There are still magical places in Spain where it’s worth getting lost, many of them, I dare say, remain hidden among the high peaks of the Pyrenees. That’s why, year after year, we set out on several excursions in search of those lost places, seeking the peace and quiet that only they can offer. Corners that make us dream of wild trout in beautiful landscapes far from the hand of man. Dreamlike places, spots for reflection.
Few sensations are as gratifying as feeling ownership of yourself, feeling alive, knowing who you are… When that moment arrives, you simply know it. Nirvana. Inner peace, some call it. There are places, corners, or landscapes that help us find ourselves. Little pieces of earthly heaven. Each of us has our special place, our spiritual home. Mine has always been tied to water, since I was a child. There is only one other place where I feel just as fulfilled: the high mountains. Perhaps it’s because only up there do I become aware of my insignificance, perhaps because under the immensity of the starry sky I understand my place in the world, perhaps simply because in those valleys you can hear the silence and your feelings reach you higher and clearer.
Fishing in the high mountains is an adventure every angler should face at least once in life. Whether among the great granite boulders of Gredos, in the steep Pyrenean canyons, or in the meadows of the Palentine highlands, the feeling is unique and unmatched. Every step, every cast, every trout is a sip of life.
Space-time itself seems to flow at a different rhythm that intoxicates us. Only the electric surge of the inhabitants of those cold waters reminds us of the frantic life of the century we live in. Up there, time moves slowly and life rushes by. Every minute counts in that race to gather calories for the harsh winter ahead. That is reflected in their trout. Their aggressiveness, their thirst for life, they transmit it to us with every strike they offer. Fast. Direct. Noble. Lightning‑quick…
Simple fishing, without complications, without flourishes. Bulky flies, bright colors, good floatability: grasshoppers, heptageniids, caddis… or any imitation that unleashes their aggressiveness, such as small streamers that move well in fast water, like woollies. But above all, dry flies — high‑mountain fishing is synonymous with surface fishing. With adrenaline.
Short casts, precise, avoiding drag, allowing us to experience the action on the front line. Short drifts, but as static as possible. Sometimes, the difference between getting one of these trout to rise from its position on the bottom or not, is managing to keep the imitation in its field of vision one millisecond longer. And accuracy — here you must take risks, cast tight to where the fish are, so that the fly’s landing triggers in them that irresistible instinct to attack.
And of course, becoming part of the environment. Going unnoticed. That is the challenge. Being a rod’s length from our target without giving ourselves away. Body low, silent steps, and, if the terrain allows, hiding our silhouette behind the typical stone boulders that adorn these streams.
As in so many other things in life, what matters is what’s inside — the emotions we experience and the imprint they leave on us. The flavor of things. Numbers, quantities, even reasons have no meaning up here. When you find yourself fishing in these rivers, always remember: in these waters, every fish, every cast, has a special and unique flavor. Uncountable. Innumerable. In these valleys you don’t pursue an end; you follow a path from which you never return the same as you began. Remember: You are fishing in rivers of emotion. You are touching the sky.