By
Bill Currie
On that particular afternoon we must have been feeling fit, because two of us decided to go to the little glen to the north and, leaving two colleagues to drift the little sea trout loch there, we set out to climb to the ridge above the glen and find and fish a loch we had heard whispers about. Exploring unknown stretches of moor for little known trout lochs was a passion of mine. Indeed, it still is, but the climbing involved has changed these days. It seems to have become steeper. These expeditions to little-known hill lochs are journeys of the mind as much as the body. I get all fired up about them .1 imagine that, up there, over the first or second ridge, lapping the granite and heather, lie waters which are far more truly Scottish than the lochs to which you can drive your car, launch the boat and drift where thousands have drifted before. Climbing to a new, high, hill water is, thus, a wonderful mix of things - a physical effort, a spiritual journey and a sporting happening. The water I am calling the Red Loch, in a splendid tranche of high country in the West Highlands, was no exception. Body and soul made the journey together.
In western Inverness-shire, where the skyline changes from smooth glaciated curves to rocky, hummocky hills with knolls like carbuncles and where great petrified masses of boiling stone mark the summits, there are innumerable hill lochs trapped in corries or insinuated between the ridges. At altitudes of a thousand feet and over in this spectacular, hard country there is little vegetation and the lochs themselves, little affected by peat, lie clear and sweet over stony bays, sometimes lapping low cliff faces overhung by heather. These waters are ideal environments for trout and, as we were to find out on our exploratory trip, their trout are sometimes handsome and large, and in some favoured waters, like the Red Loch, they can prove to be exceptional.
We travelled by car up to the head of the little spate river in the glen, called on the owner of the estate and had a chat about the fishing and were directed on to the best general line to tackle the wall of the glen, which looked impenetrable. A lone, dead tree was mentioned as a landmark. We set out, walking, then scrambling, always climbing and, with fishing tackle to impede you it is a difficult job. There is always the chance of a fall and a broken rod so it pays to study how best to carry the rod on the hill. I belong to the school of thought that having the loose rod in your hand is the best way. If an emergency occurs, you throw the rod clear as you fall. Rods slung over your back or stuck into the rucksack can take the full weight of your body if there is a tumble.
It took just over an hour to reach the top of the ridge. We had five long pauses on the climb, during which we looked back and saw the glen and its tracery of burns extending map-like behind us. Ridges of high hills stacked themselves to the east. To the south west the little river ran, joining the lovely sea loch which looked out to the profiles of Eigg, Rhum and Muck. As we gained height, lochs in the hills around us opposite began to appear as silver sheets and finally the big loch in the next valley revealed itself, sliding reluctantly out of concealment like a secret thing. From about eight hundred feet above the glen floor we had started from, the little sea trout loch on the course of the river seemed laid out like a plate on the green cloth of the moor. The boat moved before the wind on it and our two friends drifted and dapped. We had a clear eagle's eye view of it all. It was remarkable. We could see sea trout showing in the ripple. Up and down the water white flecks marked the splashy rises of the fish. The place seemed to be heaving with them and a pang or two of jealousy stirred. But it was also strange; our friends seemed to be ignoring the splashing fish. We wanted to shout down that a good fish had moved ten yards to the right or that in fifty yards they would come into an area of sustained splashes, but of course, no voice could have carried down that distance.
We walked on and found the single blasted tree that marked the way to the Red Loch and within ten minutes we were almost surprised when the waters of the nearest bay appeared. Rods were set up, flies attached and we divided, one going to the left and one to the right with the plan to meet somewhere near the loch head. For a dozen casts there was delicious, highly charged uncertainty. What would move to the flies ? Anything? Dour small fish or better? It was tantalising. I was using a floating line and a cast of two wet flies, a dark one on the tail -I think it was a Grouse and Claret- and a Black Pennell on the bob. Floating lines are just right for lochs in summer. They let you see pretty well everything that moves to you. The first offer, however, was a sullen boil to the flies, and when I re-cast, the fish boiled again without taking. Before I could feel too disappointed by the lack of action , a trout of some three-quarters of a pound walloped at the cast and engulfed the Black Pennell on the bob and was played and netted. For a hill loch, this was a good start.
I worked my way round to a bay towards the head of the loch where a rocky headland divided two likely reaches of water and here I moved one small trout which fortunately did not hook itself and immediately afterwards I rose a fish of what appeared to be salmon size. It swirled at my cast and showed a flank which seemed to be six inches thick. I have still burning in my mind's eye the sight of that flash of brownish yellow, and I still feel clearly the sense of emptiness in my rod hand when nothing at all touched my flies. I cast again and again, but the fish did not come any more. So the Red Loch was, after all, one of these waters, where one might reasonably hope for a two-pounder or, if I was to believe my eyes, a fish of double that size.
My next fish was a lovely trout, just over the pound mark, and the one which followed was only slightly smaller. What sport! These fish fought splendidly in the clear water, pulled hard and leapt spectacularly. In between missing rises and returning fish which did not reach the half-pound limit I had set myself I could see my friend's rod bending into fish and from time to time the waters in front of him opened up as a fish leapt and scuttered on the surface in the fight.
We had only three hours available for the expedition to the Red Loch, if we were to get down and have a meal and set ourselves up for the night sea trout fishing to follow. We were almost counting the minutes on the loch. That week was always one of packing in fishing to the point at which the body could scarcely take any more. With about three-quarters of an hour to go, we completed our circuit of the water and met on a rocky point. We each had four fish in our bag, and each had caught and returned many smaller. Both of us had hooked and lost good trout or raised and missed good fish. It had been brisk sport. But the last half hour or so was to prove quite amazing.
It began with the spectacular capture and equally spectacular loss of a big trout. Yes, it was both. My friend hooked the fish and I was near enough to hurry back and take pictures. The trout fought dourly rather than well but eventually, after careful handling, it came in to the net and, bagging down the wet meshes, it was carried ashore. It was a magnificent big trout, a little dark, but an absolutely first class fish for a hill loch to produce. My friend took out the hook, praising the little Peter Ross which the fish had taken, and decided to kill the fish. Lifting the fish from his landing net he banged the fish's head several times on the shaft.. During the process the trout disgorged a newt. 'Ugh!' he said, looking at the mess on his hands. I said something about that newt solving the problem of what large hill loch trout fed on, and I took a picture. My friend laid the great trout down on the heather and began wiping his hands on a tuft.. I took a shot of the fish and thought I'd like a picture of it being weighed on the little spring balance. My friend lifted the fish up and hooked it on to the balance. What a beautiful fish, fully 2 lb. 2 oz. I wanted a better close up, but that picture was never taken because the 'dead' trout suddenly leapt into life, cartwheeled down the bank, hit the shallow water with a splash and, righting itself quickly in the water, sped off into the loch! I ought to have photographed the look on my friend's face, but I suffered from a similar astonishment paralysis. Caught, and lost in the same half minute! It was, as I said, a great capture and a great loss at the same time. For years we referred to it as the best authenticated loss in trout fishing history.
Whether the loss unnerved us or the lowering, weeping cloud which had suddenly enveloped us changed our luck, I do not know, but we discovered fish hard to hook after that. I lost three fish of the pound and a half class right at the edge. I also began in that grey, misty world to have fisherman1s delusions. On one occasion I rose what seemed to be a very large trout but I missed it. I re-cast and the fish took. I landed it and found it weighed barely a pound. Had I lost it I would have sworn it was at least three times this weight!
We finished up with ten trout weighing 9 lb. 10 oz. which would do any of the fat lochs of the Lowlands credit. But what is twice the prize, we had found them in a little hill top water lying on a ridge more than a thousand feet up. It was one of these trout fishing events which has layer upon layer of quality. We had climbed a hard, steep face, had marvelled at the panoramic view of the West Highlands and had that experience which never fails to excite me, seeing the waters of an unknown hill loch materialising from the moor. That day shared many of the features of dream fishing, longing to get to a secret place, casting flies where no man, or few, had fished before and finding bounty. Hill lochs can be dour places, but the Red Loch that day suddenly become generous. But it wasn't just that we had had a good bag; it was that the place had a wonderful atmosphere and had suddenly thrown up one of these extraordinary, unforgettable experiences which the West Highlands, they say, has a way of producing.
We slithered and slid down the hill. When we reached the sea trout loch, our friends were just coming in. Surely they had done well. After all we had seen the place white with rising fish, we told them. In fact they had had a frustrating time. They only managed to hook two fish to the dap and only one came to the net. We managed not to gloat over our remarkable fortune, but I dare say the fact that we were both glowing with the experience of the hill and its secret loch, and with the remarkable event of the resurrected two pounder and its astonishing escape was written on our faces. I am now looking back to that afternoon on the Red loch from years later, from a different stage in a very full fishing life. It was absolutely unforgettable. I have, I suppose, been a little ungenerous over the years in not telling everybody where the water is. Well, once I did and the rods duly made the climb, fished the water and reported back. 'What did you find ?' I asked. 'Oh, nothing very much. Just a typical hill water. A few small trout. It was a pretty dour place,' they said.
*This story of the Ascent to the Red Loch is to be included in a forthcoming CD-ROM on Scottish gamefishing
You can find more articles in the archive under A Line On Scottish Fishing.
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