Refined luck

Read the full version of Refined luck here.

With the distraction of the big fish beyond us, we turned our mind back to the smaller pod of fish and pulled a few 1 pound rainbow trout off the gravel bed. It was good fun. But we couldn’t shake the idea that the big fish was still out there, kicking around nearby. Continuing the stalk around the bend, we edged our way along every inch of the bank. Staring into the depths of every eddy, pocket water and drop off - all the likely holding positions.

“With snags out the wazoo and next to no room for the fight, it was destined for failure.”

We were willing the profile of the big fish to materialise out of the shadows. But not to be. Henry and I took turns working all the good spots, spooking a few nice 2lb fish, but not the ultimate prize we were after.
At the end of the bend, the last towering willow stood proudly doing its best to cut the flow desperately racing away west to the floodplains of the Riverina. Having all but given up hope that the shadow of moments past would re-emerge, I approached the final spot with nonchalance. Not the best way to find trout under the willows. The downstream section of the willow, the most likely of spots, was barren. Not to be, but worth checking the pocket water amongst the roots. I poked my head over a fallen stump to peer into the pool deep within the willow tree. For a split second I thought I saw the swish of a huge tail pass into the shadow and further upstream under a snag now immediately upstream. It couldn’t be. I surely imagined it.

“Like all fish though, it hung there momentarily, poised for the eat, questioning the authenticity of the imitation. Its nose quite literally centimetres from the fly. ”

Still, I had to have a peep around the top of the willow and check. Gazing into the piece of still water was the single best sight I had that season, possibly across my entire time fly fishing. 6lbs of conditioned brown trout holding in 2ft of gin-clear water, right under an overhanging branch. It was breathtaking and something I felt privileged to have stumbled across. But even while marvelling at the situation, my instincts had kicked in and the familiar scepticism in successfully casting, hooking, fighting and landing this thing arisen. Drawing back on the bow and arrow cast, I analysed all the reasons why this fish wasn’t going to be caught. It didn’t paint a pretty picture. With snags out the wazoo and next to no room for the fight, it was destined for failure. But in the fly went. A beaded, pheasant-tail nymph under a royal wulff. The moment that nymph slipped below the surface film, the fish came to life, clearly dialled in ready for a feed. It beelined straight to the sinking fly. Like all fish though, it hung there momentarily, poised for the eat, questioning the authenticity of the imitation. Its nose quite literally centimetres from the fly. Time dragged on, a season’s full of fish rejections, bust offs and botched casts flashed before my eyes. Surely another failure was on the cards. Bang. The trout obliged, sipping the fly in. The rod snapped back and the dog fight was on. Equal parts excitement, dread and focus. Quickly coming to, the fish did some quick thinking and whizzed downstream around the corner. I had a decision to make. Do I get in the drink and follow the fish downstream? Or try and horse the fish back upstream around the willow? Committed to landing this thing, I was left with the only option of going with the fish and taking a swim. Waist-deep and trying to remain in control, I was heading downstream with the current, all while maintaining tension on the fish. You could have put a pair of water skis on my feet and I would have ridden atop the surface of the Tumut River no dramas. This trout clearly had some errands to attend out west, and was in hurry to do so. It wasn’t easy and odds on, that fish should have busted off. But amazingly it remained hooked.

“There was nothing but jubilation from all of us carrying on like pelicans.”

I was simply hanging on for the ride. In the midst of a few gulps of water lapping at my chin, headed down the wrong pipe, I managed to compose myself and miraculously the fish. Regaining a handle in some calmer water, back near the original gravel bar at the beginning of the bend, the fight was back on my terms. In calmer, shallow water the fish had fewer snags to hide in and the runs became less searing. Coaxing it over to a grass bed christened by Max as the ‘trout pastures’, the netting of the fish seemed inevitable. However in the palaver of the fight, the handle of the net had snapped at the hilt and Henry was forced to cradle a handleless net as the trout buried it’s head into the grass. In the final moments, as the fish was rolling back on itself at Henry’s feet, the royal wulff got snagged on some grass. I no longer had tension on the fish and doom was impending. Yet Henry intuitively plunged his whole arm in the drink, barely hanging onto the net, and swooped up the fish.

There was nothing but jubilation from all of us carrying on like pelicans. So many things had to go right for this fish to be netted and amazingly they did. Cradling the fish for a photo before it was quickly sent on its way, I realised I was incredibly lucky to land this fish.

Read the full version of Refined luck here.