On my first day in Thimbu, I awoke long before dawn, thinking about the plan
for the morning. We would get over the mountains to a river that I had
dreamt about one day reaching — to catch fish whose ancestors had made this
journey many years before.
I’d been researching the Victorian pioneers who exported brown trout from
Britain around the empire: an episode of rivalry, of class struggle, of
ecological arrogance and, in the end, of one man’s self-belief and a triumph
against the odds. It was a great story that had me in the library for much
longer than was really necessary, but one drawing stirred my imagination.
It showed a perfect brown trout, in loving detail, down to the spots on the
fins, caught in India in the 1870s. Something about these familiar fish in a
place so exotic captivated me. When I discovered that trout had also been
taken to Kashmir, to Assam and finally on to Bhutan, a tiny, remote kingdom
locked inside the Himalayas, I was hooked.
I took a photocopy, pinned it on the wall and thought about the journey those
trout would have taken: as eggs packed in ice on a steamer, the ice packs
hauled overland by teams of ponies to a river in the high mountains. I
imagined the streams they now swam in, overhung with drooping vines or
seeping from glacial meltwater. I had to create my idea of the place from
packets of PG Tips or prints in curry restaurants: green hills through the
windows of a room in which lovers kiss, his hand on her breast, toes curled.
With fly-fishing, it always starts like this: an idea, fed by a rumour or a
picture, that grows into a compulsion. I became fascinated by that journey,
by the idea that as we destroyed our wilderness (Loch Leven, where these
trout came from, is now polluted and a shadow of what it once was), we also
exported it, by the idea of following these fish into the Himalayas and
there discovering, amid the exotic, something of what we have lost back
home.
WE WERE due to set off early. When I came down, stifling yawns, Ugyen — my
guide for the trip — smiled knowingly, as though he had seen many
bleary-eyed first mornings in Bhutan. I thought I might sleep in the truck,
but within a few miles of Thimbu, Bhutan’s capital city, we were on narrow
hairpin roads, kaleidoscoping past stands of prayer flags, golden-roofed
temples and roadside shrines built over mountain streams.
We climbed and climbed, until my ears popped and the crisp packet in the
footwell blew up like a balloon. Bhutan seems to cling preposterously to the
sides of mountains, and its climates are stacked. By the time we stopped at
Dochu La, the first pass, I was looking for a fleece to put over my T-shirt.
A thin mist blew through the rhododendrons and the prayer flags that were
strung up like bunting through the forest on either side of the road. I sat
on the mossy ground and closed my eyes to listen to this prayerful wind. The
flags crackled in the stiff breeze with the sound of fire ripping dry brush.
But soon it was too cold, and we had to keep going.
At Chendebji Chorten, we stopped again. The Black Mountains lay beyond, on the
other side of the stream, a cursed region where nobody dared go on account
of all the evil spirits. On the ridge above us, the trees dripped beards of
moss and wispish, smoking white clouds peeled through them, spiralling in
the wind. Spooky.
Ugyen shrugged. He had his tin can, line and spinner hidden in his gho, the
traditional Bhutanese gown, and wasn’t going to miss a chance. He threw the
lure across the pool and and snatched it back, winding the line round the
tin. A brown trout grabbed the flickering metal blade, jumped high and threw
the hook.
“Just to prove the brown trout are here,” said Ugyen. “Come on. We must go.”
WHEN TROUT were brought here from Kashmir, they were seeded into streams in
the west of the country and only gradually taken east, finally as far as the
Tang Chu, a remote and sacred river that is also the best trout stream in
Bhutan. It is where Ugyen grew up — his parents still live at the top of the
valley, in a farmhouse that Ugyen’s dad built himself — and where we were
headed, the far end of a two-day drive.
Ugyen was looking forward to a day and night with his family. He had arranged
for a pal of his to lend me his motorbike, and put in a catch request on
behalf of his dad, who loves to eat trout. First we stopped for essentials —
a prayer flag to hang off the suspension bridge near his home, and the
ingredients for butter-lamp candles, both pre-fishing ceremonies. The
candles we launched on rafts of cardboard. We dedicated one to all sentient
beings, one to travellers and one to good fishing. This last floated alight
to the far end of the pool and down the first few yards of roiling water
beyond.
“Very auspicious,” said Ugyen. “You will catch a big fish today.”
I did, too. He left me with my bike — a 100cc faux chopper that wouldn’t have
pulled a cat out of a well, much less a bat out of hell. But it was great to
feel the wind where my hair used to be as I thumped up the rutted road that
led into the remote Tang valley. I stopped below a temple wedged into the
hill, built under a looming dome of rock, and fished a fast, dappling run,
pulling out trout after trout. They were a perfect match for their
background, for the copper and butter colours of the river. I kept a brace
for Ugyen’s dad, but the last was too wonderful and I had to return it: a
whopper that I would have walked to the Himalayas to catch. I watched it
fade into the marbled current and knew my journey was complete.
UGYEN’s dad was sitting cross-legged in front of a vast, ornate altar,
spinning his prayer wheel and chanting, when I arrived at his house in the
late afternoon. Later he sat next to me by the stove. The farm cat was
sparked out in the heat while Ugyen’s mum made the butter tea: a mix of tea,
butter and salt pounded in a wooden churner. Mine was poured from their best
silver pot. Ugyen’s mum watched me try it, then put her finger to her cheek
and twisted.
“That means it is good,” said Ugyen.
The trout were cooked with fiddlehead ferns and chilli, and though he had no
English to say as much, I could tell that Ugyen’s dad was pleased as I was
that I’d caught them.
Charles Rangeley-Wilson’s latest book, The Accidental Angler
(Yellow Jersey £15.99), accompanies the BBC2 series of the same name.
Travel details
Colours of India (020 8343 3446, www.colours-of-india.co.uk)
specialises in tailor-made trips to the region. A two-week tour of Bhutan
starts at £3,742pp, including flights from Heathrow via Delhi, transfers,
guides, accommodation and all meals.
Or try Blue Poppy Tours & Treks (020 7700 3084, www.bluepoppybhutan.com)
or Himalayan Kingdoms (0845 330 8579, www.himalayankingdoms.com). A local
operator, Yangphel Adventure Travel (00 975 2323293, www.yangphel.com),
can organise trout-fishing trips; from £136pp per day, including
accomodation, transport, guides and all meals (you have to bring your own
fishing gear).
Hooked! The world’s best trout fishing
ARGENTINA
The world’s biggest sea trout (the version of the brown trout that feeds in
the sea, but spawns in fresh water) swim in the rivers of southern
Patagonia. At the Bella Vista Lodge, on Rio Gallegos, there is the added
bonus of a small stream that heaves with enormous brown trout. Further
details: Nervous Waters (01485 512046, www.nervouswaters.com) has a week
from £2,250pp, including guiding, food and accommodation, but not
flights; these cost about £750.
NEW ZEALAND
Lake Rotoroa Lodge, on South Island, is within striking distance of countless
fabulous trout streams. Kiwi guides will show you the way, and the lodge’s
accommodation and food are superb. For the chance of a real clonker, go in a
year when the beech-nut crop is at its zenith: that’s when the mice breed
like crazy and the big trout go crazy eating them.
Further details: Frontiers International (01285 741 340,
www.frontierstravel.com) has trips from £300pp per day, including guiding,
food and accommodation, but not flights; these cost about £700.
RUSSIA
In the headwaters of the wonderful salmon rivers of the Kola peninsula, a few
hours by helicopter from Murmansk, there are populations of ancient and huge
brown trout. You’ll camp out with vast mozzies, but it’s worth it. A week
costs about £1,300pp, including flights from Stockholm; call 01865 883063 or
visit www.atlanticsalmonreserve.com. Flights from the UK to Stockholm are
about £100.
