Few places in Europe encompass so many exciting rivers and so many fascinating fish as the lush green and mountainous Slovenia. In the following, Rasmus Ovesen will take you to the beautiful Balkan country in search of the shady and elusive marble trout.
FROM THE ALMOST SURREALLY BEAUTIFUL Unica River and the agricultural romanticism of the lush, late-summer Planina meadows, we now venture northwards to more rough and rolling terrain.
Throughout the day, we have sight-fished for massive graylings in this charming and crystal clear chalk stream, and we have rejoiced every single time one of these shy and selective fish have been fooled by one of the microscopic nymphs that we have tied onto our delicate 0.08mm tippets. We (my trusty fishing partner Klaus and I) are in Slovenia, and we have been joined by Jure Romovz, a guide who, despite his young age, is amongst the most experienced, calm and confidence-inspiring guides either of us have ever fished with. So far, so good!
Ahead of us awaits not only a scenic and visual paradigmatic shift. A radically different kind of fishing awaits us, too – a kind of fishing which is much more physical, toilsome and backbreaking than what we have just experienced. As we get in the car and chart course towards the mountainous regions of Tolmin, I feel like I’m on my way from a piano lesson to a boxing match. But even though I know that the next couple of days will involve arduous work and serious beatings, I’m as excited and expectant as a kid before Christmas. (I’m as wound up as fresh nylon tippet on a spool).
THIS ISN’T THE FIRST TIME I’ll be visiting the Tolmin area in search for the uncrowned king of these rugged regions – the quaint and almost mythical marble trout. As we work our way North via small, winding mountain-roads, I’m fervently preoccupied with sharing my past experiences from the region’s many alluring and fiery tempered rivers. Four days’ worth of marble trout fishing in the rivers Idrijca, Tolminka and Tribuščica await us, as Jure eagerly chips in with stories about surreally big and unfathomably powerful marble trout that have broken both leaders and fly rods – and not least the will of determined fly fishermen.
In general, our spirits are high, and not even the fact that the last three weeks haven’t yielded a single drop of rain, that the daytime temperatures are in the mid-thirties, and that the rivers we’ll be fishing over the next couple of days are dangerously low, awakens any despondency within us.
UNDER THE COVER OF DARKNESS, we arrive at the village of Idrija. And early next morning we’re busy sweeping the heartrendingly beautiful Idrijca River’s many turbulent eddies and distorting backwaters. The timid river lets its turquoise water masses flow downstream with such rare elegance, and in the fragile light of dawn, it sparkles gracefully with a renewed sense of purpose and will. Here and there moss-clad rock formations tower up as if they were reaching for the heavens above, and the lush river bank fauna – which is mainly composed of majestic deciduous trees – leans into the river as if covering up some dark secret. The wilful river has eroded and dug itself deep into the terrain here, and in the depths of its surreally clear water – under recklessly strewn cliff fragments, boulders, and carved out banks, lurks the fish that has nourished our dreams.
With a self-assured sense of eagerness and impatient minds, we set to work – and one cast supersedes the other in a seeming infinitude, while the sun radiates an almost clinical death light over the jagged mountainous regions. The morning fishing is fast behind us. Now that the temperatures are once again drawing near 35 degrees, the mobile and reconnoitering, fishing up and down the river’s uneven banks and steep slopes, the oftentimes risky wading in the rivers, and not least the monotonous casting with the big, fluffy streamers we’re using, hollows out whatever energy and will power is left in us. We’re blatantly unsuccessful. We have no strikes, and worst of all – we don’t see any fish. In a river, where the revealingly clear water lets one’s gaze scrutinize the majority of all holding spots unrestrictedly, this fact is particularly discouraging. Eventually, despair accompanies us – like a dark shadow in our minds, and even though we catch a few juvenile marble trout during the day and several indomitable rainbow trout in blushing outfits, our faith and self-assuredness slowly diminishes and fades away.
THREE DAYS LATER, the situation is unaltered. We have fished stubbornly and dutifully from dawn till dusk, and our journey has brought us past the Soca River and its picturesque tributaries Lepena and Koritnica. During the wee hours of morning, we have had a few half-hearted takes, and Klaus has managed a stocked marble trout in the vicinity of 2.5 kilos, but we haven’t really come closer to realizing our dreams of catching one of the big and wild marbles. And now that the trip is drawing to an end, we are starting to seriously drain of energy and will power. More precisely put, we are on the verge of a physical and mental break down, and even though Jure – with all his admirable ambitions on our behalf – does everything in his power to make the whole project succeed, the situation remains rather hopeless. By all means, we catch lots of adorable and morale-strengthening grayling and rainbow trout, when we occasionally devote them our attention, but the marble trout seem to elude all the attention we pay them. Our narrow focus is consuming us.
OUR LAST DAY ARRIVES, catalyzed by a drowsy sun’s trembling and invasive morning light. I haven’t slept well, and an incipient uneasiness in my whole body from the night before has been replaced by nausea, stomach pains, and not least a thunderous headache. Undoubtedly, I’m dealing with the repercussions of four days worth of fatiguing work, and not least self-inflicted sunstroke and dehydration. I’m nowhere near being able to fish, but in all honesty it’s not such a big disaster. A plane awaits us in Ljubljana in the afternoon, and we have a two-hour drive ahead of us in rolling terrain. The general conditions remain the same, we are at a loss about what to do, and at best, we have a few hours of stressful fishing ahead of us. And since an unarticulated fatalism has taken residence in my whole body and system – alongside the nausea and pain, I have already abandoned any hope that we’ll reach our goals.
KLAUS AND JURE start the early morning fishing in the Idrijca River, and they leave me slumbering uneasily away in the car with a walkie-talkie by my side – just in case. One and a half hours later, they are back –sullen and dismal. Nothing has happened! A quick drive-by fishing effort further upstream also fails to produce any fish, and we now journey to a small village some 15 minutes to the South to have some coffee and collect our thoughts. Most of all, we’re inclined to simply pack our stuff up and head for the airport, but then something happens. From the café parking lot, which is only a stone’s throw from the river, Jure notices that the water is starting to cloud up. Piling work in a tributary a bit further upstream is suddenly causing the Idrijca River’s clear water masses to be heavily discoloured by swirling milky sediments, and even though Klaus and I merely look on with carefully metered indifference, Jure has already put two and two together.
THE INSTRUCTIONS ARE PROMPT, and they are delivered with great determination. Jure has a plan, and we are now heading downstream to the exact spot that Klaus 
fished less than an hour ago. Apparently, Jure is convinced that the sudden turbidity might result in a good strike, and even though both Klaus and I happen to think that it is a very slight hope to cling onto, we indulge our well-intentioned guide – if not only out of pure and simple politeness. Klaus and Jure fade away into the brushes along the river, and once more I’m left withering away in the car with a ravaging fever. I have just barely managed to fall asleep, when Klaus’ agitated and high-frequency voice suddenly pours from the walkie-talkie – FISH ON, FISH ON!
Like a fuddled drunkard, I rush out of the car with my camera recklessly flung over my shoulder. A few seconds later, I emerge on the bank hectically breathing – and just in time to see Klaus land a beautiful marble trout of more than four kilos. The big, gnarly looking streamer is solidly lodged in the corner of the old predator’s mouth, and after a quick few pictures, Klaus unhooks the fish and lets it swim back to its shelter along the rocky river floor. Jure was right. The sudden murkiness of the water has awoken the fish, and as if by a stroke of magic, the trip has been saved.
OVERWHELMED BY THE MOMENT, the abrupt awakening, and the lightning-quick descend to the river; I’m suddenly feeling dizzier than ever. Nausea swamps me, and I’m just about to sit down when Jure lets me know in a firm and full-bodied voice that I’m up next. I feel like I’m on the verge of dying, but it’s no use arguing with him. A couple of minutes later, I crawl behind a big sheltering boulder with a convulsive and ambivalent feeling in my stomach, my fly rod in a tight grip, and Jure right behind me. Immediately in front of me, the river’s turbulent water masses are accelerated rapidly by a fall in the terrain, and below a couple of boulders which tower up and break the surface film, there’s a backwater with considerable depth. I send off the heavy and bushy streamer with a provisional cast. It lands with a weighty splash on the edge of the main current, and I have only just started the retrieve when a sudden and violent pull propagates through the line and steals away my misery. I lift the rod frightened but resolutely, and in that same instance, I see the golden flanks of a big fish turning just below the surface and heading for the bottom.
THE FIGHT IS ON, and with a racing heart, I manage to collect all the loose line and put considerable side-pressure on the fish, which by now is frantically kicking and thrashing about and trying to reclaim its hiding place along the bottom. It obviously knows this stretch of the river quite well, but with a bit of luck, I manage to prevent it from wedging itself between the many jagged boulders that lie about here, there, and everywhere. With maximum pressure, I finally manage to guide the fish towards Jure, who is now waist-deep in the water and ready with the net. As he reaches out for the fish, I am bursting with nervousness and anxiety. And as the fish balances shortly on the frame of the net, only to explode in a chaotic mess of water and foam, my vision blurs momentarily. The fish wrenches free of the net, and suddenly the line is slack. For a brief, horrified moment I am sure, the fish is lost. But as I pull the line and lift back the rod, contact is restored and I can draw a sigh of relief. The fish has merely swum towards me, and in the shallows close to the bank, I manage to keep the fish under control until Jure is ready with the net again.
This time things work out beautifully, and under the accompaniment of high-pitched and relieved shouts of cheerfulness and joy, Jure brings an old marbled warrior to the bank – a truly perfect creature that strikes me – with its ferociously big mouth and beautiful marblings, as the most important fish I have ever caught. I’m completely euphoric!
KLAUS SHOOTS A SERIES OF PICTURES, and afterward I remove the big, weighted streamer from the fish’s toothy mouth and prepare for the release. I submerge approximately six kilos of prehistoric trout into the cool, oxygen-rich water, and while feelings of intense happiness flush my whole body, I notice with considerable satisfaction that the fish is fresh and eager to return to its obscured existence along the river’s rocky bottom. With a couple of defiant tail-slaps, it launches itself into the open water masses, and seconds later it is out of sight. I turn towards Jure. His face is one, big gaping smile – and without a single word, I give him a giant bear hug. He offers me one of his cigarettes, and even though I don’t smoke, I grab one. A plane awaits Klaus and me in Ljubljana in a couple of hours, and while the nicotine-rich smoke surges into my lungs in a long and deep breath, I try to realize just how lucky we have been.
Published in July 2012
