Fishing and Other Follies

On the fifth day we took a helicopter ride of more than fifteen kilometers to a tributary - the slightly smaller, but even more beautiful, Litza River - to fish a section in a deep canyon, with a heavy flow and many cliffs and waterfalls. We were dropped off at the top of a steep hill, about 500 meters above the river. We walked down and had a fine day of fishing in a light rain. I caught a large sea trout, a grilse and an 18-pound hen fish, but Anders, fishing directly across the river from me, having got there in a small raft made from logs, hit the jackpot with 14 salmon, including two 28-pounders, all caught on a single fly. He was an extraordinary caster and angler – a joy to watch. Late in the day, Nikolai got a call on his satellite phone saying that the cloud cover was too low and that the helicopter could not pick us up. What then? He said that we would have to walk upstream about five kilometers, then cross the river and sleep in a tent that was there for just such a purpose. A man was stationed at the tent who would prepare dinner, and we would return to the main camp in the morning, once the weather cleared. We looked at the depth and strong current of the river and pointed out that wading across was not an option. Nikolai said that it was not a problem, as the camp was next to a large pool and the man would bring a boat over to get us. So, we made the tiring walk of several hours back up to the top of the hill, then over rough terrain and back down to the river below, just downstream from the big pool where the tent was pitched. Nikolai said “We wade across here.”

I objected, “What? That’s not possible. We didn’t agree to that. Where is the boat you promised?”

“No boat. Cross here.”

Had he lied or was he ignorant? Irrelevant. Russian guides don’t explain and they don’t care. They’re tough and you better be resilient. With my wading staff, Nikolai walked about three meters out into the deep, strong current. Then he came back. “It’s good. We cross together.”

Anders said “We can’t do it. It’s too dangerous. Get the man to come with his boat.” Given his age and size, when he seemed worried, I became terrified.

“No boat. We go now, or sleep here” I now suspected that there had never been a boat. Well, here we were with a Hobson’s Choice – cross at great risk to have dinner and sleep in a tent, or stay on our side and sleep, cold and uncomfortably, on the ground, and having to walk all the way back to the top of the hill, to be picked up by the chopper in the morning.