Blue-Lining
Written by Dan Osmond
Blue-lining, that’s what the Americans call it. Take a map, find the blue lines that plot the course of streams and follow it up until the line disappears. Pack light and head up into those minor tributaries in search of hidden jewels. It’s a little harder in the UK, with only remnant pockets of land publicly accessible, and riparian access even tighter. Still, for those who study the maps and are willing to hop a few fences, the opportunity still beckons.
The lanes narrow and potholes increase until tarmac gives way to a polished granite track and then a muddy layby. From here we’re going on foot. I grab the sections of my fly rod, shoulder a small rucksack and lock the car. Hesitating, I return to unlock the door, slide my phone under the seat and start pacing away before responsibility gets the better of me. I take one more glance at the map, take a bearing and hastily follow a cattle beaten track over the horizon. A little further, sweating under the late-morning sun overhead, a couple of ticks are brushed off my shins and a glimmer catches my eye as I look down. There she is, my blue line.
It’s been some time; the months prior have been spent languishing in a rented city-centre flat, coming to grips with life in the Coronavirus pandemic and waiting for the green light to travel again. A couple of months from now, in the summer of 2020, my fiancé and I are due to be wed and yet, as limits on social gatherings appear set to continue, this remains uncertain. My usual coping strategy, disconnecting from the business of immediate society and reconnecting with the natural world had been restricted. Remaining proactive, grand plans were drawn to make the most of a return to normal freedoms.
Barely taking a moment to admire the river, I too eagerly thread the line through the eyes of the rod, cursing as one is missed and precious seconds are wasted. I’m here now, it’s time to make the most of it. Having read more about fishing these streams during isolation, I go straight to a black Klinkhammer, a trick modern fly that apparently says all the right things to a hungry trout. Yards of line are ripped from the reel and I begin casting, hurried and forced, picturing the prize to be had. Inevitably, my squashed loops and failure to take consideration of my surroundings resulted in an early capture of the bank behind.
As we all sought to adapt to a more complex life, a clamour of output appeared on news sites, blogs, social media, vying to gain the attention of us, the people, with an unexpected wealth of time, serving up a tidy package of how to function, enjoy and flourish in ‘lockdown life’. Apparently big business soon cottoned on and, seeing some money to be made, feigned empathy in offering ‘must-haves’ to exercise, adventure and self-care; dangling an unnecessary, expensive carrot to a starving donkey.
Having spooked the residents of the first pool, I crept up a little more carefully to the next. Up the valley, unseen, a cuckoo called that wonderful sound that sadly most of us are more likely to hear in recorded media than live from the artist. It’s the cue that I need to take into perspective my surroundings. A patchwork of moss-covered granite boulders, worn smooth by thousands of years of this humble stream flowing steadily, baked dry by summer’s heat above the water line. Gravels line the banks where, in winter’s floods, this stream would reawaken into a more powerful, hostile environment, now just resting in the low flows of summer drought. The silhouette of an alderfly stands against the bright blue sky as it takes off from its previously aquatic existence. And then, in the perfectly clear peat-filtered water, an unmistakable ripple cascades the surface: trout.
Too often I have fallen short in coming to the river with my own agenda, my own wants to be satisfied. The seductive voice of consumerism says that our desires can be bought: better casting with the latest high-tech lines, greater comfort with brand new waterproofs and even the carefree dirtbag aesthetic at the price of an influencer advertised trucker cap. Time again, the river brings me back. These complex ecosystems are not so easily swayed by marketing bullshit and require you to bring nothing but eyes wide to marvel. We threaten the rivers’ beauty with our wants; fashion is the second highest polluting industry in the world. We must radically rethink our priorities, consuming less and when need does arise, invest with our purchases in companies with transparent, sustainable and fair production lines. When non-organic cotton pesticides poison the rivers which provide food, persistent fluorinated chemicals used in the manufacture of waterproofs are found to accumulate within the body fats of all animals and entire basins dry up from the demand for water from industrial factories; then sustainability isn’t just a trendy tag line but an existential requirement for humanity.
I tie on a simple F-fly, little more than a couple of buoyant feathers mounted over a slim drab body of yarn, the size of a coffee bean, onto the end of my line. The rings reappear, and with a couple of slow considered motions of the rod to extend my line, the fly lands a couple of feet upstream. The fish rises again and I instinctively flick to set the hook. A feisty palm-sized trout is soon brought to hand, its flanks peppered with haloed spots of white, red and black, a brilliant dark red adipose fin and sharp bright stripe on the fin margin. The fish is returned, swimming away defiantly into a pocket between boulders. I continue slowly upstream, another jewel to be found in each pocket of this stream, none the same as the last. Some of the fish are brought to hand for admiration, many more are missed as they dart lightning fast back down before the hook can be set. The number doesn’t matter, I’ve given up counting such trivial trophies. The size of fish is never going to land me any sponsorship, what more could I want for anyway? As I wade carefully in my shorts and old hiking boots, I’ve joined with the environment and somehow know the river a little better for its cold embrace. My body loosens under the relief of stress, casting becomes more playful and slow, and my very being there becomes a joy without any purpose. Eventually, as the valley steepens, the river becomes tighter, enclosed in a gorge with steep plunging waterfalls. I set aside my rod, rucksack, cap, old tattered T-shirt, recycled shorts and well-trodden boots and ease myself into the pool. Naked of pretence, the cool water soothes sun-baked skin, doing a quick lap of the small pool before resigning to sit upon a submerged boulder and absorb the view along the valley below. Peace, at last.
A few people have since asked me the location of this precious river I found, each time I’ve awkwardly dodged an answer. The location doesn’t matter, the river is not some commodity to be consumed when you need a quick fix of stress therapy. The river was simply gracious enough to teach humility, to listen and dance with the natural world and glimpse within. Your own river is out there too, just travel light and follow the blue lines.
