The Time travelling road – Going Gonzo in the North Easter Cape

There is a particular piece of road in the Eastern Cape that defies the bounds of time. Many roads like it exist, and each person has their own stretches of road that don't seem to adhere to basic timekeeping principles, to the great frustration of anyone in a hurry. Time travelling road stretches turn what should be a 30km drive into what feels more like a 100. It’s especially odd that this kind of road always turns up on the way to great fishing destinations. 

(Click in images to enlarge them.)

I have encountered roads like this between the Engen One Stop on the N2 in Cape Town, all the way well over to the other side of the Du Toits Kloof Tunnel; between Barkley East and Rhodes; from Lady Grey to the Karnemelkspruit bridge; and pretty much anywhere from where my tent is pitched to the nearest piece of clear running water. 

That’s the thing about fishing the North Eastern Cape Highlands in the middle of summer; you have to prepare yourself for the unexpected; the rain and hail, the dirty water, and the time travelling roads, often in the pursuit of finding clear headwater streams, a pure enough destination if there ever was one.

Going Gonzo in the North Easter Cape

A carefully constructed ruse got me shore leave over the December holidays. I was invited to attend a friend’s wedding on a farm called Glenygle, coincidentally neighbouring Balloch. 

“Of course I can make it.” I said.

Being on short notice there was no real time for any kind of planning, and besides, planning does not allow for unexpected adventures. I threw my essential camping equipment into the pick-up, knowing that if worst came to worst I had friends in the area who would put me up for a night or two before moving on. At least I hoped they would.

Day 1

I arrived in Aliwal North and made a traditional stopover at a good friend, rod and net builder, Mario Geldenhuys. He had just completed my beautiful new small stream net, made from local hardwoods, handcrafted to absolute perfection. It’s always a pleasure stopping by. Each visit feels like I was there yesterday, only the boys have grown and there is a beautiful new addition to the family by the name of Mila. 

Mario Geldenhuys

I left Mario, aimed the truck towards Lady Grey, and 10 ks out of town the time travelling road loomed on the horizon. After what felt like a high-speed, adrenalin-wrought eternity I pulled into a campground on the Karnemelkspruit, alone, and set up camp seven meters from the water’s edge.

I fished all afternoon, moving from the campsite to the boundary, and then from below the camp back in time to light a fire and start a braai.

The fish were in incredible condition and the strongest I had ever felt them. I picked up turned out the biggest fish of the trip, a long, glorious 16” trout. He came from beneath the edge of a long grass lined run, moving a good meter to engulf my hopper.

During dinner that evening a crack of lightening signalled what was to be a very wet night. After my tent starting sinking into water, I abandoned the prospect of camping and bolted into a converted barn, now a communal braai area. I spent the rest of the night worrying about the clarity of the water while drying off next to a roaring fire and drowning my worries with whisky.

Day 2

I woke up the next morning surprisingly dry after spending the night dodging leaks in the roof. The river was running higher but crystal clear, glowing with a green, blue aura. The sky had cleared and overhead a vulture rode the thermals, searching for breakfast. I headed to the lower section of the farm towards the gorge, only to find the gate locked. No matter. You can’t be disappointed fishing any place on this stream, rated some of the best pastoral water in the country. 

I picked up numerous fish throughout the morning, finding trout in every run, pocket and pool. The fish were happily not fussy, coming to terrestrials fished on the surface or soft hackles fished deep in the larger pools.

I was blessed with a spectacular flying ant hatch that afternoon, and the larger pools bubbled as trout gorged themselves on ants collecting in the surface film. Matching the hatch was easier than I expected, and I took fish the rest of the afternoon and into the evening. It was glutinous stuff, for the fish and me.

Anticipating more weather, I called a friend and asked if I could stay in his stone cottage on the banks of the river. This became my base for the next few days. An authentic fishing hut on the banks of my favourite stream. It was a dream come true, if only for a short while.

Day 3

I awoke to bad weather. It looked gloomy, threatening a downpour. I fished that morning, discovering new water between the bridge and the entrance to the farm. Despite the weather the fish were on, and only after I felt spoilt did I make my way into Lady Grey to catch up with some friends in town.

I took one of the boys fishing as the downpour began, the stream turning dirty before our eyes. I rode my luck and we made the muddy decent down Joubert’s Pass heading for the Karringmelk’s headwaters in thick mist and rain, hoping that we would find clear water on a friend’s farm. The journey was treacherous; the road had turned to soft, silt-like slime, nearly impossible to negotiate without 4x4. My new truck earned its stripes that day, spending most of its time sideways, struggling for traction, diff-lock on. 

The upper Karringmelk was a raging brown torrent. It was now obvious I had to move on to clear water. There was a wedding I had to go to, and after checking the date, I realized it was the next day.

I arrived back at the campsite safe, covered in mud, and a little shell-shocked. I spent the rest of the evening next to the fire in the cottage, winding down from the adrenalin, enjoying fat lamb chops for dinner. I was sad to leave, but eager to come back.

Day 4 

I packed up the cottage and headed for Wildside camp in the Wartrail area. Crossing the old Kraai river bridge the water flowed dark and strong. I desperately hoped the tributaries would run clear. 

I made the long road down to Wildside, negotiating the muddy tracks to the edge of the Kraai. I met up with Kate Nelson an amazing host. She showed me to a neatly kept stand in a poplar grove. I set up camp, changed into my suite, and made my way to the wedding.

I could not think of a more perfect wedding venue. Oak-lined drives, meandering fields, the Balloch mountains for a backdrop. It was a beautiful wedding, in a beautiful place. 

I met Graham and Margie Frost that night, and they kindly invited me to fish Balloch the following day. The wedding entourage were hiking over to picnic on the Willow Stream (Vioolskraalspruit) waterfall where I would join them for lunch.

I drove back at midnight, opening farm gates in my three-piece suit and leather shoes. I realized how sublime the moment was. The sky was clear and the stars shone brightly and there was the promise of a few more great days of fishing. 

Day 5

I left Wildside early that morning and headed through to Balloch, just over the hill from Glengyle. I knew the Vioolskraalspruit was running clear. I snuck away after the ceremony the previous day to check. Balloch is a small piece of heaven on earth, one of those rare places almost too perfect to exist in any kind of reality.

I landed and missed numerous fish that day, with many coming to the dry. I had the opportunity to sight fish most of the trout. I slowed down my approach, spent time in the shade, watching pools, and kept a look out for movement or ripples.

There was one particularly memorable fish I spotted in the tail of the pool, moving side to side eating drifters in the current. I crawled through the thick grass along the bank, and tempted the fish to a small hopper pattern. The conditions were low and clear, and the fish super spooky. I was on 7x Stroft with a very long leader, and as the brownie pulled me back down into the head of the pool below. My nerves tense I quickly scooped the fish into my net. That brownie ended up being my best fish from the Willow. No trophy, but coming from the tiny sliver of a stream it was possibly the greatest reward of the trip.

In the heat of the day I started losing more fish than I usually do, so I headed back down the trail only to meet the wedding party hiking over the mountain to Balloch. I joined them for a wonderful lunch, then made my way down to the shaded lower sections of the farm.

I picked up a few rainbows and the odd brown, but the water was a bit thin to fish productively. I was dive bombed by a huge kingfisher, loudly cussing away as he noticed me. Our argument is still on. I swear he spooked my fish, and he swears I spooked his. Either way, due to the thin water, the entire 100 meter section he had flown down was now fishless.

I made camp alongside a raging poplar fire that night, trying to decide where to fish the next day. There are numerous legendary streams in the area. I just had to organize access.

Day 6

I was hoping the Kraai would clear over the few days I camped at Wildside, but this was not to be, and I left Wildside vowing to return. It’s a beautiful bit of country, and the fishing must be spectacular.

I had kicked into full trout-bum mode. From that night on I had no accommodation. I was going to wing it, knowing that I could arrive at Glengyle and ask to camp in a field. The other options were a few commonages Kate told me about; or else I could take a chance and drive further into the mountains towards the village of Rhodes, and ultimately Walkerbouts.

Not worrying about where I was going to sleep that night, I headed to Millard to fish the fabled Diepspruit, which never seems to end as this spring creek-type stream meanders into the mountains ahead.

The Diepspruit is exposed, the upper section above the farmhouse having no tree coverage at all. The fish are skittish, and the slightest shadow on the stream bed, or odd movement along the bank sent them in all directions. The fishing was trying, as if the fish were educated; but Millard was the surprise of the trip. 

The stream is a truly epic piece of water that seems to have been forgotten due to its lengthy drive from Rhodes. The average size of the trout was better than most small streams in the area, but the fishing was by far the most challenging. I tried inducing takes with boldly presented terrestrials, and after little success moved onto smaller, and then smaller dries and nymphs.

I left Millard as the sun started touching the horizon. I needed somewhere to spend the night and decided to make the trip to the other side of the Bell River and try my luck in Rhodes. After crossing many glorious streams, I stopped suddenly next to a sign in a back draft of dust. 

Left to Rhodes, or right to the Sterkspruit?

I quickly pulled out my guidebook and found Basie and Carien Vosloo’s phone number. I was pushing my luck here, and this could even be considered rude, but I called none-the-less, and after a quick and pleasant conversation with Carien I had a cottage booked below the farmhouse.

I had never fished the Sterk before, and was looking forward to having some dinner and hitting the hay, before starting my last days fishing. I was ushered into the house, sat down, and given a beer. All this was slightly overwhelming; I had barely had any human interaction over the last few days and now I was being invited for a drink with a family I had just met. Well, the drink turned into supper, and supper into dessert, and dessert into a nightcap. The Vosloo’s hospitality made me feel like a member of the family, and I couldn’t thank them enough for the last-minute generosity they showed me. I was fortunate and privileged to have experienced what I did and went to bed that night welling with emotion and gratitude. 

Day 7

The sun shone brightly in the crisp morning air. I left the cottage and walked past the Birkhall dam below the house towards the Sterkspruit. The Sterk was running strong and slightly discoloured. While disappointed, I knew the Bokspruit was directly north over the mountain. I jumped into the truck, raced through the dusty back roads and found the Bok running clear and cold, pretty much perfect. Having never fished the Bok, I called Mario who suggested Hillbury, and he could not have been more spot on. 

I parked next to the bridge over the Bok on Hillbury, and watched as trout swayed in the current below. I had a heart attack when what I first suspected to be an escapee from a New Zealand trophy stream, charged under the bridge and towards the head of the pool. On closer inspection the trophy trout was actually a yellowfish, darting around the pool like an excited Jack Russel. 

I fished from the bridge up to the junction of the Riflespruit, dropping nymphs deep along the undercuts of grass lined banks and the heads of pools. The water was translucent green, glowing with hues of blue and red from the exposed roots of Crack Willow along the eroding banks. 

I always find the last days fishing is savoured a little more, held onto a little longer. The experience needs to be soaked up and retained, offering one enough memories for the long wait in the concrete jungle before returning to fish these calling waters.

I walked downstream of the bridge and found a wide, long section of deep pools cut along a solid rock wall on the opposite bank. I felt like I was on the upper Kraai, much like the last day from my previous trip, with many rugby-ball shape fish coming from the depths. 

Clouds gathered overhead and the threat of a thunderstorm became imminent. I was fishing a wooded run when the rain started, taking my last fish in fading light.

As I drove back along the winding dirt, I begged for the time travelling road to appear and extend the sunset, if even by minutes. But the time travelling road played its cruel tricks, and before I knew it, I was at the gate to Birkhall in the darkness.

I spent that night quietly reflecting on the glorious few days that had just past. I was grateful  for the many enchanting streams, challenging fish and welcoming people.

Just as after my first trip to the area a few years ago, I again left with a sense of wonder. 

“Could it possibly get any better? “

I have asked myself that every trip since – and it somehow always does.

So, I reckon, if I keep going as often as I can, the fishing can only get even better still. Here’s to April/May 2013!

Jade dos Santos