The morning air in the Austrian Alps carried a sharp, lingering bite, a final whisper of a long winter that was only just beginning to release its grip on this high-altitude valley. As I stood on the bank of this unnamed river, on this late April morning, I observed the water. It was a mesmerizing, crystalline teal—cold enough to make my shins ache through my waders, but clear enough that I could count every limestone pebble on the riverbed.
There was a profound stillness in the air, broken only by the rhythmic churn of the current and the occasional cry of a bird overhead. It was that fleeting, magical window where this river was waking up, and the trout were beginning to emerge from their winter lethargy with a newfound, reckless hunger. As I snuck through its currents, I scanned for shadows and fish shaped patterns.
As I reached the spot where I would begin my morning, an Eagle swooped into the top of a nearby tree. Although not clearly visible, its nest surely hidden behind the foliage. Looking closely I noticed tiny head shaped objects waving about, as the Eagle dipped its head below the branches. After several minutes, it re-emerged and launched from the nest and swiftly vanished around the corner of the river bend. Im sure in search of more food for the newly hatched, it was carrying out the yearly task, assigned from mother nature, with perfect timing. I began to think about the current time of the year: spring – the celebrated renewal.
An entire season ahead of me at my rodtip. The hopes, new ideas, and the feverish urge to fish as much as possible. The excitment and possibilities of a new season, ready to unfold before me. All those dark and cold wintery days, warmed only ever so slightly by the time spent behind the vise. Filling old boxes, changing out selections of flies, and testing out new materials and patterns. All of that was now going to be worth it and thankfully, behind me. The season was starting again.
I unhooked my small beaded Pheasant tail nymph and began pulling out line, calculating and anticipating the distance to where I would place my first cast. I would then cover this section of water with dozens, if not hundreds of casts, working my way upstream. I would do this act perhaps dozens of times today – repeating this performance at each new whole, riffle, run, and any fishy section of water I encountered. As the drag on my reel finally went silent, announcing I had enough line out, I made my first cast.
The cast landed silently in the current and with a couple seconds, I was tight to my submerged aquatic offering as it swung its way across the clear gin-colored watery depths. The sighter above gave no sign of the welcomed tug, and with a couple more seconds, I began casting again. This time slightly further up and across the river.
A small family of Roe deer were drinking in calmn slack water, stepping ever so slightly into the cold early morning water, on alert for any predators lurking in the woods just out of sight. The gentle mist clouding their outlines. As they sipped, one of them looked in my direction, if almost causally watching to see if I would catch anything. Sure enough, after watching me blank on several drifts, the deer decided it best not to watch the lack luster performance anymore, and carried on drinking.
After several more casts but nothing to show for, I kept moving. Silently walking and stalking along the shoreline, I made my way with caution, looking for any fish holding tight to the banks. As I made my way around a corner, I saw several dark shadows in the middle of the river. Feeding trout. My heart raced and the pump of adrenaline kicked me into hunter mode. I made a couple more steps and slowly entered the water, trying not to disturb the surface. Smoothly entering, and going unnoticed by the nearby fish, my hopes were high. I again unhooked my fly and began peeling off drag. I had my target and was ready to cast.
Suddenly, I heard a large branch break on the hillside to my right. My auditory and visual senses immediately jumped to where I had heard the commotion. Looking up at the steep hillside, I heard more crashing. Now it sounded like it was heading directly towards me. Not knowing what to expect or what was headed my way, I jumped back in the water, spooking all the fish within a 4 meter radius. Almost running back to the other bank I braced myself for the unknown.
Just then, I heard what sounded like hooves crunching on rocks. Hooves? Just as my racing mind was trying to figure out what it was I was hearing and, by the way, still getting closer; two dark objects appeared through the dark timber, and they appeared to be running directly at me. This was not good.
I stood now, even further on the bank of the river as the two dark objects darted down towards the steep intersection of the hillside and river. The only problem was there was a small cliff. If they planned on a different route, it was gonna end badly, as it appeared they were careening right off the mountain side. Just as these two objects appeared to be making a suicide attempt, at the last minute, the lead object changed direction on a dime and began paralleling the river.
Now in focus, it was a Chamois! This small, agile goat-antelope was racing on the edge of the cliff. Kicking rocks into the water, it sped its way upriver and then disappeared around the corner. The second Chamois, appeared and vanished, chasing after the leader. Then suddenly, they began their return and raced right past me on the opposite bank. Hugging the rocky edge by just centimeters, rocks and debris poured into the river, spooking any fish not already alerted to my presence.
I couldn’t believe what I was witnessing. A pair of Austrian Chamois playing tag, right in front of me. Normally I would be overjoyed but this spring morning, I still hadn’t even gotten a bite. Just as suddenly as it started, they disappeared back into the dark cool timber and I was left in silence.
Looking around and almost laughing now, I scanned the river and saw nothing. Just the sound of the rushing current and the cool mountain air. I steadied my resolve and peered up stream. Good looking water I thought, and slowly moved on, upriver.
