Words By: Rasmus Ovesen
Photos By: Rasmus Ovesen, Klaus Boberg Perdersen and Mark Johnstead
THE MONGOLIAN HIGHLANDS appear before us under the sky’s deep-blue arch, like a rough-hewn setting from an era long gone. Fall has clad the hillsides – with their thickets of sagebrush, vast grass plains, and sporadic blotches of larch trees – in flamingly golden colours, and while the river carries us downstream at a sedate pace, a silence saturates the air so deafening that even thoughts have difficulty finding any means of resonance.
If it wasn’t for us being hundreds of kilometres away from anything remotely resembling civilisation this morning, we might as well have been drifting on an archetypical prairie river in Montana. But below us – in the cold and whirling water, lurks an ancient predator that would scare the living daylights out of even the most stoic and self-assured Montana trout fisherman. With its shifty eyes, its powerful and jagged jaws, its massive flanks, and not least its propensity for launching cold-blooded terror attacks on any horrified prey item within sight, this fish defies all comparisons with other trout.
The taimen trout, which is the world’s largest living trout species, is – without a doubt – the uncrowned king of this remote wilderness and ever since I read my first article about this indomitable predator, I have dreamed about catching one on a fly rod, and preferably a one meter plus specimen. Now, almost 25 years later, my friend Klaus and I find ourselves right in the middle of this alluring childhood dream. We have been drifting down the river in a competently handled drift boat, which our guide from Mongolia River Outfitters has placed at perfect casting range every time, we’ve passed a promising holding spot.
He has concentrated his efforts on the border zones between the shallows and the deeper pockets, along pronounced eddies, undercut banks, deeper pools, and especially back waters below steep cliffs – and the results have been phenomenal. Countless times, our voluminous streamers have been attacked brutally and with lightning-quick suddenness. And during the week, we have had solid amounts of hot-tempered lenok, a good handful of Amur trout and Amur pike, and not least, loads of taimen that have smashed our streamers and surface flies to smithereens.
Less than an hour before rounding the last bend of the river, and having to mentally prepare for the long and arduous journey back to Ulaan Baatar, I quietly sum up the trip to myself. I have caught an amazing 40 taimen in six days of fishing, where the service, the camp life, the social dynamics, and the scenery have granted me one ineradicable experience after the other. My childhood dream has come true. And the big picture isn’t reduced in the slightest, just because my biggest fish of the trip was three centimetres shy of one full meter. As a result, what happens next is almost vulgar.
Below a towering cliff, in a backwater with steady water flows and great depths, I suddenly see a ghostly white flash behind my streamer, which is cutting spasmodically across the water. An almost electric shock propagates through the line as the fly disappears, and I respond by resolutely pulling back on the line to set the hook. I now feel the unexpected and rather disturbing weight of a massive fish that thrashes violently about, only to surge irresistibly downstream seconds later.
During the next fifteen minutes, a real dogfight takes place. With a galloping heart and a fearful mind, I attempt to gain on the fish and bring it closer to the shore, but it reacts with an almost disdainful indifference and contempt. And even though I lean back on the fish until the carbon fibres of my 10-weight rod start to squeak, I can’t seem to lift the fish from the gloomy depths of the river. On two occasions, it even seems like the fish has somehow wedged itself under boulders or rocks, and both times the guide has to place the boat cross current, so I can put maximum side pressure on the fish and force it out into the open current again.
Gradually, I manage to bring the fish towards the surface, and here it suddenly engages in a series of irritated and doomsday-like pulls, tugs, and jerks. I haven’t exactly become less nervous as the fight has progressed, and my heart is about to burst, when the line suddenly slackens momentarily – two times. Luckily, the sudden slack is due to the fish shaking its massive head while moving closer to the boat. It is still on, and the fight now enters a new phase.
I manage to bring the fish into the shallows, where Klaus has jumped into the water with the net. An ominous, dark shadow can now be seen hovering over the gravel downstream from the boat – a shadow of proportions that sends an abysmal shiver through my tense body. The fish is tired, but when it sees Klaus’s long, distorted silhouette against the sky, it summons its last reserves of energy and surges into deeper water again. Now, I am somehow more determined than nervous. I turn the fish around, Klaus sneaks up on it with the net and, in a dizzying moment, one of the river’s old giants glides over the net frame, the cobweb-like mesh embraces the fish, and I jump meter-high out of the boat, while a series of loud, jubilant screams echo hoarsely down the river valley.
I proceed to lift a 125cm taimen out of the water for a few quick shots – a regular river monster with a dark glow, uncountable amounts of black dots, and big, soulful eyes. It isn’t until this very moment, as I’m holding this beautiful and ancient creature that I fully understand what I have been dreaming about all these years. Seconds later, I submerge the fish into the icy-cold water and, with a couple of strong-willed slaps of the tail, the fish reclaims its place in the whirling depths of the river. I then draw a huge sigh of relief, and begin the difficult process of comprehending how lucky I have just been. It’s going to take me a while!
Would you like to go to Mongolia?
Mongolia River Outfitters offers an incredible angling experience. They have been around since the late 1990s, but this Mongolian company and their international team keeps a low profile. Even the name of the river they help administer is withheld from the public. They generally limit the number of anglers on each stretch of the river to less than 25 per year. There are only a few rivers left in Mongolia – or even the world – with thriving taimen populations. The folks at MRO work intensely in partnership with local communities, government agencies, and international conservation organisations to protect their river. This is the world’s first taimen sanctuary and all fishing is strictly catch and release, single barbless hooks and fly-fishing only. Visit www.mongoliarivers.com and www.nomadicjourneys.com
