Fishing and training

Three fish -- that's all I caught on the Wharfe, in Yorkshire, on Thursday. Strangely enough, that was a victory. I'd postponed by a day my intended assault on the river, because it had been raining heavily there and I didn't really want to sit in the wet all day, regardless of the spectacular surroundings.

What I hadn't really accounted for, however, was the whole meaning of "spate river". I've fished rivers -- unsuccessfully -- that have clouded after a heavy rain (not least a brief effort last year on day four at the South Ram, after an almighty thunderstorm).

But spate rivers, at least this one this time, are different. I'd only been to the area once before and hadn't paid much attention to the river; but, still, as soon as I saw it I could tell it was high. Very high.

It was also murky and tea-coloured, deep and extremely fast. That's what two days of heavy rain on the moors does for you: all that wonderful peat infiltrating the water (and cleansing it, in its own way, and enriching it) turned it into one torrent of Yorkshire tea. Ho hum.

Anyway, the other thing about spate rivers: they go down incredibly quickly. I saw it drop a foot in just over an hour.

By the afternoon, I'd seen just one fish rise. I caught him on a claret-bodied Klinkhammer.

By the early evening, I'd had another two on nymphs and saw another three rises (yup, three).

No one else was on the river, and now I know why. It was a good experience. I think if I'd had a sinking line and some heavy nymphs I'd have had more luck. I also might have had some luck with a good mayfly nymph pattern, because there was a glorious mayfly hatch at one stage, but I saw no activity on the surface.

TRAINING

Not so good this past week. I'm making the same mistake I've made in my last two failures: not revolving my life around my training, but aiming to "fit it in".

That's stupid. First off, it's a total false economy. "Too busy" is a silly excuse, looked at objectively. Because I get more work done, more efficiently, and have more energy for other stuff -- like being wingman to my wife for Leon's birthday party today (20 kids, treasure hunts, superheroes, etc) -- when I'm training hard, too. That sounds counterintuitive, given the hours of one's day it takes to train properly, but it is true.

Second, after the last two failures, I know what needs to be done, it's just the psychological warfare I have to win in order to do it. Tomorrow's always another day. So we'll see if my plan to do a bit of all three disciplines tomorrow holds.

Last thought.

My folks have given the dog to me for a few days while my dad is in India. (Having just returned from　South Africa, having just returned from the US, etc, etc. What a guy.) Tonight I took her for a walk around Erwood reservoir, five minutes drive from the house, stunningly set in the Goyt valley, surrounded by moors. There was a glorious sunset. I watched trout rise on a glass-calm surface. The clear, dark-blue sky was gorgeous.

But here's the thought: sublime as it is, it still doesn't wrench my inner being in the way an August evening on the Dogpound (similar setting, in the pastoral sense) or the Little Red or the Highwood does. Don't know why. But I suppose it's partially the call of the wild, partly the call of Canada, and partly the sense of wanderlust.