Where the Fish Roar: Hunting Zimbabwe's Tigerfish

Dusk rings the dinner bell for tigers

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Despite the tigerfish's nasty reputation, I wasn't expecting all that tough a character, since I'd already caught such respected species as northern pike, musky, three species of barracuda, and all manner of sharks over the years.

But then I asked one of Don's staff, collecting rocks in a bucket down by the water, just what it was he was doing. I was somewhat taken back when he replied, "Getting bait, Bwana."

Now, as a respected outdoor writer, a Marine of some note, and a legend in my own mind, I certainly wasn't about to stand there like an idiot with a confused look on my face. So I just replied, "Oh, right," and left it at that as I set my fly rods in the boat.

A few moments later, the rock collector placed his victims, which he had been tossing into a bucket, in the boat, untied us from the dock, and cranked up the motor. "Bwana, you wanna catch a tigahfeesh, yes?" he asked.

"Sure," I answered. "Where are they?" "Oh, day right ova dare, Bwana," he replied, pointing to a quiet cove about 500 yards away. A few moments later, after a brief high-speed run, he cut the motor and we quietly drifted to a stop across from a bed of thick water hyacinth.

First Strike
As I stretched my fly line, my guide began tossing rocks into the water near the weeds, along with small handfuls of the world's most stinky bait fish: rotten kapenta sardines, which live in the lake and form the forage base for the tigerfish.

I stood on the casting platform for a few minutes, the fly line piled in loose coils on the deck in front of me. "Bwana, you gonna feesh?" my guide asked. "What? Huh? You mean now?" I asked. I had been waiting for some sign that the tigerfish had arrived, but apparently they don't let you know, at least not ignorant white guys.

"Yes, Bwana. You cast now," came the resigned reply, my guide lowering his head and shaking it. There's nothing like a Third-World tribesman with absolutely no formal education to make you realize just how much of a knave you really are, lemme tell ya.

I reminded myself that I was in his world, where he knew things I couldn't possibly have any inkling of. I worked out some line with my St. Croix Legend Ultra 8-weight and delivered the blue-and-white Lefty's Deceiver to within an inch of the weeds. My guide nodded, as if to say, Okay, maybe this bozo isn't a complete moron after all.

I stripped and paused. "Are you sure the tigerfish are here, because I haven't seen . . ." The horrific strike nearly tore the rod out of my hand. A huge boil whooshed where my fly had been a moment ago, and line was fleeing my Ross Gunnison reel like green conscripts before a Marine bayonet charge.