We enjoyed a late lunch of curried lentils over rice, cheese curds cooked in spinach, chicken in butter and tomatoes, and green chutney (ground up daily from the curry plants that surrounded camp), followed by a gluten-free apple cake made with Corn Flakes (what else?),, topped with crème anglaise. We soon learned that every meal made by the camp chef was elaborate and delicious.

After my second piece of cake I needed to lie down, so retired to my tent. As I lay in my mini sweat lodge in a dehydrated stupor, I heard the sounds of drums and clangs originating from a Hindu festival across the river. The steady pound of an old motorized water pump gave a beat to the erratic barks of feral dogs. I heard splashing, and in my half-sleep I thought there was a school of mahseer rising and slapping down on the water. I unzipped the tent and ran outside. In reality it was a group of boys, just home from school, jumping and playing in the river.

Misty’s Fly-Casting AcademyTo catch one of these fish requires the ability to throw the line a long distance with the silence and precision of a ninja. (In fact, with our sun buffs, hats, glasses, and 13-foot rods slicing through the air, we looked a bit like fishing ninjas.)

I spent the next few days learning how to Spey cast with a double-handed rod. Once mastered, the technique allows for maximum distance with minimal effort, but the motion is different enough from a traditional cast that I had to learn from scratch—a frustrating process.

The rest of the group already knew how to Spey cast, or were competent enough to “double-haul” the line across the river, allowing them to skip school and go straight to fishing, with some early positive results.

The ConfluenceI finally graduated from casting lessons and was allowed to take my turn fishing the confluence with Bobby, a 25-year-old fishing prodigy from a neighboring province. The youngest of five sons, Bobby came to work for Misty as a camp assistant, fetching water. After a few years, he had become so proficient at catching mahseer—he is the world record holder—he was promoted to head guide.

We left camp that afternoon as a group and drove to where the Sarayu meets the Mahakali (translation: the great goddess of death). Rivers, and especially confluences, are sacred to Hindus. Perched above this one is an ancient temple dedicated to Lord Shiva, run by a tiny baba. We asked him for a blessing before fishing the river, which he hesitantly granted before whispering to Misty that the fish were there. We looked out over the rivers from the temple’s edge and felt the big medicine of the churning water below. It should have been a good omen, if my still-wobbly casting had not bungled the operation.