After four weeks of itching around Edinburgh, I just didn’t feel at home. The summer break on the Ponoi was dragging on so long I’d lost any direction I should have had. Too long to call it holiday and not long enough to get on with life. The ‘Fall’ season was all I could think about, so much so, that by the time I was on the plane to Oslo I was dreading returning. I’d survived the spring season; had an experience to fill any salmon fisher’s dream and actually done quite well at this guiding thing. Why go back? Why put myself through leaving again? Sleeping in airports, half a day of crazy Russian roads, a night in Murmansk and the dreaded 3-hour helicopter ride in an old rusty MI8 from the Soviet era.
My doubts were soon gone, landing back at Ryabaga and seeing the guys again reminded me why I was back. The haziness that filled my head over the break cleared and with a new focus I was ready to get back in the boat. The River had dropped over a meter since I had last seen it and the catchment was desperate for rain. Driving was going to be difficult, the fall run of fish hadn’t arrived and the fish we were catching in spring were getting cannie and hard to catch. The game had changed. Maps for driving became more important than maps for fishing and “reading water” meant being able to spot the rocks instead of the likely looking spots for a kipper. Some useful advice from the guys was “don’t look down” – I honestly couldn’t believe how high the boats would ride when plaining, especially when you can see gravel bars below you in 5 inches of water.
Despite being promised rain we only got a couple of slight lifts in water for the rest of the season. Fresh fish started to make an appearance by the end of my first week back but unfortunately not in any great number. I was delighted to get my first fall run fish in the boat – 9lb of chrome perfection and what a scrap it was compared to the now very colored and out of condition older fish. The fall-run fish on Ponoi are infamous for being real hard fighting brutes. Arriving between August and November these fish (also known as Osenkas) don’t spawn until the following year, meaning they have to survive over a year in the river and a whole winter under the ice. As you can imagine they are built like pigs!
My second week on the river was tough. I’d nominated to go to the bottom beat of the river – Tomba, which in usual years would be the first stopping point for fresh fish. My high hopes took a battering (along with my engine) and Tomba was dead. Long drives and no bright fish. As the Ponoi is such a wide river, the general thoughts were that unlike our rivers in Scotland, the low water meant the fish ran hard. Big flies in shallow water were the preferred tactics here – this was the most likely way an aggressive running fish would see the fly.
With some very big tides more and more sea liced fish were being caught throughout the river and the fresh fish started holding in the more likely deeper channels, with the running fish still moving in shallower water. By the third week my guests were getting bright fish in the boat most days. Some real belters were caught including a couple of bright fish over 15lbs and some crocodiles close to the 20lb mark. The big fresh fish tended to run upsteam at first, almost as if they didn’t know they were hooked. All hell broke loose when they realised what was going on and you’d inevitably spend most of the fight in the backing. As expected we lost a fair few of the big guys too – bending hooks and snapping lines a constant worry!
The guides got a chance to fish in the evenings and I was lucky enough to have a fair few bright fish to my own rod. My first was a typical fall fish about 7lbs and after a brilliant fight she came to Max’s net and the job was done… until the fish found a hole in the net and screamed of downstream again! Playing a fish through the net was not how I intended to land my first Ponoi fall run!
Another memorable evening was with Teddy, it was surprisingly mild one night and we were fishing near camp when we both saw the bow wave of a fish chase Teddy’s tube before nailing it on the surface. After a decent fight I managed to net him, although he nearly didn’t fit! At least 18lb of croc with a head almost as big as mine! After this we moved upstream to a favorite little spot and I hooked a fish in knee-deep water about a foot from the bank, it proceeded to run straight at the boat! I was winding like crazy shouting to Teddy as I thought it was off… well it soon felt the hook and the next thing I knew it was 100m downstream and I was running out of backing! We finally got him into the boat – a fat 16/17lb, fresh, fall run, Ponoi Salmon. What an evening – 2 personal bests in the boat. Let’s just say it wasn’t a quiet evening in the bar that night.
We never got the rain we really needed and as the water cooled the fishing slowed down. Leaves started falling off trees, and the air temperature plummeted. Putting on a pair of frozen waders was not much fun… Neither was trying to feed a frozen anchor rope through the pully. My last week on the river was one of my favorites – syndicate week. When the Ponoi camp was first established there was funding from a large group of syndicate members, who in return got a weeks prime fishing every year. Big long lunches, parties in the bar every night and a very relaxed weeks fishing. My second last day on the river was one of the best – my guest, James, got a fish first cast and I just knew we were onto a winner! He ended up top rod with 11 fish in the boat that day. It just so happened to also be the day of the Scottish referendum, and by chance all the guides had to sing their national anthems that night in camp. I also had a quick tune on my bagpipes next to home pool that evening, with bright fish jumping all around me. I doubt I’ll forget what I was doing the day Scotland paved its future.
Bleary eyed the next day, my last in camp, any my luck had changed. I went from top boat to bottom boat… just couldn’t buy a fish! None of my drops from the previous day worked and having not “skunked” all season I was getting very nervous come 5pm. Thankfully home pool produced a lovely 14lb bright fish before I returned my boat to the docks for the last time. I was welcomed into camp with news of a “no vote” followed by a swift gin and tonic and one last banya with the lads before another party night in camp.
The next morning I headed up the icy steps from camp to the helipad, stopping at the top to look north towards the river and Tundra beyond, and to where the previous nights Northern Lights had danced through the arctic air. I realised then exactly where I was and what I had done. My experience had been perfect. I’d learnt more about Salmon fishing than I could ever have dreamt, I’d met some incredible people, who I’d guided onto some stunning fish, I’d even managed a few crackers myself… Christ, I even saw a bear. I’d done it. But as the “whoosh whoosh” of helicopter blades reached a new pitch and we slowly lifted of the ground, none of these things seemed to matter. What did matter was the people I was leaving behind and the strong relationships I had forged in the wilderness at Ryabaga. As I stared out the window hoping nobody would notice the tear in my eye, I just caught the glimpse of a boat, heading round the turn in gold beach, of to chase down another perfect Ponoi Atlantic Salmon.
