Fishing – Making Your Own Wilderness. Part 1: Of Notes and Observation – By Bill Bowtell
I started out by using the title to this article as, “Fishing – The Changing Order”, suggested by good fishing mate, Kim Martin. Kim’s suggestion followed a lengthy discussion with a group of younger (and not-so-young) fishos whose opinions I greatly admire, about the relationship between observation and experience versus technology, and the reliance on it in today’s fishery . That there is a “changing order” is not in doubt: technology has encapsulated a fishing power surge. However, apart from the technical account of what we experience in today’s fishing, every fisher that fishes a creek, river, impoundment, bay, or ocean is looking, by whatever means at their disposal, for their own little piece of “fishing paradise” during their time on the water. And within this “fishing paradise” lies the essence of fishing. It is this essence: those essential requirements we seek, that brings us back time, and time, again. I call it “Your Own Wilderness”.
An on-shore break – ideal place to target school mackerel, blue threadfin, trevally and Queenfish.
Your Own Wilderness is personal. It’s what you get out of your fishing day. It can be physical: catch a feed of fish. It can be emotional: catching that one special fish. It can be mesmerizing: drifting a bank whilst tossing lures/or, scanning the water in the search of fish. Relaxing: soaking a well-presented bait with great expectation. And frustrating: when you find the fish, then finding that they won’t bite, or hit your lure. And, when things go a bit awry, as they sometimes do, your paradise can fall apart and become downright dangerous. Then you cope, and all returns to normal: in some circumstances, even providing something to laugh about. And when you laugh you look around and take in the work to be done – the cleaning up. You are tired and grubby but approach the tasks with a satisfied vigor – usually with a beer, or rum in hand. “Wilderness” is a paradox in every way!
It was a long time ago, 51 years in fact, when I stood seaward of the mouth of a little mangrove-lined creek, fed by the waters of Repulse Bay south of Cape Conway. It was only my second visit to this spot after recently shifting north to the Proserpine area from Queensland’s SE corner due to work commitments. I was hoping to emulate the success of my first trip of the previous week, but most of what lay before me was all new.
Local knowledge put Bill onto this nice 68cm barra – note the stage of the tide and the exposed rocks.
I moved to the edge of the water where the shallow channel, that flowed out of the little creek and meandered for 150m across a broad, flat, sandy patch of beach, met the tideline. I looked along the beach to the north and there was a low rocky shelf. To the south the beach disappeared behind a sentinel of rocky headland protecting a second, but major creek that flowed well inland. I watched and took it all in. The tide was just starting to flood. I made a few speculative casts. Nothing!
Ripples started to run up into the channel. Gutters, parallel to the tideline, began to fill as water flowed over the small rills of sand on the flat beach surface. The ripples became wavelets as water pushed further up into the now widening channel. The flow was rapid – far quicker than what I had experienced on my first visit a week before. This was new and revealed the need for a bigger picture and greater understanding of the tide in this part of the country, than I currently possessed.
There was a certain uneasiness in the developing situation. I tightened my grip on the cork butt of my fishing rod; hung onto the little shoulder bag that was slung over my right shoulder and headed back at a steady pace towards the grass covered, two metre high patch of sand dune protecting the northern bank of the little creek. It made a great vantage point to watch everything unfold before me. The “everything” being not only the movement of the tide, but everything that moved within the tidal flow: the movement of fish by species, the gathering strength of flow as the water rose, the formation of eddies and backwaters as they formed and dissipated behind noticeable structure and cover, and finally, the movement into the mangroves of all this, as the water rose. It was time to put the rod down and take in what was happening and what it all meant. My first visit to this obscure little creek was vastly different!
An innocuous stretch of mangrove creek bank. But look closer – a flatter, inclined bank, shady and clear of snags and cover where predatory fish wait in ambush – ideal location for baitfish like mullet and prawns to sift and fidget through the muddy bottom to feed. Predatory fish will enter these places at certain phases of the tide
That first trip I approached the creek from the southern side passing underneath the sentinel of rock protecting the creek mouth from the prevailing SE winds. I was conscious of the complexity of the area. My attention was immediately drawn to the dense mangrove forest along this southern bank and the oyster covered rockfall from the sentinel, which was now imprisoned by a mass of tangled mangrove roots. Here the creek swept in a long curving arc from the mouth away towards the nor-west; finally disappearing into a maze of smaller channels within the mangrove forest. This sweeping bend in the creek was deep up against the rocks and mangroves. It looked to me to be “very fishy”. In contrast the mouth, seaward of the shoreline, was nothing more than a meandering, shallow flowing channel rolling towards the tideline, only to be consumed by the SE’erly shore break. It was the last of the ebb tide.
My shoulder bag, contained a small, clear plastic, six compartment tackle pack in which were four minnow lures recently (1973) purchased from Hossacks Tackle shop in Mackay. There were two ABU “Killer” lures; one black and gold, the other black and silver: and, two Heddon “Tiger” lures, both orange and black in tiger pattern. These were known and proven fish takers of that era, especially for barra and jacks. The other two compartments contained two, 1oz, ABU “Toby” lures and two, 1oz ,Wonder Wobblers. Both of these had caught tailor and flathead back in the SE corner. I knew their worth!
I tried all four minnow lures in the hole at the mouth of the creek at dead low water. My expectation was high: after all, this was north Queensland – there were mangroves, rocks and water deep enough to hold fish at all stages of the tide. I could see fish moving, but they were sluggish. Apart from getting excited at how realistic the lures looked as they wobbled back to the rod tip, the only other excitement occurred when a small, 30cm barracuda belted the Heddon Tiger right at my feet, then promptly fell off. There was a lot to learn. That was when I walked out to meet the incoming tide.
The first of the ebb tide in a mangrove creek. Fish deep near mid-stream snags, or edges of gutters where the fish are holding.
The fish were working just behind the inshore, wind-generated “slop”. I didn’t know what they were, or even could be – my usual quarry when fishing such locations in the waters of the SE corner were bream, tailor, flathead with the occasional trevally. Still, I changed lures from a minnow to chrome, tying on a hefty 1oz Wonder Wobbler, and let drive with my new Butterworth MT 784 (Multi-Taper, 7 wraps of glass, 84 inches [7ft] long) spin rod. Mated with a French built, Mitchell 307, threadline reel spooled with 14lb (6+kg) French Platil line, it could cast a good 50m. It was a direct cast into the action, and nearly took out a tern as it dived at the flashing lure – two turns later (no pun intended!) I was fast to a speeding fish.
The little fish fought well and was my first fish on my new outfit. It turned out to be a mackerel – a school mackerel of about 45cms. A couple more followed before I caught a small, Lowly Trevally (GT).Then the real action began. The tide was now up to my shins, and although the run was gentle, it was noticeable. I made a mental note: the tide, the fish species and the location.
The previous action straight out from where I was fishing had ceased. With the rising tide the birds had moved: following the schools of bait which by now had moved to the start of the gutter that led up the beach towards the creek mouth – still a hundred metres away.
This feisty little Herbert River jack put the boat on notice for more to come. We were fishing the right spot.
Small baitfish showered in the gutter right at the tideline. A big silver shape leapt a metre clear of the water. Standing my ground, the Butterworth whipped with a “hiss” over my right shoulder. The Wonder Wobbler shot out in a near flat arc, landing amongst the commotion of panic-stricken baitfish, diving birds and leaping predatory fish. The bail arm of the Mitchell flicked over. It rotated twice around the spool, then stopped! Now the spool went into rotational overdrive as line was stripped over the roller and out through the guides. The drag wailed in screaming protest, just as a huge silver fish leapt from the water towards the sky. This was a giant Queenfish – my first ever.
The fish hung in the air then crashed back into the gutter, where it stayed for what seemed like an eternity. It tried to join its mates but couldn’t – my gear was solid and holding fast!
My shoulder bag in those days was a store for, not only terminal tackle, such as swivels, snaps, lures, spare line and leaders, but it always carried a short, 30cm long handled gaff. The gaff came in very handy on this day. The fish was brought into the gutter, gaffed in the lower jaw and “walked” back to the sand dune at the mouth of the creek, where I was now sitting. It was bled and washed down, wrapped in a tea-towel that I used to carry and tethered to a mangrove root. It was 1.05m long and weighed 23lbs (10.4kgs).
Elated, I looked seaward for more activity. There was nothing to be seen. The terns had flown back to the remaining dry section of beach at the base of the rocky headland and were preening their feathers as they faced into the SE sea breeze. The sea had flattened. The schools of bait, so abundant only half-an-hour before, were non-existent amongst the waves. And the marauding schools of mackerel, trevally and Queenfish were now nowhere to be seen. I stood and watched. The tide was just entering the hole at the mouth of the little mangrove creek. I slid down the sand dune to move my tethered queenfish. Boof! Swoosh! Boof! And swoosh! again.
I leapt backwards, throwing the Queenfish as I did so. We both landed on the grass on the top of the sand dune at the same time. Christ! I got a fright! The schools of bait; mullet, greenback herring, silver biddies and garfish that came in with the tide were being harassed and preyed upon by trevally, Queenfish and blue threadfin. They were right there! At my feet! Fifteen metres across the creek came a big explosion of water. It could only have been a barra which at that point in time I had never caught. I switched from chrome lure to a Heddon Tiger minnow, moved down to the edge of the water and cast across the creek. The tide moved in. I was conscious of its effect on the creek.
A Hinchinbrook jack couldn’t resist a Richo “Sardine” lure. Note the distance between the water level and the base of the mangrove leaves. Ideal!
The little Heddon lure moved just wide of an oyster covered rock. A flash of silver, a flash of red, a swirl of brown: the little piece of plastic didn’t stand a chance. The rod tip bowed over. The reel wailed in protest. The taut line raced against the incoming tide. I hung on tight, dropped the rod tip and swung it sideways towards my side of the creek. Two fish broke the surface; one, a mangrove jack just shy of 40cms and the second, a lowly trevally of around the 36cm mark. Both had a separate treble from the “Tiger” in its mouth. A gold spot cod nudging the 50cm mark was in close pursuit , but just couldn’t get a look in. Both fish were landed. My adrenaline was running high. I had never experienced anything like it before. Two more jacks, plus two trevally, a cod and a Queenfish were taken as I moved along the creek with the tide. I finally ran out of bank where the sand gave away to mud and mangroves at the next bend.
I didn’t know any better at the time, but all of the fish were bled and cleaned at the site. By the time this was done a school of big silver and pikey bream had turned up and were feeding on the guts of the fish. They soon shot off after two, 1m +, reef sharks moved in to make short work of the remaining bits of stomach and gills. I cleaned up and sat back on the grass-topped sand dune. The creek before me was now quiet and tranquil. The tide slowly flooded into the mangroves. The oyster covered rock were now nothing more than shadows under the surface. Bream and garfish could be seen milling around the root entanglements. And the ubiquitous toadfish were still seeking out the last remaining morsels of fish scraps at the base of my sandy look-out. Upstream another big “Boof!”. The fish had moved on! Another mental note.
The next day I had to go down to Mackay and took the opportunity to call into Hossacks Tackle shop. I purchased a set of Qld Tide Tables and Predictions (1973), a new landing net, two Cotton Cordell “Redfin” minnow lures in red with black stripes, two Bill Norman, “Flash Shad”, lures in blue and silver and (on special) a pack of four plastic prawns which had about as much action as a “dog turd”. Still, they looked the part and in actual fact, one of which caught my first ever barramundi two weeks later. The next stop was the newsagent where I bought a DUX No. 308, 240 page “Social Studies” book for 25¢. This became my first ever diary, to which was added previous trips recorded back to November 1970.
Working out where to either start fishing, or to start your search – leads to fish like this barra.
On the drive back to Bloomsbury, I mentally formulated what I had witnessed on those two separate fishing trips. I thought about the tides, the species of fish available; how those fish reacted to tidal movement, wind strength and direction; I saw what they were feeding on, and that at least some of the fish took lures. But I couldn’t answer the questions: if they moved, where did they move to? Did they all take lures? if so, what type? Were they feeding on similar bait schools all year round? If so, did I need to buy it (very difficult at that time)? Or, did I need to catch my own? (cast net, which I couldn’t throw; bait net, needed extra person to assist and more time needed pre-fishing). Was this little creek an exception, or was this the general fishing trend across all of this part of the coastline? There were so many questions left unanswered. How could I fish it all?
After making some entries in my new diary, I drove down to the beach that night. Parked the Toyota under a Leichhardt tree and walked down to the mouth of the little creek, armed with my fishing rod, shoulder bag and my new “Flash Shad” lures, and pulled in two mangrove jacks! The biggest went 3lb (1.4kgs). The tide was 4.2m (Mackay Harbour Outer Wall) and flooding into the hole started at 6pm. The oyster covered rocks were still exposed to the base of the mangrove roots. They would disappear within 40 minutes.
As I turned to walk back to the Toyota, a big fish exploded amongst the upstream mangroves. I had found my Wilderness!
Never pass up this type of cover out on the flats. Incoming baitfish will shelter under the overhang and big, predatory fish will follow. You may need to wait. Get to understand the tidal movement.
