(^94) FLYLIFE
Short Casts
(^94) FLYLIFE
have hiked into a few fish-
ing locations over the years
— not as many as I would
have liked, or as far as some. When
hiking in, I have always worn my wad-
ing boots to help minimise weight on
the back. Having comfortable wading
boots, sore feet or blisters were never
a problem. I have felt-soled boots for
my usual fishing in freestone streams,
but use vibram-soled boots for hiking-
and-fishing.
My trusty vibram-soled boots have
walked into the upper Tooma, upper
Tumut, Tassie’s Western Lakes and
been to New Zealand four times. They
have been a part of my favourite fish-
ing memories and borne me over ardu-
ous terrain without a whisper of com-
plaint over many years. I had them re-
soled when the bottoms began looking
more like tenpin bowling shoes than
off-road, all-terrain platforms, extend-
ing their life for a few more years.
The last excursion with my vibram-
soled wading boots was to the recent
Forum Gathering in Tasmania. I had
arrived two weeks early and my boots
had borne me well, scampering around
rivers and lakes prior to the Gather-
ing. My good fortune in wearing them
continued, with quite a number of fish
landed. At the Gathering I noticed that
the sole was starting to lift on one boot,
but I continued fishing in them and
continued to catch fish, with the inten-
tion of having them repaired again on
my return home.
On the following Monday, I walked
in to a few tarns and lakes beyond the
Nineteen Lagoons. A kilometre or so
from my intended destination for the
next three nights, I trod in a muddy
hole in a dry creek bed. As I drew my
foot from the hole I felt the sole of the
boot detach from the upper. This was
no minor detachment but a catastroph-
ic failure. Only the toe of the boot held
the two pieces together.
Luckily I carry a roll of duct tape in
my pack for just these emergencies.
I
A SOULLESS JOURNEY
Greg Wood
I taped the boot together and contin-
ued the last part of my walk. Arriving
at my destination I realised that the
taping solution was only a temporary
fix. I set up camp and pondered what
to do next. Using a tent peg to pierce
the sole and bend through the loop at
the back of the boot, I then applied
tape liberally and was set to continue
my adventure.
Having decided to make the most of
the situation I continued exploring the
system nearby. I saw some large fish
but each attempt to catch one went
unrewarded. Some spooked before I
cast, others showed no interest, all
the while requiring re-taping the boot
every kilometre. Back at camp the eve-
ning rise was a non-event. The next
morning I was up before first light —
not a fish seen. Later, I walked around
the lake trying to spot fish, but only
saw one as it departed poste haste.
I now had to make a critical deci-
sion. My supply of tape was precari-
ously low, with a fair hike to reach the
road. Walking out over trackless ter-
rain with only one good boot was not
a prospect I wished to try, so I packed
up camp and started to walk out.
I made a stop halfway out at a lake
where I’d fished on the way in. I pola-
roided the shore for an hour without
seeing a fish, before packing the rod
away for the ongoing tramp. As soon
as I placed the rod back into the tube
a large fish swam within six feet of me.
It then dawned on me why I was hav-
ing such a bad run. My boots! Since
my boot had given way, so had my
mojo. Everything that had worked for
me in the preceding two weeks was
now futile.
I continued the walk out, re-taping as
I went, arriving back at the road with
one single wrap of tape left on the roll.
I still had another four days fish-
ing in Tassie before departure for
the mainland. Fortunately, I had also
packed a pair of felt-soled boots in case
I needed them on a freestone river, but
upon arrival at Penstock Lagoon the
next day I discovered I had brought
along one of my own boots and one of
my son’s — which was a size too big.
You can guess which boot I needed to
swap! Needless to say the mojo loss
persisted with a missed fish at Penstock
and a couple of fishless days.
I did restore some mojo with a
Brumbys trout on my last day, but
the boots are now with the local boot-
maker for resurrection. ■
he Answer, being 42, begs the
question: “What really is The
Question?”
I put this to Ramrod one evening,
who — after a long day’s fishing-cum-
social work — replied solely with a
quizzical look, and ordered a second
round. Poor Ramrod, the things he
has to put up with. He’s an immensely
patient and sharing gentleman, one
who’s always ready to give you that
great pool even though he knows
you’re going to completely destroy
it on your first cast. That day, I had
done exactly that. So often in fact that
The Dalai Lama of Fly Fishing wisely
pronounced me beyond redemption,
T
THE PUB AT THE END OF THE UNIVERSE
Nick Withers
and reincarnated upstream to attain
his enlightenment without the baggage
of mortal man.
For the second consecutive pilgrim-
age I had caught nothing — not even
the proverbial cold. This despite a
recent shopping spree that resembled
an opening batsman’s attempt to hit his
way out of a form slump. Never have
eyes lit up so fiercely as the store man-
ager’s did the day I walked in with a
re-mortgage and a self-medicated solu-
tion: buy rods, reels, lines and gadgets
for every fly-fishing possibility.
I’m not usually one to search for
material answers to my fishing ills.
Wasn’t it Scholes who opined that, on
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