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 First published December 26th 2006
Thin Blue Lines Lithuania's 758 rivers, streams, and brooks cut like thin blue lines across the map offering a wealth of fishing opportunities.One of the thin blue lines on the Lithauanian map
Officially the Republic of Lithuania (Lithuanian: Lietuva; official – Lietuvos Respublika, for those of you that are not sure about it's location), is a country located in northern Europe on the flanks of the Baltic Sea. The largest of the three Baltic States, it shares borders with Latvia to the north, Belarus to the southeast, Poland to the south, and the Russian exclave of the Kaliningrad Oblast to the southwest. Escaped the communist depression and Soviet concrete Lithuania proclaimed its independence on March 11th 1990 as the first Soviet republic to lift the Iron Curtain and entered the European Union (EU) in 2004 after a bumpy ride through history. With all the turmoil and wars that the country and people have experienced, the land is slowly progressing. The nation’s metropolis, Vilnius is modern enough but then again, I was never a city kind-of-guy. But just around the corner, and another corner and then another, you’ll find it isn’t long before you witness the classic Soviet apartment blocks littered with graffiti and placed in undeveloped and neglected housing estates. However, the country's 758 rivers, streams, and brooks, all over 10 km long, and more than 3,000 lakes all seemed to have escaped the communist depression and Soviet concrete.
Right up until I met my wife (a native Lithuanian), I knew very little about Lithuania except that “Lithuania is Lithuania” with no hidden extras. So I began my own secret research. It wasn’t long before I discovered that the country hid something that ignited a spark in my mind. Like any fly fisherman, I focused on the thin blue lines in my rather super sized dog eared atlas - pages littered with notes, coffee rings and the remains of something green, hard and crusty. It’s then, the hairs on the back of my neck crackled and my interest became a zeal bordering obsession. My exploration began four years ago in the Dzukija National Park, founded in 1991 and located in the south-eastern corner of Lithuania, covers 10,587 hectares, and is known for considerable numbers of elk, deer, wild boar, wolves, and foxes. The two main rivers that scour this landscape are the Nemunas and Merkys rivers not forgetting the endless tributaries with personal favourites such as the Salcia, Ula, and Varena that cut through the forests. The Neris River has many fine tributaries offering brown trout and grayling but this is a scratch on a surface yet to form. The country is jam packed of “fishable” rivers and streams and during this visit, I decided to venture and explore further away from these usual favourite streams with a good friend called Jeffery Haun - an American from California, living and working as a school headmaster in Vilnius.
I took the ferry from Kiel to Klaipeda on a rather windy October night. Expecting a lumpy crossing and a rapid emptying of the contents of my stomach, I cleared the suspicious and time consuming German passport check and boarded the ferry. The ferry is no cruise liner or QE2. Basically, no swimming pool, no casino and no indoor casting pool. But it does have a bar, restaurant (with so much food that I am surprised the ferry doesn’t sink), and TV room playing tacky Russian music and that was enough. 22 hours later with a rather sore and empty stomach, I arrived at Klaipeda and spent the first night with family and consumed one excellent bottle of strong acid-laden infusion of Russian vodka. The next morning, with a light head, I took the car journey to Vilnius, slowing and sometimes stopping, at every blue line that streaked under the motorway. All were noted and added to my already increasing list of waters to throw a fly in. The landscape had begun to radiate magnificent autumn colours but clearly, I was too early to witness the full head on explosion. I stayed at the Apia Hotel located in the old town of Vilnius. A faultless and very pleasant hotel run by my wife’s friends and this served as an ideal central base. Sirvinta River At 05:00 the alarm kicked off and I got out of bed and was dressed and ready in seconds and left the warm security of hotel room, snoring wife and son. My friend Jeff was on his way in his beaten up Moroccan Land cruiser held together with duct tap, a block of wood and strawberry flavoured chewing gum (a long story), and sat in the back – his trusted fishing friend “Matuka” a rather playful black Labrador. Our intentions were to head out of the city and explore tributaries of the Sventoji River over a cup of rancid Starbucks coffee and soggy chicken tikka sandwich. We were soon off road and blanketed in a cloud of yellow dust. Daylight was beginning to creep through the darkness and the Sirvinta river sign soon loomed out of the haze and like two pubesant school children, we jumped out of the car and got kitted up. A low mist shrouded the water and from what we could see, the water was running clear brought about by weeks of clear skies and sunshine. From high up on the bridge, a few small fish were spotted feeding to the side of a fallen tree. We concentrated about 5 km downstream of a small village called Liukonys. It was cold and I didn’t pay much attention to any kind of hatch, sticking to my usual favourite starting pattern - the beads on a stick. I plopped and plopped my weighted nymph a few times through a fast and deep run just below the fallen tree and sure I was getting a hit from something. It was tough spotting the take through the dim light so I tied on a size 6 white Muddler pattern as a strike indicator and took another go. I saw that take! I lifted the rod and felt the dull jerks of something positively alive at the other end. Not the monster I had hoped for but who can complain when a beautiful 30cm grayling comes to hand? Jeff worked hard under the bridge. He had seen fish rising and knew it had to happen sooner or later. Rod in one hand and remarkably - coffee in the other. That’s one key advantage to Czech nymphing! His light grumbling broke the silence, “The water's freezing me winnits off” he commented.
I managed to find an entry point and waded in slowly, fiddling my feet forward, fishing out to the centre of the stream. Fishing from the banks was impossible owing to the dense trees and overgrown bushes. Several small rises were spotted on each side of the stream and by positioning myself in the centre of the current would give me a good chance to flank them. My plan was to ride over them like a cavalry of heavy horse but like most fishing situations; I ended up like a five year old on a Shetland pony. But a moment of melancholy enveloped me. I stood breathless as the sun's light bounced off the dark spruce forest frowned on either side of the waterway. I could have been anywhere. The light sound of a horse’s hoof and hard wooden wheel echoed in the distance. A distinct tat - tat - tats of a woodpecker somewhere above me. Jeff whispered from the opposite bank, “How‘s it going?”.
I took three false casts and managed to present my Klinkhammer about four metres upstream of him. This was it and this warranted every gram of skill I could fathom. Mend, mend, mend - damn it - mend, mend, I paid out just enough line to keep in contact with the fly and stretched my arm out to the fullest to avoid unnaturally disturbing the drift. Jeff had a better position than me and shouted, “He’s going for it, he’s interested, he’s gone back down!” I didn’t see a thing. I had no idea what just happened but it sounded good. I gave it another shot. In the course of the following half hour, I managed to move the fish and that was about it. Not a nibble. However, I did see the fish and understood why he didn’t commit to battle. This beautiful brown had clearly seen this before. After all, he was a pretty fat specimen and built like a Russian javelin thrower who had managed to miss the last three doping tests. In the next few hours we connected with several browns offering enough challenges expected from just about anyone. I agree that a 2lb fish is no pushover on a 3-weight rod and it is a lot more fun to catch and release a fistful of hard-fighting smaller fish than to go the whole nine yards with one biggie. The fish offered fast and furious struggles with the odd heart stopping leap so my modest expectations were easily satisfied.
Sventoji River We departed and headed towards the Sventoji River to the north east of Kaunas and smack bang right in the middle of nowhere. The mere sight of this beautiful river shocked us into silence. Fast, shallow, deep, clear and truly a majestic force which had the characteristics of fish written all over it.
There was no time to loose. We entered the river and waded out to the centre searching with all the stamina we could muster for a few fish the size of an ant's love muscle but all was not lost. However, by reading the water and thinking in a calm fly fisherman type manner, I was able to locate a deep run that held fish. A planned approach was needed or I was going return home, tail between legs, begging for forgiveness. I stood on the knife edge of a small sausage shaped sand bank looking down into this black void wondering how the hell I could sink something down there. I had no cannonballs to aid the descent of my Czech nymph rig. My mere weighted nymphs, I felt, were not enough to get down. Anyway, the proof was in the pudding. The first few sweeps were just trial and error but soon established contact with bottom. Perfect, I thought, I am deep enough. All I had to do now was raise the rod tip slightly and the nymphs - I can picture it now - would bounce and dance rather seductively along the bottom winking to the left, to the right, as they passed. It took a while but I managed to detect a hit in the froth and turbulent surface film and lifted the rod. Now, at first I am not sure what I had connected with but it didn’t feel alive. The might of the river had clearly put it’s weight on the line and what could have been a 14 milligram goldfish, actually felt like a 600kg Great White Shark with a ship's anchor around it‘s neck. The rod tip keeled over, the reel drag was set on full reverse and my tri- and biceps were looking like Popeye’s right arm. I could see a flash now and again of something silver but couldn’t tell what it was. I held the rod up high but this was proving to be dangerous with a 7X tippet and one foot slowly slipping into the abyss. Jeff was fishing is way over in slow motion fighting the current and repeating, “Got one…got one?” My concern was that the sandbank I was straddled on was not the ideal platform to fight this fish on and my rod arm began to shake under the weight. I transferred the rod to the non-fighting hand and immediately the fly line slipped through my fingers allowing the fish the freedom to run riot in his world and - not surprisingly - he did. This came as a blessing as a matter of fact because the fish ran downstream of me then proceeded to the right over shallow ground. I turned and stumbled over something but managed to regain a foot hold on some hard gravel and launched my body over into some shallow water adjacent to the fish. It was a brownie and a prize one at that. Jeff stood behind me, camera clicking away. Every now and again I would feel a slap on my back and reassuring words, “great stuff…well done…no pressure…take your time”. Neither words nor physical abuse helped my situation as my only, and that’s a big capital ONLY, thought - like most of us - was I can’t loose this fish…
I didn’t see it. I was so focused on my footing that the weight my arm was experiencing, suddenly abated. Now, maybe chemically my mind was off-set from vodka and chicken tikka sandwiches? I was sure I had the situation under control and my wing man - Jeff - was moving into formation to induce the final strike. I could still see the fish but it wasn’t moving anywhere. It lay lifeless, void of energy and wildness just a few feet in front of me. I wasn’t paying much attention to the line or rod come to think of it. My entire concentration was focused on that darn brownie. What happened? There was no snap - twang - ping - bang - jigger sounds what-so-ever. Simply, the fly had dislodged from its jaw and catapulted into my waders. Jeff couldn't have known. Standing slightly behind and to the left of me, he just swooped the net under the fish.
51cm of pure beauty. Smile, click and release. Then it was gone. The following hour was full of my repetitive story, told in many different ways, until Jeff connected with an overhanging tree and snapped about 5cm of the tip of his rod. Luckily, a spare lay in the car but clearly, like the rest of us, he was upset and gutted. On my return, Jeff had already exchanged his rod and was back in the water bringing a small grayling to hand. “Shall we call it a day?” Jeff mumbled. I felt weak and totally wasted and couldn’t summon the energy to climb in. We walked slowly back to the car, stopping on the bridge to savour the image. The sun was setting and the temperatures were already falling and thoughts of a nice warm shower, hot meal, unopened (soon to be opened) bottle of Oban whisky and comfortable bed held fast.
Why? There is something about Lithuania that I cannot place a sweaty finger on. Yes, it could be the fishing and the complete solitude? It might be the food that increases my weight ten fold? Or it might be the beer? Understandably you, the reader, may have no need to visit Lithuania. But whatever your excuse, there is a land over there that is raw and full of wildness and solitude and set deep in the green forests of Oak and Spruce runs a clear stream that’s all yours to explore… Ripley Davenport A country with plenty rivers and castles
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Submitted November 29th 2007
Hi Randy,
Many thanks for the kind words.
I am in Lithuania about five times a year visiting family and indeed, fishing. I love the country, its history and people.
Perhaps another article is due next year on the Lithuanian fly fishing clubs, their members and new waters and experiences?
I'll see...
Ripley