It is Christmas
season and cold and wet in Budapest. What better excuse do I need to yearn for
the hot days of summer? Yes, when I am not traveling with my band or ferreting
out Chinese groceries in Budapest, I do like a vacation sometimes, preferably
in an exotic locale. And what could possibly be more exotic than… Slovakia! It
has all the necessary ingredients I require of a strange and enlightening
holiday destination. Bizarre accordion music!
A language that is absolutely
beyond my powers of comprehension! A cuisine that is based on the theory that food
should all be one color (white!) And most important: pristine mountains covered
in forests and rivers filled with trout. Yes, I am a trout fisherman. Hungary is
not a paradise for trout fishing, although it is a Mecca for European fishermen
who travel here hunting for its legendary monster sized carp. Yes, there are a
few places one can find trout streams in Hungary – the Garadna and Szinva near
Miskolc come to mind, although the Szinva suffers an almost annual indignity as
a dumping ground for photographic chemicals producing spectacular fish kills that drift into the downtown area of Miskolc and stink up the business district.
The Josva stream near Aggtelek actually supports a wild trout population, but
since it is located in a National Park zone, fisheries experts are not allowed
to develop it as a proper sport fishery. But the trout fishing is better in the
|Release me! Please! Release me!|
Slovenia has some of the best trout fishing in Europe,
but the license fees are steep and it is not exactly close to Budapest. That
leaves Slovakia, which offers reasonable fees for non-resident fishing permits
and good, cheap accommodation in the off season ski regions in the mountains. Even
without a car I can take a train to the small town of Liptovsky Hradok
access to two excellent mountain rivers, the Bela and the Vah. But luckily, I
have a fishing buddy, and he has a driver’s license, and at least once a year
we rent a car and head north to be humbled and shamed by a creature with no
arms and legs and a brain the size of a lentil. Claude has been met in these
pages before. Once an iconoclastic punk rocker he has transformed into an
international diplomat and campaigner for Human Rights, and is now married and
raising a pair of beautiful and clever daughters. He has put aside the
foolishness of youth, and taken up the foolishness of middle age. Fishing for trout.
I mean, usually Claude goes out to fight The Good Fight armored in a three
piece suit with a silk tie in a big Windsor knot.
|Come to Papa!|
On fishing days Claude looks like
this. He walks around in this outfit entirely without any sense of irony or shame. He claims it "keeps him dry" even as we watch the water seeping into his pants. The first time we went fishing in Slovakia, his wife Mina and Fumie took
one look at us in our rubber pants and hit the floor howling with laughter.
While Claude goes for the full chest wader “Michelin Man” look, I prefer hip
waders, and until it was pointed out to me I never considered that they made me look like a
slightly chubby Chippendale Dancer.
| World's only Judeo-Romani Fly Fishing Team|
Another issue is “catch and release.” After
standing in a cold alpine stream with ice water lapping at our family jewels
for hours, I don’t really want to kill the fish and take it home and eat it. I
want a hot soup, or in Slovakia, at least, something starchy and white with sheep
cheese and bacon bits on top. Halushky
is probably the Slovak national dish. Potato dumplings with sheep cheese and bacon bits. Eat it and you will never be hungry again. It doesn't sound like much, but it is one of Europe's great foods. You can fnd it in literally every resturant in the land, but it is best when you get it a cheap lunch stops attracting lumberjacks and truck drivers. Thousands of Slovak truck drivers can't be wrong.
|There is no such thing as "lo-carb" in Slovakia.|
Wild trout are so beautiful, and as we fly fishermen
say “too valuable to only be caught once.” Mina, however, comes from a Roma
family in Romania, and Fumie comes from the fresh fish mecca of Tokyo, so they
were no laughing mood when they informed us that anything we caught was to be killed
and considered as food, no argument, were we crazy, and why the hell were we
fishing, anyway? We nodded dumbly (never argue with women armed with fly rods!)
and we released our fish in secret. On arriving in Liptovsky Hradok, we checked
out the river Vah and decided that it was too high to fish. That left the
alpine Bela, which flows into the Vah from the High Tatras. And we needed to
get fishing licenses. In Slovakia this is never easy – you need to have a state
permit and then a local day permit to fish a specific trout stream. Nobody ever
knows where to get both, although local fishing tackle shops are a good bet if
you can find one. In Hradok you need to go to the paper store next to the hotel
across from the train station.
|Bravely standing up to the EU.|
The assistant there informed us that we needed
to pay double the local rate for a day permit (a regulation that we didn’t encounter
elsewhere in Slovakia) and Claude – who has a degree in law and can often be
found prowling the halls of the European Parliament in Brussels - calmly explained
that under EU law, administrative fees such as fishing permits can no longer allow
discrimination between EU passport holders (such as both of us.) Claude told
her this in his fluent and formal Czech learned from years teaching in Prague. The
woman sputtered something and turned red. Nothing seems to enrage a Slovak store
clerk more than being lectured in EU law in Czech by a foreigner. The breakup
of Czechoslovakia wasn’t so long ago and the languages are still mutually intelligible,
but she wasn’t having it. Claude immediately sensed her frustration and – in the
calm and monotonous voice that comprises the ninja arsenal of EU Human Rights
lawyers – began to prod her into conniptions by reciting a long list of EU laws and regulations backing up his
preliminary objection. It was getting late. “Let’s just pay the fee and go
fishing, Claude.” “No. It is a matter of principle. She has no right under the
EU laws to double charge for a foreigner’s permit.” I went outside for a smoke.
Twenty minutes later Claude emerged from the shop, muttering about bringing the
case of the Stubborn Paper Shop Fishing Permit to the European Courts. I just
wanted to get on the water. Now, here is a basic tip for fly fishermen: always
ask the locals where to go.
Of course, we did no such thing. We drove up the
Bela valley marveling at the scenery and the fact that here seemed to be absolutely
no access roads to the stream itself. Where there was it was only accessible by
rappelling down limestone cliffs where one false move would cost you your life.
This never seems to bother Claude, who approaches fly fishing as an extreme
sport combining the best features of base jumping with the thrill of deep sea
free diving. I come from a more Isaac Walton, “pastoral pleasures” school of
fly fishing, so we continued driving until we finally found a spot near a local
holiday camp, so we could fish while watching fat nude Germans splashing in the
icy waters across from us. As always, Claude found a classic pool and was soon
onto some trout. After a while he graciously moved on and Fumie took her shot
at the pool, and again, trout.
|Sushi. Step number one. Catch it.|
Fumie is not a “by the book” angler. She doesn’t
care about careful casting, or spooking the fish, or having a perfectly
straight leader. She only uses two fly patterns: the Red Tag – because she
caught her first trout using one, and a ridiculous chimera of a beadhead nymph
she calls “The Dancing Queen” because I tie them for her in colors usually
reserved for inking “Hello Kitty” illustrations. It makes fly selection easier
for her and, in terms of fish caught; it beats the rubber pants off of me. So,
at the end of day one, everybody goes home happy and I have caught absolutely
zip. The next day we tried the Bela closer to the town of Hradok, but the
summer temperature had put the fish into slow mode and we were all without any
of what fishermen call “luck.” We watched one local took some fish using the specialized
form of fly fishing known as “Czech nymphing.” This consists of tying about
three heavy sinking nymph flies to a long nylon leader, wading out to the
middle of the stream where the current is constantly threatening to drown you,
and then flailing a short line upstream as if whipping a team of intransigent oxen.
Yes it seems to catch fish. No it doesn’t look like a lot of fun.
|I dare you to release me!|
taught a lesson by the wily trout of the Bela, we decided to move on to more
familiar ground. The Revuca
, flowing between Donovaly and Ruzemberok, has been
our home stream for the last few years. Only three hours drive from Budapest,
it is a smaller woodland stream where we have all caught some beautiful trout
and grayling. And we knew where to get our day permits. Like a lot of Slovak fishing licensors, it is located in a private home
and handled by a little old lady who speaks only Slovak and thinks that all
Japanese people are the same person. Unlike the wild rapids of the alpine
Bela, the Revuca is gentler, full of pools and holes that we have fished many
times before. We never get skunked on the Revuca. Almost never. This day, however,
started off difficult. No trout. At least for me, no trout. Claude and Fumie
caught and released a few small ones, but I had nothing and we had to get back
to Budapest by evening so we couldn’t stay until the evening when stream fish
usually start hitting at the end of a hot day. After wasting several hours
being cruelly taunted by a school of anti-Semitic grayling in one of the downstream holes that had always given up some fish in previous trips, I accepted defeat and was hiking back toward
the car when i heard Fumie and Claude shouting. They had fish.
|The exciting denouement of Cahn's ballet "The Fingerling"|
Claude told me to
lose my nymphs and tie on a dry fly, so I picked out a deer hair caddish fly
that I could easily see in the shallow rapids, waded out, and started casting.
Fumie and Claude were catching rainbow trout on almost every other cast and
soon so was I. This was great. And then… I get my fly line caught in a tree.
No, problem. I know how to deal with this. A gentle tug and… my rod tip breaks.
Clean in the middle. After sitting on a rock in the middle of the stream and
fuming while watching Fumie and Claude reel in fish after fish, I re-strung my
rod without the tip and began casting with the stumpy, unresponsive stick I was
left with. And yes, I caught trout. And yes, it was fun – catching trout on dry
flies is always fun, even if they seem to be small stocked rainbow trout who don’t
know the difference between a size 14 deer hair caddis fly and trout farm puppy
chow. And yes – I have a spare rod, but it was home in Budapest. Where else
would a serial fly rod murderer like myself want to keep his spare fly rod,
right? And yes, I actually like the cheesy starchy halushky dumplings that are served all over Slovakia, especially after a year of a very lo-carb eating regimen, and I like some of the other stuff that Slovaks produce as well and I like just being in a place called Slovakia.
And now it is winter. I have a new fly tying vise. It is time to tie a
few dozen flies and wait for next year’s Slovakian trout trip. I can hear the
trout mocking me in Slovak even now. I never learn.