Congo Chronicles: Chapter 3 - First Contact

By David Graham: June 27, 2025

Finally—the day of reckoning. We’d been spoiled by the Congo, all but worn out by how much the country had broken the narrative in real time and shown how wonderful it could be. But I just knew the fishing would be our grindstone. The goliath tigerfish is the ultimate prize—and nothing worth chasing ever comes easy.

We headed out early the first morning using our higher-powered boats. I thought we’d have a clear advantage: metal over wood, large and efficient four-stroke engines, and modern power beyond what any local could possibly have. We drifted out into the current, expecting a tough bite but keeping open minds. The Congo River is enormous. It is a vast body of water—the second-largest river on Earth behind the Amazon. It’s also the deepest river in the world, and the only one to cross the Earth’s equator twice.

Even with a somewhat high-powered boat, we were still a mere drop in the ocean out there—fishing the tiniest fraction of water, for the tiniest fraction of fish, with the slimmest odds of a successful hookup-to-landing ratio. Rest assured, we would need all ten days to seal the deal.

Using local knowledge early on, we first drifted naturally with the winds and lazy currents, focusing mostly on calm back eddies and sheltered sections of the river where the water moved slowly. We were encouraged to keep our baits close to the boat—abnormally close. So close that a fish would practically have to brush the underside of the hull with its fins while taking the bait. Every ounce of intuition and instinct I have toward fishing was loudly telling me this couldn’t be the best approach. And yet, I trusted that the method worked—and had likely worked before.

Bait drifting in calm water...

We drifted through lazy water where our baits could swim naturally, which often meant they had the freedom to swim down and find rocks or timber to wrap up in. On one such occasion, we had drifted too close to shore, and the catfish I had on the line swam down and tangled itself in a submerged snag.

Each of my rigs probably cost $50 between the leader material, hardware, and four or five BKK treble hooks. I had our captain pull the boat over, took everything out of my pockets, and went in after my rig! I swam down into the depths, totally blind underwater, feeling my way around four treble hooks and a squirming catfish that were tangled in root systems on the bottom. I brought a pair of wire cutters with me in case I got entangled or pierced by a hook stuck underwater.

I managed to free my hook from a root and swim back up to the surface… oh, how I wish I’d had the foresight to have Larry film all of that!

We spent nearly 10 hours drifting these lazy zones before moving into an area I felt most comfortable—a junction of two powerful currents.

The meeting of two opposing currents

In the evening hours of the first day, my float was pulled on a natural drift through the meeting of two currents, where opposing forces of water collided, creating upward and downward drafts and swirling whirlpools. These things speak to me—I’ve done this long enough to know when a critical moment is at hand. And in those perfect elements, as the sun began to set over the high tree-lined bluffs on the west bank of the Congo, my float shot across the surface of the water at a 45-degree angle toward the boat.

I had told myself that no matter how monotonous the fishing got, I would never, ever lay down my rod. Between the gusts of wind and the swirling currents of the powerful Congo River, line management is critical. Slack line will kill the few shots you get at connecting with a hard-running fish before it’s gone.

But because this first fish took the bait at an angle and swam straight toward the boat, I had to work double-time to reel down and create tension for a hook set. I furiously retrieved line, came tight on the fish—and it dug HARD into deeper, more powerful water.

I was impressed by the immediate reaction the fish had - having hooked it in calmer water just outside the main current line. It very directly and intentionally burned hard for the current, hit the line, and took a sharp right turn putting the full force of the Congo river's main current behind its shoulders. Helpless to stop the charging fish I held on hoping it would expire its initial run as most all fish do - but it never stopped and suddenly... gone. I reeled in a mangled up rig, twisted and pretzled like a child's toy, utterly defeated and mocked.

A bait sits on the bottom of the boat

Despite the loss - we had gained valuable intel in this moment. It was the first clue and puzzle piece in solving the great mystery of this species. Before the trip ever began in my hours of scanning satellite images of the Congo I had pinned ideal locations, points, and reference areas.. saving them, flagging, and even placing them chronologically in my Garmin InReach maps.

While I wouldn’t call myself a seasoned river angler, I know enough about reading surface currents to determine where predators and prey will likely be. Some anglers live and die by these visible cues—the best among us can read and assess river currents like a book.

I believe the goliath tigerfish is a rheophilic species, meaning it’s physically adapted to life in fast-moving water and prefers to spend most—or all—of its time in strong current. In a river setting, these fish, highly adapted to fast flows, use the power of the water in everything they do.

In observing the river topography, the margins of the Congo river where we fished feature a number of distinct rocky outcroppings—pointed areas of land that jut into the main flow, with semi-circular cuts carved into the banks. At the head of these cuts, where the points extend into the current, dramatic rips of water peel off the edges. The current slams into these rocky points and accelerates as it shears off the edge, increasing in velocity.

Behind these points, within the semi-circular recesses in the land, are pockets of calm water sheltered from the main flow. Here, the tremendous force of the current on the outside pulls so hard that its centrifugal energy drags water in the calmer pocket backward—creating an eddy. In these pockets, the current flows in reverse, circulating less dramatically but in the opposite direction of the main river.

Back up at the head of the point, where the main flow rips past the edge, the return flow from the back eddy circles all the way around and collides with it. At these collision zones, you see a visible clash of opposing currents—generating updrafts, downdrafts, circular whirlpools, and other complex movements on the surface.

These are fascinating areas—places where a simple piece of debris drifting downriver can be seen getting pulled into these zones, tossed around, and often sucked into small “dead zones” where it eventually sits perfectly still, even as the water swells and churns around it.

This is our “ah-ha” moment.

The same force pulling floating grass beds, timber, and even bubble clusters into these dead zones is also drawing small fish into them. Little baitfish and forage species find refuge in these calm pockets. They act as underwater egress points and low-resistance navigation lanes—features we often can’t see from above, but which these highly efficient predators know intimately.

I see this, and it becomes clear: a rheophilic predator species will patrol these pockets to hunt. They’ll either move along the perimeter or sit directly in the eddies as ambush points.

This is where the baits need to be.

An excellent example of the ideal situation. My bait sitting perfectly still in a whirlwind of opposing currents!

Back at camp, we discussed this hypothesis. The dinner table became our think tank—a forum where a meeting of minds could happen among our uniquely skilled team. We talked through our observations and early impressions, ending the first day with plenty of optimism still in the tank. The great meals we were served each evening definitely helped fuel the good energy and positive vibes.

On the second day, we were armed with just a tiny bit of new data, but still hadn’t fully committed to fishing the current lines where I believed most of the fish would be. Casually, we encouraged the boat captains to creep closer, but these were understandably difficult areas to control a boat.

While the aluminum boat was powered by a proper engine, the hull was short and stubby—it got tossed around in the current lines like a bath toy. When it was pulled into a whirlpool, it spun like a top!

Larry Walker hard at work and deeply engaged!

Day two ended almost exactly like day one—the final hours ticking down as a storm rolled in—when Larry, my boat partner for the day, got hit! It was a similar bite to the one I had: the fish took the bait at an odd angle and then burned off into the current. Same hour, same current seam.

Before we could even redeploy our baits, we made the smart call to get off the water—an ugly storm was closing in fast.

Back at the dinner table, Jacob and Michael revealed that they, too, had two baits taken—but failed to hook up on fish in the current lines. Now we had a solid idea of where to focus our attention. The only challenge was getting our boatmen to understand exactly where we needed to be.

By the third day, my anxiety over this fish was starting to wear me down. Despite the comfort of my room, I had a hard time sleeping. Every night, thoughts of this fish, the tactics needed to beat it, and the fear of total failure haunted me. Rarely has a single fish taken up so much space in my head.

I was really, really going through it—obsessing over the pursuit.

The day passes so slowly… long, painstaking hours staring at a float, managing a fish that’s barely within your control. Bait-fishing is torturous. You cast hope—then sit, wait, and stare. All the while, you fight off the urge to take a break, battling internal forces of pessimism and second-guessing. Are we in the wrong area? Is my bait good enough? Has my rig become fouled without me knowing?

These thoughts don’t haunt you as much when you’re casting lures—where each cast and retrieve resets the ticker of hope. But this... this is sheer torture.

Day three was the first time Larry and I spent an entire day—from sunup to sundown—completely defeated, with absolutely no action.

But… the other boat was singing a different tune.

Michael and Jacob had headed in the opposite direction that morning, focusing their attention and—through complex language barriers—managing to communicate their desire to fish the current lines. And it was in those waters that the least experienced angler among us—the one who had never even been outside the U.S.—had his moment.

Jacob hooked into a proper goliath tigerfish… only to face the ultimate test of mental acuity: he lost the fish at the boat.

This was one of those crossroads moments—where, after long hours and days, thousands of dollars invested, and a tremendous gamble, everything hinges on a singular fish. And when that fish gets off the line in such fashion… many anglers wouldn’t come back from it.

In this place, you have to stay sharp—keen in your senses and strong in spirit—capable of maintaining a healthy internal dialogue. Jacob had been thrown into the deep end.

And yet, as had been the case with most of our other bites, he got another shot in the late hours of the day—a sweet chance at redemption. But that second opportunity was weighed down by the memory of heartbreak just moments earlier.

Still, Jacob rose to the moment. He adapted to the failure… and successfully boated the first goliath tigerfish of our expedition.

At camp, word had spread that Jacob had caught his Mbenga! Our Congolese hands and support crew ran down the hill from the lodge upon Jacob and Michael's arrival—chanting, cheering, and celebrating aloud. The moment was palpable.

The energy of these people—and the reverence that comes with the successful capture of such a remarkable species—reverberates through your core in a way I can hardly express. I couldn’t have been happier that it happened for Jacob.

Here was a young man, a passionate angler, taking his first bold step in what will surely be a lifelong fishing journey—and he chose to take on Everest. His moment, his Chapter One, was unfolding right in front of my eyes. I’m certain we witnessed a moment that could very well define him as an angler going forward.

Dinner that night had a different energy. We all shared in the victory—knowing we had finally identified a path we could each follow to find our own success. We were energized, hopeful, and ready. Day four would look very different from those that came before. The villagers were coming—with their own captains and boats—and in the days ahead, we would be joining them.