February 2006

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A slight Northerly 5-15kt was forecast, swinging southerly during the afternoon.

By the time I arrived at Arthur’s the wind had already swung from northerly to westerly and was a stroppy 10kt or so.

Out came the dry fly setup attempting to tease the fish to the top. By golly it was still summer, albeit for only another 3 weeks, fish should be looking up, even considering the crappy weather we have had all year. It felt like we came from spring into autumn within a one week – the last week in January temperatures ‘soared’ in some selected areas of Tasmania to 40⁰C. Mind you anything over 25⁰C is the upper limit of my comfort zone after all that’s why I resettled here after self-retirement 10 years ago, and trout fishing of course.

Finally the strap weed picture #1 and penny weed picture #2 had broken the surface, but only just and only in sheltered bays. No big impenetrable matting of penny weed, which look like islands and in fact are, islands which shelter insects and fish alike.

The odd gum beetle clung to a dead tree, one or three black spinners landed on the gunnel, only to be blown off by the stiff breeze. No surface food to speak of was evident. The next two hours proved that the fish didn’t look up at all and it was back to the floating line and a weighted nymph.

After 3 hrs the first fish took the nymph, a little tidler which had to be returned to come back next year.

Another tidler let his enthusiasm run ahead of his brain but got off the hook so to speak all by him self. Just as well, there is no point to putting him through the trauma of catch and release at his young age.  

Fishing close to shore, I managed to excite a very nice fish, picture #3 every bit of 3lb who followed the fly at a distance. Three times he showed interest, but I could not close the deal.

He finally gave up and so did I, he will still be there next time, I know where he lives! Catching him would have made the whole day worthwhile.  

A few boils followed, enough to keep my hopes alive, after all, statistically a near miss will sooner or later finish up in the frying pan.

I had selected a N- S shoreline, so that the stiff breeze, which had swung southerly by now, pushed me along just fine, so that the cyclops was only needed to guide me through the trees. A good two kilometres of cost line later, and not a single take. 

A location change was needed and with the wind freshening and pushing me along at great knots I was kept busy casting and dodging stumps. Fly line slamming on the surface and pulling in hard, 5 pulls and the next cast, flogging at its best. The fish launched himself onto the fly and amongst all the twigs and stumps I was lucky to net him. He was hooked in the gill plate – that’s still ‘legal’ isn’t it? In any case who could he complain too? The Attorney Generals Department doesn’t do fish.

A quick examination of his stomach showed that it was empty it appeared that he had not eaten for days. 

Toward 19.00 hrs it was time to consider my options, an early night or flogging along? I decided to hang in there and as it turned out that was a good decision for shortly after that I had a tremendous take. The fish hit hard and with great speed went under the boat and around a tree. The wind was blowing one way, the cyclops was pulling another and the fish decided to make the best out of my dilemma and went yet in another direction. Somehow I managed to turn cyclops around and at great knots followed him, the rod arched, hoping that the rig would stand the strain. For an anxious moment it felt that he had hooked me into a tree and gone with the wind. Then he made a tactical and ultimately a fatal error. He turned and came back into the open waters, trailing the bead head nymph behind him. This is always a bit tricky, when a fish takes the middle or top fly and trails the weighted point fly behind him. A recipe for disaster when fishing in the trees. If the point fly gets hooked up, you can do a ‘Rex’ (as in Rex Hunt – kiss your fish goodbye). 

The fish was just short of 3 lb picture #4 and was a welcome addition to the bag, again, like the first one, his stomach was void of food.

The third fish just rose less than 10m from the boat. I only saw the rings after he descended, but just in time to place the nymph right in the middle of the ring and let it sink. On the second pull, he was there, bang! Although just a fish, hey beggars can’t be choosers – and one makes four.

The best it has been for a few month, night was falling picture #5 it was time to go home.

The second week in February came and I really felt the urge to splurge but Andrew from the Met bureau put a windy damper on it. Snow in Hobart and on the Great Western Tiers near Deloraine and it is still summer, the calendar says so. Christ only knows what that does to the insect hatching. Small craft alert, road weather alert, sheep grazier alert and bush walkers alert weather with ‘the lot’ and I spare you the pictures. A timely reminder what I said in my book (now $19.95 until stock lasts) about the unpredictability of the Tasmanian weather, snow in mid summer, you better believe it and you better be prepared.  

Back to walking the hounds. Picture #6 

And then there was that day (Wednesday 15^th) I would like to forget. 

Blanked out! Picture #7 And it appears that I was not the only one.  

I am not a “spin doctor”, I leave that to the politicians, they doing an excellent job of it. No, there is no point in bullshitting a success story when there is none. For me, English not being my mother tongue, it is a challenge making every month a reasonable, but true, account for my modest ‘adventures’ of my fishing escapades. My mother, God bless her soul, always said: “Always tell the truth, unless you are an exceptional good liar”, I am not, not even a bullshit artist – although some people like to differ.  

An hour on the dry, an hour wet floating line, an hour ultra fast sinking line and back to another hour on the dry followed for an hour on the wet and the … ,fishing the shallows, the deep, the weed beds, rocky shores, between the trees, picture #8  the good the bad and the ugly and believe me, it was ugly. I even resorted to “whispering” but in vain.  

Surface food zilch, nix, zero, keine, nothing. Well that is if you don’t count the two gum beetles I saw 5 hours apart. They must have been really pis*ed off with nobody to mate with.   

Even the crucial hour just before sunset, normally a dead set certainty - blank.  And I was not in a mood to even concede that ‘a bad days fishing is better than a good days at work’ - Bullshit. Who said 2000 casts in 7 hours and not even a boil or a tug is a good day?

If there is one good aspect of a blank day, you don’t get fishy hands and you don’t have to kill a fish, something I don’t particularly enjoy.

We were rewarded with a beautiful sky set towards dusk Picture #9 before we headed for home tired and with an empty bag  .  

February 23^rd  didn’t look too good. 5 mm rain during the night, low cloud cover, but a call to Brendan at the Met bureau soon convinced me to make sandwiches and get ready. Wind was forecast at 5-15 NE and it was rather humid, a day where the duns just might hatch. Summer and time were running out for this season as the fish soon start to think “procreation”. Picture #10 

When I arrived at Arthur’s pump house’ ‘boat ramp’ picture #11, the morning shift just came in – blank. They hadn’t seen a fish between them and they looked dispirited. I got two fish in Great Lake yesterday, but Arthur’s is just not fishing well this season, the ‘old timer’ declared. 

And what did you fish with I asked him? Every-bloody-thing, fished dry, fished wet – ‘NOT A DAMN THING’ he exclaimed.  

That’s the moral booster I needed, after having ‘blanked out’ on my last trip, and this was still very much on my mind. 

Well, with white horses riding the waves, the wind was stronger than I had been let to believe, I cut across the open water, seeking shelter.

The plan, oh yes, one needs a plan, well the plan was to catch fish, trout to be precise and big ones if possible and plenty of them.

Out came the dry artillery, probing the shallows, the deep, the calm and the not so calm. I was hoping that despite the absence of surface food I could raise a trout. An hour later it was time to rethink. If ‘Moses’ or was it Mohamed, doesn’t come to the mountain, the mountain must go to Moses. I changed to a floating line with weighted nymphs, trying to meet the fish half way so to speak.

Over the next 2 hours I managed to attract several fish, clearly visible as they followed the fly at a distance, never showing any intent to attack. Some would have looked good in the bag, let me tell you, but all were just in for a bit of cruzin’. They were merely leisurely following the fly with curiosity or because they felt there was nothing better to do on a North Easterly. Picture #12 

Plan B.

Well if plan A fails, one must have plan B and plan B was: let’s go deeper. Out came the ‘ultra fast’ sinking line and deeper water. At some stage I thought I had a hit, but could not be sure. After an hour or so, it was time to give the flogging a break and go back to the dry and go back to the wet and go back to the …

By five O’clock the lake was empty, not of water but of boats. No matter how far and wide I looked, it appeared that I was the only mug left and I can tell you I too was on the verge to call it quits. But then what the heck, the evening rise was only 3 hours away and I was here now, surely that was better than watching American TV re-runs.  

For five long hours I had thrown everything at them I know, not just in feathers and fur, but also in skill. I fished top and bottom and the middle. I retrieved fast and slow, I fished weed beds and rocky shorelines, I fished between trees and stumps – NOTHING. Well that’s not quite true, there was that tiddler I released, but I don’t count those, I’m not a cradle snatcher. It shaped out to be a blank, blank, blank day. 

As the sun decided it was time to go to bed I finished up at the same shoreline I had fished upon my arrival. I needed the X-factor, and then I found it, right in front of me. Picture #13

The wet on a floating line seem to be the most promising and … bang, there he was. Tight lines they say, and tight it was. She was a good hen fish, about 2 lb. When I took her out of the net and the fly fell out of her mouth, I knew how close she had come to escaping.

A quick cleaning routine showed there was nothing in her stomach. Time was running out as the sun disappeared behind the tree line. picture # 14 The very next cast landed the fly right on top of the fish. The water exploded picture #15 even before the first retrieve. He too was just about 2 lb and was quickly brought into the net, the fly well embedded in his scissor.

Within 5 casts number three was on and for a small fish he gave quite a performance. I released him and despite the long day was on top of the world, adrenaline was pumping.

Ten more minutes went by and I expected a strike any moment but nothing. Something didn’t feel right with the cast. I checked my leader and found that I had an all mighty fu**en tangle in the system, which required a total ‘reconstruction’ of the leader. No way José, it was time to switch the Nav. lights on and head for home.

Seven hours of nothing, and three fish within fifteen minutes – go figure.  

Got four, kept two picture #16 got lucky or got rewarded for sticking it out on a long hard day – whatever.

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