Casts in the Cold Country – By Dave Donald
Friends, particularly long-term ones, are gems who become more precious as the years go by. In the case of fishing friends, there’s the extra connection that only a lifelong obsession with everything scaly can confer. And when you’ve passed the three score and ten mark, an age synonymouswith the attainmentof a high degree of intolerance for fools, politicians and the populous in general, associating with fishers you’ve known all your life who are experiencing the same epiphany becomes an elixir worth imbibing, albeit in measured amounts. Too much of a good thing, be it sampling a single malt scotch or hearing the same story for the umpteenth time, does have its limits!
Now, Steve Watson and Warren Steptoe have both been mates of mine for more years than I can remember, all of us harking back to the early days of the Brisbane Sportfishing Club and the heady times that heralded Australia’s sportfishing revolution. We all cut our teeth using Alveys and long rods then moved on to become proficient in just about every fishing genre that followed. Our fishing journeys have taken us in many different directions over the decades but we’ve always seemed to have found time to catch up reasonably regularly. Morphing into ‘grumpy old men’ happened easily although the debate about who most deserves the winners crown for ‘grumpiest’has never been officially decided.
There’s more than 150 years of experience in these three wise fishermen! Steve, Warren & the author ready for another session.
We’ve combined in a quest for southern trout once before, in Tasmania at a very impressive venue known as 28 Gates, where I blooded my new hand-built cane rod on a magnificent rainbow close to 4 kilos. This time, Warren had finally convinced me to visit the high country behind his home base at Iluka, a working property with stocked dams on the New England plateau named Dunmore. Given my tropically acclimated body that usually has me reaching for a coat whenever the temperature falls below 20 degrees, it was an excursion that I anticipated with a certain degree of trepidation as it was mid-winter, but Warren assured me that he’d guarantee that the fire in the cabin would be burning the entire time we were there.
Consequently, the three ‘wise fishermen’ arrived at our lodgings beside a brimming dam to find our hosts had already lit the fire to take the chill out of a crispafternoon. We quickly stowed our gear and tucker before rigging our rods and walking the short distance to the nearest water. While Warren and I had been fly fishing together for decades, Steve was fairly new to the game but was soon matching our casts. We eventually dispersed along the shoreline in different directions.
Our fly pattern of choice was the woolly bugger either in black or olive colour, but, as we were to find out, there are a myriad of subtle variations that can influence whether a trout accepts your offering or totally ignores it. The difference can be as subtle as a splash of red somewhere, a gold rather than silver bead head, even the amount of base material used. To the irregular trout fisher, aka me, picking a specimen from the box of hand tied flies that Warren provided was a lucky dip rather than a calculated decision, although our illustrious crew leader had the history of fishing here many times previously.
Casting to a rising fish! There were plenty of times the ‘risers’ didn’t find our flies appealing.
The sky was overcast and a chilly wind was blowing so the lads had kitted up in waders and puffer jackets before wading across a shallow section to the opposite shoreline. Meanwhile, I decided to leave my waders for now, although I had piled on thermals, jeans, flannel shirt and puffer jacket plus a pair of possum fur gloves, and headed to a spot in front of the adjacent meeting hall. My thinking went along the lines of systematically trying various flies until I found one that the fish liked.
Once my casts developed into a methodical exploration of an arc spanning around 140 degrees in front of my casting position, the chill has dissipated from my bones and I was starting to take in the very pleasant surrounds of our location. Water birds were abundant while crested pigeons and willy wagtails seemed oblivious to my presence when foraging nearby. I was on my second fly change and telling myself for the umpteenth time not to strip strike, when I felt a solid bump.
Those reminders must have lodged somewhere in my subconscious as I’d lifted the rod trout style before I could jerk the flyline. The weight came up solid and the Innovator bent into a deep curve as the fish pulled a heap of line. There were no jumps but the big rainbow led me quite a dance before I managed to beach it at my feet. The fish was in superb condition, fat and chunky with a bright salmon coloured band along its flanks, weighing better than 3 kilos. As Dunmore is a catch and release fishery, the beauty was quickly liberated.
Steve landed this beautiful rainbow trout on the ubiquitous ‘woolly bugger’ fly. All fish landed were in superb condition.
Temperatures heading towards low single digits saw us eagerly heading for the warmth of the cabin as twilight deepened. The lads had landed some lovely rainbows of similar size to my own so the trip had started well. With rain predicted for the next morning, we pondered whether our run of hefty fish would continue over a feed of spag bog and some warming beverages.
The front arrived mid morning, but not before another half a dozen of the adjacent dams impressive rainbows had sampled our flies. A stiff breeze cleared the precipitation that had forced us back to the fire, lunch and a siesta in the interim so we rugged up and headed for another area featuring two more stocked lakes. As expected, the fishing proved to be very tough going following the rise in water levels from the rain.
Next morning, we woke to a heavy coating of ice on the 4WD’s windscreen and a still rising dam. But when you get to an age where every new day is too precious to be wasted by not going fishing when physically able, we were rugged up and out there casting as soon as breakfast was finished. I lasted about an hour, my finger tips so numbed that they were aching, in spite of my possum fur gloves. The spot that had been so good to me that first afternoon and morning hadn’t produced a touch. Waz and Steve adjourned to the fire shortly after with only a single fish between them!
Warren carefully releases another chunky fish off the dam wall.
Over mugs of tea and coffee accompanied by slabs of home-made fruit cake, we pondered the eternal question of which particular fly might solve the dilemma of enticing shut down fish to eat. The results were still inconclusive when we headed for the other dams we’d fished yesterday. Again, the session resulted in lots of casts for little return before we adjourned for lunch, tucker and a snooze in our warmed lodgings but late afternoon found us back at the same spot for a return match.
A deepening chill and lowering sun found Steve and I casting of the wall of the larger dam as fish started rising in front of us. I’d chosen a black number with a gold bead head and dash of red in the body and began casting mechanically, much the same as I’d been doing for most of the day. Therefore, I was somewhat surprised when a solid bump signalled fish on. This was the first of half a dozen rainbows around the 2kg mark that were to come my way until it became too dark to cast! My companions tried exactly the same fly pattern with Steve landing a couple but Warren remained fishless. Meanwhile, I was on a roll, with two fish hooking up almost at my feet in the deepening twilight.
Yeah, fishing can be fickle at times but when you’re winning, you make the most of it! It’s cruel, I know, but I knew my old bastard mates would rub it in if it was their turn. In fact, I’d expect it! Warren made up for it next morning, catching all but one of our total in that session. Steve, still new to the game, proved his consistency of being able to become quickly proficient in any fishing style he chooses, even late in life.
You hear a lot about ‘bromance’ these days. I dislike the term but appreciate the sentiment. It’s alive and well in the ranks of senior fisho’s – but maybe without the ‘bogan’ inferences!!
What do you do when there’s ice on the windscreen? Go fishing of course – until you lose feeling in your fingers!!
