Early July. The river is awake, but the hunt hasn’t begun. There’s been little time to chase trout—too much on the plate. The early season has been about trying new things, floating through places unreachable in late summer’s leaner flows. Grayling trips, scouting runs, and the quiet work of preparation. The first real trout hunt still lies ahead.
The Weekend. The first migratory trout are upriver. I can feel it. The urge to go is too strong to ignore. I hear we’re attending a barbecue tomorrow afternoon and my truck is still in pieces after a week of wrenching. No matter. The master plan is set: up at 5 A.M., get the truck back together, hit the river, and make it happen. Back in time for the barbecue—or at least close enough.
The Hunt Begins. The truck was up and running in a couple of hours—another two before the drive was done. I put the waders on, set up the 7-weight, and started walking. The sky was clear, and the midsummer heat hit hard. I was sweating after just a few hundred meters. At the river, it already felt like a long day. I cracked open the one beer I had, savoring it while it was still cool. The flow looked perfect, the river running just how I’d hoped. I was happy.
The Approach. Usually on this river, I roam large areas, trying some grayling fishing, and switching between different types of water, gear, and flies. This time, though, time is not a luxury. It’s about targeted, precision spot-fishing with one fly. Intermediate line, about a 2-meter leader, and a Muddlerzonker—the fly that’s become a staple in my streamer box in recent years. I’m even planning to do an in-depth video on it soon. I cast only to the best water, always moving on when it’s time. This kind of fishing demands focus and physical effort. We’re not standing still and swinging the day away here.
The Moment. I was standing on a big boulder, about 1.5 meters above the river level, when I noticed a swirl in the middle. With limited space for a back cast, I managed a tower cast, placing the fly right where it needed to be—not pretty, but effective—landing the fly just shy of 2 meters in front of the assumed fish. I made a couple of jerks with the rod, creating short bursts in the small window I was targeting. And just as my fly was about to be carried out of the spot by the current, it stopped.
The Pause. I set the hook, and for a brief moment, time slowed down almost to a stop. I could clearly see a large trout rising toward the surface from its holding lie. At first, it didn’t do anything else—just a slow rise (at least it seemed slow at the time)—to check out what was going on. With the situation somewhat calm, I quickly dug the GoPro out of my wader pocket, the rod between my legs for a moment as I hooked the camera to my cap. Then, it shifted slightly closer to me, moving into a pool that looked like a good landing spot too. But I was wrong…
The Battle. I jumped down from the rock, and the real fight began. With fierce runs, the trout zigzagging across the river, I had to follow the fish downstream for a good 150 meters, wading through heavy currents, trying to keep the line clear of boulders. As I finally get close to landing it, I realize I only have the short stub handle of the net attached. Bringing in a big fish alone with a one-handed rod is challenging—the last meter is especially tricky. After about five missed netting attempts, the fight is finally over. Out of breath and filled with awe, I gaze at the magnificent male brown in my net. I tossed my cap with the GoPro onto the bank to capture some footage, measured a staggering 75 centimeters, and on the release, he sprinted back into the wild like the fight never happened.
The finish line. The fish was caught in the midday sun, and I made it back well on time. The rest of the season felt different—no pressure, no rush. I was fully focused on guiding, moving with a calm ease that comes when you’ve hit a personal milestone. The finish line wasn’t an end—it was a beginning, a chance to savor the season without the chase of my own.
