Cassien Encounter

Several years have passed since my last trip to Lac Cassien. I have told that story before: of my formidable failure, then the dream in China, and finally the huge carp I caught on the trip I never thought would take place. What I have never told is what happened during the last night of that trip, my last night at Lac Cassien. The time has come to tell the story:

Superstition is not foreign to us fisherfolk: It all happened on the 13th day of the session, the day before my scheduled return. The previous night, I was fishing a spot on the West arm's road bank, which gave access to two huge bays, one to the right and one to the left. After I lost a fish in the margin weed of the left bay that morning, I decided to spend the last night of my trip here as well. I was just toying with the idea of retreating from the water for the rest of the day when a visitor appeared in my swim. A middle-aged Frenchman asked if he could watch for a while. He introduced himself as Michel and opened the typical dull conversation on the fishing ("any luck?") and the weather ("pretty hot today, isn't it?"). His next question was if I had spent the whole night at the water. Then the conversation turned strange: He asked me if I knew of any nudist beaches on the lake. Then he eagerly presented me with his telephone number and insisted that I call him later. All this I found very odd. So to his next question, I answered with a little lie. Michel inquired if I intended to fish this same spot during the next night, too. Since I really wanted to fish here, but was not fond of him knowing, I told him that this spot sucks big time and that no way in hell I would fish here ever again. When he asked me where I would go for the next night, I pointed Michel to a swim on the other end of the lake, all the way at the bottom of the South arm. He seemed happy with the information, watched for a little longer and finally took off. I was a little puzzled about yet another of these strange encounters which sometimes await us in foreign countries, but beyond that gave no further thought to the incident.

I packed up the gear and spent the afternoon chatting away with Gerard, and his niece Danielle, and Martin, drinking one Orangina after the other at the beach café. Looking at the lake, I was surprised by the change in weather: Finally, there was a good wind again, and all afternoon long a powerful northerly pushed strong waves down the South arm. Suddenly I realized that my spot in the West arm would not be my best bet for the next night: All the way down in the South arm, there is a long stretch of deep bank, which must currently be getting smashed by the waves. My instinct told me that next night some carp would invariably investigate this area. Plans were quickly changed. I went back to the West arm, picked up the tackle that I had already hidden there, and drove to the South arm. The last sunbathers soon disappeared with the sun, and finally I had the area to myself. This was my last night on the trip, so particularly today, I did not leave matters up to chance: I exchanged all hooks, carefully dipped every bait, and placed the four rods in different depths along the bank. My instinct did not fail me: At last light, the first carp greeted the inside of my net.

I had just taken care of the fish and cast the rod out again when all of a sudden I noticed a person slowly approaching my swim. As it was already fairly dark, it took my a while to realize that this was a woman, apparently taking a late walk. I was very surprised when I recognized the woman's outfit, consisting of dark stockings, a tight top and a mini skirt. And I was even more surprised when the woman approached me directly, stopped by a tree some two or three steps away and said hello. It was then that I saw that this was quite a woman indeed, several inches taller than I, with quite some shoulders and with a voice that sounded just like… Bloody hell! I realized that this was none other than Michel, the person who had come by my swim in the morning, only that this time wearing funky clothes and a wig and carrying a purse.

Now he introduced himself or herself or whatever as Dominique. Damn it, I remembered that I had told him that I would spend this night down here in the South arm. All afternoon, I was only concerned about getting onto fish this night, and had not given any thought whatsoever to the encounter in the morning. Alas! Now I was in trouble. Michel asked me if he could sit down, and before I could answer he had already stretched out in front of the tree by which he was standing. Such was the scene for several minutes: the transvestite lasciviously stretched out by the tree, while I was frozen dead next to the rod pod, thinking how the hell to get rid of this unwanted guest. What a gorgeous night, he remarked after some silence. Bloody gorgeous, I thought. Then he asked me if I could give him a massage. Please. After I denied ferociously, he proceeded to ask if he could at least give a massage to me. After I denied again and even more clearly, he asked in all seriousness if he could at least touch me. Touch me? Up your own!

By now, he had gotten up again and was pacing around my swim, waving his purse at every step. I am far from homophobe, but I am certainly not into transvestites. Awkwardly, I tried to make this clear to him. How beautiful, he said, to be out here all alone tonight, just the two of us. Just the two of us! That was where I had an idea. All alone? - I asked. Surely he would know, I said, that this is the world's premier carp lake and that there is a fishermen behind each bush. And that, as good anglers, they would always hide well lest they be seen. Have no doubt, this was another lie: There was no other soul around for kilometers! But I did not give a damn anymore, because I was scared. I had no idea how the transvestite would proceed, and I hoped that this would keep him from doing stupid stuff. For a couple of weeks in Italy once, I had shared a house with a transvestite who brought in clientele every night. On that occasion I had learned that transvestites were generally very peaceful people, but then again, I have also seen too many bad Hollywood movies not to worry about what he carried in his purse or to be alarmed by the fact that he was bigger and apparently stronger than myself. Other anglers? - Michel asked. This comment had raised his interest. He would go for a little walk, he said.

This was my chance. As soon as he had disappeared in the dark, I sprung into action. Hastily, I wound in the lines, on each of which I would have expected a fish this night, threw my tackle into the backpack, faster than I have ever done before, and within two minutes, embarked on my journey to the car. The walk, usually an affair of some ten minutes, seemed to last an eternity. It is strange how almost every tree by the side of the path appeared to wear stockings and a miniskirt this night. The fact that I was only equipped with the flip flops I habitually wear in Southern France did not add any comfort. When I finally got to the car, I fumbled the key into the lock, open the door, blasted in my gear, ran to the other side, got behind the wheel, locked all doors, started the engine and took off with the wheels spinning in the gravel. I got onto the speedway and stayed on it for a while. When I exited, I circled the roundabout some three or four times to make sure that nobody followed my, and then headed straight to the next restaurant, where I cooled off for a while. It was about midnight when I got back to Cassien. The rest of the night, I spent tucked away in a small corner all the way up the North arm, where I was certain nobody would find me.

The next morning before leaving the lake, I went back to the South arm swim to collect all the items I had missed in the hurry of packing up that night. That is where my most successful session ever was coming to an end. Cassien is a mystical place, where things happen for a reason. Out there, it helps not to wonder too much. I had caught big carp, and I got stalked by a transvestite. As if it was all just a part of the same adventure.