstream wind doubled back my 16-foot leader and dumped it on top of the fish. It was like throwing a rock at it: one moment it was there, the next it was gone, dematerialised. Was this mongrel of a taniwha still following me? I gritted my teeth and took solace in watching the faultless travails of my companions. Despite heavy odds to the contrary, Marc eked out two beautiful fish, and Michel had another one. This, the latter assured us, was really good going in the Rangitikei. And all this happened even before the godsend of the evening rise.

Even if the fishing is hard, the Rangitikei offers a saving grace in the form of an evening mayfly hatch. Fish that are so difficult during the day are suddenly bolder and more visible, and just careless enough to be humbugged. Thus a skunk here is not really a skunk until the night falls fully.

Even if you have not touched a thing all day, you can relax in the confidence that the half hour of twilight during the evening rise should produce opportunities which can be converted into fish with even a modicum of skill. Unless, of course, you have your demons for company, or make a cock-up of a stratagem, like I did that second night.

On the classic South Island dry-fly rivers I fish regularly, you can assume that, if there’s going to be an evening rise, it’ll happen in the slower, smoother bottom third of the pool. I am not quite sure why it is so, whether this is where the mayflies are more likely to hatch, or perhaps where the fish can see them better. But you can bank on it, especially if, along the deeper side of the river, there are defining features like trailing willow branches or bushes which create a funnel-like effect in the feedline. This is the spot the best fish would dominate, a place of primary focus for an observant angler.

So that night, as we divided a long cliff pool into thirds so each of us had enough room to fish, I took the bottom section and, all gear ready and double-checked, set out to wait.

And wouldn’t you know it, the Rangitikei trout do not rise in the tail of the pool. They rise at the top end, just below the whitewater of the riffle. In the dimming twilight some fifty metres above me I heard a heavy splash, then Michel’s laughter echoed down off the cliff bank.

“Hah! She is a beauty, this one!”

It wasn’t long before Marc had a fish on too, then Michel again. In the space of an intense few minutes they landed half a dozen fine rainbows, while absolutely nothing was happening at my end.

It was almost dark when, finally-Mon Dieu! Was this really possible?-a fish rose some ten metres in front of me. I’d been ready for the past half hour, line coiled at my feet, fly kept dry in my left hand, and so instantly I had the dainty CDC with its white punk hairdo in the trout’s window of vision. Another rise. I held off for just a moment then gingerly lifted the rod. There was a violent tug back against my pull, then, where the rise had been, a hefty fish leaped, flashing silver against the gloom of the forested cliffs. It bounced off the surface and jumped higher still, then buried deep into the inky water, tearing off all the loose line I had at my feet and a goodly length from the reel as well.

Now I had it on the reel, in control. My throat went lumpy and dry. Man, finally. I had a fish on. I was back. Back from the lala-land of botchery and blunder. And not a moment too soon. This place was far too special, too once-in-a-lifetime kind of water to fish it like a twonk.

I reeled in some line, and the fish pulled it back, and I gained it again. The reel sang, these were the sweetest moments. And then, would you believe it, the fish broke me off. Just like that. Twang! What was touted as “the world’s strongest fluorocarbon” snapped like the tying thread pulled too tight. I wanted to sit down on the bank and howl.

Find out how Derek Grzelewski comes through at the 11^th hour to catch and land a Rangitikei trophy rainbow…

The Trout Diaries is available at all good bookshops nationwide from July 2011, RRP $39.99. 

Publisher: David Bateman Ltd

www.batemanpublishing.co.nz

Visit www.derekgrzelewski.com/books for free First Chapter and reviews

PHOTOS, in sequence

Marc Petitjean and Derek’s ‘constant

companion’, Maya the Airedale, take a rest

Illustrations from this chanter

Marc releases a chunky rainbow

Derek and Maya, flying out of the Rangitikei

foto’s : Patrick Daniels en Dominic De bruyn

Na de workshops die de FVV de voorbije jaren georganiseerd heeft voor de werpinstructeurs van de aangesloten clubs was het hoog tijd om iets te doen voor de vliegbindinstructeurs.

Op zaterdag 19 maart organiseerde de FVV een eerste doorgedreven workshop onder leiding van Marc Petitjean in het auditorium van het Maascentrum ‘De Wissen’. Het was een unieke gelegenheid voor een 40-tal vliegbindinstructeurs van de bij FVV aangesloten clubs om nader kennis te maken met CDC in al zijn vormen en mogelijkheden aan de hand van verschillende bindtechnieken.

De dag werd opgedeeld in een 5-tal sessies van telkens een uur. Alle technieken werden in close-up gefilmd en achter Marc Petitjean op een groot scherm geprojecteerd zodat geen enkel detail kon verloren gaan. Tijdens de binddemonstraties was het muisstil. Alle soorten van vliegen kwamen aan bod en na elke sessie nam Marc Petitjean ruimschoots de tijd om bijkomende vragen te beantwoorden. De meer complexe handelingen werden opnieuw geanalyseerd en voorzien van extra uitleg.

De Sessies :

Eerste sessie : de geschiedenis van de ‘Cul de Canard’ –vliegen en hun ontwerpers. Het verhaal van CDC vangt aan begin 1920 in Vallorbe, aan de Zwitserse oevers van de Doubs, met Charles Bickel en Maximilien Joset. Aan de hand van verschillende bindtechnieken van vliegen grasduint Marc Petitjean verder naar meer recentere tijden. Patterns van Jean-Paul Pequenot, Louis Veya, Henri Bresson en Aimé Devaux komen uitgebreid aan bod. Bij de “F”-vlieg Marjan Fratnik en de CDC-hackle-techniek van Gerhard Laible wordt wat langer stilgestaan.

Tweede sessie : de eerste serie CDC-vliegen die Marc Petitjean ontwikkelde. Deze patronen vormen de basis van de uitgebreide MP-collectie en zijn nog steeds zijn ‘bestsellers’. Wanneer je Marc Petitjean enkele voorbeelden uit deze reeks ziet binden lijkt het allemaal zó eenvoudig, maar vlug wordt het duidelijk dat de techniek die er achter schuil gaat toch heel wat meer oefening vergt dan we denken. Eerst bindt hij de vlieg voor op het tempo dat hij normaal hanteert. Daarna bindt hij dezelfde vlieg een tweede maal, maar nu stap voor stap met de nodige uitleg, de trucs en de valkuilen die je moet proberen te vermijden.

Vanaf de derde sessie komt de ‘Magic Tool’ op de proppen evenals het splitsen van de binddraad. Hier worden, opnieuw aan de hand van verschillende patronen, de mogelijkheden en het gebruik van dit hulpmiddeltje grondig uitgelegd. Tot onze verbazing zien we dat het gebruik van CDC zich niet enkel hoeft te beperken tot droge vliegen. Onderwater-imitaties en verzwaarde nimfen krijgen extra beweeglijkheid wanneer ze worden gebonden met CDC. In de vierde sessie leren we dat de ‘Magic Tool’ voor veel meer dan alleen maar CDC-vliegen kan gebruikt worden. Het mixen van verschillende soorten van dubbingmaterialen, hackles en tinsels wordt plots heel eenvoudig.

De vijfde en laatste sessie gaat over het binden met de ‘Magic Head’ en de verschillende toepassingen hierop. Dit laatste luik wordt afgesloten met achtergrondinformatie over het design van zijn verschillende producten en hoe hij op deze ideeën gekomen is.

Dat het gebruik van CDC in kunstvliegen zich vanaf eind jaren tachtig verspreid heeft over de hele wereld is voor een groot deel te danken aan Marc Petitjean. De eerste serie van vliegen die hij commercieel op de markt bracht oogden niet alleen goed; het bleken stuk voor stuk vangers te zijn. De ‘moeilijke’ vissen waren plots terug vangbaar.

Alle deelnemers aan deze instructiedag waren het er unaniem over eens dat ze een fantastische dag beleefd hadden. Bovendien verstaat MARC Petitjean de kunst om ten gepaste tijde de nodige humor in te lassen zodat zijn uiteenzetting geen saaie bedoening is. In het najaar gaat de FVV een vervolg te breien aan dit type van workshop met een andere grootmeester op vliegbindgebied.

 By Derek Grzelewski

Have you ever been on a fishing trip, a long-planned and much anticipated, where nothing goes right for you? You arse up just stepping out of the helicopter and give yourself a good one on the shin. You promptly trump this with another act, stepping on the loose end of a vine with one foot, with the other tripping over the noose you’ve thus created. You want to break the fall with your hands but they are full of camping gear and heavy supermarket bags, and your backpack, well, it’s just big and inert enough to prevent a recovery. Your companions help you up and give you puzzled looks. And you too wonder: What’s going on? Is it just me or some nasty local taniwha who clearly does not want me here?

Maybe it’s both because things get even worse. On the river, you tangle up, spook every trout you see, hook yourself with your own fly, the one you did not yet de-barb. By contrast, your companions are having time of their lives. That first night in the headwaters of the Rangitikei, after we set up a camp in the forest clearing, Michel trotted off for an evening hunt and only minutes up the creek bagged a decent-size sika deer. He brought it down, dressed and hung it from a tree, then, going down to the creek to wash his hands, he spotted a fish rising in the camp pool. He ran back for his rod and hooked the six-pound trout first cast. A pool below I was with Marc, watching him fight an equally magnificent rainbow. When the night fell all I had to show for was a limp, a grazed elbow, and an increasingly foul mood.

But then we were back in the camp, the fire, wine and good food working their wizardry. I stared into the flames, sipping another glass of red and thought: “Hey, anyone can have a false start, a bad day, and mine is just about over.” Earlier, I even spilled some wine on the ground, a peace offering to the taniwha, if there was one. I certainly did not want to fight it for another day.

The upper Rangitikei, clear like spring water, snakes a contorted passage through the volcanic hills of the Kaimanawa Forest Park, east of the Tongariro. The fishing here is hard and honest, every fish a major victory, and that’s providing you are at your best, sharp and assertive. Tomorrow, I promised myself, was a tabula rasaI should fill with perfect casts and beautiful fish. No pratfalls and blunders. I fell asleep with the vision of rainbows racing each other for those beautiful CDC dries Marc was tying.

I have to tell you about Marc. This was, after all, his trip. He had travelled halfway around the world for these five days on the Rangitikei, and Michel, especially, did all he could to make those days into a memorable outing. Once on the river Marc needed no help at all. As Pasteur said, “Good fortune favours the prepared mind” and Marc Petitjean was more prepared than most.

“If you define the problem, the solution is often obvious”, he told me that first night, apropos nothing. “People often get pissed off with themselves and they don’t know why. They never take time to precisely identify what bugs them. If they did, the remedy would be self-evident”.

Wise words but lost on me at the time. The next morning I scooped out a large mayfly nymph out of the river with my stainless steel mug. The aquatic insect life in the Ranfitikei is so prolific, every time you dip a pot, a plate or even cupped hands in the water you capture one of the little beasts. No wonder the trout grow so large here.

I took the mug back to the camp and Marc examined the critter closely, then whipped up a dozen or so imitations in three sizes. He also tied a handful of CDC dries, his generic mayfly pattern with an added white parachute post for high visibility. The post was made from the tail hair of Michel’s deer. Though we had brought with us enough flies to start a riverside tackle shop, in the end these two patterns were the only ones we would use. The Rangitikei fish either took them within the first couple of casts or they would not take anything at all.

If you have not heard of him before, Marc Petttjean is the man responsible for the modem-day global renaissance of the CDC flies, both dries and nymphs. When he is tying, his hands are a blur, a testimony to some 25,000 flies he has produced each year during the past decade, using up over a quarter tonne of Cul de Canard plumes.

Marc had also brought the Swiss-army-knife kind of technology and engineering into the world and the bench of fly anglers. His vise, vest and fly tying tools, after you’ve seen them for the first time, instantly fall into a must-have category. His bobbin holders, for example, as easy to thread as striking a match, are in such demand he simply cannot produce enough of them. His fishing too turned out to be as elegant as his gear.

In the morning we started up the river. With good sunlight and the background of mossy cliffs the fish were easy to see but, for a while, catching one seemed beyond the abilities of any of us. Browns, you could not touch. Even lifting a rod to initiate a cast was enough to send them off at speed. One in three or four rainbows offered a fair chance and these odds did not take into account human errors or gaucherie.

I had only two opportunities that day. On one, I hung up a cast and by the time I untangled the fish was gone. On the other, an unexpected gust of downstream wind dumped my 16-foot leader on top of the fish. It was like throwing a rock at it: one moment it was there, the next it was gone, dematerialised. Was this mongrel of a taniwha still following me? I gritted my teeth and took solace in watching the faultless travails of my companions. Despite the odds, Marc had eked out two beautiful fish, and Michel had another one. For a day on Rangitikei it was really good going, and all this happened even before the godsend of the evening rise.

With the onset of the nightly mayfly hatch, the fish so difficult during the day suddenly become bolder and more visible, even a little careless. Even if you had not touched a thing all day you could relax in confidence that the twilight half an hour should produce enough opportunities to be converted into fish with even a modicum of skill. Unless, of course, you have your demons for company, and make a foolish gamble like I did.

On the classic South Island dry-fly rivers I fish regularly, if there’s going to be an evening rise, you can fairly assume it’ll happen in the slower, smoother bottom third of a pool. So as we divided a long cliff pool into thirds, I chose that very section then, all gear ready and double-checked, set out to wait.

And wouldn’t you know it, the Rangitikei trout do not rise in the tail of the pool. They rise at the top end, just below the whitewater of the riffle. In the dimming twilight some fifty metres above I heard a heavy splash, then Michel’s laughter echoed down the cliff bank.

“Hah! She is a beauty, this one!”

It wasn’t long before Marc had a fish too. In the space of intense thirty minutes they landed half a dozen fine rainbows between them while absolutely nothing happened at my end.

It was almost dark when, finally, a fish rose some ten metres in front of me. Instantly I had the CDC mayfly in the trout’s window of vision. Another rise and moment later, a violent tug against my line. Then, where the rise had been, a hefty fish leaped, flashing silver against the gloom of the forested cliffs. It bounced off the surface twice, then buried deep into the inky water, tearing off fathoms of line.

Now I had it on the reel, under control. My throat was lumpy and dry. Man, finally. I had a fish on. I was back from the lala-land of botchery and blunder. The reel sang, these were the sweetest moments. Then, would you believe it – Twang ! –  the fish broke me off. “The world’s strongest fluorocarbon” snapped like the tying thread pulled too tight. I wanted to sit down on the bank and howl.

The next morning we packed for an overnight bivvy and headed back up the river. Half-heartedly I plodded behind the others, deriving what pleasure I could from watching them fish. I hooked a nice fish early in the morning -first cast, good take, no problems. But then the little steel Mikro-ring which connected my leader to the fluorocarbon tippet, well, if….Yeah, I wouldn’t believe that either.

Still, there was another sure-bet evening rise. This time I’d have a whole pool to myself. I claimed the one near the camp – long, deep, well-structured, untouched for days.

“Good choice,” Michel approved. “Every evening I spent here we’ve always caught really nice fish.” Then they both went a couple of pool upstream and I was left alone.

I built a small fire away from the river, and much later, after it got completely dark, I watched the lights of my friends’ two head torches groping their way back down and across the river, toward my fire.

“How did it go?” I asked when they arrived.

“Fabuleux!” Marc exulted. “We had a double.”

“A trophy?”

“No, a double hook-up,” he corrected. “We got others, too, four or five altogether. And you?”

Well, what could I say? All evening not a single fish rose in Michel’s never-fail pool. The most troubling thing was that, by now, I wasn’t even surprised.

The night was rough. It rained, softly at first, then harder, and our little tarp leaked, and sagged and flapped in the wind. Despite all that I slept well, totally at peace with myself. The previous evening by the fire, I had a little tête-à-tête with the demon.

“Listen you son of a bitch,” I told him. “Enough is enough. I can take a day of this, two days max, but not the whole trip. Why don’t you stop being such a sadist and let a guy catch himself a fish or two!’

Word by word, I worked myself into quite a soliloquy, unloading my sorrows and grievances, after a time at no one in particular. It was like a psychotherapy session, minus the shrink. The North American Indians call this sort of thing a sweat lodge, only that they really sweat their stuff out in an improvised steam sauna.

I don’t know if this in any way defined my problems, made the solution obvious and self-evident but I woke up feeling fresh and free. The rain had discoloured the river but not too much. We could still spot the fish but they could no longer see the ruse of drifting artificials. Marc and Michel quickly had a fish each, then there was a long barren stretch without much holding water.

Partway through it we hesitated whether to go on. It was nearly midday and we had a long descent ahead of us. The vis was poor at times. Gusts of wind played havoc with our casts spooking fish and the sky darkened again promising more rain. Both Marc and Michel were happy to head back. They already had an impressive tally of fish, and me, well, by now I’d sort of given up on ever catching one here.

Still, we lingered, teetering in indecision. Was it really it then? The end of the trip? Then someone said, “Hell, why not! Let’s go up another couple more pools. “This was a turning point for me, clear and obvious though only with the benefit of hindsight.

We were coming to the first large pool in a while when from up ahead Michel called :

“Dereque! Here’s one for you. He’s taking everything that’s passing by!’

Great, I thought. How’s that for show of confidence in my skills. But maybe I needed a fish like that, a real dumbo, one that would take a cigarette butt if you floated it past without drag.

I got into position, took a deep steadying breath and cast. There was not the slightest hesitation in the trout’s swaying dance. It took my nymph, then another natural, then another still, then, suddenly feeling the tension of my line, erupted out of the water. It jumped again, and again, flapping all the way up, like a salmon trying to leap over an obstacle. Wonder of wonders, nothing went wrong. The knots held, the hook did not come out, there were no tangles. I beached him in a little bay of sand, a solid Rangitikei rainbow, all spotted chrome and crimson fire. Unhooked, he was gone in a flash and I was left breathing hard, the hands still trembling.

Meanwhile, Michel was into another fish and was briskly leading it downstream, with Marc following, taking pictures. I wanted to be alone, to relish the moment and my turnaround, and I went upstream, no more than a dozen paces. There I saw it, at the bottom between two boulders, a long dark smudge, soft and swaying with exquisite fluidity.

I felt strangely calm, absolved from my dog days of bad luck and gaucherie, with a mind that was pure and unafraid of screwing up. I put a single cast ahead of the boulders. As if in slow motion, I watched the fish veer to my side and take. Next thing I was running downstream, hot-footing over the stones, taking up the slack as I ran. My line wrapped around the reel handle but I caught just in time, and I had the fish on the reel, sword-fighting it left and right against its furious runs.

Then I was kneeling over it in the same sandy bay and I felt my companions peering over my shoulders.

“Très bien fait!”, Marc enthused.  “Fabuleux! “

“You ever caught a fish that big?“ Michel asked, a lopsided grin stretching his moustache.

“Well, sure…” I started but then I took another look at my trout. He wasn’t particularly long, but he was deep and broad, with the brilliant metallic skin that seemed too small for him.

“How heavy you think he is?” I asked.

“A ten,” Michel said.

“Naw! You sure?” I was incredulous.

“Ah, easy.”

We had all years ago dispensed with carrying the scales so there was no way of verifying this.

‘I think you can trust his judgement,” Marc said later and I had to agree. In his work as a trout scientist for the Taupo fishery Michel gets to handle and weigh hell of a lot of trout.

But f shall never know for sure if the fish was a double and maybe it’s better that way. It was certainly the biggest fish of the trip.

The last morning I walked with Marc up a tributary which entered the main river not far from our camp. We did not see a fish but casting blind into the most likely spot Marc landed one more fabuleux rainbow. At this we took down our rods. The helicopter would be coming soon, it was time to go.

Before we left, we each took a handful of creek water and touched the hands together like goblets, a toast to the Rangitikei. I had spilled some of mine on to the ground too, another offering, this time not to appease but to thank. The demons, whether local or personal, were as playful as they were generous. Their pranks and antics had really made my trip.

The HISTORY of CDC

It appears that the Croupion de Canard flies (bastardised into Cul de Canard, cul being a slang word for the backside where the duck’s waterproofing gland is located) have always been something of a French-Swiss specialty. Fribourg, where Marc lives and works, is not far from Vallorbe, a town where the Moustique de Jura (the Jura Mosquito, a.k.a. the Vallorbe fly) first “hatched” in the vise of one Maximilien Joset sometime in the 1920s. Or possibly another local, one Charles Bickel was the first to tie them, perhaps they invented them simultaneously but independently of each other, no one can tell for sure. But undoubtedly it was in the low-lying limestone mountains of the Jura, and their rivers known for small but difficult brown trout where it all began.

From there the CDC story, as pursued by Marc Petitjean, moved to Marjan Fratnik, a fisherman of the Slovenian rivers – notably the Soca – and their marbled trout, who came up with the Fratnik Fly, or the F-Fly. Over the years others added their small refinements until Marc himself had a revelation.

So far, the CDC was added to float the flies made with more traditional materials. But Marc thought: why not make flies exclusively with CDC? After all, it was a perfect material : light, dense, naturally buoyant and life-like, aerodynamic to a point that it folded up streamlined during the cast, then sprung open again as the line slowed down, parachuting the fly so it landed in a most natural way. That thought was the beginning of the modern CDC revolution and also of the Petifjean Fishing Equipment, a top-end boutique business which has been keeping Marc occupied since 1986.

“It was a liberating idea”, Marc said. “Suddenly you didn’t need a hackle to float a fly, the CDC body would do it.  And then I thought why not make CDC nymphs as well, they look and behave so much more life-like than those made from other materials. On it went from there : Magic Tool and split threads, CDC oil, flies for salmon, bonefish, bass and tarpon. You’ve seen how well the flies work. People convert to them the moment they see them in action.”

BIO :

Former Fly Fishing Derek Grzelewski lives in Wanaka and writes for New Zealand Geographic. His book The Trout

Diaries, a fly fisherman’s year in New Zealand, will be published next year by David Bateman Ltd. You can read more of Derek’s stories at www.derekgrzelewski.com

For more detailed information about Marc’s gear visit www.petitjean.com. Feather Merchants, www., feathermerchants.co.nzare the NZ distributor.

 by Derek Grzelewski

Have you ever been on a fishing trip, as long-planned and much anticipated one, where nothing goes right for you? It starts as you step out of the helicopter and give yourself a good one on the shin. You promptly trump this with another act, standing on the loose end of a vine with one foot, and tripping over the noose you’ve thus created with the other. You want to break the fall with your hands but they are full of camping gear and heavy supermarket bags, and your backpack, well, it’s just big and inert enough to prevent a recovery. Your companions help you up and give you puzzled looks. And you, too, wonder: what’s going on? Is it just me or some nasty local taniwha (according to Maori mythology, a being that lives in deep pools of rivers) who clearly does not want me here? Maybe it’s both, because things get even worse. On the river, you tangle up, spook every trout you see, and hook yourself with your own fly (the one you have not yet debarbed). By contrast, your companions are having the time of their lives.

After we had set up camp in a forest clearing on our first evening in the headwaters of the Rangitikei, Michel trotted off to hunt and only minutes up the creek bagged a decent-sized sika deer. He brought it down, dressed it and hung it from a tree. Then, going down to the creek to wash his hands, he spotted a fish rising in the camp pool, ran back for his rod and hooked the 6lb trout first cast. One pool below, I was with Marc, watching him fight an equally magnificent rainbow. When night fell, all I had to show was a limp, a grazed elbow and an increasingly foul mood. But once we were back in camp, the fire, wine and good food worked their wizardry. I stared into the flames, sipping another glass of red and thought, hey, anyone can have a false start, a bad day, and mine was just about over. Earlier, I had even spilled some wine on the ground, a peace offering to the taniwha (if there was one). I certainly did not want to fight it for another day.

The upper Rangitikei, clear like spring water, snakes through the volcanic hills of the Kaimanawa Forest Park, North Island, New Zealand. The fishing here is hard and honest, every fish a major victory – and that’s providing you are at your best, sharp and assertive. Tomorrow, I promised myself, was a tabula rasa (blank state) I would fill with perfect casts and beautiful fish. No pratfalls and blunders. I fell asleep with visions of rainbows racing each other for those beautiful CDC dries Marc was tying.

I have to tell you about Marc. This was, after all, his trip. He had travelled halfway around the world for these five days on the Rangitikei, and Michel especially did all he could to make it a memorable outing. Once on the river, Marc needed no help at all. As Louis Pasteur said, “Fortune favours the prepared mind,” and Marc was more prepared than most. “If you define the problem, the solution is often obvious,” he told me that first night, apropos of nothing. “People often get irritated with themselves and they don’t know why. They never take time to precisely identify what’s bugging them. If they did, the remedy would be self-evident.” Wise words, but lost on me at the time.

The next morning, I scooped a large mayfly nymph out of the river with my stainless steel mug. Aquatic insect life in the Rangitikei is so prolific that every time you dip a pot, a plate or even cupped hands in the water you capture one of the little beasts. No wonder the trout grow so large here. I took the mug back to camp and Marc examined the critter closely, then whipped up a dozen or so imitations in three sizes. He also tied a handful of CDC dries, his generic mayfly pattern with an added white parachute post for high visibility. The post was made from the tail hair of Michel’s deer. Though we had brought enough flies with us to start a riverside tackle shop, in the end these two patterns were only ones we used. The Raigitikei fish either took them within the first couple of casts or they took nothing at all.

If you have not heard of him before, Marc Petitjean is the man responsible for the Modern-day global renaissance of CDC flies, both dries and nymphs. When he is tying, his hands are a blur, a testimony to some 25 000 flies he has produced each year during the past decade, using up over a quarter ton of Cul-de-Canard plumes. Marc also brought the Swiss-army-knife kind of technology and engineering to the world and the bench of fly anglers. His vise, vest and fly-tying tools, once you’ve seen them for the first time, instantly fall into the must-have category. His bobbin holders, for example, as easy to thread as striking a match, are in such demand he simply cannot produce enough of them. His fishing, too, turned out to be as elegant as his gear.

In the morning we started up the river. With good sunlight and the background of mossy cliffs, the fish were easy to see but, for a while, catching one seemed beyond the abilities of any of us. Browns you could not touch. Even lifting a rod to initiate a cast was enough to send them off at speed. One in three of four rainbows offered a fair chance and these odds did not take into account human error or gaucherie. I had only two opportunities that day. On one, I hung up a cast and by the time I untangled the fish was gone. On the other, an unexpected gust of downstream wind dumped my 16ft leader on top of the fish. It was like throwing a rock at it: one moment it was there, the next it was gone, dematerialised. Was this mongrel of a taniwha still following me? I gritted my teeth and took solace in watching the faultless travails of my companions. Despite the odds, Marc had eked out two beautiful fish, and Michel had another one.

For a day on the Rangitikei it was really good going, and all this happened before the godsend of the evening rise. With the onset of the nightly mayfly hatch, the fish, so difficult during the day, suddenly became bolder and more visible, even a little careless. Regardless of whether or not you had touched a thing all day, you could relax, confident that with the slightest modicum of skill the twilight half-hour should produce enough opportunities to be converted into fish. Unless, of course, you had your demons for company and made a foolish gamble, as I did.

On the classic South Island dry-fly rivers I fish regularly, if there’s going to be an evening rise, it’s fair to assume it’ll happen in the slower, smoother, bottom third of a pool. So, as we divided a long cliff pool into thirds, I chose that very section. Then, all my gear ready and double-checked, I set out to wait. And wouldn’t you know it, the Rangitikei trout do not rise in the tail of the pool. They rise at the top end, just below the white water of the riffle. In the dimming twilight, some 50m above, I heard a heavy splash followed by Michel’s laughter echoing down the cliff bank. “Hah! She is a beauty, this one!”

It wasn’t long before Marc had a fish too. In the space of an intense 30 minutes, they landed half a dozen fine rainbows between them while absolutely nothing happened at my end. It was almost dark when, finally, a fish rose some 10m in front of me. Instantly I had the CDC mayfly in the trout’s window of vision. Another rise and, moments later, a violent tug against my line. Then, where the rise had been, a hefty fish leaped, flashing silver against the gloom of the forested cliffs. It bounced off the surface twice, then buried deep into the inky water, tearing off fathoms of line. Now I had it on the reel, under control. My throat was lumpy and dry. Man, finally. I had a fish on. I was back from the la-la land of botchery and blunder. The reel sang. These were the sweetest moments. Then, would you believe it – twang! – the fish broke me off. “The world’s strongest fluorocarbon” snapped like tying thread pulled too tight. I wanted to sit down on the bank and howl.

The next morning we packed for an overnight bivvy and headed back up the river. Half-heartedly I plodded behind the others, deriving what pleasure I could from watching them fish. I hooked a nice fish early morning – first cast, good take, no problems. But then the little steel micro-ring which connected my leader to the fluorocarbon tippet, well, it… Yeah, I wouldn’t believe that either. Still, there was another sure-bet evening rise. This time I’d have a whole pool to myself. I claimed the one near the camp – long, deep, well structured, untouched for days. “Good Choice”, Michael approved. “Every evening I’ve spent here we’ve always caught really nice fish.” Then they both went a couple of pools upstream and I was left alone. I built a small fire away from the river and, much later, after it was completely dark, I watched the lights of my friends’ two head torches as they groped their way back down and across the river, towards my fire. “How did it go?” I asked when they arrived. “Fabuleux” Marc exulted. “We had a double.” “A trophy?” “No, a double hookup,” he corrected. “We got others too, four or five altogether. And you?” Well, what could I say? All evening not a single fish rose in Michel’s never-fail pool. The most troubling thing was that, by now, I wasn’t even surprised.

The night was rough. It rained, softly at first, then harder, and our little tarp leaked and sagged and flapped in the wind. Despite all that, I slept well, totally at peace with myself. The previous evening by the fire, I had had a little tête-à-tête with the demon. “Listen you son of a bitch,” I told him. “Enough is enough. I can take a day of this, two days max, but not the whole trip! Why don’t you stop being such a sadist and let a guy catch himself a fish or two?” Word by word, I worked myself into quite a soliloquy, unloading my sorrows and grievances – after a time, at no one in particular. It was like a psychotherapy session minus the shrink. The North American Indians call this sort of thing a sweat lodge, only that they really sweat their stuff out in an improvised steam sauna.

I don’t know if this in any way defined my problems or made the solution obvious, but I woke up feeling fresh and free. The rain had discoloured the river but not too much. We could still spot the fish but they could no longer see the ruse of drifting artificials. Marc and Michel quickly had a fish each, then there was a long, barren stretch without much holding water.

Partway through it we hesitated whether to go on. It was nearly midday and we had a long descent ahead of us. The vis was poor at times. Gusts of wind played havoc with our casts, spooking fish, and the sky darkened again, threatening more rain. Both Marc and Michel were happy to head back. They already had an impressive tally of fish. And me? Well, by now I’d sort of given up on ever catching one here. Still, we lingered, teetering in indecision. Was that really it then? The end of the trip? Then someone said, “Hell, why not, let’s go up another couple of pool.” This was a turning point for me, though clear and obvious only with the benefit of hindsight.

We were coming to the first large pool in a while when from up ahead Michel called. “Dereque! Here’s one for you. He’s taking everything that’s passing by.” Great I thought. How’s that for a show of confidence in my skills. But maybe I needed a fish like that, a real dumbo, one that would take a cigarette butt if you floated it past without drag. I got into position, took a deep steadying breath and cast. There was not the slightest hesitation in the trout’s swaying dance. It took my nymph, then another natural, then another still, then, suddenly feeling the tension of my line, erupted out of the water. It jumped again and again, flapping all the way up, like a salmon trying to leap over an obstacle. Wonder of wonders, nothing went wrong. The knots held, the hook did not come out, there were non tangles. I beached him in a little bay of sand, a solid Rangitikei rainbow, all spotted chrome and crimson fire. Unhooked, he was gone in a flash and I was left breathing hard, my hands still trembling. Meanwhile, Michel was into another fish and was briskly leading it downstream, with Marc following, taking pictures.

I wanted to be alone, to relish the moment and my turnaround, so I went upstream, no more than a dozen paces. There I saw it, at the bottom between two boulders – a long, dark smudge, soft and swaying with exquisite fluidity. I felt strangely calm, absolved from my dog days of bad luck and gaucherie, with a mind that was pure and unafraid of messing up. I put a single cast ahead of the boulders. As if in slow motion, I watched the fish veer to my side, and take. Next thing I was running downstream, hotfooting it over the stones, taking up the slack as I ran. My line wrapped around the reel handle but I caught it just in time and had the fish on the reel, sword-fighting it left and right against its furious runs.

Then I was kneeling over it in the same sandy bay and I felt my companions peering over my shoulders. “Très bien fait!” Marc enthused. “Fabuleux!” “You ever caught a fish that big?” Michel asked, a lopsided grin stretching his moustache. “Well, sure…” I started but then took another look at my trout. He wasn’t particularly long, but he was deep and broad, with brilliant metallic skin that seemed too small for him. “How heavy you think he is?” I asked. “A ten,” Michel said. “Naw! You sure?” I was incredulous. “Ah, easy.” We had all, years ago, dispensed with carrying scales, so there was no way of verifying this. “I think you can trust his judgement”, Marc said later and I had to agree. In his work as a trout scientist for the Taupo fishery, Michel gets to handle and weigh a lot of trout. But I shall never know for sure if the fish was a double, and maybe it’s better that way. It was certainly the biggest fish of the trip.

The last morning, I walked with Marc up a tributary which entered the main river not far from our camp. We did not see a fish but, casting blind into the most likely spot, Marc landed one more fabuleux rainbow. At this we took down our rods. The helicopter would be coming soon; it was time to go. Before we left, we each scooped up a handful of creek water and touched our hands together like goblets – a toast to the Rangitikei. I had spilled some of mine on the ground, another offering, this time not to appease but to thank. The demons, whether local or personal, were as playful as they were generous. Their pranks and antics had really made my trip.

THE HISTORY OF CDC

Attention to details and Swiss-army-knife style of engineering have always been a hallmark of Petitjean’s equipment and flies.

It appears that Croupion-de-Canard flies (bastardised into Cul-de-Canard, cul being a slang word for a duck’s backside where its waterproofing gland is located) have always been something of a French-Swiss specialty. Fribourg, where Marc lives and works, is not far from Vallorbe, a town where the Moustique du Jura (the Jura Mosquito, a.k.a the Vallorbe fly) first “hatched” in the vise of one Maximilien Joset sometime in the 1920s. Or possibly another local, one Charles Bickel, was the first to tie them. Perhaps they invented them simultaneously but independently of each other. No one can tell for sure. But it undoubtedly all began in the low-lying limestone mountains of the Jura, whose rivers are known for small but difficult brown trout. From there the CDC story, as pursued by Marc Petitjean, moved to Marjan Fratnik, a fisherman of the Slovenian rivers – notably the Soca – and their marbled trout, who came up with the Fratnic Fly, or the F-Fly. Over the years, others added their small refinements until Marc himself had a revelation.

So far, CDC was added to float those flies made with more traditional materials. But Marc thought, why not make flies exclusively with CDC? After all, it was a perfect material: light, dense, naturally buoyant and lifelike, aerodynamic to the point that it folded up streamlined during the cast, then sprung open again as the line slowed down, parachuting the fly so it landed in a most natural way. That thought was the beginning of the modern CDC revolution and also of Petitjean Fishing Equipment, a top-end boutique business which has kept Marc occupied since 1986.

“It was a liberating idea,” Marc said. “Suddenly you didn’t need a hackle to float a fly; the CDC body would do it. And then I thought, why not make CDC nymphs as well; they look and behave so much more lifelike than those made from other materials. On it went from there: Magic Tool and split threads, CDC oil, flies for salmon, bonefish, bass and tarpon. You’ve seen how well the flies work. People convert to them the moment they see them in action.”

True enough. The night before our departure for the Rangitikei we helped set up one of the three fly-tying demos Marc was giving in New Zealand, this one at the National Trout Centre south of Turangi. The Taupo fishing folk have their ways and preferences and, clearly, a small dry fly is not among these. So, the first part of Marc’s instructive show, supplemented by a large-screen video close-up of his hands at work, was received politely but without much enthusiasm. Only when he started tying streamers, especially the white marabou smelt pattern featuring his Magic Head at the front of the hook, did someone ask: “What’s the little umbrella for?” “You’ll see soon enough”, Marc said, and indeed the audience was in for a surprise. The Magic Head is a tiny silicone funnel the size of your pinkie’s nail which, when cut to shape and balanced with the rest of the streamer, imparts a remarkably lifelike side-to-side movement to the fly as it is stripped through the water. It works particularly well with the marabou, which fluffs up every time the fly stops.

Later that night, there were gasps of awe and disbelief from the crowd lining the bank of the Centre’s trout pond as Marc pulled his smelt fly through the water, illuminated by a single video light on high stand. One gentleman, whose visiting card proclaimed him a “trout fishing enthusiast”, almost had to be restrained to prevent him from jumping into the pool after the fly. “This is remarkable,” he kept repeating. “In all my years of fishing I’ve never seen an artificial fly look so realistic. What’d you say this little umbrella was called? Can I buy some straightaway?” Just like that, all the Magic Heads were sold out and a back order list started to fill up. As Marc said, you had to see it to believe it, but once you’d seen it, you didn’t want to use anything else.

 Texto y Fotos : Francisco Carrión

Valencia acogió, con gran entusiasmo, la edición 2010 de Efttex, la mayor exposición europea de artículos de pesca dedicada a los profesionales del sector…

Desde la Feria SOLO PESCA’ 94, muchos aficionados, lectores, colaboradores, distribuidores y fabricantes, no tenían la oportunidad de ver una muestra de este tipo y nivel, dedicada 100% a la pesca deportiva. Es cierto que desde aquel entonces se han celebrado y se siguen celebrando bastantes ferias de pesca, y en muchas provincias españolas, pero ninguna es de aquella envergadura, y es que vinieron algunos de los más importantes fabricantes y distribuidores de España y de otros países europeos, exponiendo sus productos por primera vez en nuestro país. Además, SOLO PESCA’ 94 se llamó así precisamente porque solo se exponían artículos de pesca y barcos para la pesca, y estuvieron presentes sociedades y federaciones de pesca… Ni una sola arma, ni nada de animales de caza o compañía, y ni un solo stand de complementos oportunistas como suelen verse en ferias mixtas. El evento fue todo un éxito, como así atestiguaron los miles de visitantes que pasaron por el recinto ferial de Cornellá (Barcelona) hace comprensible la elección de Valencia como sede de EFTTEX 2010.

Los señuelos

Infinidad de stands, increíble pero fantásticamente decorados, mostraban centenares de referencias con toda clase de pececillos… Nuevos, mejorados… Duros, blandos… Rígidos, articulados… Top water, para mar, para río, para especies determinadas. Pasillos y pasillos viendo peces de todos los colores, con imitaciones verdaderamente realísticas. En cuanto a los cucharillas, otro tanto, cada vez más perfectas y con mejores diseños, imponiéndose la impresión holográfica, directa o indirectamente (hologramas en película adhesiva). Y cuando hablamos de cucharillas hablamos de toda clase, incluyendo las spinner baits, las ondulantes y las súper, destinadas a peces como el siluro, los grandes lucios o muchas especies marinas.

En lo que refiere a las moscas, los aficionados pudieron disfrutar de lo lindo en un recinto casi “privado”… Y Marc Petitjean no falló, con sus tornos especiales y sus porta bobinas exclusivos, además de sus ingeniosas imitaciones… Marc no envejece, simplemente innova, prueba, pesca y se mantiene en forma… Fue una gran sorpresa verle aquí, ya que hemos coincidido en numerosas ferias desde Lutry 94 (Suiza). Lo mismo me ocurrió cuando vi el stand de Mouches de la Charette, otros viejos amigos, pero había tantos…

La organización montó una piscina de escasa profundidad, con suficiente anchura y longitud, donde los aficionados o exclusivistas podían las cañas, los carretes o las líneas, delimitando el espacio frontal y trasero por seguridad, con una rampa elevada para el lanzamiento. A los flancos, al frente y atrás, todo eran stands de cañas, carretes, gafas especiales para pescadores, colas de rata, botas, vadeadores, moscas y material de montaje de moscas y estreamers, en definitiva, un gran rectángulo muy bien diseñado y ajustado al espacio ocupado que hizo las delicias de expositores y visitantes.

Traduit par Delachaux et Niestlé

MOUCHES SÈCHES CUL DE CANARD

Souvent abrégé en CDC par les monteurs de mouches. Mais on devrait plutôt parler de Croupion De Canard. Les plumes concernées se trouvent autour de la glande uropygienne, située sur le dos juste avant la queue. Cette glande sécrète l’huile qui sert à ces oiseaux à lisser leurs plumes de queue. On la rencontre chez tous les oiseaux, sauf chez tous les pigeons, chez certains perroquets et quelques autres dont les cormorans. Les pigeons sécrètent à la place, avec toutes leurs plumes, une fine poudre qui a la même fonction. On voit ainsi souvent les pigeons ou les perroquets se secouer pour disperser la poussière, et lorsqu’ils se baignent on peut apercevoir un film blanc à la surface de l’eau.

Mais revenons à nos canards, seule source valable de plumes de CDC pour le pêcheur. Si on arrache quelques plumes 2 ou 3 fois par an, cela ne cause aucun dommage à l’animal, la plupart proviennent de canards tués pour être vendus dans le commerce. Particulièrement légères et résistantes, ces plumes sont non seulement hydrofuges, mais les barbules fibreuses captent l’air. Ainsi, les mouches sèches bâties essentiellement avec des CDC flottent presque indéfiniment, sans qu’on ait besoin de les huiler. Si on décide de huiler une mouche en CDC elle est immédiatement inutilisable. Après la capture d’un poisson, lavez-la pour ôter les saletés, essorez-la et faites-la sécher. Les mouches en CDC sont très solides, et, entretenues correctement, elles peuvent permettre de prendre de nombreux poissons. En revanche, de nombreuses mouches traditionnelles sont inutilisables après une ou deux captures.

Le pêcheur à la mouche doit éviter que la pointe du bas de ligne flotte et opère comme un « déclencheur négatif » qui éloigne le poisson : le bas de ligne flottant apparaît au poisson comme une longue ligne noire attachée à la mouche. Cela peut rendre la pêche à la mouche sèche très difficile sur les rivières lentes et les lacs calmes. Avec une mouche en CDC, après le lancer, tirez la mouche sous l’eau (la pointe du bas de ligne s’enfonce) : la mouche refera surface tandis que le bas de ligne est immergé.

Marc Petitjean de Fribourg a réalisé une série de mouches en CDC qui peuvent servir à imiter toutes les mouches naturelles les plus communes en Europe. De nombreux pêcheurs en Europe utilisent ces modèles presque exclusivement. Ils sont si bons !

Ils sont toutefois coûteux et la recherche de plumes de CDC peut s’avérer difficile et onéreuse. Quand vous ne pouvez en faire l’acquisition que de quelques-unes, il est préférable de les conserver pour des truites ou des ombres particulièrement difficiles qui ont refusé des mouches plus conventionnelles. Un modèle approprié en CDC permettra souvent de prendre ces poissons récalcitrants.

Légendes page 137

Plumes cul de canard : légère, souple mais robuste. Matériau idéal pour le montage des mouches.  Naturelle – Teinte

Glande uropygienne du canard.

Structure d’une plume en CDC

LES MODÈLES EN CDC

M. Petitjean a donné un numéro à chaque modèle, plusieurs ont été abandonnés et les numéros désormais disponibles et illustrés sont ceux qui se sont révélés les plus efficaces. Il y a quatre styles :

Cat. 1 : Subimagos d’éphémères

Elles présentent deux ailes redressées en « semi-spent » et une touffe de fibres de hackle comme queues.

MP 10. Corps chamois et beige de subimago (epeorus, march brown, faux-march brown, grand dun d’été).

MP 11. Corps olive clair (éphoron, olive bicolore).

MP 13, MP 14. Corps olive moyen à foncé (les “olives” à ailes bleues, des lacs et des étangs).

MP 16. Corps jaune (dun jaune, dun jaune de soirée, mouche de mai jaune).

MP 19. Corps foncé (baetis bleu acier, chloroterpes, dun foncé, dun violet, dun bordeaux, dun sépia).

MP 21, MP 22. Corps pâle (pale watery, caenis).

Cat. 2 : Spents de femelle d’éphémère adulte

Elles possèdent de longues queues en pardo (coq) écartées, des ailes étalées à plat et, pour améliorer la visibilité, une petite touffe de CDC en haut du thorax.

MP 81. Adultes rouges ou ambre (olive, olive à ailes bleues, march brown).

MP 82. Adultes bruns (grand dun d’été, palingenia).

MP 85. Adultes de grande mouche de mai.

Cat. 3 : Mouches avec une seule aile rabaissée sur l’abdomen et sans queue

Elles imitent des perles adultes, des trichoptères adultes, des chironomes, des moucherons noirs, etc.

MP 52. Sedges, perles, chironomes, punaises terrestres brun foncé.

MP 53. Sedges, perles, chironomes, punaises terrestres brun clair.

MP 54. Sedges, perles, chironomes, beige bronzé.

MP 64. Minuscules chironomes, sedge et moucherons bruns.

MP 65. Minuscules simulies, chironomes, sedge perles et moucherons noirs.

MP 66. Perles jaunes et sedges jaunes.

Cat. 4 : Spéciaux

Elles imitent les plus grosses mouches terrestres foncées, guêpes, abeilles et volucelles.

MP 71. Mouche de St-Marc, moucherons noirs, coléoptères.

MP 72. Guêpes.

Chacun de ces modèles est conçu dans une gamme de tailles, des n° 14 à 18, voire 20 d’hameçons.

Note. Les imitations d’éphémères de M. Petitjean sont décrites séparément p.164.

Savoir choisir la bonne mouche sèche en CDC

Observez avec soin quelle mouche naturelle est en train d’éclore ou de flotter sur l’eau. Choisissez la mouche dont le style s’accorde le plus près du modèle naturel par la taille, la forme et la couleur.

Exemple 1

Pour une éclosion de subimagos de mouche de mai jaune (p. 50) : choisir MP16, taille 16.

Exemple 2

Pour une chute de duns d’automne adultes (p. 48) : utilisez MP81, taille 12.

Exemple 3

Pour une éclosion de subimagos de pale watery (p. 46) : utilisez MP21 ou MP22, en taille 16 ou 18, selon l’espèce de pale watery qui éclot.

Exemple 4

Chute de petits moucherons noirs (p. 74) : utilisez MP63, MP64 ou MP65 de taille appropriée. Par temps couvert, 63 sera plus visible avec les ailes blanches, par beau temps, 65 à ailes foncées peut être meilleur.

Exemple 5

Le poisson se nourrit en fin de soirée sans doute de sedges (il fait trop sombre pour en être certain) . utilisez MP 52, 53 ou 54, en taille 10 ou 12.

Note. D’autres modèles utilisant des CDC peuvent être trouvés :

 p. 148 (Fur-bodied emergers)

 p. 162-4 (Mayfly)

 p. 172 (Damsel)

 p. 180 (Emerging Sedge)

 p. 186 (Be-Ge sedge)

 p. 188 (Emerger smut)

 p. 194 (La Petite merde)

 p. 195 (Hawthorn fly)

 p. 199 (Shrimps)

Les ÉMERGENTES, NYMPHES ET PUPES

Bien que traditionnellement utilisées en mouches (sèches) de surface, les bulles d’air retenues par les plumes de CDC peuvent permettre d’imiter la plupart des mouches évoluant près de la surface, même s’il faut évidemment les plomber pour qu’elles s’enfoncent.

Les Nymphes

Hameçon. N° 12-18 hampe fine à nymphe

Soie. Comme la couleur du corps

Queue. Fibres de pardo (coq), évasée

Abdomen. CDC (gris, rose-beige, olive, brun)

Cerclage. Fil fin de cuivre, or ou cuivre

Thorax. Comme l’abdomen, mais plus développé

Fourreaux alaires. CDC noir

Pattes. Fibres venant du thorax

Employées sous la surface pour imiter les nymphes qui éclosent à la surface.

Ce montage de base peut être modifié pour s’accorder à des nymphes plus spécifiques, à d’autres insectes et crustacés évoluant sous la surface. En modifiant la couleur, la forme, et la taille et la forme de l’hameçon, on peut imiter les nymphes de demoiselles, d’heptagénides, de grandes mouches de mai. Et même les corises et les crevettes d’eau. Quel modèle malléable !

Les Nymphes Émergentes

Hameçon. N° 12-18 hampe fine à nymphe

Soie. Comme la couleur du corps

Pointe. Fil fin d’argent enroulé autour de la courbure de l’hameçon

Queue. Fibres de pardo, une touffe de chaque côté de l’hameçon

Abdomen. Plume de CDC (gris, rose-beige, olive, brun)

Cerclage. Fil fin d’argent

Thorax. Comme pour l’abdomen, mais plus développé

Ouverture du fourreau alaire. Deux plumes de CDC de la couleur du corps, fixées en boucle au-dessus du thorax, les pointes évoquant des pattes plumeuses.

Elles sont placées dans le film superficiel, l’extrémité du fil enfonce l’abdomen sous ce film, mais les deux ailes bouclées captent des bulles d’air et les maintiennent à la surface.

Les Émergentes de Pupes de Sedge

Hameçon. N° 12-16 fine hampe de trichoptère

Soie. Noire

Abdomen. Plume CDC jaune

Cerclage. Fil fin d’or

Thorax. Comme l’abdomen, mais plus épais

Ouverture du fourreau alaire. Deux plumes de CDC rose-beige, dont les pointes imitent des pattes plumeuses.

Une Synthèse inégalée des proies naturelles et des mouches artificielles

• La nourriture naturelle : la biologie de toutes les proies des truites et des ombres en Europe.

• Les mouches artificielles : le guide illustré des imitations des proies naturelles, le matériel, les trucs de montage.

• Le guide des éclosions mensuelles : les insectes en fonction du type d’eau, de la période de l’année, du moment de la journée, des conditions atmosphériques, et en regard leurs imitations.

• Le montage et la présentation : le guide détaillé des outils, des matériaux, de l’équipement et des techniques de lancer.

• Une approche naturaliste de la pêche à la mouche grâce à 1’000 dessins d’un artiste entomologiste, qui illustrent le texte d’un pêcheur-biologiste.

By Bob Popovic

During the 1980s, I designed a pattern and way of tying that made it easier to make a silicone fly. With my method, you no longer needed to tie on multiple layers of sheep fleece for the head and then precisely trim the fly to shape; you simply formed the head with a quick application of silicone. This was a neat little fly for imitating midsize bait such as silversides, bay anchovies, mullets, and mackerel. I called my new pattern the Simple clone. The common bond between the original silicone fly and the Simple Clone was an inner core of squishy fleece. The fleece made the fly feel more natural than many other patterns.

The first Simple Clone had no inner core, which made it tedious to keep the head from collapsing and the silicone from adhering to the hook shank. Adding an inner core of fleece solved this problem; the extra fleece acted as a buffer to prevent the silicone from penetrating from the outside of the head.

Have you ever been on a fishing trip, a long-planned and much anticipated one, where nothing goes right for you? You arse up just stepping out of the helicopter and give yourself a good one on the shin. You promptly trump this with another act, stepping on the loose end of a vine with one foot, with the other tripping over the noose you’ve thus created. You want to break the fall with your hands but they are full of camping gear and heavy supermarket bags, and your backpack, well, it’s just big and inert enough to prevent a recovery. Your companions help you up and give you puzzled looks. And you too wonder : what’s going on? Is it just me or some nasty local taniwha who clearly does not want me here? Maybe it’s both because things get even worse. On the river, you tangle up, spook every trout you see, hook yourself with your own fly, the one you did not yet de-barb. By contrast, your companions are having the time of their lives.

That first night in the headwaters of the Rangitikei, after we set up a camp in the forest clearing, Michel trotted off for an evening hunt and only minutes up the creek bagged a decent-size sika deer. He brought it down, dressed and hung it from a tree, then, going down to the creek to wash his hands, he spotted a fish rising in the camp pool. He ran back for his rod and hooked the 6 lb trout first cast. A pool below I was with Marc, watching him fight an equally magnificent rainbow. When the night feel all I had to show was a limp, a grazed elbow, and an increasingly foul mood.

But then we were back in the camp, the fire, wine and good food working their wizardry. I started into the flames, sipping another glass of red and thought: hey, anyone can have a false start, a bad day, and mine was just about over. Earlier, I even spilled some wine on the ground, a peace offering to the taniwha, if there was one. I certainly did not want to fight it for another day.

The upper Rangitikei, clear like spring water, snakes a contorted passage through the volcanic hills of the Kaimanawa Forest Park, east of the Tongariro. The fishing here is hard and honest, every fish a major victory, and that’s providing you are at your best, sharp and assertive. Tomorrow, I promised myself, was a tabula rasa I should fill with perfect casts and beautiful fish. No pratfalls and blunders. I fell asleep with the visions of rainbows racing each other for those beautiful CDC dries Marc was tying.

PETITJEAN’S WISDOM

I have to tell you about Marc. This was, after all, his trip. He had travelled halfway around the world for these five days on the Rangitikei, and Michel especially did all he could to make those days into a memorable outing. Once on the river Marc needed no help at all. As Pasteur said : “fortune favours the prepared mind” and Marc Petitjean was more prepared than most. “If you define the problem, the solution is often obvious,” he told me that first night, apropos nothing. “People often get pissed off with themselves and they don’t know why. They never take time to precisely identify what bugs them. If they did the remedy would be self-evident.”

Wise words but lost on me at the time.

The next morning I scooped a large mayfly nymph out of the river with my stainless steel mug. The aquatic insect life in the Rangitikei is so prolific, every time you dip a pot, a plate or even cupped hands in the water you capture one of the little beasts. No wonder the trout grow so large here.

I took the mug back to camp and Marc examined the creature closely, then whipped up a dozen or so imitations in three sizes. He also tied a handful of CDC dries, his generic mayfly pattern with an added white parachute post for high visibility. The post was made from the tail hair of Michel’s deer. Though we had brought with us enough flies to start a riverside tackle shop, in the end these two patterns were the only ones we would use. The Rangitikei fish either took them within the first couple of casts or they would not take anything at all.

If you have not heard of him before, Marc Petitjean is the man responsible for the modern-day global renaissance of CDC flies, both dries and nymphs. When he is tying, his hands are a blur, a testimony to some 25,000 flies he has produced each year during the past decade, using up over a quarter of a tonne of cul de canard plumes. Marc had also brought the Swiss-army-knife kind of technology and engineering into the world and the bench of fly anglers. His vice, vest and fly tying tools, after you’ve seen them for the first time, instantly fall into a must-have category. His bobbin holders, for example, as easy to thread as striking a match, are in such demand he simply cannot produce enough of them. His fishing too turned out to be as elegant as his gear.

UNTOUCHABLE

In the morning we started up the river. With good sunlight and the background of mossy cliffs the fish were easy to see, but, for a while, catching one seemed beyond the abilities of any of us. Browns, you could not touch. Even lifting a rod to initiate a cast was enough to send them off at speed. One in three or four rainbows offered a faire chance and these odds did not take into account human errors or gaucherie.

I had only two opportunities that day. On one I hung up a cast and by the time I untangled, the fish was gone. On the other, an unexpected gust of downstream wind dumped my 16-foot leader on top of the fish. It was like throwing a rock at it: one moment it was there, the next it was gone, dematerialised. Was this mongrel of a taniwha still following me? I gritted my teeth and took solace in watching the faultless travails of my companions. Despite the odds, Marc had eked out two beautiful fish, and Michel had another one. For a day on the Rangitikei it was really good going, and all this happened before the godsend of the evening rise.

THE EVENING RISE

With the onset of the nightly mayfly hatch, the fish so difficult during the day suddenly become bolder and more visible, even a little careless. Even if you had not touched a thing all day you could relax in confidence that the twilight half an hour should produce enough opportunities to be converted into fish with even a modicum of skill. Unless, of course, you have your demons for company, and make a foolish gamble like I did.

On the classic South Island dry-fly rivers I fish regularly, if there’s going to be an evening rise, you can fairly assume it will happen in the slower, smoother bottom third of a pool. So as we divided a long cliff pool into thirds I chose that very section then, all gear ready and double-checked, set out to wait.

And wouldn’t you know it, the Rangitikei trout do not rise in the tail of the pool. They rise at the top end, just below the whitewater of the riffle. In the dimming twilight some fifty metres above I heard a heavy splash, then Michel’s laughter echoed down the cliff bank.

“Hah! She is a beauty, this one!”. It wasn’t long before Marc had a fish too. In the space of an intense thirty minutes they landed half a dozen fine rainbows between them while absolutely nothing happened at my end.

It was almost dark when, finally, a fish rose some ten metres in front of me. Instantly I had the CDC mayfly in the trout’s window of vision. Another rise and moments later, a violent tug against my line. Then, where the rise had been, a hefty fish leaped, flashing silver against the gloom of the forested cliffs. It bounced off the surface twice, then buried deep into the inky water, tearing off fathoms of line.

Now I had it on the reel, under control. My throat was lumpy and dry. Man, finally. I had a fish on. I was back from the lala-land of botchery and blunder. The reel sang, these were the sweetest moments. Then, would you believe it – Twang! – the fish broke me off. The world’s strongest fluorocarbon snapped like tying thread pulled too tight. I wanted to sit down on the bank and howl.

FABULEUX!

The next morning we packed for an overnight bivvy and headed back up the river. Half-heartedly I plodded behind the others, deriving what pleasure I could from watching them fish. I hooked a nice fish early in the morning – first cast, good take, no problems. But then the little steel Mikro-ring which connected my leader to the fluorocarbon tippet, well it … Yeah, I wouldn’t believe that either.

Still, there was another sure-bet evening rise. This time I’d have a whole pool to myself. I claimed the one near the camp – long, deep, well-structured, untouched for days.

“Good choice,” Michel approved. “Every evening I spent here we’ve always caught really nice fish.” Then they both went a couple of pools upstream and I was left alone.

I built a small fire away from the river, and much later, after it got completely dark, I watched the lights of my friends’ two head torches groping their way back down and across the river, toward my fire.

“How did it go?” I asked when they arrived.

“Fabuleux!” Marc exulted. “We had a double.”

“A trophy?”

“No, a double hook-up,” he corrected. “We got others, too, four or five altogether. And you?”

Well, what could I say? All evening not a single fish rose in Michel’s never-fail pool. The most troubling thing was that, by now, I wasn’t even surprised.

The night was rough. It rained, softly at first, then harder, and our little tarp leaked, and sagged and flapped in the wind. Despite all that I slept well, totally at peace with myself.

The previous evening by the fire, I had a little tête-à-tête with the demon.

“Listen you son of a bitch,” I told him. “Enough is enough. I can take a day of this, two days max, but not the whole trip. Why don’t you stop being such a sadist and let a guy catch himself a fish or two.”

Word by word, I worked myself into quite a soliloquy, unloading my sorrows and grievances, after a time at no one in particular. It was like a psychotherapy session, minus the shrink. The North American Indians call this sort of thing a sweat lodge, only that they really sweat their stuff out in an improvised steam sauna.

TURNING POINT

I don’t know if this in any way defined my problems, made the solution obvious and self-evident, but I woke up felling fresh and free. The rain had discoloured the river but not too much. We could still spot the fish but they could no longer see the ruse of drifting artificials. Marc and Michel quickly had a fish each, then there was a long barren stretch without much holding water.

Partway through it we hesitated whether to go on. It was nearly midday and we had a long descent ahead of us. The visibility was poor at times. Gusts of wind played havoc with our casts spooking fish and the sky darkened again promising more rain. Both Marc and Michel were happy to head back. They already had an impressive tally of fish, and me, well, by now I’d sort of given up on ever catching one here. Still, we lingered, teetering in indecision. Was it really it then? The end of the trip? Then someone said “Hell, why not, let’s go up another couple more pools.” This was a turning point for me, clear and obvious though only with the benefit of hindsight.

We were coming to the first large pool in a while when from up ahead Michel called: “Dereque! Here’s one for you. He’s taking everything that’s passing by.” Great, I thought. How’s that for a show of confidence in my skills. But maybe I needed a fish like that, a real dumbo, one that would take a cigarette butt if you floated it past without drag.

I got into position, took a deep steadying breath and cast. There was not the slightest hesitation in the trout’s swaying dance. It took my nymph, then another natural, then another still, then, suddenly feeling the tension of my line, erupted out of the water. It jumped again, and again, flapping all the way up, like a salmon trying to leap over an obstacle. Wonder of wonders, nothing went wrong. The knots held, the hook did not come out, there were no tangles. I beached him in a little bay of sand, a solid Rangitikei rainbow, all spotted chrome and crimson fire. Unhooked, he was gone in a flash and I was left breathing hard, the hands still trembling.

Meanwhile, Michel was into another fish and was briskly leading it downstream, with Marc following, taking pictures. I wanted to be alone, to relish the moment and my turnaround, and I went upstream, no more than a dozen paces. There I saw it, at the bottom between two boulders, a long dark smudge, soft and swaying with exquisite fluidity.

I felt strangely calm, absolved from my dog days of bad luck and gaucherie, with a mind that was pure and unafraid of screwing up. I put a single cast ahead of the boulders. As if in slow motion, I watched the fish veer to my side and take. Next thing I was running downstream, hot-footing over the stones, taking up the slack as I ran. My line wrapped around the reel handle but I caught it just in time, and I had the fish on the reel, sword-fighting it left and right against its furious runs.

Then I was kneeling over it in the same sandy bay and I felt my companions peering over my shoulders.

“Tres bien fait!,” Marc enthused.

“Fabuleux!”

“You ever caught a fish that big?” Michel asked, a lopsided grin stretching his moustache.

“Well, sure…” I started but then I took another look at my trout. He wasn’t particularly long, but he was deep and broad, with the brilliant metallic skin that seemed to small for him.

“How heavy do you think he is?” I asked.

“A ten,” Michel said.

“Naw! You sure?” I was incredulous.

“Ah, easy.”

We had all years ago dispensed with carrying the scales so there was no way of verifying this.

“I think you can trust his judgement,” Marc said later and I had to agree. In his work as a trout scientist for the Taupo fishery Michel gets to handle and weigh a hell of a lot of trout.

But I shall never know for sure if the fish was a double and maybe it’s better that way. It was certainly the biggest fish of the trip.

The last morning I walked with Marc up a tributary which entered the main river not far from our camp. We did not see a fish but casting blind into the most likely spot Marc landed one more fabuleux rainbow. At this we took down our rods. The helicopter would be coming soon, it was time to go.

Before we left, we each took a handful of creek water and touched hands together like goblets, a toast to the Rangitikei. I had spilled some of mine on to the ground too, another offering, this time not to appease but to thank. The demons, whether local or personal, were a playful as they were generous. Their pranks and antics had really made my trip.

In addition to providing a venue to showcase new products, we ask dealers to vote for their favourite new products. We ask them to consider which products show real innovation, and which will become hits with their customers. (Our magazines’ staffs do not vote in this selection process. The winners of the Dealers’ Choice awards are selected by the retailers attending the show.)

This year, Petitjean Fishing Equipment won the Dealers’ Choice award in the fly-tying category for its new MP Bobbin. Marc Petitjean, a native of Switzerland, was on hand to accept the award.

What, you must be wondering, could possibly be so new and revolutionary about a fly-tying bobbin? Like all Petitjean’s products, the MP Bobbin is well thought out and has some very unusual and useful features not found on other bobbins. First, you can adjust the thread tension on the bobbin with just a flick of your thumb. This makes the tool very easy to use when switching from gossamer size 14/0 thread to super-strong gel spun.

Second – and this is a little tough to explain – you don’t thread the MP Bobbin by pulling the thread through the tube. Instead, you lay the thread against the side of the tube, and simultaneously flick your wrist and pull the end of the thread. With one easy motion, the thread is inserted inside the bobbin tube. Sound like a magic trick? Go to www.petitjean.com to watch his new bobbin.

Marc Petitjean has emerged as one of our sport’s leading innovators. He is the inventor of the Magic Tool, which is used to insert feathers and fur into split thread for tying flies. The Magic Tool has been featured in this magazine and won awards at European fly-fishing shows.

Petitjean also created Magic Heads for flies (There’s that word “magic” again.) Magic Heads are small plastic cones that are tied to the front of streamers to give them a lifelike darting action. In 2006, Magic Heads won a Gray’s Best award from Gray’s Sporting Journal.

And finally, we should mention Petitjean’s award-winning Swiss Vise. This well designed and beautifully crafted fly-tying vise looks and works like something created by NASA.

I had a few moments to talk with Petitjean after he accepted his award for the MP Bobbin, and he reminded me that this wasn’t the first time he has been honoured at Fly Fishing Retailer.

“This is great,” he beamed, “but this isn’t the first time I’ve won here. Last year I won in the soft goods category for my FV100 vest. I try very hard to come up with things that are new and innovative, and I’m really happy that dealers like my products.”