Have you ever fished for salmon with a Sunray Shadow? Have
you ever hooked a fish on one? Until last week I could answer
“yes” to the first question but “no”
to the second.
Note the carefully worded second question. It did not ask
whether you had caught a fish on one. There is a reason
for that as I will explain.
I have a had the fly recommended to me by various exponents
in the past. Orri
Vigfusson likes to use the method when fishing the Big
Laxa in Iceland and Anthony
Luke fishes very little else when fishing in Norway.
Both of them have told me of the savage takes the fly can
inspire.
But my own experience has been limited. Most of the time
when fish are running in summer I seem to do well enough
using conventional wet flies such as the Ally’s Shrimp
or Cascade so I’m loath to experiment. But it’s
galling when you know you are fishing over lying fish and
they simply will not take.
This happened to me last week when I was fishing down a
run on the river Dee where different beats own opposite
banks. I had the right bank and had already started fishing
when the ghillie on the facing bank began to fish.
Unghillie-like behaviour
Now I should point out I have issues with this ghillie.
I have noticed that he never places his clients where he
places himself. Typically he will allow them to wade in
to good fishing water, spoiling the lies. That seems thoughtless
and very unghillie-like but I can only say what I have observed.
This ghillie hardly ever wades when the water is a good
height. There is no need to do so since the fish run and
lie close in to his bank. Today he had no clients –
he is in the fortunate position to look after a beat with
an owner wealthy enough to engage in very few rents.
Anyway the ghillie turned up and began fishing an excellent
short spey cast from the bank. Within about three or four
casts he was in to a fish. In what I can only describe as
a display of bravado he sat on the bank, with one leg crossed
over his knee, playing the fish as casually as you like
until it came safely to the net. Within five minutes he
was in to another fish, brought to the net in exactly the
same manner.
Salmon fishing can bring out the full gamut of emotions
– not all admirable. Love, hate, joy, anger, envy,
grief, rivalry, anxiety, despondency… did I mention
hate?
Gill, my wife, was fishing a pool a little further down
our bank. I knew she would have been as irritated as I was.
I had covered the short run in front of me with two or three
flies and was reaching a state of near exasperation when
I thought about the Sunray Shadow.
Half hitches
So what is this fly? They can be quite big. This one was
about four inches long – a light aluminium or plastic
tube covered in silver wrap with a wisp of black hair trailing
from the head.
The idea is to thread the tube and attach a hook, in this
case a double size six. As I said, it’s a big fly.
Then, to make it work properly, you must tie two half hitches
around the head. The second half hitch secures the first.
The next stage is to cast your sunray shadow just up from
the place where you think fish are lying. It’s important
to lift your rod as the line comes around on its arc to
maintain a neat V-shaped wake. You can watch the fly moving
through its arc, as visible to you as it is to the fish.
You know when your Sunray Shadow is beginning to work when
a fish leaps out after the fly passes over it. After no
more than three casts a fish leapt out mid-stream, almost
to order. It was a good size - at least 15 lbs and possibly
bigger.
Angry fish
This was a good sign. It meant that the fish was rattled.
Almost, perhaps, as rattled as I was. I retraced a couple
of steps and cast again. As I did so I noticed two things:
the ghillie on the other side had hooked another fish and
Gill, a couple of hundred yards further down my bank, had
stopped fishing and was walking back towards me.
I looked towards my fly. It was nearing the bank when the
fish took. It was not a violent splash, more of a trout-like
take, but there was no doubting the strength of the fish
as it leapt out twice. Yes, it was a good fish, not the
prettiest with its dark coppery flanks, but a big strong
hen salmon.
The fish played well and I began to think of a landing
spot. I had my net but there was a little beach about thirty
yards down the bank. I could take it there and beach it.
My wife was walking slowly towards me. Didn’t she
know I had a fish on? Apparently not.
I threw the net towards her. “Are you going to net
it for me?” I asked, abandoning the beaching idea
or the thought of netting it myself. She picked up the net
and edged towards the river as the fish was getting close.
It wasn’t thoroughly played out but since we must
return our salmon on the Dee I like to get them in quickly
before they are exhausted.
In with the net
She stepped in to the water. The fish was there with her.
She scooped. Sometimes things happen so quickly you are
left with only photographic images of the scene, like a
series of freeze-frames from celluloid film. Click: wife,
net, fish. Click: wife, net, hook, no fish. Click again:
wife, net, hook, no fish. Then dawning confirmation and
an elongated second before a long drawn out groan: “Ohhhooo
Nooooo!”
Meanwhile back in real time, the ghillie on the other bank
is landing his third fish. Never before in my life (and
I hope never again) have I nurtured a compelling desire
to handle and discharge a rocket propelled grenade.
Gill is apologising, meekly. In “never darken my
door” tones I tell her I will “never again”
ask her to net one of my fish. She slinks away. Later I
hear the lost fish was my fault. “I wasn’t ready,”
she said.
She is right in every sense. I was being an arse. If you
ask someone to net your fish you shouldn’t turn on
them if they fail. You’re giving them a big responsibility.
If the fish means so much to you, you should land it yourself.
A good sized fish always means a lot at the time but within
a few minutes it’s possible to be philosophical. I
apologised.
Gill learned one lesson that will be impossible to reverse.
She will not try to land a fish for me again, not for all
the tea in China. That’s probably a good idea. Asking
your loved one to net your fish is a recipe for mutual recrimination
as much as it reflects team work when all goes smoothly.
Line-touching
“You should count it,” said Gill afterwards.
But a lost fish is a lost fish. I don’t go with the
line-touching argument. A ghillie on the Oykel the other
week was arguing the merits of line-touching to count a
fish. He was against netting, arguing it can harm the fish.
I don’t agree. The fish I have netted all seemed to
go back well.
I had tailed a 14 lb salmon earlier in the week and I know
some argue this isn’t right either in catch-and-release
fishing. But the fish recovered well.
Meanwhile across the river the next day, with the water
at roughly the same height, I notice that the ghillie had
placed an angler up to his waist in the spot where fish
were taking the fly the previous day. The angler is making
strenuous casts across the river – all line and fury
– when a simple, short, single spey cast from the
bank would have sufficed. I thought ghillies were supposed
to guide us? How this man has the brass neck to take his
tip at the end of the day I do not know.
The point of this story, however, is to confirm that the
Sunray Shadow does indeed attract fish – but, and
here, as always, is the frustrating caveat: it doesn’t
always work. I tried it again the following day and again
stirred a few fish but not enough to hook one. Some say
this fly can ruin a pool but if the pool isn’t producing
fish any other way, what’s the harm? If you don’t
have one of these flies make sure you add one to your box.
