That First Big Fish

In Flylife 56, Greg French wrote an article “Beyond Maydena” looking at fishing some southern rivers including Styx, Weld, Florentine, Lawrence and Upper Gordon systems. When Daniel Hackett offered a package through RiverFly I knew I had to do it.
After saving and putting suitable gear together, I met with a mate, Mike, and we hit the road, heading south. The article had raised expectations and Daniel had certainly fed that with stories of monsters lurking in the runs and pools of the Styx, Weld and Florentine where we expected to fish.

Day one turned out to be fairly bleak.
Rain and a bit of wind even in the sheltered valley near the Styx Big Tree Reserve. The “to hand” result was disappointing with Mike landing one small brown. The scenery was outstanding. Massive stands of trees reaching high above head. Magnificent clear runs full of small to very small trout, but we were here to fish for something bigger.
The true potential was realised early on with Mike missing a strike on a massive trout sitting in a small back water. The day was littered with gasps of awe and cries of frustration as we saw a dozen or more 6, 8, 10lb or bigger fish. Leviathans that while visible, had no intent on taking the flies on offer. Instead they chose to mock us with their darting out from the cover of fallen logs littered throughout the river.


With me blanking for the day, but the promise of better conditions the next, we changed plans and headed to Judbury and the Russell River. Outstanding decision! Another beautiful stream in a surprisingly dry Huon valley quickly helped ease our pain from yesterday.
We whetted our appetite with a few small browns before Mike landed a tough 2lb+ brown with a WMD hopper. A few celebratory photos from everyone and we continued.
A few more browns took our Black and Peacocks fished as a nymph, but nothing else over a pound until I landed one also around the 2lb mark.
My PB in Tassie.

Around 10 or 12 to hand for the day and more smiles than the previous day. The smiling only got better as our guides and Mike discovered a laden Mulberry tree. Those berries sure leave stains.

Final day and the Styx beckoned again. We fished further downstream and started slightly earlier in almost perfect conditions, little cloud, gentle breeze, and determination to land a stonker or two.

We both broke our Styx blank early on with nice small browns before, Daniel and Mike scoped out a massive fish in front of a log pile. Mike cast a perfect tandem setup in front and we watched as the brown turned to follow the nymph and inhaled. Strike! Bang! Hook up! Logs! Damn! While true, the biggest fish are the ones that get away, and their size tends to grow, this was a truly massive fish and the poor bloke was rightly shattered.
Soon, the other three put me onto a decent looking fish sitting on station mid stream. It ignored my fastwater dun/nymph setup, so Dan tied on a shaving brush. Cast to the right, ignored. Cast to the right again (my bad), ignored. Finally cast to left, wait, turn, take, strike, bang, ON!! I have never had a fish of this size on my line for this period of time. It came straight for me and I kept things tight and good. The guys were ready with the net, cameras were getting ready. I relaxed slightly and the fish went on another run, hook straightened, line springs back at me and I didn’t know what to do. Laugh, cry, throw things……oh crap, what have I done? What have I missed?


We recovered, well they did, I still haven’t, had lunch and continued on. Not long after, the scenario re-emerged. This time however, the dun was all that was needed. The take was explosive and the brown headed to a closeby log jam. Pressure on and to the right, turn, yay, oh no another log pile to the left. Keep the tip up. Pressure on and try and bring in line. Keep the tip up. Don’t relax, don’t relax, don’t relax. Wrist hurting, anxiety building, don’t stuff up, don’t stuff up, a net, finally a net, nearly, nearly, nearly, now, YES!!!!!
A huge, massive, ginormous....3.75lb. I know, I know not that big really, but in context it was the biggest fish I had caught by almost 200%.
It was a brilliant 3 days of fishing. Such diversified rivers, yet each unified by their beauty and the memories of mates, fish, and potential for much more. These are truly amazing rivers and one I will return to as soon as possible to catch one of those wily monster browns. One of the REALLY big ones.

This story is from a trip taken in February 2010. The people in it are factual and the heartbreak of that first dropped fish is still felt today.

Putting the Learning Together

....I had tied on this very bank earlier in the day.


"While they're taking from the surface, I'll catch 'em" the great prophet of fly declared to his surrounding minions.
There he stood, a "god" amongst mere mortals.
A fly fishermen amongst a gaggle of "spinners."
"Let me show you how."
The throng parted as he strode towards the bank.
And here my dilemma began.

My family had set up camp alongside our favourite stretch of water at the campgrounds.
A spot we had visited 3 or 4 times over the years.
A spot, that had always teemed with rising fish after the swimming had finished and the light began to fade.
I had been completely unsuccessful in any of these previous visits.
And here I sat.
Watching.
My limited years of experience were trying to remember things I should remember if I wanted the success I was confident of achieving this night.
Yes, there were rising fish.
I spent 10 to 20 minutes watching.
Lots of small brown trout leaping out of the water.
Lots of small trout.
Yet, my peripheral vision had detected something in the bubble line coming under the branch on the bend.
And here I found myself, sitting on the bank.
My rod, leaning on a tree 3 metres away.
Set up and ready to go.
And my hopes, dashed from behind with the crowd of enthusiastic star-struck anglers.

He stripped out line and started casting at the rises.
I cringed as I saw the ripples come out from under the branch again slightly downstream of his casts.
I argued internally.
"I was here first."
"It's my pool."
"But where's your rod?"
"How could anyone know?"
I bit my lip, stayed seated and kept watching that bubble line.

Another subtle rise brought forth ripples.
Hard to spot in the other swirls, but surely he saw it too.
Another.

I died inwardly as one of his cohorts started tossing out a lure and rapidly retrieved it through the middle of the run.
"Don't spook it"
"Don't spook it"
It was almost too much to take.
My bottom lip was screaming out in pain from being bitten.
I quickly scanned the run again and again.
Nothing.
Nothing.
"Poo!"
It's gone.
A rise.
Phew!

"Well it's not happening here. Where's the next spot?"
I couldn't believe it.
They were leaving.
He hadn't cast into the bubble line?
He hadn't seen the rises?
But they were going.
My chance.



.....I saw the ripples come out from under the branch.....


I waited patiently for the throng of 6 or 8 to slowly walk off. Sounds of disillusionment obvious as they discussed a place that "never" ends with a blank.
Waiting........waiting..........another set of ripples was all I could take.
I whispered a shout to my wife and kids to come and see.
I tried to slow my breathing as I casually stepped over and picked up my rod.
The sounds of chatter had gone except for a distant outrageous laugh.
I studied the water.
Watched the line of bubbles gather in the corner and then gradually glide under the branch 15 metres away.
I peeled off line and unhooked my fly.
An Adams variation I had tied on this very bank earlier in the day.
I cast.......................
Short. As usual. Aaaarggghhh!
I really need to work on that.
Take two was unbelievably spot on.
The fly danced as the current caught it upstream of the branch and gently swept the tied treat towards the target zone.
Suddenly, it was gone.
Ever so subtly, gone.
I giggled as I struck it home. Destroying any illusion of rugged manliness I sort of possess.
But I had hooked the trout.
I had looked for it and found it and now I had hooked it.
Soon, I had landed it.
A hero to my family.
A sense of mediocrity within myself had disappeared.

"While they're taking from the surface, I'll catch 'em"
Heh heh.

Not An Unnatural Fisherman

I am not a natural fisherman. In fact I’m not even an unnatural one. I remember as a boy going with my dad to fish. He loved it. He knew where to go. The right tide times. Which spots were ”going off.” He seemed to even enjoy re-baiting hooks every 5 minutes when his offspring tried reeled in with every semi twitch of the line. I’m sure he only feigned frustration. I remember discovering Saunders beach in NQ and catching whiting at low tide. It must have been easy fishing as even I snared one.

My sister was the real fisherman. She would implore dad to drag her off to fish. I remember fishing off the beach near Bowen and her catching the only fish of the day. Reeling it in we discovered it only got caught because its gills had tangled in the line. Only she could catch fish like that.

Now time has drifted by like the tides my dad would look out for. The time for fishing together is rare. A few years ago he fired up the “tinny” and we fished for cod off Windermere. A throwaway line such as “we should do that again..” finishes the odd conversation we have about fishing. “Yeah, that would be good.”....

Three years ago I discovered what my dad knew 30 odd years ago. I discovered what my sister thrived on. Fishing is not always about the fish. The companionship I have discovered is almost breathtaking. The art of learning what I assumed my dad just knew grew addictively. The time of research and discovery of “deep dark secrets” instill a new found joy. The mateship of being on the water and even sometimes catching something was like nothing I had never experienced.

There is something about fly fishing I don’t understand. At first it was the attraction of the technique. The rhythm of loops tossed back and forth by a mate was captivating. My first attempt, well, not so. But boy I wanted to get it right. I still do. My first introduction to Polaroid sunglasses opened a new world to me. And then there’s that moment of your fly being sipped down by a trout. Sure it was tiny. I know I had little to do with catching it. But by the end of the day it wasn’t the only thing hooked.

I’m preparing to go on my third bushwalk. As a poor fisherman, I make a poorer walker. “Why walk when you have a car?” But my previous expeditions into the Tassie wilderness continue to draw me there. More on that another day.

While not a natural fisherman, I am a natural loner. My tendency is to shy away from others. Learning to fish and to fish well puts me in an uneasy place. I can’t do it alone. And after three years of doing it with others, why would I want to try solo? I’d miss the advice, banter and competition, the insight of someone who had fished a long time before me. I’d miss out on some the quality sledges directed at and from me. And I’d miss those days that I think my dad and I would have enjoyed together. Spending quality time, with quality people doing a quality thing, fishing.

First Trip Out

This was it, the time for excitement and anxiety. My first fly excursion with others to real fly water. In my mind I had visualised this amazing adventure. All the time spent practising would hold me in good stead and I would land a massive, majestic trout with my first cast.

Not even close.


The patience of the poor soul who ended up wading with me was amazing. False casts, knots, snags, low back casts, too much wrist, lock it, lock it, cast up more, cast it up more, CAST IT HIGHER, no the other higher, spook a fish, spook two fish, spook, spook, spook ….

After twenty to thirty minutes he relieved me of my rod, took one cast and landed a decent little brown. My insides shattered. Was I really that bad? Well, yes, but as I was told over and over, everybody starts like this. Confidence thrives with these well meaning words.

We continued through some incredibly beautiful streams and I learned of ripple lines and riffles and bubble lines and rising water. I tried to listen to as much as I could, my stubbornness willing me on. My ability to soak up the details was only matched by my trousers ability to soak up the cold water.

My first real lesson that day was, to enjoy where you are. Sometimes it’s not about the fish. The amazing locations I got to enjoy that day were places I would never visit normally and since then I have been amazed at what a magnificent world we live in.

Sentimental outpouring over. I had one last cast at a riffle linking two pools. The red tag sped down the run and as I lifted to recast, I felt some weight. Lo and behold, hanging on for dear life was the unluckiest of small rainbows. But I caught a fish.

Let the fun begin…

Getting the Gear to Begin

My first real bit of gear came courtesy of that necessity of all small budgets, eBay. Not wanting to add too much to the hoard of expensive gear that would sit around unused after yet another excursion into the real of “fad hobby” (The boogie board and wetsuits had long gone, but the rackets and other evidence of “try-hard” sporting moments were well and truly at the back of the shed). I purchase a $20 4/5 weight 3 piece rod and a $20 reel.

Within a week Mike had spooled on some line and I was ready, done and sorted. Now what? I went out and started one of my grass sessions. These sessions were to be the staple part of my spare time for the next twelve months, not to mention a huge source of amusement to family, friends and neighbours.

The shouts of “You’ll never get anything there” or “Try somewhere wetter” or “Mmmmuuuuummm! Dad’s doing that thing again!” always brought a grin but also the realization I needed to try the real thing. I just wanted to make sure I didn’t look a goose when the time came.

Within the year I had progressed to my first "Name Brand" purchase. A Sage Launch. 9 foot of olive graphite goodness. 4 pieces even. Now I was set.
Wasn't I?
I had the right gear now. No excuses. watch out trout.

The Beginning

Here’s the thing, I like fish. Especially pan fried with garlic and lemon. But the process of fishing itself has never inspired me. Deep set scarred images of my Dad lobbing foot and a half long catfish at me in a small “tinny” yelling ‘Watch out for the spikes!’ didn’t help. The idea of dunking a line off a boat or from a jetty, waiting, and waiting, and waiting and then maybe pulling in a dead weight cod or flathead was hardly appealing. Topped off with hand dexterity on par with a heavily intoxicated bovine. Fishing wasn’t for me. Give me a ball and I’ll chase and kick it. I’ll be satisfied getting my fish from the shop.

Then I met Mike.

This bloke loved his fishing. I mean REALLY loved his fishing. On the cool still Tassie mornings when others breath turned to fog….his exuded piscatorial escapades and a zeal I only had known anyone have for sporting endeavours involving a ball. And then I saw him cast a fly line.

The majestic curves of the loops as they passed over and around his head were completely engaging. The sheer maniacal giggle as he explained how he had “cast into backing”, whatever that meant, addictively spread through the few that had gathered to see. Seemingly without a second thought, he placed the graphite wand into my hand. He spoke the golden rules into my ear. Stop the rod at 10 o‘clock and 2 o‘clock. Aim for the second storey. Don’t let your back cast drop too low. Mesmerised I tried to follow without much idea of what I was trying to achieve. I knew though that there was no turning back.

It wasn’t to be a process of fishing to eat. It became a near obsession of fishing to live. I needed to catch something with that combination of graphite, nylon, metal, fur and feathers. There was something about it that just seemed right.