Following my craze for angling and having taken a crack at Sun Koshi, Tama Koshi, Tamur, and Arun in east Nepal, way back in 2010, I set my sights on the formidable Karnali River in far-west Nepal—my first ever to the mighty river. Karnali outstrips other significant rivers in Nepal as the longest (507 km), fed by the glacial waters of the sacred Mount Kailash in southwestern Tibet. The massive river then cuts across the Chure hills (the Siwalik range) to our great Terai plains and into India as Ghagra. The big day arrived, and I finally set off solo to Nepalgunj, a 55-minute flight from Kathmandu, with an array of fishing rods, a bag crammed with tackle—and soaring expectations, in quest of the most coveted gamefish, Golden Mahseer.

I planned to set my base in Thakurdwara, Bardiya National Park, and try my luck fishing the Babai River first. The ultimate assault would be the magnificent Karnali at Chisapani.

Following a filling lunch of dal-bhat at my friend Ashok's, he drove me in his pick-up truck to Thakurdwara, 75 km from Nepalgunj, on the Mahendra East-West Highway. He suggested I take his motorbike along, as hired vehicles in Thakurdwara were cumbersome to find and expensive. I jumped at his offer. My heart sank when I looked at the bike. “No worries, Ravi. Don’t go for its shabby look. It works just fine and won't let you down,” he said. With the bike hoisted aboard the pick-up, we drove off. After Man Khola (river), we left Banke District behind and entered Bardiya District. Shortly, dense mixed hardwood forest with towering Sal trees converged on both sides. Before long, we were motoring down the Bardiya National Park territory. Next, we took a fork at a roadside shanty town called Ambassa and, navigating past a bucking ride on a dirt road, arrived at Thakurdwara, a sleepy town those days. The BJC (Bardia Jungle Cottage), I checked in, was just a stone’s throw away from the Bardia National Park entrance.The quaint resort featured small mud, thatch, and bamboo cottages with cool and cozy rooms. “No cement, not a single brick was used to build them and the design is exclusively a Tharu (an indigenous ethnic community) concept,” said Khadka, the owner; thatch grass (khar) completed the roofs. Following some refreshments, my friend soon left for Nepalgunj, and I enjoyed the temperate evening, helped by a breeze in the delightful garden chatting with Mr. Khadka. Despite a restless night, with nocturnal nightjars calling out their spooky chuk, chuk, I got up early the next morning for the day's angling. I left for the Babai River with my guide Sitaram Chaudhary, a local Tharu, riding pillion on the motorbike. The highway appeared near-deserted save for a bus or a truck roaring past. We zoomed past flitting sightings of langur monkeys and an occasional herd of chital deer by the wooded roadside. At one spot, a peafowl frightened the living daylights out of me as it tore across the road to cross—too close for comfort. After a one-half hour, we arrived at the Babai River bridge. I peered down the bridge, which also served as an irrigation weir, and to my excitement, spotted a gharial and a mugger crocodile lazing on the river’s sandy banks. The next sight made my mind boggle. A huge gharial with gaping jaws stalked patiently on a school of tiny fish. The fishlings were bounding over the incline of the sluice gate, trying futilely to slither up the slippery slope, only to drop back into the water—and some unfortunate ones into the gaping jaws. Whoa, an ingenious gimmick! We parked the bike at the park gate and walked along a forest path through thick woods with tall grasses and shrubs. The jungle was still except for the rustling sound that our feet made on dry fallen leaves. A shrill note of a peafowl sounded nearby, followed by others in a chorus. Then a spooked chital stag belled close at hand. After a half hour, we descended to the river, our fishing spot for the day. I lost no time and cast my first rod baited with a live small fish Choudhary had netted by the banks and let the rod rest. With a second rod, I began my cast- and-retrieve with a metal lure. With no shade, the day turned scorching with stifling heat as the sun bore down on us relentlessly, but regardless, I kept hurling my lure like clockwork. At two in the afternoon, Choudhary reminded me we had to have lunch. Starved, as we munched on our packed lunch of egg-fried rice and cucumber salad, I kept a wary eye on the tip of my first rod, on my toes to pounce at the slightest jiggle. After lunch, I renewed my casts as the baited rod languished—no bite. After five o’clock, as the shadows lengthened, I began to waver. Time was slipping away as park rules allowed us to remain only until sunset. Even Chaudhary looked baffled at the total blankness. At six, with the sun almost skimming the distant Babai waters, we called it a day and retreated through the forest to our parked motorbike. Albeit the sun was down, visibility remained in the gloaming. After cruising past a military check post, at Sainabar, I saw something from the corner of my eye hanging out at the forested roadside. Curious, I made a U-turn to check. My hunch came true. There stood the crowning glory of the jungle—wild elephants. The herd of 12 to 13 tuskers were foraging right next to the highway in a small clearing barely 30 ft. away. As elephant encounters are rare in the wild, I was thrilled to bits at the prospect of taking some snapshots at such close quarters. With the engine killed and both riders still straddled over the seat, I lunged for my camera slung over my back. Just then, my guide Sitaram Choudhary seated behind, fidgeted, and I lost my footing before I could train my lenses on the herd. The bike pitched and slid down to one side, but I held on with one foot from toppling over and heaved it straight up. Seeing us dawdle at the roadside so close, I noted some commotion amidst the herd. Then Sitaram panicked. “Sir, we best not stop here . . . it’s not safe at all. They can attack any moment; if they do, we have a fat chance of escaping,” he muttered into my ears. Guess what! As I hurriedly took a couple of shaky shots, the Alpha male, its ears pinned back, charged, and the rest of the herd followed suit. That triggered the warning bell in my head. I frantically kicked the starter pedal. Holy smoke! It failed! With my heart in my mouth, I furiously tried again—and thank heavens—on my third attempt, the engine sprang to life, and we shot forward, hell for leather. At some distance, I turned my head back to look. The storming tuskers had stopped after chasing us several paces but kept eyeing us suspiciously. Back at the lodge in Thakurdwara, my guide Sitaram without beating about the bush, said, “Sir, I was all set to ditch you and dash for the thick woods—the only way to flee when chased by wild elephants, had you stalled a little longer.” [email protected]