Green Pools of Resava Canyon

Back during my years of studying jazz composition at Berklee in Boston, I would arrive home for the summer. It was a difficult time, with wars going on in the former Yugoslavia and a period that was extremely depressing for everyone from my home country. Even though the danger of being drafted was real and lingered through the summer, I could not wait to be back on the karst streams of eastern Serbia.

I would bring my American-bought fly rod and reel, along with some flies I had started tying back then, to try them on the Resava—the stream I fished so much in those years. I fished the Crnica and Mlava too, but I really got hooked on the Resava. I guess it was because I felt I did so much better in its canyon section, upstream from the ramp.

Back then, the road from Strmosten was still gravel. The Yugoslav Army had completed the road through the canyon sometime in the early 1960s. However, the asphalt road to the ramp at the canyon’s entrance was not built until the early 1990s. Right by the ramp, there was a big pool and a small dam. The area was mostly pristine, with only a handful of vacation houses—nothing like the flocks of buildings that exist today for tourists and visitors. The only place that stood out was a socialist-era mountain club house for hikers.

The dam created a big pool, and it held nice-sized browns—not big fish, but big for eastern Serbia karst-stream standards—over 40 cm. I loved fishing Ephemera danica because of the slight silt accumulation by the dam. Those big cream-colored mayflies loved to deposit eggs there, so their spinner dance and fall were abundant. The fish would really key on them.

I took some nice fish using a “sudden inch” technique. Many times, fish would be extremely selective, no matter how good your presentation was. I would dead-drift the big white spinner fly dressed with spent mallard wings, and gently twitch it just before it came into the fish’s window. The fish would take it decisively, with no hesitation. I loved this way of fishing.

Back then, I fished an old two-piece Fenwick HMG graphite—a soft, long rod I bought at Stoddard’s, a legendary Boston fly shop on Temple Place, near Park Street. Those were tense but memorable summers.

We would get lost in thought, the sound of bird calls, and the dull, steady hum of the waterfall. My dad would sit and watch me casting, or walk nearby oak forests to pick a few boletes. Sometimes I would ask him, while fishing and observing the fish’s behavior:

“Hey, what do you think I should put on?”

“Throw them an Adams,” he would say.

Fishing would not make us think about the war. Often we would stay into the darkness, just after the predictable Sericostoma personatum hatch would finish at the same spot. I loved fishing Tom Rosenbauer’s Rabbit Foot Emergers; they were a great imitation of emerging Sericostoma caddis. I remember the bottom of the deep green pool being laden with their larval cases—such a recognizable shape, with bright green larvae hidden inside.

Once the river stopped talking to us, we would pack and leave, driving home late in the darkness, tired and happy.