On The Painted Stream

I received this today from Colin McDougal, my oldest fishing chum. He fishes the Tweed often, as we had done since we were early teens, and recently had the pleasure of being led down the famous Dish in just the manner described below.

By
Bill Currie 

The Gateheugh stream lies at the top of Bemersyde on Tweed beside a dramatic cliffy northern bank where oaks jut horizontally out from the precipice. On the south side on Ravenswood a sweet alluvial haugh lies green between riverside trees and a rising bank of hardwoods. In November, when I fished it, both banks showed swathes of golden, yellow and brown foliage. The Gateheugh is probably the most painted stretch of water in Scotland, perhaps in the entire salmon world, having been painted as well as fished for the past fifty years or more by Lord Haig, the laird. Being on canvas is not the only distinction of this two-hundred yard stretch of purling stream. It is one of these memorable Tweed salmon reaches which promises excellent fly fishing if you can overcome certain difficulties. Let me explain. When I first fished the Gateheugh in the seventies, the tradition was to wade the stream and cast a long line towards the Ravenswood bank, searching out pockets and lies in the fast water. To hang the fly well over the lies, you have to get well out and it is a treacherous, waist deep, fast wade, liable to give you a ducking without much warning. The temptation to wade to the limit on Gateheugh is heightened, because there is a set of lies called the Dish where boulders and ledges shape superb salmon lies under glassy windows in the fast water. Below that a long stream runs past the Copper Beech, finally losing itself in the shingle above a grassy island. You can be very isolated, wading well out into the stream while swinging your fly on a long line over the Dish. I have hooked autumn salmon here in the past and in the fight they have run full circles round me before I could get back to the shallow water under the Bemersyde cliff and manage to net them. Lord Haig says that a medal should be struck for all those who wade the Gateheugh and land a fish without falling in. 

I was invited back to fish Bemersyde for a late November day and, for the first time I found I did not need to wade the painted stream. I was floated down it. Ian Farr, the Bemersyde keeper, tackles the difficulty of the Gateheugh in a bizarre way. He has a light aluminium, oarless boat in which he seats the angler, bow downstream, and, wading deeply Ian clings to the stern and holds the boat, moving it down strategically to cover the superb lies of he Dish and the Copper Beech run. Have you ever fished from a boat where the boatman was overboard, up to his chest in fast flowing water? The Tweed was high and at one or two places, Ian calmly announced that we would drift the boat over deeper water until his feet could touch bottom again. So, he tip-toed and floated, clamped to the boat with his elbows over the stern board. Then his feet would find bottom again, and the boat would stop and I would shorten line and cover a new arc of salmon lies, then progressively lengthening it I would let my tube fly tour slowly through the likely places and dangle between the underwater boulders. It is gripping fly fishing; you expect a pull from a salmon every yard of the way. Fishing down the Gateheugh like this is one of the most unusual examples of close co-operation between boatman and fisher. It can also be highly productive. It is a particular tactic of this stream and it is full of the special atmosphere of fishing this lovely reach of middle Tweed. I know of nothing quite like this elsewhere on the river, nor indeed, anywhere else in Scotland.

It is only half a joke when the Bemersyde boatmen tells his rods not to hook fish over fifteen pounds on the Gateheugh. As if you could select takes! We floated down and the fly searched the water. I began to think the day was against us, because the Dish, with its lovely ridges, columns of sand and shingle and seductive glassy areas produced nothing for the first half hour. We talked however as I fished. We talked about the high, cliffy Bemersyde bank. I was once fishing there, years ago, in February when two massive red rocks suddenly detached themselves and roared down the slope through the trees and raised a huge plume of water as they fell into the river. Ian told the hair-raising story of rescuing a German tourist after a long search. The German had tried to glissade down the cliff, had fallen a long way and was found after many hours of searching in the dark lying unconscious on the branches of a tree. They took him down to the Gateheugh where Ian, fully clad, waded and floated him in the boat through the whole Gateheugh to the Ravenswood side where a helicopter took him off to the hospital. Ian was given a public commendation for that rescue. We were silent for a while after that story. I watched the spey cast rolling out and the copper tube plopping into the water. The fly swung perfectly over the lies. We both said at once that it was incredible that, in these perfect conditions we had not had a pull from a salmon. 

As if on cue, it happened. The pull came and the reel spoke and for a minute or two the fish was quiet. We said, sagely, This is a good fish, maybe fourteen pounds. Then in a slash, a big tail came up. We had a momentary glimpse of a high silvery back. Sixteen pounds at least, I said. Ten minutes passed, punctuated by two or three longish runs and some heavy tugging. I couldn't do much with the fish at all, except hang on. What a grip of the Tweed this fish had ! It seemed to be able to use the whole weight of the Gateheugh stream to run down and across at will. The salmon would come half way towards the boat then would tear off and take up a dour lie behind a big sunk stone. It might be bigger than we think, one of us said. The time went on. Twenty minutes passed and we hadn't really seen the fish clearly. Then we had our first real sight of the salmon as it arched over near the boat,- a very deep fish, a small head and a big tail, bright from the North Sea. In November that is magic. Ian said that he had not had a fish like this on the end of anybodys line for over a fortnight. So there we were, well out in the middle of the fast stream, toiling, with a heavy fish pulling the fishers arms off and the gillie holding the little boat hard by the stern.

We thought the time had come to try to net the fish . In a well rehearsed move, Ian turned the boat and anchored it from the bow with a great twenty eight pound weight, which no doubt had once measured out stones of potatoes on the farm. He took up a position below the boat, waist deep, waiting with the net. But twenty minutes or not, we were too soon. I brought the fish in possibly ten times and each time the fish turned scoffing at the pressure and, using the great weigh of the Tweed took line and ran back to the main stream again making the reel sing.

This would not do. We had to take the boat in. This Ian did and once in under the trees, the boat was anchored again. Now the fish was drawn in to gentler water and at the third attempt, with high anxiety prevailing, I managed to get the fish in behind the boat in shallow clear water where the trees shaded the stream and let us see better what we were doing. Every minute that elapsed raised our anxiety. There, in the shallow water, where trees shaded the Tweed, we were able to see for the first time just what I had hooked. It was a magnificent, heavy fish, shining silver, and very deep in the flank. It filled the net. No wonder we had had to work hard with it for half an hour. It wasn't a record or anything like that; it was twenty one pounds, really magnificent, the essence of power, with an impressive head and a massive tail. 

It was the only fish of the day off Bemersyde and it was a remarkable sample of what the Tweed can produce in November, when almost every other river in Scotland is closed. The remarkable late Tweed run contains some magnificent fish, and in the circumstances in which we landed this one, we felt that we had shared in that legend. The Gateheugh, with its lovely Dish and its alluring Copper Beech run had shown its quality and its difficulty at the same time. A memorable joint effort. I was glad, however, not to have to carry the fish along the difficult path to the boathouse. Ian did that. I was doubly glad that I did not have to carry it up the steep path, Coronary Brae, from the Boat Pool to Bemersyde itself. It was dark when we got to the house, but one window to the back was lit. Looking up at that lit window, as if on a cinema screen we saw Lord Haig in his studio high above us, standing in front of an easel, painting. Was he painting another study of the spectacular Gateheugh ? I had a deep sense of completeness just thinking that this was the case, a warm and rounded thought. I left my salmon for the artist. What I carried away was less tangible, the experience of a battle with a considerable fish, - a picture, as it were, from the other side of the canvas of that memorable painted stream.

More on building a fly fishing pram...

[Editor's Note: This is a follow-up to an earlier post. You may wish to read that post first; if so, click here. If you believe you've reached this blog in error, and wish to get out as fast as possible, click here.)

The purpose of this post is, largely, to provide some heretofore neglected details about my pram, particularly for those considering such watercraft. Whether a pram is right for your fishing is something you'll need to decide, since no vessel is perfect for all kinds of fishing. I'll also neglect the question as to whether you should buy your pram or build it yourself, except to say that if your only goal is to have a pram and you've got unlimited funds, there are plenty of people out there willing to sell you one.

If you are thinking of building one, then your first consideration is what sort of design. I can only speak to the particular boat I built, which is the D4 (now called the D5 on their website, because of minor updates) from bateau.com. To me, this is a perfect design for a number of reasons. First, at seven feet, ten inches long and three feet, ten inches wide, it's plenty big for one person but no bigger than necessary. Second, the hull has enough "V" to cut through a bit of chop, but is still wide and flat enough that I find it plenty stable for casting and fishing while standing up. Some time ago, I saw a comment from somebody that the D4 pram is not stable; I find this completely untrue. I'm only five-seven and about 155 pounds, and because of my large testicles I also have a very low center of gravity, so perhaps these are the reasons I find the boat so stable. But I doubt it - this comment came from a pram manufacturer who loses a potential customer each time somebody builds him- or herself a pram, and I can't help but suspect this is the reason for his comment. Finally, the D4 plans were simple and the website has a useful discussion board. But, should you wish to consider other boat plans, they are out there.

Once you decide to build, you’ve got to choose the wood. I used what is called “BC” plywood, which simply means that one side is “Grade B” and the other side is “Grade C”, with plywoods typically being A, B, C, or D grade, A being very well finished, sanded, free of blemishes, etc. “BC” is pretty good plywood, better than typical construction-grade CD plywood. But…and this is an important but, BC is far from marine-grade plywood (typically AA grade). A pram made with BC plywood and good epoxy will be perfectly serviceable and cost much less, but the wood is less attractive, will be prone to some “checking” (developing small cracks – which might, possibly, need some future attention; see image below), and heavier. If I could (or when I) do it all over again, I would use quality marine plywood, such as Okoume or Meranti. These plywoods are considerably more expensive, and not always locally available (meaning you may also have to pay shipping costs) but superior in all other ways to “regular” plywood, such as the BC I used.

"Checking", i.e. small cracks; good marine plywood does not do this.

According to the plan designer, the D4 pram should come in at around 55 pounds – this is assuming no more epoxy than necessary, and light-weight, quality marine plywood. In addition to better, lighter plywood, I think I could have built the entire boat from 1/4 inch plywood. The plans called for 1/4 inch for the hull and 3/8 inch for frames and seat tops, which is what I used. However, the boat is much, much stronger than I’d expected it to be – there is simply no “flex” or “give” in the hull when I stand in it. This is, in part, because when you bend plywood pieces, then join them, the tension of all those bends working “against each other” adds rigidity.  So, I suspect that if I’d built the entire boat from 1/4 inch plywood (or marine plywood, which comes in 4mm thicknesses…actually a bit less than 1/4 inch thick) it would have been considerably lighter, yet still plenty strong, for me at least. 

I’ve never weighed my boat, but I am certain it weighs considerably more than the 55 pound “designed weight”. This makes little difference on the water, or even when I’m loading the boat on the car with the help of somebody else. But because the pram is, in some ways, already awkward to carry because of its dimensions, the added weight does not help. When I built the boat, I had a pick-up truck and loading it was simple. Now, with my small wagon and roof rack, I have to lift the boat to load and unload. I can do this, as shown below, but I always swear a bit when doing so.

If necessary, I lift the pram this way...

And carry it this way; can be done, but lacks a good balance point

The old days, when transport was easy.

I car-top it these days.

You’re going to need some tools; that said, you probably already have some or most of them (screwdrivers, for example), and could borrow the others. No “specialized” tools are necessary. I made virtually all of the cuts with a hand-held circular saw. The curves are such that the blade did not bind. For a few cuts, I used a jigsaw. A hand-held belt sander was a godsend. I also did some sanding with a small random-orbit sander. The holes for the “stitches” required a drill. I already owned most of these tools, but those I purchased for the boat still see plenty of use for other projects. Go ahead – you deserve some new tools. 

A few steps, particularly the installation of the multi-layered rub rails, required a lot of clamps. I had a few clamps already, picked up a couple more strong clamps, but then made all of the other necessary clamps out of short (2-3 inches) sections of PVC pipe cut down the middle - a terribly clever idea that I wish I could take credit for, but alas, I cannae. The rub rails are made from three layers of long strips of plywood, and regularly spaced clamps were necessary to hold them to the boat’s curve while the epoxy cured.

An assortment of clamps

The homemade PVC clamps holding rub rail in place

 You’re also going to use up a lot of “expendable” supplies. The fiberglass tape is one of these things, and the epoxy is another; here you do not want to cut corners. Use epoxy designed for this kind of boat building. I used System Three, which is what bateau.com sells. You’ll need “wood flour”, which you’ll mix with epoxy to fill the gaps between plywood panels. I purchased fine wood flour from bateau.com for most of the work, but I did save the finer sawdust from my random orbit sander’s bag as well. If you have a source for fine sawdust, you might be able to avoid buying wood flour. The epoxy is messy, so I found it usually easier to throw away things like gloves, plastic bags, mixing cups and plastic spoons, t-shirts, etc., rather than worry about cleaning epoxy at the end of each work session. Figure you’re going to spend some money on this sort of crap.

Don’t forget those little things, such as oarlocks, if you intend to row the pram. If you’re going to power it with a small electric (or gas) outboard, you’ll want to reinforce the transom a bit with another layer or two of plywood. When the boat is finished, you’ll have to decide whether to stain it to preserve the natural look of the wood, or paint it. If you like the natural look, you’ll need to treat the epoxy with a UV blocker, else the sun will damage the epoxy. If you paint it, use good primer and paint designed for boats. This stuff ain’t cheap, but I think it’s worth it. I’ve had my boat eight years, and it’s nowhere near in need of a paint job.

It's also nice to have a way to wheel the pram from place to place.  I tend to store the boat with a set of wheels clamped to the transom (stern).  These are handy for getting the boat from, say, the garage to the car.  But they don't work well on anything but the flattest surface, and the boat is hard to maneuver with these wheels.  A modified kayak or canoe cart - the kind with larger spoked wheels - works better.  A pram is too wide to fit one of these carts very well, but I've seen a few clever modifications that work well with prams.  With the spoked-wheel cart in place, such that the pram is balanced, you can wheel it around with little effort and, since it's right-side up, you can load it with your stuff.

Stern-clamp wheels; they work, but not terribly well.

Finally, here is a somewhat random list of some of the things that I either know I would do differently, were I to build another pram, or that I might consider doing differently.

 - Use marine plywood (absolutely), all in 4mm thickness (probably)

- Cut bow and stern transoms flush? As you can see in some of the photos, the bow and stern transoms have a curve along the top. I don’t know if this is functional or just aesthetic, but I find that sometimes these extra inches catch on the roof rack during loading and unloading. On the other hand, when upside down the boat rests on these “points”, thus reducing how much of the boat gets scratched up. I’m not sure how I might handle this in the future.

- Storage compartments? Sometimes, I pile too much shit into the boat, which then catches the fly line while casting, and just results in too much clutter. During the building, I considered either making or buying some sort of hatch covers so I could use the spaces under the seats for storage, but I was too impatient. In hindsight, I wish I’d done that. I still could, I suppose, but I probably won’t now that the boat is finished.

Too much crap in the boat (fish is a spotted bay bass, by the way)

- Glass the entire bottom? For larger boats, and even some smaller boats, many builders will cover the entire bottom of the boat in a layer of fiberglass and epoxy. This helps protect the boat against scratches, dents and dings from rocks. As you’d expect, though, it will add considerable weight. For me, this added protection has never seemed as if it would have been worth the added weight, but were I to use the pram regularly on rocky, swifter rivers, then this might make sense.

- An anchor system? I simply carry a cheap mushroom anchor in a bucket, and tie the anchor rope to the boat through one of the various holes built into the “knees”, and this works well enough. However, I have seen some nifty little anchor pulleys mounted on the bows of some other prams that allow the user to raise and lower the anchor without ever getting up off the seat. The possible downside to such a system that I can imagine is that it will catch on the roof rack during loading or unloading – but an anchor system could be a nice little luxury if it would work.

 Finally, consider that the boat will get dirty and will need to be washed.  Small children like to do this, but you must consider them a long-term investment.  I'm not sure I've gotten my money's worth yet.

Small child washes pram

Messing about in boats

"Believe me, my young friend, there is nothing - absolutely nothing - half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats."

(Rat to Mole, from Grahame's "The Wind in the Willows")

I am supposed to be writing "How to" (and "When to" and "Where to") articles, but I've gotten side-tracked with stories, "How (not) to" articles, and other such crap.  My apologies.  Here's a "How to"...

Several years ago I was living in California, and regularly fishing harbors from rental boats.  This got too expensive, so I started fishing from a pontoon. A pontoon is great, in many ways, but it has some drawbacks as well.  For starters, one sits low in the water.  Personally, I don't care for this because it limits my visibility, but even more because I really prefer to stand up when casting or landing fish.  There's also a limit to how much one can carry along, and pontoons aren't terribly efficient to row, either. However, my own motivation for finding alternative watercraft was that I didn't fancy a 500 pound sea lion in my lap, and I'd come too close to realizing this possibility on several occasions. A kayak was simply out of the question (they're yellow). 

Very small (usually 8 feet long) flat-fronted boats, called prams, have a long history among fly fishermen.  These little boats are light enough to be loaded onto a car roof and to be carried (or wheeled) to the water, but large enough that you can toss all manner of shit into them.  And being of wide beam (usually about three feet), they are stable enough to stand in safely.  These features made them particularly popular among the salmon, steelhead and striper anglers of California.

Eel River, California (Photo: Conrad Calimpong; "Rivers of a Lost Coast" website)

Bill Schaadt with a large salmon (Photo: Dan Blanton)

The old prams were often wooden, then later aluminum, and now many commercially available ones are made of fiberglass and other modern lightweight materials. But these were beyond my reach, financially, at the time so a friend of mine suggested I build one.  Keith is, literally, a rocket scientist and when a rocket scientist says "It'll be easy", it's not entirely clear how you're to respond.  But he explained how it can be done, I became intrigued, and decided to give it a whirl.

I chose to use a method known as "stitch-and-glue".  Stitch-and-glue is simple in principle and in practice.  One cuts plywood panels according to established measurements, and these panels are then stitched together using wire or, in many cases, those tough little nylon electrician's cable ties. Then, fiberglass tape and an epoxy/sawdust mix are used to join, or "glue", the adjoining plywood panels.  Ultimately, these joints are smoothed and then the entire boat is covered in special epoxy, which waterproofs it.  I built mine in about five weeks, working mostly just on weekends.

Fitting a curve for one of the bottom panels

Sides and inside frames in place

The bow, showing the "stitches"; the gaps will be filled later.

Just waiting for the paint job

 I've since fished the boat on both the Pacific and Atlantic coasts, as well as in a number of rivers, reservoirs and ponds.

Pacific Ocean

Releasing a largemouth bass on a California reservoir

Fishing for early spring stripers on a Connecticut coastal river

Waiting at river's edge, Connecticut

When I started to build this boat, my motivations were entirely practical. In the end, however, I loved the building process more than I could have imagined.  There is a satisfaction that comes from using things one has made oneself, and if you tie your own flies or build your own rods, you certainly know this.  I do both, but the satisfaction I get from those things pales in comparison to that I get from fishing from this boat.

[Follow-up post, with more building details.]

The Old Man and the Sea

I can count the number of times I've been out on my "new" kayak on one and a half hands. TJ and I had great plans to float a local river - a spot, incidentally, where reports now have it that 30lb stripers are "in thick" (this is a teaser to remind him to move the hell back to the CT coast) - but we got waylaid by instruments of torture. Todd and I have been planning a float for Lord knows how long, and  last night we got our shit together, motivated by the sight of The Yankee having all the fun. It was Todd's 40th birthday and we wanted to get him a nice fish. You're familiar with the usual ritual about wanting to catch fish, of course. It's always worth saying as a mark of friendly intent, but everyone knows it's a bit of an angling curse; a long shot at best, especially with the fly rod handicap. 

Those first few minutes afloat are always a little strange. Are those waves coming into the boat? If they keep coming at this rate, how long until I fill up and drown? Is it choppier where we're heading? Will this be the night I hurl?

Todd's boat is heavier than mine because he carries a lot more shit

We fished for a few hours seeing sporadic explosions of single fish (sporadic is a word anglers use to make "almost none" sound strategic). But it was great to be afloat and I was delighted with the performance of my kayak - a Chevy to Todd's Hobie Cadillac, but an almost perfect fishing boat. It was dusk before we saw the first action - we were just bobbing around wondering whether we should move, or go find a beer (stupid Sunday law that) when in the middle distance a 200 yard breadth of white explosions had us working the oars like men who have just seen a blitz would work some oars.  Then something cool happened. Todd cast out his other rod - I won't get all Prosek describing this thing: it has a big hook at the end. No fur. No fly. Anyway, first cast through the bait ball and the rod buckles over, and tows poor Todd a merry dance for a good while. I've never seen a bunker do that, but the snap that followed suggested a large blue had inhaled the bait as soon as it was impaled. We never saw the fish, but Todd celebrated anyway by losing his paddle. My stalk, sight and recapture where the finest of the night (okay, bar one).

A break to reclaim my backside

Encouraging, but we're not sure what happens next. It's a peculiarity of fishing from a kayak in open water that everywhere looks the same while the spot you're in is usually the least inspiring. If you just paddle further you'll find fish. So we paddled in a bit and started to see bigger fish having dinner. I pricked a few that could have been bunker, or were they bass phased by my wire trace? It didn't matter, because I wanted Todd to get a fish, and that's exactly what happened next. Having switched back to the fly rod - an inspired move! - for the next several minutes Todd lay siege with a brutish animal, which we assumed to be a bass by its deep diving and deliberate runs. He has a rudder on his boat, so at least he could dictate which direction to be towed in (just think about that - Todd may be slight, but his boat must weigh 90lbs. And they ask why we go fishing?) Finally the beast came up and we saw that wonderful big head and shoulders followed by three feet of glorious fish.

High fives were exchanged - don't ask, it was just the right thing to do, there was no-one about.  Fireworks lit up the long night sky as we paddled in - like the fish, just like I'd ordered. Sometimes it works out very nicely like that, and Todd was real happy. If you have to turn 40, this is about as good a way to do it, I guess.

Trolling is illegal in the State of Connecticut.

Kayaking on a calm evening. You just gotta do this.

What a beauty.

The Old Man.

Jonny

Boat!

Turning 40 has a silver lining - a birthday present of a long awaited fishing kayak. She tracks wonderfully and is quite quick, as well as being nice and stable for fly fishing the local inland waters. Fitted with a rod holder, I'm ready to roll. This morning, the only fish I saw were of the jelly variety. Which is fine, as I'm enjoying the simple wonders of just being afloat.

12' Sit on Top Perception Pescador