I met Goran at my acquaintance Peđa’s place. I had come over to show him some camera lenses that I no longer needed. Peđa, a professional photographer himself and a painter, was dealing in photo equipment, and Goran arrived just as I was about to leave.
He introduced himself as a cameraman and photographer. I learned soon enough that he was also a great painter, sailor, and writer—we just kept talking. He was older than me, but we became friends immediately.
Goran’s curiosity about fly fishing quickly became another connection between us, and his musical taste was extraordinary. I would spend time at his place listening to Egberto Gismonti while he showed me outstanding color slides he had taken with his own hand-constructed camera.
I have never seen images like that.
Although I was preparing to leave for Boston to study at Berklee, our friendship did not end with my departure. During my visits home from Berklee, we continued sharing many experiences together. We talked, biked, hiked the nearby hills, filmed the long-eared owl population that wintered around Aračlijski potok near Jagodina, and discussed art, music, poetry, photography, and biology.
The summer of 1993 was a difficult one because of the Balkan wars. I was home from Berklee that summer, and Goran and I decided to go fly fishing in Resava Canyon. It was August 10—just a few days before my birthday, so I remember it well.
We knew the water was low and that our chances of catching fish were not great. My father was our driver, and he never abandoned his role as a silent witness to my fly-fishing experiments.
Goran brought his 7’6” Germina fiberglass rod for a #6 line.
“The weight does not bother me,” he would say.
And I knew that. He loved to exercise, was always in great shape, and never took the elevator to my apartment. He always ran up the stairs. I lived on the tenth floor of a high-rise building!
We followed the dusty road into the canyon. We fished different spots, separated from each other, probing the deep karst pools with our flies.
I was lucky and caught a small trout near the large rosehip bush, where trout would often rise.
Later, we met again.
“Did you get any?” Goran asked.
“Only one small fish. You?”
“I had one attack my wet ant,” he said, showing me his large thread-body ant with a lacquered finish. “But I struck too soon.”
The day was getting late.
In those years, Resava looked different at the entrance to the canyon, below the ramp. There was a series of pools created by several smaller dams. Those quiet stretches provided tremendous hatches of caddisflies, E. danica, and other insects.
We decided to try one particularly interesting pool farther downstream. I had done well there earlier that summer, and I remembered the bottom of the pool covered with large cases of limnephilid caddisflies.
All three of us spread out along the pool. Goran was making upstream casts with his Germina. I was slightly upstream from him with my little Diamondback Carbonite 6’6” 3-weight.
Before making my first cast, I looked up.
Huge swarms of ants were twirling in the air above us, like a tornado between the treetops and the side of the road where we had parked our Peugeot.
We continued casting, with the sun already far behind the canyon walls and the shadows growing longer.
Slowly, fish started rising.
I could not believe it.
I tied on my winged ant fly, and a beautiful trout, close to 40cm, took it with confidence. The little Diamondback bent almost in half, and Goran helped me land the fish.
He dropped his rod. Both he and my father were standing beside me, watching quietly.
It was already completely dark.
The ants were everywhere.
I put on a larger Light Cahill dry fly. I could no longer see my ant, so I decided to use the last remaining light to tie something larger and more visible onto my leader.
Against the last traces of light in the sky, without a flashlight, I tied that knot.
By then the pool was boiling with rising trout. Huge splashes appeared everywhere.
I kept casting.
Another trout came—this one slightly larger. Goran gave me instructions, although I could no longer see him. He was crouching low on the bank while I played the fish from the asphalt road above.
After that fish, I landed one more, about the same size. Goran expertly guided that last trout into his hand.
I was shocked.
I had never caught such beautiful trout on dry flies in Resava before—not just one, but three good fish in one evening. In the dog days of August!
And then, just like a light switch, everything stopped.
The ants disappeared.
The trout went back into their hiding places.
All of us realized the same thing:
We had witnessed another one of nature’s miracles.
We broke down our rods in complete darkness and drove back toward Jagodina, excited and puzzled.
My father was driving.
Goran turned toward me and smiled gently. There was no excitement, no dramatic celebration. He simply placed his hand on my shoulder.
“You are a heck of a fisherman,” he said.
That moment stayed with me.
I realized that sometimes the most disappointing day can suddenly turn around and surprise you with something enormous.
Unfortunately, I did not realize then that my time with Goran was limited.
In those years, he told me many things about life that I was not ready to understand.
Today, I know he was right.
Some people appear at exactly the right moment in our lives to teach us lessons that last forever.
Goran was one of those rare people.
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