Photos by Henry Delves and Jimmy Barwick of Snowy Valleys Fly Fishing

Only got 5 mins? Read the minnow version of A tale of two halves here

The opening chapter

Andrew Nilon

It was a tale of two halves for the Tale Out crew on a mid December weekend in 2023.  Though, to be fair, that was by design. We set out on a Friday night from Canberra for the long trek to a very specific spot. It was a four hour drive, which had us getting in well after 10pm to the campsite, where we met the third conspirator for the weekend, good friend and guide Jimmy Barwick of Snowy Valleys Fly Fishing. The campsite was a lovely riverside spot beside a likely looking riffle, so we were told by Jimmy, who had seen it before sun down. All I knew was that it was a fair drive from home, and full of cow shit, which my foot had found upon jumping out of the car. Quick assembly of the tents and a fireside beer rounded out the day, alongside healthy anticipation of what was to come. 

Detour #1 - a quick stop at the Jugiong pub.

Detour #2 - a not so quick stop at the Adelong pub.

We weren’t in the habit of chewing up 350ks of tarmac after work. It wasn’t completely new, having had plenty of missions deep into the Snowy Mountains on a Friday arvo to get the jump on the weekend, but we’d been drawn even further afield by the possibility of duality. We’d come to a spot on the western fall where, from one campsite, we could target trout on the first day, and Murray Cod on the second. The point where water begins its conversion from alpine chill to low-land tepidity. The Swampy Plains River was the stage where we set about catching two of the most sought-after species in Australian fly fishing: the classic brown trout, and it's more elusive native colleague. To make it all possible, we would be drifting the necessary distance with the help of Jimmy.

We were at the boat ramp bright and early on the Swampy on Saturday morning, ready to embark on the first half of our challenge. Except we weren’t ready, because two of the rods needed had been left in the car now at the take-out point at the bottom of the drift. 40 minutes later, once they were retrieved, we were ready to actually kick off.  

A brilliant blue-sky day welcomed us as we pushed off form under the dam wall. Low clear water made vision to the river rocks below easy, but also made longer casts a requisite. Small fish rose left and right as we meandered the upper reaches of the drift, splashing after may flies and caddis. 

The drift had started smoothly, if not a little slowly. Fly fishing from the drift boat is an awesome way to do it. Running dry-dropper rigs all round, with a summer favourite fly combo Royal Humpy on top, pheasant tail below, there wasn’t much to report for the first hour, with a single small brown being the only disruption to the scorers. Feeling the pressure, we made a brief interlude to the numbers game, whereby pink tags and indicators were deployed. Their impact was quickly felt, and a series of feisty rainbows resulted. They were sufficiently eager for the fluro fly that a rising fish was enticed, despite the 3mm tungsten bead ripping it rapidly below the surface.  

Having boosted the score board and convinced ourselves that we could still do it, we reverted to the dry dropper method, and went after a more memorable specimen. Targeting eddies, rock walls, and sheltered pockets, we went after the big browns the river is known for. 

First success came my way, as a good fish swirled on a nymph from its bouldery lair.  The 2.5lb trout in it’s prime eventually succumbed, and made the day of three anglers. From there it was a matter of sharing the fortune, and Henry quickly cashed in, with an even better example of a lowlands brown shortly after. 

The hattrick was set for completion when Jimmy hooked into an excellent fish from a rock wall. A perfect cast, immediate mend and idyllic natural drift was met with a snout emerging from below the surface and puncturing the air above, before descending having claimed the grasshopper imitation (See also - Extra-terrestials). The epic battle that ensued saw the boat follow the fish downstream several hundred metres, and eventually Jimmy knee deep in the shallows pointing his reel at a mightily pissed off fish.  As he swung it to the net, the nightmare sound of line recoiling through the water was met with a cacophony of swearing, as the hook pulled.  Remarkably philosophical, Jimmy reflected on the glory of the take rather than the disappointment of the conclusion.  

The drift ended and shuttles were run, cars left for the subsequent day, and after-dark t-bones devoured.  An iron-filled conclusion to a day that tested our mettle. 

The closing chapter

Henry Delves

As sure as the sun had set with a definitive sense of finality the day previously, it rose the next morning with an air of conclusive anticipation. The time had come to ditch the 5 weight rods at camp and bust out the 9 weights and get to work chasing some Murray Cod. Farewelling Andrew, destined for a return to Canberra, that morning found a short slot in the morning’s rushed agenda of coffee, rod rigging and boat launching. The morning’s preparation was undertaken under the slightest of light, as we raced to capitalise on the low light ‘bite window’. 

A summer’s dawn in Cod country is different to that of the high country. Crawling out from the sleeping bag the temperature is neither hot nor cold. For a time, your caught in the perfect limbo, to wear the jumper or not. A state of flux that is unexpectedly welcome. The customary crust of ice blanketing your socks is absent, but the fog of vapour from your brewing coffee still rises before vanishing into the day. They are Aussie conditions to savour. But with coffee concluded, a boat pushing off into a river’s flow, parting the low hanging, lingering mist, and the threat of a cresting sun atop the horizon, it was time to focus on one thing, and one thing only.

As much as Murray Cod and Brown Trout are completely different species, by virtue of their predatory nature, they are targeted with very similar methods. Both will station up on structure (See How to find trout) and ambush their prey as it passes by. This means your flies must be as close to the ‘structure’, in whatever form it takes, as possible. Rocks, fallen trees, bushes, back eddys you name it, if it disrupts the flow and provides good cover for the fish to hide, neither Cod nor Trout can say no. You will find them there. The only tricky thing is getting your flies in front of them. To simplify, getting your cast too close to the snag isn’t close enough. 

Where the duality of Cod and Trout is highlighted is in the margin for error. It is not unprecedented for a forgiving Trout to take mercy on a fly angler’s long suffering, fishless day, and eat a fly presented not quite 100% perfectly. A welcome application of close enough is good enough. The Murray Cod however, in its millenia of stalking the fickle lowland rivers of the Murray Darling Basin, have developed an unrivalled threshold of scrutiny. Rarely, if ever, will a Cod eat a fly not perfectly presented, as close to the snag as possible. The fly has to be begging the fish to eat it. To maximise the opportunity of enticing an eat you need to be casting with extreme accuracy frequently. Naturally, you have to concentrate significantly. Your mental bandwidth is chewed up pretty quickly with the application of the technical nuances of casting, retrieving and strip setting the hook required to land a green monster, such that it’s hard to think about much else.

The dawn came and went with ferocious concentration, hitting each every snag multiple times, yet without sight of scale or fin of one of Australia’s most iconic native freshwater fish. With the sun well and truly above the horizon, and beating down in what can only be described as glaring fashion, our desperation was rising faster than the December mercury. The dawn ‘bite window’ was well and truly over. What started as an encouraging symphonic chorus of birds hidden from sight amongst the foliage above, had now morphed into a mocking chant of those fools below hoofing big clumps of feathers and fur around to no avail.

As much as our fishing prospects were looking dire, there is something to be said for weaving your away amongst the overhanging gum leaves, drifting at gradual river pace, observing herds of curious Angus, under the authoritative watch of the resident kingfisher. It’s a beautiful experience.

The day was punctuated with some tempered excitement.  As we round an archetypal river bend the boat spooked a raft of ducks from the willows. A party of 5 set out from the trees on a frantic cross river paddle, Mum, Dad and 3 children. Yet, as the last of the ducklings hit the water, one almighty BOOOF of surface disturbance wreaked havoc on the group. In a puff of down and a wall of water the last of the party was gone. While 5 emerged from the willow only 4 made their way across the river. As harsh as it was, it was remarkable to witness a completely natural Murray Cod surface eat. Perhaps too eagerly, the base of that willow was peppered with casts to see if we could convince the cod to return for round two. But of course, why would they? With a stomach full of duckling that Cod had likely dropped anchor on the bottom of the river, in the depths of it’s favoured hidey hole not to emerge for hours.
Bend after bend came and went. And with each passing honey hole our hopes were drifting away, much alike my thoughts at the time. Having well and truly entered the well known trance state of cast, mend, strip, strip, repeat , I was not ready for engaging a Murray Cod at all. Right when I was knee deep in internally unpacking some of life’s great unresolved questions, namely Australia’s likely XI for the 1st Test of the summer, I felt the line go tight at the end of the strip. They say when a trout rises to a dry fly time expands, well the fraction of a second it took for me to pick up another length of line to continue stripping, and set a hook in what I thought would be a Murray Cod, lasted a lifetime. Yet, having endured the extended anticipation, condensed into a mere moment, my next strip was left with nothing. I had missed the fish. The shot we had fished all morning for. Christ. It’s a bit like a dropped catch in the slips. The fast bowler has worked their tail feather off, done all the hard work, only for you to biff the simplest of closing moments. I didn’t dare look Jimmy in the eyes having spent the majority of the morning rowing me into every juicy spot. I wanted to swan dive off the boat and sink to the bottom of the river…

Not prepared to lower my colours, I turned my mind back to the fish. Whilst my fish account was lacking, I was determined not to let the same happen to my pride. Well, the next rock wall produced a Murray Cod, out of the smallest of back eddies, that was prepared to play ball with the fly. And stay hooked. The moments of mottled green, flapping around in attempt to regain control were filled with anxiety and dread. If the previous moment was akin to a slips fielder, this one was like one on the boundary sitting underneath a high outfield catch, the internal bellowing of ‘Don’t drop it’ rang through my ears. But as that beautiful, broad white lined tail flopped over into the net a sense of relief flooded over me. Like the fielder who had dropped the sitter moments before only for his teammate to bail him out and dismiss the offending batsmen, the impacts of my blunder were mitigated. It is amazing how in the state of jubilation, previous shortcomings can be forgotten and all that remains is the pure joy of success. In that moment, Jimmy and I enjoyed our success, tipped a swig of whiskey back, toasted to Andrew, wishing he was there with us, and quietly reflected on one helluva weekend.