This was probably the toughest trout I've ever caught. I found it in this beautiful stream pool—a big fish. I could even see it without polarized glasses. It was poised gracefully behind a rock, watching the fallen leaves and ripples. I thought it would be an easy catch. No obstacles to block the cast, the current wasn’t too strong, the distance was just right, and the fish didn’t seem to notice me. In my mind, I could already picture it rising to take my dry fly. But I was wrong.
My friend planned a fishing trip to Shizuoka Prefecture in Japan, and I joined him. Upon arriving in Japan, I was impressed by the beautiful countryside scenery and the exceptionally clean environment everywhere. It seemed like this trip would become an unforgettable memory. Unfortunately, my friend told me that the water levels at our destination weren’t ideal, meaning the fish would be harder to catch than usual.
We plan to start by using light rods and small dry fly to target two local fish species, which the locals call iwana and amago. The former appears to be a species endemic to Japan and is particularly fascinating to me. Its name, when written in kanji, means 'rock fish.' The latter is a landlocked form of masu salmon, spending their entire lives in inland streams. They can also be found in northeastern China and Korea. The name of this fish in kanji translates to 'beauty of the mountains'.
Perhaps because it had been too long since I last fished in a stream, my skills had gotten rusty - I missed strike after strike. Yet I found no frustration in this. There was pure joy in watching fish rise to take my dry fly, and it hardly mattered if I failed to set the hook. The streams themselves were so breathtaking that I would gladly linger even when the fish weren't biting. That said, we did manage to land a few in the end. I caught my first iwana in this little stream. Now I understand why this fish's name means 'rock fish' - their affinity for rocks seems far greater than ordinary trout. Several we found were tucked deep in rock crevices, making them particularly exciting to catch on a fly. Imagine that sudden moment when a pale brown shadow darts from what appeared to be barren water to take your dry fly - it's like discovering a hidden sprite, pure magic.
Now I completely understand why Japanese anglers are so fond of this fish - it's truly fascinating. If I had to put a label on Japanese fly fishing, iwana would undoubtedly be the perfect icon.
But what truly astonished me was that the most memorable fish of this trip turned out to be a rainbow trout.
We moved to another river, where heavy rain the previous night had swelled the current, making conditions rather challenging. My friend hooked a big fish using a nymph right away, but unfortunately, the line snapped at the last moment. He had several more chances afterward, but none came to fruition. Meanwhile, I didn't get a single bite—likely because I stubbornly stuck to dry fly.
The first spot eventually went quiet. Even though we knew fish were there, we decided to move upstream. And so, as if destined, I encountered that massive rainbow trout. It was love at first sight, and before I knew it, I'd spent over an hour pursuing this single fish. Never had I imagined a rainbow trout could prove so challenging - I must have cast a hundred times, trying nearly every fly in my box. My closest brush with success came when using a large grasshopper pattern; I saw it rise to inspect my offering, only to turn away at the last moment. With profound frustration, I finally conceded defeat. That fish never once touched my fly. Perhaps it was a battle-hardened veteran that had seen every pattern imaginable, or maybe it had been fooled by someone's fly or lure just hours before. I'll never know - I can only speculate.
At another spot, I discovered yet another rainbow trout—another large one, and equally indifferent to my fly. Time and again, I attempted to present my dry fly as naturally as possible as it drifted past the fish, but every effort ended in failure.
Then I noticed some caddisfly skittering across the shallows, flying close to the water's surface—perhaps freshly hatched. It suddenly struck me that imparting movement to my fly might work better. So I raised my rod tip and used my left hand to twitch the line, making my deer-hair caddis imitate the same behavior.
As it turned out, this was exactly the right approach. When my dry fly danced across the water in front of the fish, it decisively broke the surface and nailed the fly mid-air with perfect precision. The only regret? I’d forgotten to enable the GoPro's pre-roll recording, missing the chance to capture that flawless moment forever. I'm truly grateful to Mr. Kawai, our fishing guide. My hook was barbless, and he promptly helped me secure the fish with a landing net. Of course, I'm also deeply grateful to the fish itself - it gave me a truly one-of-a-kind experience.
After releasing the fish, I returned to that spot with the quiet satisfaction of a puzzle solved - now knowing exactly how to hook that wily trout I'd given up on earlier. But the river played its cruel joke: my adversary had vanished. For the remaining hours, my casts fell aimlessly upon the water, each futile attempt carrying the peculiar sting of rejection - not unlike being dumped by a pretty girl.
All in all, it was still a wonderful fishing trip. Our guide was exceptionally professional, always leading us to where the fish were. We even got to try fresh tuna sashimi and soak in local hot springs. Had it not been for work commitments, I would have happily extended my stay for days. That elusive big trout will probably keep swimming in my memories forever. But this isn't a sad story. To me, beautiful things don't become beautiful only when possessed, nor do they lose their beauty when missed - just like fish. And that's that.
