We’re lucky that Team Crabtree comprises so many talented people. Rob Olsen is the illustrator of the book Fishing in the Footsteps of Mr. Crabtree, and he’s responsible for the comic strips that provide such excellent instruction for budding anglers. Rob is also a wonderfully talented writer in his own right. His first book was a collection of short stories entitles ‘Tom’s Book’ and is well worth a read if you can lay your hands on a copy. Based in Cheltenham, Rob is a full-time graphic designer, stealing as much time as possible to fish.
Holy Tree Pool
I was once asked, ‘What was the best days fishing you have ever had?’ Well, that’s a difficult one, but, here it is.
It was in Mongolia. A very self-indulgent second trip that held the same excitement as the first, but cost even more money. I was told at the time that this was down to ‘inflation.’ I viewed the return trip as infatuation and ‘damn the expense’ simply because that first trip had been so good. It was inevitable that I would go back and the final decision to do so was made on Breamore Bridge, spanning the Hampshire Avon, after a quintessential, calm, very enjoyable, very English day trying for a roach and ending up with an obliging barbel as a bonus. Having called it a day, we were doing what fishermen do best (leaning over bridges whilst gazing at the water) when the subject of Mongolia came up. I knew that Phil was also desperate to return but there are a great deal of logistics involved in a trip like this and they need talking over.
Getting the time off work is the first hurdle. Explaining to your family that you are going to disappear for two weeks so that you can re-enact a fantasy that involves three international flights and a very long, very low, helicopter journey is the second and, once over those two, there is the financial issue. The initial cost wasn’t too much of an issue because we knew what that was up front and we had been saving for it even though we may not have known so at the time. It was the escalating cost of all the additional kit we needed to take with us that delayed the decision. Phil pointed out that he would have to buy a load of extra stuff – a new rod, a stronger reel, lures of all shapes and sizes and a new pair of wading boots. It was a situation that was in danger of cancelling a trip that hadn’t been agreed so I asked him what size boot he took and then gave him mine. That’s pretty much how we got there.
That best days fishing I was asked about unfolded on the very last day of that fascinating trip. The grayling fishing had been superb, the lennock trout were very obliging and most of us had caught an impressive taimen during the two week period. Phil hadn’t. That had nothing to do with his fishing ability. It certainly wasn’t for a lack of trying, that is just how it goes sometimes. You either accept it or try to do something about it. Batsock (the head of the family we were staying with) decided to do something about it. He told us of a place, further up river, a place where few had ever been, a place that was capable of holding huge taimen when the conditions were right. Apparently the conditions were right. Batsock knows his river well so, naturally, that is where we went.
It was a long ride on sturdy little horses that took us over hills and through woods before we met the river and followed its path. Most of that river looked very tempting to me but Batsock pushed the horses on, past tantalising pools, overgrown islands and water that looked so delicious that I wanted to jump in. The terrain we crossed was spectacular. The whole morning was like an adventure from the shadow of youth and I was enjoying every second of it. Then, after a couple of hours of riding, as if being snapped out hypnotism, Batsock pulled his horse to a halt, pointed at the river and said, ‘Here.’
We tied the horses up under some shade and I sat down in the long grass, cracked open a can of beer and unwrapped my last energy bar of the trip. As I watched Phil assembling his rod, I remember thinking ‘life doesn’t get any better than this’ and, in all truthfulness, it doesn’t.
Batsock then showed us a run of water that pushed along a steep cliff carving out an undercut that was capable of concealing monsters, and Phil deserved a monster. It is easy to make judgements when you are an observer but he fished it well. Every inch was covered. Even though the place looked perfect, nothing happened, that is until Phil reached the very end of the interesting looking water and his rod lunged forward and he hit his taimen.
Big fish rarely disappoint and this one was no exception but, when you have travelled so far, been through so much, there is always that hope that something completely out of the ordinary will show up, that fate will grace you and that maybe, just maybe, for once in your life, you are in the right place at the right time and a fish of a lifetime collides with you leaving a memory so ingrained it will never leave. What I had just witnessed was impressive but it was a mere taster of what this river is capable of. Batsock is not one to give up lightly so gestures were made to remount and we made our way back to a place we had passed on the way up river.
It was a big powerful piece of water that cascaded around a steep outcrop of rock as it gnawed at its edges. Getting down to the edge of the river was what you could call ‘dangerous’, and the power of the water once we got there was awesome. Batsock pointed out in to the centre of the thunderous pool and Phil hurled his big lure into the river’s equivalent of the eye of a hurricane. I recall thinking that if he hooked one I had no idea of how he was going to get it out and, shortly after that, he hooked one.
This was a monstrous fish in murderous water. The rod bent further than it was designed to do as the fish showed her colours by waving her big orange tail out of the water, thrashed it back down like a hammer and then the hooks came out. The look on my friend’s face was one of total disbelief. I won’t tell you what he said.
The big golden lure went out again and again a taimen nailed it. Then it came off. Another cast and once more the lure was smashed into and then the damned hooks pulled out again. There must have been a lot of hungry fish out there but every one of them got off. One haunting shake of the head and the hooks were spat out like a pip from an apple. They all immediately tried to round the corner of the cliff. Whenever Phil tried to stop one he lost it. We were up against something that was on a different level to what we were used to. These fish were street fighters, about as far away from a roach or even a barbel as could be imagined.
Just as we were trying to work out a different approach a family of hunters turned up on horseback so we rested the pool and joined them. We sat amongst the tall grass, shared smiles and I took some photographs of Phil holding one of their rifles whilst Batsock chatted to them. I didn’t have a clue what they were talking about but there was a lot of smiling so the proximity of the fire arm didn’t make me too nervous. All this time Phil resisted the temptation to fish, but he kept looking at that torrent of water and, whilst savoring a moment that only Mongolia can provide, he wanted those hunters to leave so he could get that lure back in the water (he told me later that he was worried that if he did actually land his taimen he may have been obliged to give it to the hunters). It was an amazing display of self-control. I wouldn’t have been able to contain myself.
As they left, Phil picked up the rod with determination and we all scrambled back down towards the river. After a couple of casts the rod was wrenched over, Phil slammed the rod back and another fish was on. I seem to remember that Phil heaved the rod back again to drive the hooks home but I can’t be sure of that. This fish tried to do the same as the others but Phil had worked it out. It wasn’t very delicate, it was worrying to watch, but it worked. Not an inch of line was given, the fish trashed the surface and looked at us like a boxer looks at his opponent before the bell for round one rings out. This fish had no intention of giving up. Neither did Phil.
When you are playing a fish the adrenaline speeds everything up and it can seem be over all too quickly. When you are watching someone else playing a fish it seems like an eternity. Often this is because the person you are watching is not using the rod to its full potential, I mean, these things are meant to bend. Phil seemed to be taking a long time but I doubt if he could have applied more pressure, dug his heels in any deeper or pushed his tackle any further – he had no option, the beast on the end of his line was in no mood to be dragged from its environment. It wasn’t a case of playing the fish, not even one of fighting it, this was war and it involved head shaking, tail thrashing and dashes for freedom by the fish and shear stubborn determination to stop her on Phil’s part. All I could do is stand and watch and mutter, ‘don’t let those hooks come out.’ When the fish started to come towards the bank I had the feeling it just wanted to get a little closer so that it could eat us. God only knows how, but as Phil got her within arms reach I had to stop watching and give him a little help.
The problem now was not a case of ‘how to get her in’ but one of ‘how to get her out.’ The bank was so steep that I couldn’t get hold of her. She worked the powerful water that rushed past as if it were a Summer’s breeze. I tried to lean over and get a grip around her tail but the drop was too far so Batsock held onto the back of my waders and I tried again. No chance! We shuffled about and I tried a to get her under the gills. I gave up on that one when I saw the big treble hooks hanging from the cavern of a mouth. If one of those stuck in my thumb I would have been pulled in and, call me a coward if you like, I would have been drowned. Phil would have lost his fish and, to rub it all in further, he would have been forced to make a very awkward phone call to my son when he got back to England to explain that ‘Daddy has just died whilst trying to grab a fish!’.
That fish was well over a metre in length and couldn’t wait for some dumb fisherman to grab her so off she went again with a display of power that makes you realise what a wimp you are. Phil was hanging on to a tree with one hand, the rod with the other. Batsock was still hanging on to me and he was hanging on to a fragile little bush that looked as though its roots were about to give way under the strain and the taimen was still hanging on to the advantage the river gave her. One slip and we were dead – that is not an exaggeration.
Once again Phil bullied her back to the edge. She paused to work out her next move. She looked like a crocodile. As Batsock lowered me down for another attempt I could hear the bush he was hanging on to creaking. I don’t know how, but I finally got a grip on the wrist of her tail and, before I could worry about her turning around to bite my hand off Phil got her under the head. Batsock let go of the bush, slid towards us, dug his boots in, grabbed the pair of us and hurled us up the bank, fish, two exhausted fishermen and a fishing rod. We all ended up in a heap. It was not the most delicate way to land a fish but we had her and we pinned her down like three well trained members of a riot squad.
Once she had settled down, there was the inevitable handshaking, back slapping, dancing around and photographs – this was one big fish. Putting her back was as difficult as getting her out.
As Phil packed away the rod and Batsock untied the horses I heard a fluttering sound as a breeze picked up and I noticed a tree covered with little blue cloth ribbons. It seemed to stand guard over the pool looking at the scene of victory in the same way that I was.
‘Holy tree.’ Said Batsock.
This was obviously a place of great significance to the Mongolians and it had just become so to us. The location and the event etched deep into my soul. The day was complete. We dragged ourselves away from the river and walked the horses over a steep track and remounted. One of the horses spooked as there was a little rock side and it kicked Phil right on the thigh. It must have hurt like hell but, compared to what we had been through it was nothing.
It took a long time to get back to the camp and, as we got to the brow of the hill that over looked it, the sun was sliding behind the mountains and darkness was dropping from the big sky. But I could see that everyone had gathered outside, worried where we had been, wondering how we had got on. As we cantered down towards the camp a feeling of total joy washed over me. I shouldn’t have done it, it was as dangerous as getting that fish out, but I dropped the reins, held my arms full stretch to indicate the size of that fish, and rode towards the camp as Phil did the same. I felt like Kevin Costner in ‘Dances with Wolves’.
We recounted the day over bottles of beer and slugs of vodka as Phil’s smile increased until it tired him out and he crawled into a sleeping bag to dream about his day. It was, quite simply, the perfect ending to a perfect day’s fishing and I didn’t even take a rod, I didn’t make a single cast, never had a single moment when I wanted to.
That was the best days fishing I’ve ever had.
Story and photo credits – Rob Olsen
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