May 2005

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Liaweene Tasmania

More or less 1200m above sea level and a km or so from the shores of Great Lake is a one-horse town, which rises to fame once a year in April. Picture #1 

It is the annual running of the … no, not the bulls… but of the trout.

Yes, it is Troutzillas mating fest.

You might be cynical and think it is a big publicity stunt, but Tasmanians (including THIS ‘ring-in’ and rate payer for the last 10years) are proud of their trout.

Maybe not quite as famous (and I have to admit I like it this way) as NewZealand or Montana or Canada, fishing in Tasmania is more low key, but never-the-less challenging and demanding, not just weatherwise which I have covered extensively in my book.

Trout are survivors wherever they might live, in Canadian, NewZealand, American or Tasmanian waters.

So, I exchanged my fly rod and boat for the motorhome and my new zoom lens that had just arrived in time and it was destined for a good workout.  Picture #2

And the weather?

Well, everybody talks about the weather but nobody does anything about it, Mark Twain is reported to have said, but then he wasn’t from Tassie.

Liaweene is one of the coldest places in Tassie and the all-important weather forecast foreshadowed deteriorating conditions for Sunday afternoon. Wind up to 50km/hr and an occasional shower – that was the bad new.

The good news was that, if anything, so Brendan from the Met-bureau, the front might arrive rather later then sooner. Tasmanians are weather hardened country folk but shitty weather still holds the visitors numbers down especially when you bring kiddies along, and most folks do.

This was not my first visit to Liaweene since my voluntary ‘deportation’ (retirement) to the Island State.

I remember a few years ago my son Michael visited from Sydney and we proudly took him to Liaweene to the open day or better open weekend. We wanted to show this ‘City-slicker’ the raw beauty of he Tasmanian Highlands and the novelty of milking the trout, as I said, most people take their kids along.

Despite being cautioned to wear everything he had in his suitcase, short of the toothpaste, ‘I’ll be ok’ were his last famous words – kids, they know so much when they 30 odd.

The ride up the Great Western Tiers was fine, in a Land cruiser with the heater at full pelt. Once we arrived at the Liaweene parking lot, he got as far as the front bumper bar when he started to turn blue. The wind, which had pushed water down his cheeks, froze his tears into his moustache and the ‘f’-word came through closed lips out of the corner of his malfunctioning mouth.

It might have only been –10 C⁰ but the chill factor made sure that he didn’t feel his feet anymore by the time he hit the first display shed. Liaweene in white is not a welcoming sight. Picture #3

But hey, this weekend promised none of that, no snow anyway, but as I write the story, highland snow has fallen down to 800m and gale warnings are in place.

The IFS (the Inland Fisheries Service) is charged with ‘milking or stripping’ the trout and they have it down to a tack.

Picture #4 #5 #6 #7 #8 show the holding pen. And I can tell you it is hard not to keep shooting pictures of that holding pen. So many fish and so little time?

It’s a bit like the waiting room of the maternity ward (husbands are allowed in).

The females have to hold onto their eggs and the male onto their sperm until they come into the delivery section, where some spoil sport comes along and strips it all off.

Basically the procedure is like this:

Two or three fish at a time are hand netted from the holding pen (waiting room) in the stream and put in a tank (delivery section). Picture # 9 The tank is spiked with some clover oil and some secret ingredients which the IFS keeps tight lipped about, which has a soothing or slightly anaesthetising effect on the fish, it’s a bit like sniffing laughing gas before contractions.

I’ll guess, and only guess due to total absence of personal experience, it’s a bit like smoking pot when you … well, Sex is better when you’re on a high or so I’ve been told.

The females are then stripped of their eggs Picture #10 and put back into a recovery tank. A male being stripped of their semen - my religious upbringing forbids me to make any jokes about seaman. Picture #11. Besides Papa Ratzinger (I call him affectionally ‘paparazzi’) is a countryman of mine and I’ve got to tow a line or two, get it paparazzi => Papa Ratzinger? Or was it a line or two?

Anyway, the ‘sex-worker’ Phil Adams Picture # 12 proudly showing off an eligible hen fish and demonstrating how to hold it properly Picture# 13, mixes the eggs and sperm in the bucket and fertilization takes place immediately. Picture #14 The sperm donor remains anonymous!

Not being a ‘troutologist’ or ‘Troutzillas of the second cuming’, the fish don’t look very happy after the event, I’m sure they feel ‘cheated’ and look positively exhausted.

After a short spell in the recovery tank, they are released back into the stream and live happily ever after until a worm, grub, mudeye, spinner or fly catches them or until next year, when that ugly sexologist strikes again.

Fertilization success in the bucket is 98% plus. While in nature success is estimated to be only 2%, as most of the sperm floats away in the fast running water without ever touching an egg. A hen fish discharges about 1200 eggs and at the end of the year only two fish have survived.

These yearlings are referred to as maiden fish and they might not spawn for the first time until their second birthday.

The unfertilised eggs are eagerly eaten up by all sorts of water creatures, including trout and most of the 20-30 fertilized eggs fall prey to natural predators, one of which might just be another trout, or even mum or dad. Only two or so out of the 1200 eggs ever make it to adulthood and or old age.

Hundreds of thousands of fertilized eggs are harvested each year at Liaweene and being transported to the hatchery where they develop into fry, fingerlings and or yearlings.

The IFS has a stocking program which determines which of the public waters receive what quantities of stock fish, which particular species eg rainbow, brown or brook trout and what stage of development, eg fry, fingerling or yearling.

Fish being transported in purpose built and oxygenated tanks to ensure that the fish arrive in good condition at their new home-water and have the best chance to survive. Picture # 15

Children’s participation is important on this day/weekend Picture #16 but is not always appreciated Picture # 17 maybe if trout were fury and cuddly like a Koala Bear and sit on your arm for extended periods, their appeal would grow?

Before the bulk of the visitors arrive, a few ‘biggens’ being lifted out of the holding area and put in an oxygenated tank for the day (anybodies guess how much these fellows weigh). Picture #18 #19 #20 #21

It allows the fisher folk to saliva a lot and dream that one day they have this big bastard stuffed on the mantle piece. – Dream on buddy, dude, mate or cobber!

The ‘biggens’ are not ‘milked’; they just come along because old habits die hard. These ‘oldies’ just follow the rest up the creek without a paddle and can’t remember why.

The two albino attractions are always a ‘crowd pleaser’ “ah look at them white fishies mummy”. They also spend the night in the holding area Picture #22 and put on show during the visiting hours. Picture #23

They make a 2-hour trip back to the hatchery each year but seem no worse for wear; it is hard to talk to them to see how they enjoy the outing in a dark tank full of bubbles. Maybe it’s the same as us travelling inside a champagne bottle full of bubbly? What a ride! “Sorry officer, she is driving – I think!”

Liaweene weekend is not only about milking trout. The weekend, which is heavily publicized in the Tasmanian media, sponsors public education and awareness and an opportunity for all and sundry to go out for the day, away from the tele, the footy and the gardening chores.

Tagged onto the event are many volunteer organisations. Fly fishing clubs, some demonstrating the skill of tying flies, where skill levels are tested to the limit when the fingers are numb, stiff and blue and it takes an eternity just to get the hook into the vice. Other clubs give demonstration fly-casting practice for the young and up coming. A skill, which is hard to demonstrate when 50km/hr Westerlies whack the line around your ears.

The foxhunters show up and show off - nothing. The Fox hunting taskforce still has nothing to exhibit from the million-dollar government allocation except a few imported dried-out fox skins and photographs to show the folkies what a fox look like should they ever run over one or find one in the hen house. The ‘fox sheriff’ displays supreme confidence, that his patch is clean and any fox ‘coming to town’ will be stopped at the pass by his posse and will be gunned down before high noon. And that is really good news for all, including the native wildlife. Picture #24 So vote 1, vote for Sheriff  Wyatt Erb.

The water police and fire brigade, the Hot Spud baker and the home made Burgermeister mit and mit-out Lederhosen – or the Frankfurter banger fryer from Oberammergau - just add BBQ sauce and onion thank you.

No choice but to take it away- Goldie.

And the invariable biggest crowd-draw, yes you guessed it, my mate Ian Norton with his snakes, ‘Attitude Bobby’ – who is actually a female and his big mate Olga, which is actually a male. So much for Ian’s sexing skills. Picture #25 #26 #27 #28 #29

Ah yes, and there was one other attraction, the helicopter.

I crawled out of my ‘– 8C⁰’ rated sleeping bag on Sunday morning at 05.05hrs at minus ‘lots’ temperatures in anticipation of a nice sunrise and I was not disappointed.

On frosty ground and for a change very quiet, the helicopter was my target.

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With the arrival of the aircrew at 10.00hr, the new ‘optical stabilized’ lens was put through its paces as the helicopter was put through his. At 1/2000sec there was no escape.  Picture #32 #33

I was invited for a free helicopter ride and was able to have a bird’s eye view of the ever-growing shoreline, as the water is drained out of the Great Lake for urgently needed hydro repairs and yes, we do need rain, and lots of it or the Troutzillas will have to walk to the spawning ground next season. Picture #34 #35 #36

Tight lines

If you would like to contact me for comments or contributions click here: thetroutwhisperer@bigpond.com