FFLYLYLLIFEIFE^9595a Victorian trout stream at least, a fly
reel was no more than a line holder?
Don’t bother attaching it to your rod;
just store it in your pocket. Back-
ing? Well, that’s what you do when
you meet a red-bellied black. Drag?
That’s what you do to your feet when
you’ve caught five different species of
gum leaf. Whoever it was, this satori
became my mantra, and for the most,
it has served me well.
But we all have our days. Even the
Buddha has bad days, and this eve-
ning for him was one of them. Over-
whelmed by my inadequacy, I flopped
before him as helplessly as a beached
rainbow suffocating on its own gull-
ibility, too keen to see the feathers for
the fly. Poor Ramrod. There he was,
the Mister Miyagi of fly fishing, sitting
in a lovely pub watching little Danny
LaRusso hobble through his ails like a
gammy-legged seagull with an attitude
problem.
“Why do I carry 42 mayfly patterns
when I’ve never seen a hatch? Who
in God’s name gets so desperate that
they think a Clouser is a good idea on
a riffle? Why do I own desiccant when
I air-dry my flies by hooking them on
the back cast to a tree branch so high
that it’s easier to tie a new one on
rather than fetch it?”
Ramrod, all knowing, sensibly stayed
silent and sipped his ale, and the good
folk at the Buchan Hotel sensibly kept
their distance from the implosion at
Table 42. They’d clearly seen this
sort of thing before, and learnt that
there are no answers to this kind of
questionable patronage. By the end
of the evening I’d mentally designed
a parachute-less emerger that I was
going to name the Douglash Adamsh.
“Itsh gonna be tied from towel fibres
and have a dish-shevelled look to it!”
That day I had had my nightmare,
despite the plethora of gear purchased
to avoid such horror. A day that
started so fine had ended with me
determinedly stuck in the middle of a
two-foot-deep river. My right foot was
wedged in a landslide of pebbles and
my brain was wishing I could purchase
the one thing I needed in this situation
— purchase. Physically and mentally, I
couldn’t get a grip.
The imported telescopic wading staff
I had needlessly dragged across the
state’s creeks for several years was
t had been a very successful
year for me. Post after post
of better than average sized
trout all over my Facebook page,
with an accompanying comment claim-
ing to be ‘the best fisherman in the
world’ invited friendly banter from my
mates. (LOL)
It prompted a friend, who I hadn’t
seen in over twenty years, to propose
that he should come over to Tasmania
and let me show him how to catch a
trout on the fly.
“No worries!” I told him, “I guaran-
tee you a trout on the fly mate. After
all, I am the best fisherman in the
world!” If you ever meet me on the
water you will find I exude confidence.
After careful planning, car packed,
we were off to the Nineteen Lagoons.
Once there we set up camp, sat back
and took in the serenity that’s beyond
compare. Mid-week and not a soul in
sight: the place was ours.
Les looked around, turned to me
and said, “Mate it doesn’t matter if I
don’t get a fish, this is awesome. I can’t
thank you enough.”I
Just as we were beginning to dream
of days ahead, a dust cloud in the dis-
tance signalled another car heading
our way, encouraging us to hurriedly
ready our gear so we could head off
fishing. An old bloke arrived and
found a place to park his van. After
a quick chat we ascertained that he
planned to set up camp also, so we left
him to his business and off we went.
For over five hours we walked the
banks, with not a single fish sighted.
Huffing and panting, Les started at
me: “You fly fishermen are a different
breed.”
Returning to camp we had a chat
with our neighbour about our fruitless
efforts. It seemed he’d had success out
on the lake in his blow-up boat with a
team of dries. We said good-day and
cooked dinner.
After filling our bellies we decided
to walk to another nearby lake and
fish till nightfall. With trout of 3 to 4
pounds actively tailing, I was able to
target one successfully, with a beautiful
fish coming to hand. Unfortunately, the
only one we’d fool that night.IT COULDN’T GET ANY BETTER
Kerry Kelbagain useless, unless I re-purposed it
here as a scythe with which to ampu-
tate my trapped leg and thereafter
drift downstream, Ophelia-like, to my
logjam heaven. But I do not fish often,
and it felt a shame to give up on the
world just then.
The vagaries of life, commitment,
and everything are such that I mostly
fly-fish when our little streams are
either in early-spring flood, or when
they’re raging autumn-break torrents.
So I’d bought a wading-staff, only to
learn that I haven’t the confidence to
enter water deeper than my knee. I
have never wet-waded, but now — in
deep trouble (well, shallow trouble) — I
gave it a crack. And yes, as I bent over
to baptise my cotton-polyestered high-
er-being in the cascade, attempting to
release my trapped foot, my waist wad-
ers gave way to reveal the plumber’s
proverbial to my saviour. I then bowed
before his revivification and toppled
over, plunging head first into the icybeck, whence, I imagine, he lifted his
head to the sky and cackled at the
plight of lesser beings.
Rather than ask questions, His Holi-
ness inspires one to their enlighten-
ment by examining his own journey.
On the drive home he pronounced:
“It occurred to me, after you nearly
drowned in that puddle, that whenever
I release a fish, I free myself also. My
letting go in all circumstances hence-
forth, will be for my own happiness.”
(Muffled sounds)... “And the trout’s
too,” I added, “you caught every trout
in the river, whilst the river caught
me.” He nodded at me cheekily, accel-
erated, and resumed pure thought.
I pondered his words as we drove.
At Bairnsdale I had my first epiphany:
If you take one accessory with you on a
fishing trip, it should be a towel. At Sale
I had my second epiphany: The Ques-
tion is: How many fly fishing rods is too
many? And at Rosedale I had my third:
There’s always a pub, somewhere... ■