White water is pounding over a rocky shelf in to a foaming
pool at the foot of a stretch of rapids. I watch the fly
sliding in to the foam from a short upstream cast. Raising
my rod, I feel the line jarring. A large fish has seized
the lure and it’s diving, nose down.
There it stays, jigging the line, the rod tip bowing over
until quite suddenly the fish explodes out of the foam,
leaping the fall, it’s arched green body and blood
red tail smacking the pebbles as it rushes the shallow rapids.
It’s a good size, over a metre in length and strong
as any migrating salmon.
The fish is a taimen, the landlocked daddy of the salmonids
that never evolved a migratory instinct. Instead it patrols
those rivers of Mongolia and parts of Russia that drain
in to inland lakes such as Baikal.
Thousands of miles travelling and countless hours of preparation
over two years have led to this moment since I first began
reading about this legendary fish, the largest of all the
salmonids that combines the reputation of an arch predator
with the appetite of a pike.
Only last year a 1m 60cms (think the span of your arms)
specimen was recovered from the Urr river in Mongolia. Sticking
out of its mouth was the tail of a metre-long taimen that
it had been trying to digest when it choked. Another fish
was found to have swallowed an otter.
Catching such a voracious beast, it seemed, would not present
too much of a problem. The real issue was getting to the
more remote parts of Mongolia where the fish is found.
I talked it over with Peter McLeod, who runs the fishing
travel agency Aardvark McLeod. He introduced me to Andy
Parkinson who three years ago had set up an operation called
Fish Mongolia based on the upper Delger River.
If you’re ever looking for a bolthole in this shrinking
world, the rolling steppes and rocky peaks of the upper
Delger valley are a great place to hide. Our Cessna touched
down on a makeshift landing strip two-and-half hours flying
time from UlaanBaatar, the Mongolian capital.
Waiting by the strip was a former Soviet Army six-wheel
truck that jerked in to life with a cranking handle. “They
need constant maintenance but never break down,” said
Andy who told us we would be travelling north by truck for
a few more hours.
By the river, just across from the landing strip, a tented
village had taken root over the summer to cater for a minor
gold rush among prospectors panning the river. Fish Mongolia,
based here the previous season, had moved north to escape
the prospectors.
The prospecting is a sign of change in Mongolia. It is
only a matter of time before mining interests increase their
presence to exploit its rich mineral reserves on a grander
scale than anything at present. When that happens a semi-nomadic
life that has been preserved for centuries could well disappear.
For now, however, the steppes remain the preserve of the
herders whose circular felt tents, called gers, are dotted
sporadically across the countryside like white pepper pots.
The journey north is grindingly slow as the track criss-crosses
the river to our camp, some 25 kms upstream, not far from
the border with Tuva, one of the outer Russian republics.
This is bleak border country. Cattle rustling and the occasional
skirmish are not unknown. “Welcome to the wild west
of fly fishing,” says Andy as we reach the ger camp
managed by his Mongolian business partner, Ganchuluun.
“It’s important for me that I involve local
people in what I’m trying to do here,” says
Andy. It explains the small ceremony held at the landing
strip to present a Russian motor cycle, bought by Fish Mongolia
for the local environmental ranger. The deal is sealed with
a round of toffees washed down with several shots of vodka.
Last year he gave a motor cycle to the local policeman.
“They’re the people you need to have on your
side,” he says. Both the policeman and the ranger
are champion wrestlers in a community that, like the rest
of Mongolia, takes its wrestling seriously. Men break off
work to wrestle here like the rest of us stop for a tea-break.
Our ger looks comfortable. We meet our American and Mongolian
guides. The rest of our party includes Vince Garcia, an
IBM systems specialist working out of Dubai, two British-based
salmon fishermen, Finlay Gordon and Martin Wickens, and
Larry Fukuhara, programme director at San Pedro aquarium
in California.
“I like to fish for different species,” says
Larry who has packed five spinning rods. I was surprised.
In the literature I had noticed a strong emphasis on conservation,
including an insistence on single, barbless hooks. Larry’s
soon-to-be emasculated box of lures is a mini-arsenal with
fish-like baits sprouting treble hooks from multiple anchor
points. Tackling up, however, his working lures are paired
down to a basic hook like everything else we use.
“I’m planning to make the operation fly-only,”
says Andy, “But for now spin-fishing is permitted.
I’m hoping we’ll have him converted by the end
of the week.”
The autumn evening is deceptively gentle as stands of golden
larch trees glow in the setting sun. The temperature will
plummet as darkness falls so everyone is reaching for rods
and waders, keen to start at once. It makes sense. Evening
fishing for salmon is always worthwhile as fish begin to
move in their pools.
Unlike their migratory cousins, however, taimen patrol
a fairly well defined territory, each of them occupying
favourite lies. Sometimes a few fish lie up close together,
but often they are spread throughout the river. Finding
them is the hardest task.
I head for a deep run of jade-green water at the foot of
a large basalt rock formation, its curving striations forming
a swirling pattern in the grey cliff. I’m fishing
with the same 15 ft rod I use on Scottish salmon rivers
but my fly is much larger. In fact it’s more a of
a lure made from green feathers and brown fur to give the
impression of a small fish – the trout-like lenok
that share the upper Delger’s waters with taimen and
grayling.
It’s not long before I feel a sharp tug on the line,
then nothing. A little farther along the run there is a
stronger double pull, the sort you feel when a fish is shaking
the lure from side to side, but it doesn’t take.
Later, back at the camp, I find that Finlay has been successful,
landing a 10-pound taimen. He’s pleased but not ecstatic.
“It didn’t fight very much,” he says.
Most of us have caught lenok and grayling that often go
for the same large lures. Life in a taimen river is an eat-and-be-eaten-existence.
I discover that the previous week a fish in the 50 to 60lb
class was landed and released in the pool that I had covered.
You need to be reminded about the big ones now and again.
While most taimen are not specimen fish they are sharing
water in some of the deeper pools with a few giants. It’s
why those who dream of big fish come here. Specimens of
hucho taimen, to give it its full scientific name, have
been recorded at more than 100 lbs.
Why else would anyone exchange the banks of the Dee or
the Spey for a rocky wilderness in one of the world’s
most remote regions? As we stoke the stove at the centre
of our ger that night, I ask the question aloud.
“We wanted to do something different and to experience
a different culture,” says Finlay. “Let’s
face it, you don’t come somewhere like this every
day.” For Vince, the trip has been less of a slog
from Dubai. “I just wanted to come fishing. We can’t
get anything like this in Dubai,” he says.
I came for taimen alone but along the way I’ve learned
a lot about Mongolian history and the legacy of Genghis
Khan. Genghis never strayed far from his sharministic beliefs
in the Eternal Blue Sky. Today Buddism holds sway, one reason
why Andy has stressed his devotion to the catch-and-release
ethic. “Buddists believe that fish and birds should
live freely and I want to respect that belief,” he
says.
But here in the wild north-west, the Buddism appears to
be mixed with a certain pragmatism. As Finlay and Martin
are fishing a pool one day they notice three Mongolian youths.
The youths have shot a ground squirrel and mount it on a
big treble hook before they hurl it in to the pool at the
end of a hand-line. It makes a mockery of our single hooks.
But we persevere. The next day, fishing a surface fly called
a “gurgler” that creates a commotion when it
is dragged across a pool, a taimen slashes at the lure,
hooking itself briefly before the line goes slack. The same
happens the following evening. This time I’m playing
the fish a little longer before I lose it.
One day we take an inflatable raft up river and float with
it down to different pools. “No one has fished this
stretch,” says Andy. To find pristine fly water is
rare indeed. The raft-fishing adds variety and enables us
to rest those pools where fish are becoming wary of our
lures. I hook in to another fish that I’m sure from
its strength is a taimen. Again it sheds the hook.
The nights are cold and clear and we retire early to our
gers waiting for that precious moment in the early morning
when one of Ganculuun’s men brings in dry tinder and
lights the stove. Feeling the warmth from the crackling
fire, watching the dawn through the spokes in the wheel
that forms the ger’s roof; it’s a magical time
of day that reminds us why Mongolians cling to the simple
pleasures of the ger.
Its felt-clad structure, wrapped in three bands of horsehair
braid, provides a perfect rod rack. Inside, latticed walls
lend plenty of hooking points for clothing. We have gers
for sleeping, another ger for eating and even a shower ger
fed with stove-heated water.
In fact I lack for nothing but a taimen. Fin has caught
another – a smaller fish this time - and Larry has
caught a couple of modest-sized fish on his spinning tackle
but each report that their taimen came to the bank without
any great fight.
It’s nearing the end of the week when we visit a
pool where a rocky ledge creates a cauldron of white water.
Fish lie tightly up against the shelf right under the foam,
says Andy, so I cast upstream to let my fly fall in to the
froth. I have a take, then nothing. With the very next cast
the lure is seized again, there’s a fish on and its
taking line just as a salmon does. I feel good about it.
Keep the tension on the line, no great obstacles. I’m
looking already for a good landing spot when I feel the
line go slack.
To have hooked and lost so many fish is a novel experience.
I know how a test match bowler feels when he’s delivering
line and length all day long without a wicket. If anyone
ever tells you that taimen fishing is easy, do not believe
them.
I’m thinking my chance has gone that evening when
in another plunge pool using the same upstream cast I hook
another fish and this time it’s a big one, strengthened
by the oxygen rich water. As I see it leap up stream I’m
consigned once more to failure, the rod tip swaying wildly,
but the fish remains on the hook and falls back in the stream.
Now it has to turn and run and I’m ready. Smoothly
does it, steady pressure, tire it out.
But the fish doesn’t run. It swims towards me in
the slack water. It’s nicely on the reel and I’m
winding frantically but it’s heading for me so quickly
I should pull in the slack line, should be out of the water.
There’s no time. It has done the one thing any angler
hates. A moment later and it’s gone. I stare towards
the run in disbelief
The taimen has won. That fish on top of all the rest simply
knocked the stuffing out of me. On the last evening Andy
hooks and lands a good fish of about 15 lbs. I don’t
get so much as a pull.
Despite my lack of success I admire the work that Fish
Mongolia and other companies are doing to pioneer sensible
catch-and-release fishing in Mongolia’s threatened
river systems. It proves that fishing and conservation can
work together. Perhaps we had a poor week with just five
taimen. The camp’s first autumn week that season had
produced 25 fish so it’s important to maintain a sense
of perspective.
Fish Mongolia is helping to preserve the romance of the
ger-living herder in a true wilderness. Pursuing this ancient
fish is a privilege in itself, trail-blazing angling at
its most demanding. The taimen will continue to challenge
fishing adventurers and specimen hunters alike.
The fish of a lifetime is waiting in one of those far
flung rivers. It just might be waiting for you.
Fish Mongolia has offices in Ulaanbaatar:
PO Box 1960, central Post Office, Ulaanbaatar 211213, Mongolia.
Office, tel/fax ++ 976 11 311355. www.fishmongolia.com
