Favoured feathers
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A particular debate or discussion exists that all fly fishers have experienced at some point - “If you had to choose one fly for the rest of your life, what would it be?” It is a debate that Andrew, Dom and I, as keen angling friends, have had many times over. It seems to be one of those topics that can fill a void of silence like no other. As time crawls gradually on, through the despondence of a slow fishing day, in the immediate wake of a collectively first sip of ale amongst mates or the god-awful chasm between your fishing partner’s music selections en route to the river, it is one of those topics we are always glad to have in our back pocket. Why? Because like anything subjective, agreement is rarely reached, lest amongst mates. In the void of agreement, debate and conversation reigns supreme.
“A true trial putting each fly pattern to the test in the ultimate colosseum. From here the ‘great dry fly battle’, as we affectionately christened it, was born. ”
One particular evening, down at the pub, Andrew, Dom and I were up to our eyeballs yet again in this very debate. What our favourite flies tend to be is often based on unrelated successes, loyal affections and passion, and this instance was no exception. We each had our own differing preferences and allegiances, and naturally, we were torn. Concessions and assertions were exchanged, certain conditions on the debate were suggested and the passion underpinning each of our opinions only increased. Having reached an impasse where the debate could progress no further, we were left with 3 blue ribbon dry fly patterns that between us , we just could not split. However, this time had a different feel. None of us seemed prepared to leave it there, with the jury still out, our peace of mind remaining unchecked. Restless with the lack of a definitive result, we agreed we had to put these patterns to the test. This foray into this can of worms produced an idea that we were excited to pursue. One day, one river, each using our chosen fly, most fish per pattern wins. A true trial putting each fly pattern to the test in the ultimate colosseum. From here the ‘great dry fly battle’, as we affectionately christened it, was born. The winning pattern, the most effective of the favoured feathers, to be crowned the greatest dry fly of all time (at least for our little trio of tragics).
Wandering down to the river that morning at first light, we were privileged to the kind of conditions you conjure up whilst reading the bush poetry of Henry Kendall. A landscape blanketed with gently growing light, a perfect stillness hung in the gum trees, with only shafts of golden light piercing through to the steep valley floor and breaking across busted crags of rock and tumbled barrels of felled timber. It was all laying beneath the ominous watch of carved granite faces beaten back through the wearing precedent of hydrology and time. The dominant chorus of kookaburras, breaking in unison, harmonised with the crunching gravel beneath our boots and the dabbled roar of the river beckoning us on. The rich smell of gum nut blossoms, native Billy Button flowerings and smudges of SPF50+ smeared dangerously close to the nostril invigorating us with the familiar mute signal of welcome back to god’s country. It was a spectacular moment in time and blunted the competitive spirits of the group as we silently, but collectively, acknowledged the marvel of fishing in the Australian bush.
Battling the resurgent, bushfire-hardened blackberry thickets, increasingly clipping at the heels of the bush canopy, we bulldozed our way down to the water's edge. Parked on the inside banks of a prominent bend, the beginning of our customary beat for a day on this river, the rigging of rods commenced. Somewhat analogous to prepping for battle, the rod tubes were flung from packs, and fly lines precisely threaded, all while our favourite fly choices were audibly confirmed. Over the dregs of the final beer of the previous evening, it was settled I would fish a grasshopper pattern, Andrew a Parachute Adams pattern and Dom a caddis pattern. All including the variants of each. The unspoken tension settled back over the group, like morning fog creeping up a valley, we didn't notice it until it was already there. Our respective passions were fueling an angst to have our favoured feathers topple the others.
“The unspoken tension settled back over the group, like morning fog creeping up a valley, we didn’t notice it until it was already there. ”
In a perfect mockery of our heightened enthusiasm, the fishing that kicked the day off was slow. Very slow. The high flows of La Nina-driven wet spring resulted in less-than-ideal dry fly fishing conditions. Ironically, the dreary trudge from fishless pool to fishless pool proved the perfect opportunity to pose questions among the group, like, so what is your favourite dry fly? I can’t recall who made the joke that morning, but I do recall it wasn’t overly well received.
Focusing our efforts on the slower flows, the tail outs at the backs of the pool, back eddies flanking the runs and the pockets littered behind the boulders and snags, we trusted this we would provide more time and opportunity for the trout to see our flies riding the surface. This soon proved an effective strategy, and with the help of some considered line mending and lengthening the time the fly drifts ‘naturally’ to remain in the ‘strike zone’, the fish were only too keen to oblige. The hopper was the first fly to pry a result from the river. Perhaps the bulkier foam-built profile enticed the reaction. They say the biggest difference between fish numbers is always your first. The relief of cracking the code was welcome, and it didn’t hurt that my favourite dry fly was off and racing.
“Be it the warmer weather of a now towering late November sun above, or perhaps the trout too had a cup of coffee to wake up, whatever the reason, it was a completely different ball game after the break.”
Sticking with the now proven strategy, Dom soon followed suite with the caddis proving too good an opportunity to pass on. A brace of well portioned brown trout nudged Dom out to an early lead. Andrew however, armed to the teeth with his posted Parachute Adams, had not been unable to entice an eat. Save a few dubious inspections and rejections, as if the trout came up with clipboard and pen only to mark it down, it was pretty slow going for the Parachute Adams. Mulling the rollercoaster of a morning over a caffeinated brew, the throwaway lines of “The river flow may drop”, and “The water clarity may clear throughout the day”, were made - notably with no real conviction, or belief. But as fly anglers, ever the optimists…we hoped.
Resuming our pursuits, the Parachute Adams was prioritised to bring it square with the others. At the time, we feared it may be a toiling time shepherding the slimmed down, slighter profiled fly through the day. But given our intermission allowed the morning to progress further, the uptick in discernible insect life neighbouring the river buoyed Andrew, wielding his mayfly imitation. Be it the warmer weather of a now towering late November sun above, or perhaps the trout too had a cup of coffee to wake up, whatever the reason, it was a completely different ball game after the break. The first cast Andrew sent to the top of the run didn’t make it down the cascading broken water before disappearing beneath the flow. Tension on the line was only momentary, as the fish had busted him off. Notwithstanding this increased action, it still hadn’t put Andrew on the board. Exacerbated, he sent another probing prospect to the top of the run, now allowed to pass down and into the bubble line, drifting promisingly beneath the undercut of a grass lined edge. Predictably, the fish that just had to be sitting in here, raced up and smoked the Adams. Immediately descending back to the coverage of the grass undercut, an opposing force against Andrew’s instinctive strike, resulted in this fish busting off too. Considering the context, considering the situation, you just had to laugh. Whilst Dom and I were cackling, Andrew wasn’t quite as forgiving.
“Channelling its inner Warnie, the trout had similar ideas, taking off to all corners of the ‘G’ wagging a finger, knowing that in that moment they were the most captivating being in the world.”
Onto the next pool, and the fish continued to play ball. Trout frequently came to the net, even for Andrew’s Parachute Adams: the day had gone up a gear. All three dry flies found success in the bubble lines, particularly the concentrations of flow riding stark rock faces that plunged seemingly to a never-ending depth, playing home to a plethora of eager rainbow and brown trout. As fish continued to come to hand, then return, the interesting nuances between the fish’s takes across the different type of flies emerged. The bigger bodied flies, in the hopper and the caddis, seemed to encourage faster, slashing like takes, whereas the smaller Parachute Adams resulted in gradual, lazy gulps, where the nose of the fish crests the surface and the fish’s back porpoises behind. None more so than the fish of the day.
Long after the sun had set behind one of the many lofty cliff faces, and the shadows edged longer up the river valley, we rounded the last bend and settled into the final pool of the beat. After a long day, the score breakdown per fly pattern had long been forgotten, with each dry fly accounting for numerous fish. Despite having lost track of the breakdowns, the competitive streak remainedAs Andrew shaped up with first dibs on the final pool, the whole group remained acutely tuned in on what was occurring. Nestled at the back of the pool, knee deep in a freestoned tail out, Andrew outlined the plan he had for going about his business. His point of launch was the slack water, on the inside of the bend. A drift quite literally at the feet of Dom and I, perched up on the elevated bank opposite observing the show, as if punters at a sporting match. The favoured feathers colosseum. Disregarding our friendly heckling, attempting to heap the pressure on, Andrew sent the cast up and threw in a well measured mend. Yet as the fly engaged with the flow, and commenced its drift, a shadow stirred below. Rising up from the jade coloured depths was the fish of the day. Levitating upwards and tracking back with the flow, like a target-locked missile, the fish only had eyes for the fly. We all held our breath, collectively frozen with anticipation. Heart in the mouth kind of stuff.
Like Shane Warne atop his mark and beginning building into his run up, almost as if in slow motion, the trout rose smoothly, building in momentum, jaws stretching wider and beckoning the fly in. And like one of Warnie’s fizzing leg breaks violently ripping back off the deck, the trout’s jaws snapped shut distinctly, fly enclosed and hook set. Circa 2007 Boxing Day and Warnie’s 700th test wicket, the crowd, myself and Dom, erupted. Bouncing to our feet, whooping and making a distracting racquet, we were no doubt doing more harm than good. Concentrating on the fish of the day bending the rod back over on itself, Andrew inched ground back between each determined run. Channelling its inner Warnie, the trout had similar ideas, taking off to all corners of the ‘G’ wagging a finger, knowing that in that moment they were the most captivating being in the world. Andrew, determined to keep the trout away from the snag ridden deep, expertly guided the fish up and back into the manageable shallows of the tail out. Dom’s good conscience kicked into gear and he decided to assist with the netting of the fish. I, however, continued to provide some friendly ribbing. Thankfully, Andrew prevailed, and the fish was netted and returned seamlessly. A wonderful bookend to a great, and informative, day’s fishing.
Knocking the wading boots off back at camp, the welcome harmony of Andrew cracking 3 beers rang out across the campground. The sun was fast setting, the mellowed yellow light melding to an orange glow. The sounds of the campfire crackling away hung in breathless air, alongside the residue smoke and the group's genuine sense of collective contentment. The steaks cooked over coals made for some memorable context as we dissected the day’s learnings and experiences. As mentioned, we couldn’t actually tell you which fly had accounted for the most fish by the end. We knew that it was splitting hairs and probably a bee’s wing worth of difference. Our endeavours had prompted some further thinking. Does the fly pattern really matter? Well of course, there are situations where matching the hatch is crucial, but generally the type of insect, be it hopper, caddis, or mayfly doesn't fuss a trout. Food is food. Perhaps the presentation, and ensuring your fly drifts as naturally as possible, is a more determining factor. After all, presentation over pattern is a well-versed adage. Circling back to how this all started, having a yarn with your mates, creating friendly competition and adventure, we considered -Is it worth asking these questions? Is it worth putting these debates to the test? Well after the experience we had, we settled into another probing fly fishing discussion. But that's another story, for another time…
