Spring in Serbia is long and unpredictable, especially when you are planning a fishing trip with your best friend, who has flown in from Kazakhstan. This time we had the classic combination: a storm, flooding, coloured water and almost no fish. But more on that later — first, the good part.
My old friend Vova came to Belgrade for a few days. We had not seen each other for a long time, and it was immediately clear that we were going to the Gradac. Yes, I knew there had been heavy rain and the rivers had practically burst into the fields, but hope dies last — and sometimes not at all. We booked a cosy cottage near the riding club in Degurić, a peaceful place with views of the hills and horses neighing instead of an alarm clock.
The evening followed tradition: good rakija, fragrant barbecue and conversations about life, fishing and the usual nonsense between friends. The mood was perfect and expectations were high. Then morning arrived…
Reality met us like a concrete wall. The water was high and muddy, as if the river itself had decided to leave. There were no fish to be seen, but we kept casting — nymphs, streamers, everything we had, with no result. It was more philosophical than productive fishing.
The next day we went searching for morel mushrooms on Divčibare. The locals said, “Go now, they have started appearing!” So we went. We walked and walked through fog so thick that we began to wonder whether morels existed at all or were just mushroom propaganda. Visibility was about five metres. We lost each other every two minutes and found one another again by the sound of swearing and breaking branches. We did not find mushrooms either, but we kept our good mood and a firm intention to return.
Later we refused to give up and drove another 20–25 kilometres to look for better luck on the Kožlica and Kamenica streams. The landscapes were magnificent. The rivers run through bare hills where you feel as if you are in Iceland or on the Kola Peninsula — except that spring sunshine replaces the northern wind, and herds of curious cows replace the bears.
The trout ignored us. Perhaps they had gone on holiday. We did manage to catch tiny chub, which attacked the flies as if defending the family honour. Every cast became a miniature victory, and on days like this even a take from a fish the size of a large insect feels valuable.
The result? Hardly any fish and no morels. But we saw beautiful places, discovered new stretches of water, laughed like children, spent time alone with nature and realised that we must return when the water drops and the fish remember that they are supposed to feed.
Vova, my friend, thank you for the company. Spring is only beginning and we are already out there. Until the next trip!