Issue link: https://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/478498
S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S 1 3 7 forces on the islands. We fished the Warrah River where a good sea trout runs about 15 pounds. We knelt below a chute that fed a deep pool and watched trout taking something on the surface. Kit, an indefatigable Scot, tried for them with sparse ties, which are deadly on sea trout in the UK. As I waited my turn, I pondered whether they'd take a dry. Why not? I thought and tied on a bushy Stimulator. Kit turned the pool over to me, and for once my cast went where it was supposed to, into the still water behind a boulder around which flowed a strong current. The strike was instantaneous and a silver Poseidon launched from the depths colored like expresso. "Brilliant," said Kit. My thought was irreverently scatological. Trout fishing in the Falklands is utterly non-commercial. Guides are available to be sure, but bring your own gear and flies. Islanders are among the most congenial of hosts and have converted many former sheep stations into comfortable and affordable country inns. To this corner of the British Empire I'd eagerly return to fish for browns. IF YOU WANT TO GO With few exceptions, the most reliable sources of information about fishing for trout in the former British empire is available from government tourism agencies in the various countries. ·Australia and Tasmania – australia.com ·Kashmir – kashmir-tourism.org/ jammu-kashmir-adventure-sports/ trout-fishing.html ·South Africa – southafrica.net/za/ en/articles/entry/article-southafrica. net-trout-fishing ·Chilean Patagonia – flywatertravel.com/destination/ TierradelFuegoLodgeChile ·Newfoundland – www. newfoundlandlabrador.com ·Falklands – falklandislands.com/ product.php/21/32/fishing EDITOR'S JOURNAL continued from page 9 duration of my stay. I'd have to adjust my hopes accordingly. Drew continued. "But we won't even try to head offhore. I heard that the waves capsized a shrimpboat, and two people drowned." So those two guys showed up to work—and never made it home. Maybe they loved their job, maybe they just clocked in because they had to. Either way, I immediately thought of their families and the questions each would ask and the lingering questioning that often eludes words altogether. But whether they loved shrimping or just had to, those guys likely died fighting death's approach. My little disappointment paled in comparison to what those shrimpers lost, but I knew I'd not catch anything at all if I complained about the weather. Port Eads has history and is supported by a world- class fishery. The food promised to be wonderful. And fall is beautiful on the delta. I aimed to fish hard and catch at least one red on a fly. I nside the main lodge, images of huge marlin, giant tuna, smiling anglers, and bad hairdos lined the walls and told me that I'd need to visit Port Eads in better weather, but that first morning, with occasional flights of teal winging past, I climbed aboard a skiff captained by Eric Newman. We crisscrossed the delta in search of clearer inshore water and less wind. But 25-knot winds permeated even the thickest stands of roseau cane and prevented fly casting, so we pitched spoons or rattling stickbaits. Three anglers on our skiff managed to land two redfish, one very nice and the other, which I caught, proved to be the smallest red I'd ever seen. Still, I learned something: The fish hit retrieves that ran parallel to a line of cane. The next morning, Drew's older brother, John, who owns High Adventure Company (800-847-0834), joined Eric and me, and Eric again covered the delta and tried to find a peaceful spot among the backwater routes that border East and West Bays. None could be found. I broke out my fly rod anyway. I had to. Casting a fly is the way I love to fish. Where the breeze prevented false-casting, I employed rollcasts just to keep the fly in the water. Occasionally, with the wind at my back, I made passable presentations but turned nothing. John, however, caught a pretty nice red, which gave me hope. About lunch time we anchored in shallows near a couple stands of cane. After eating, I rollcast in nearly every direction. Nothing. Then I dropped the fly straight in front of the boat about 30 feet out. The line paralleled a thin patch of roseau. I made one strip, and something hit hard and plowed across that little postage stamp of delta. The fish peeled line but not much before slowing. It gave one final push, ran near the surface, and waved the famous spot on its tail. Just a few pounds large (though much bigger than the one I'd caught the day before), that fish made my trip. H eading home, I thought some about returning to Port Eads but mostly about the deceased shrimpers. No one told them goodbye, no one held their hands— tragedies within tragedies. I don't want to die fly fishing or shooting quail or otherwise enjoying a hunt or time on my favorite stream. I want to live that way, don't want to be cut short. If I die due to some obligation, let it be to love, to family or friends, to God Almighty or country—to decency. To die fighting seems the only way to go, but I pray someone will hold my hand and make the fight a sweet one.