Falling in love with fishing
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When you are five years into a relationship with a fly fisher and Valentine’s Day falls on a Saturday, it does not come as surprise that you end up drifting the Tumut River.
Andrew, my partner, had spent some time over the years teaching me how to cast. It was usually spontaneous, a few casts on the back lawn in Tassie with his Dad’s encouragement over the Christmas holidays or a short lesson when camping in the New South Wales high country with friends. Mostly, these moments ended with Andrew’s precious hand-tied flies in trees, bushes or long grass, and once or twice, his shoulder. Frustrated with my lack of natural ability, I typically chose to read a book, take photos or sit back and watch him fish instead.
After the world changed with COVID-19 lockdowns, my appreciation for the outdoors grew. Living in Canberra with both Henry and Andrew, they were always planning their next fishing trip. Henry wanted to take us out on a drift boat and help me catch my first fish with a fly rod. After a little convincing, and the customary translation of his over-enthusiasm into more realistic expectations, it was time for me to take the plunge and give myself the chance to fall in love with fishing.
The beginning
Blessed with perfect weather and a lot of enthusiasm, we started early, keen to chase the early risers. As a child I spent my summers on the coast and never by a river. I am a strong swimmer but the fast-flowing water and the width of the Tumut was intimidating. With an inflatable piece of plastic under my feet and wearing a life jacket that would not protect me from the cold if I fell in, I thought it could be a long day.
I let Andrew start the day at the bow, on the seat affectionately known as the throne. I took up the rear of the drift boat taking a moment to appreciate the gorgeous day and surroundings. The morning was still cool and thankfully there was not a breath of wind. Henry hinted that we might see a platypus, and the water was calm enough that I watched every ripple hoping I might spot one. A few fishless bends came and went, and after Andrew had warmed up, it was time for me to take my chances, stand up in the rocky boat and have a go at fly fishing.
“It happened so fast I barely saw it. “Now what?”, I asked the boys. Throughout all the guidance I had received, the crash course had not covered when a fish took the fly.”
Andrew had entrusted me with his six weight for the day. It took a few casts but I found my groove and the next challenge was following the endless, often contradicting instructions:
“Rod tip up, put that down, upstream mend, no too much, downstream mend, watch the indicator, rod tip down, mend again now, that’s the ticket, hit that, rod tip up! Ah a snag, point the rod tip down!”. I had heard some of the lingo before as A River Somewhere was constantly on replay in our house but I had never needed to follow instructions that changed so quickly. The boys had reassured me that I would catch a fish. Indicator nymphing was the way to go for the Tumut river, but I was not having much luck with the fluff. After about an hour, I was worried and lacking confidence. Even with the many reassuring comments, “There should be a fish there”, “That will get eaten”, I started to doubt I was going to have my moment.
Guided down the river by Henry’s skilful paddles, Andrew and I rotated casting, neither of us seeing our indicators bob under the water. Frustration was building. Surely, even if I could not catch a fish, Andrew would?
After a mid-morning strategy refresh, it was time for Andrew to change rod and approach. Borrowed from a friend for the day, a six weight with a streamer was the next option to try. Andrew looked nervous, this rod was fancier than anything he had ever cast. Assembling the rod Andrew fumbled, the nerves getting the better of him. In slow motion, only centimetres beyond his outstretched grasp, we watched the rod tip disappear over the edge of the boat, swallowed by the jade depths below. Maybe it would not be his day.
Suddenly the scenery stopped being as pretty, the sun started to feel too hot and the water too still. But there was no escaping the river when you are in the middle of it. We rounded a bend into some faster water and I was told we had entered Rainbow Alley. It was my turn to fish again and Henry directed me to cast into the faster water. Still feeling disheartened I followed his instructions dutifully. Moments after my flies descended beyond my vision, my indicator disappeared. It happened so fast I barely saw it. “Now what?”, I asked the boys. Throughout all the guidance I had received, the crash course had not covered when a fish took the fly.
Be it reflex, instinct, or intuition, I set the hook, lifting the rod up above my head. I felt the tension, and subsequent bend pass back up through the rod, but only for a moment. Then there was nothing. I looked down at my hands and I realised the rod had snapped at the base just above the cork. With the disconnected rod base and reel in my right hand, I reached for the fly line beyond the tip in the left, and I managed to steer the fish into the net held by Henry. My first fish on the fly, caught in truly unorthodox fashion. It was not what I expected but I was thrilled with my little rainbow trout and happy to return it back to the river.
A close review of the rod later on would determine that it had been damaged before I started casting and the break had occurred at a pre-existing fracture. I was relieved and therefore deferred all culpability to Andrew and the treatment of his gear. Although it was unconventional, I had enjoyed the thrill of catching a fish and wanted to continue. Breaking a rod with every catch would not be a sustainable hobby.
The hunt
Henry had two goals for the day. First was to help me catch a fish, the second was to catch a particular backwater brown trout that had so far eluded him. Having ticked off the first goal, it was time for Henry to find his fish.
My experience fishing with the boys previously was from the banks of creeks and smaller rivers. Usually the boys would split up, one going fifty metres upstream and the other leap frogging, alternating honey holes, riffles and runs. This time though, Henry had a location in mind and he needed support. I soon realised that fishing can be a team sport.
We parked the boat under the shade of a red gum and stretched our legs back on land. Just around the corner was the fish Henry was after. We pushed through the weeds and overgrown grass and stalked the bend. Henry could not see the fish in its usual spots. Maybe someone beat us to it? We turned around having given up hope, and set our sights on lunch. But of course there it was, on a wide bend in slower water, in direct sun and on a beat.
“Surprising us all, the fish chose the nymph and the Tumut valley was filled with celebratory cries. It wasn’t over yet though, an empty net remained. ”
A team meeting was held and strategies discussed. I have been privy to a few daily stand-ups in the corporate world and this was no different. We tackled the big questions: Where should Henry position himself? Where could Andrew and I see the fish the best without scaring it? Which flies should be used? Everyone’s voice was heard and with a plan formed we diligently took our places. Andrew and I high up on the bank as Henry slowly approached the water. Henry balanced himself behind a log and gently cast with a dry fly over a nymph. The fish was not interested in the first option, or the second, or seemingly the rest of the fly box. Andrew even begrudgingly suggested a worm but that was not on the brown trout menu either. I was ready for lunch and wanted to move on but Henry had one more combination in mind. With one more cast the line landed right on the fish’s beat. Surprising us all, the fish chose the nymph and the Tumut valley was filled with celebratory cries. It wasn’t over yet though, an empty net remained. After a few tense minutes of Henry carefully guiding the fish towards the bank Andrew scooped it up in the net. High-fives were shared and the first brown trout of the day was admired. Success achieved through a genuine team effort.
After we released the fish it was time for lunch and boy was I ready for my bread roll! We sat by the river looking at foothills of the range and analysed the two catches of the morning play by play. It dawned on me that this is why Andrew and Henry love it. When the weather is perfect and you have some success, it is a perfect way to spend a day. Andrew was unusually quiet, and he was eager to join us in success for the day so we jumped back in the boat and continued down the river.
The buzzer beater
The pressure was on. Of course, I had seen Andrew catch many fish over the years, but without one today it would be a long drive home. Henry had told us that more than 25 fish were caught the previous weekend on a similar drift. So what was going wrong? Andrew had barely had an eat all day. Losing the ability to throw streamers after dropping the rod tip into the river had not helped but the boys were confused. Out of ideas and running out of river Andrew and Henry started raiding the fly box to invent odd combinations.
“Yep!” Andrew yelled, and I saw the line go tight. Finally, a feisty rainbow was interested in the double beaded nymph with wriggly legs! ”
We went under the Tumut River Junction Bridge where the Goobarragandra River joined and the water was undoubtedly much faster. On the bank we saw our friend throwing a streamer down stream, who was about to find out only three quarters of his rod was going to be returned to him today. Not the best return on investment. Our friend was wading waist deep so we gave him a wave whilst Andrew continued casting and Henry concentrated on controlling the boat in the wilder water. “Yep!” Andrew yelled, and I saw the line go tight. Finally, a feisty rainbow was interested in the double beaded nymph with wriggly legs! After a wrestle for Andrew in taming the fish and for Henry to bring us to shore, Andrew jumped out of the boat to net his fish. A buzzer beater for the ages.
The statistics tell a good story. 3 anglers. 3 fish. One broken rod. One rod tip lost. One perfect weather day. However it was not the day that we had hoped. We all had expected to catch more than one fish. But the most successful days are always the least expected and it is part of the beauty of the past time. I walked away with a nymph in my hat so at the end of the day I was not complaining. Driving back up the Hume I realised that I wanted more. Maybe the boys were on to something. Just maybe I was beginning to fall in love with fly fishing.