Despite the time apart over the last few years, my adult son Steve and I still share a few interests, including a love of fishing and camping. We’re both primitives at our core, I suppose, and there’s few things we like better than catching a fish or two together and cooking it that night over a camp fire of Aussie blue gum.

We don’t talk about the economy, or when is he going to get a real job,or how to remedy the political ills of the world … none of these things are of interest to a Gen Y kid. Frankly I get bored talking about them too, especially when I have to write about them for a living. We just talk about the fishing and why he caught more than me yet again, while I try to explain that I still think fly fishing is better fun. If it’s harder it’s got to be better fun, hasn’t it?

At least now we can knock back a few nice reds together and the whiff of eucalyptus smoke from the camp fire is as good as a cohiba esplindidos. That’s what I told him anyway.

The organiser of our last trip was former Brisbane teacher Steve Wilkes. I met Steve a while ago at a day’s fishing I’d organised with son Steve at Hinze Dam in South East Queensland and Steve told me about the weekend camping trips he was organising at Camp Lake Fire, a bush retreat above the southern shores of Lake Maroon, about 90 minutes from Brisbane and the Gold Coast. Steve organises father and son weekends, father and daughter weekends and mother and son weekends.

He’s even organised mothers and daughters’ weekends, which  proves his dedication to the concept of bringing parents and kids together. Apparently, the kids accept that the parents are needed to drive the car to get there, and the parents are happy just being on a boat alone with their son or daughter, because the only electronic gadgets are in the electric outboards and the little buggers can’t escape your company – so you’re stuck talking to each other.

We decided to give it a go and I managed to organise a date with son Steve – I found ringing his mother works a lot better than than trying the various mobile phone numbers that he’s been through since you last spoke – and we gave it a go.

Accommodation at Camp Lake Fire is a combination of cabins which overlook the water and unpowered campsites.  A fully equipped kitchen and dining hall/conference area is also available. Pretty neat, really. Plenty of room to lay out the gear on the kitchen tables.

Steve put us up at the conference area after a night getting quietly sozzled in front of the camp fire. It was comfortable and warm and we headed to the lake straight after breakfast, with a civilised take away cappuccino prepared at the shop next door by our host.

Steve also provided us with live shrimp bait and fully rigged rods and reals – all the latest gear, He had some excellent fly fishing rods and reels which I tried out for him: all good.

We started out on the lake with Steve’s latest addition: a  ”Caninghi” – a combination of canoe and dinghy. It’s made in Brisbane by Rosco Canoes and is billed as “the worlds first stand up canoe, set to change the very essence of fishing from a paddle craft. With comfort,stability and functionality like never before.”

That’s a pretty fancy description, but actually it looked more like a fat blue duck, pointed at both ends, but it was an amazing little piece of ingenuity. Weighing only 30kg, its made from vacuum resin infusion with a foam core. I have no idea what that means, but it sounds very impressive.

The bit I liked most was the  slide-in wheels. You drive up, unload the Caninghi, put the wheels in, load up everything (motor, batteries, esky, bait, the rods) and wheel it down to the water. Then, keep pushing, jump in and motor/paddle off a little, reach over the side, remove the wheels (they float) and store them inside, presuming you don’t let them float off too far, before you work out how to operate the motor. I’d rather not discuss this last part in more detail.

On returning you reverse the procedure.

Another nice idea is the gated lean bar. This gives you support while casting, or even throwing a casting net from a standing position. Which is pretty neat for a mono hull, really. And the seats really are smart. They’re light, reversible and simply slide along the gunwale.

To summarise the day’s fishing concisely, Steve caught about 20 fish with live bait and I caught one on the fly after about four hours, but only because I tied on a sinker and put a live shrimp onto the end of a shrimp fly.

I sucked.

I really sucked.

But I was reminded, yet again, that the best way to bond with your son on  a fishing trip is to catch less fish than he does. And, well, I was really, really good at that.I got a lot less.

He was happy. I was happy. It was more than enough.

Make the time. Give it a go.

Relevant links are:

www.sportstuition.com.au

www.camplakefire.com.au

www.roscocanoes.com.au

At ADS last year we were head down and tail up with statistical profiling of churches, finance companies, the 2010 Australian election, the ABS monthly unemployment survey and several private schools.

By last November (or Movember as you may be able to detect from my dreadful moustache at right) I finally escaped to Anglers Rest in Victoria, for a spot of fly fishing for trout.  Sort of.

You see, my beloved spouse had been expecting our number two son in January (see Lumix review in I love gadgets), so I was being allowed out for the last fishing trip before parental duties interceded.

We’re talking babies, bodily fluids and poo here. Not to mention a displaced three year old mewling for attention and my visiting in laws begging for the keys to my cellar. Or was it the other way around?

On the work front, I had been overdue to talk business development, statistics, web pages, databases, browser technology and demographic mapping with three colleagues from around the country and the only way I could do any fly fishing for trout was to blend the two.

The blending part was not so hard, really. As I try to explain to my Australian Financial Review editors regularly, there’s a lot of overlap between statistics, election profiles, good journalism and fly fishing.

Think greedy, slippery, libidinous creatures with brains the size of peas and of course you’ll know that I’m writing about trout rather than politicians.

It’s the same with the stats – you do a profile, you get an obvious result, you dig down deeper, find another layer of meaning and hopefully causality and then … and then …  your tired old brain runs out of puff.

But after a day flicking a fly line over the magic trout waters meandering past Anglers Rest, I rediscover the synapses linking politics, economics demographics, attitudes and behaviour.

This is the theory at least.

For our ADS statistical summer summit, we all stayed at Donald Beveridge’s Bundara Cabins, cooking with Helen Packers’ borrowed wok from The Willows and getting politely liquored up at the Blue Duck Inn, a short zig zag of a walk home from just down the road.

But anyone thinking I downplay the very serious role of work in the hectic ADS schedule should think again.

We actually managed to work out out the statistical and mapping details of our new profile package for the Financial Review, starting with the New South Wales profile then a few months away.

The whole process was so productive work wise, we decided to get together again in March to finalise our unemployment and education modelling and put the finishing touches to the New South Wales maps and statistical analysis. 

The trip was also about mateship and bonding and talking through the normal communications problems you get when four blokes in four different locations exchange some pretty big files and somewhat related ideas through the web. ‘Oh, is that what you meant?’ was the general thrust of more than one conversation.

But the natural environment and the fishing was sublime. And the trout were bigger and more aggressive than they’d ever been.

I landed four nice sized trout from one pool on four different flies, both on the surface and under it.

On the second trip, we found the bigger fish were already moving upstream on their spawning run, in sizable pods or schools and they tended to have loving on their minds. It was like a high school prom night, with the little buggers not in the spot they were supposed to be, but pairing up and moving fast to get away from teacher’s prying eyes.

We’d walk for an hour or more sometimes, without spotting a trout where you’d expect to find them, and then, around the corner, in a quieter pool, there they’d be – 20 of them – looking for a sexy spot of gravel, or finding it and afterwards quickly grabbing a bite to eat in the form of a floating grasshopper, while bumping away competitors. Like I said, a bit like our old high school dances.

To be honest, I felt a bit of an intruder interrupting their lovemaking. But I did.

Forty years working in politics, statistical profiling and in the media has inured me to finer feelings like respect for privacy or any semblance of sensitivity to the needs of others.

There has to be some upside.

I used to handle the cameras with film pretty well 30 years ago when I worked as a journalist. But then my intellectual development in these matters was pretty much frozen when I was elected to the Australian Senate and found all these helpful people around whose major mission in life was to ensure that they were indispensable. This meant I became totally useless with things like travel bookings, computers, finding a decent restaurant and of course digital cameras.

After losing my Senate spot and all those helpful staff, I solved the problem by marrying a younger woman. Jeanine is generation X and loves all things technical. I just need to look old and marginally needy and she grimaces, grabs the computer and fixes it. When it’s to do with iPhones  and more recent technology I call on the generation Y daughter, but that’s another story. Best not to mix the two.

Moving on, I was planning my next fly fishing trip when I saw the television advertisement for the Lumix waterproof camera, featuring a couple of outdoorsy types doing the Bear Grylls’ routine, skimming a waterproof camera across a stream to take pictures from the other side. I had to get one.

So I did. But then found myself eventually, after a fishing trip without Jeanine, having to download pictures and save them. I knew I’d taken a lot over Christmas … what with a new baby, a visit from the in laws, a fishing trip or two, but I didn’t know how many or what to do with them.

I tried to read the printed manual, but found it was mainly about how you kept the camera drained and dry. There was a CD which explained everything, but I apparently only had a DVD player in my computer, so that didn’t work. Then I remembered Jeanine saying these things could be downloaded directly, I think words “… even an idiot …” were used, so I dug out the connecting cord for the camera to the USB and … it worked.

It turns out I had up to 500 shots loaded on the Lumix hard drive, which took up about 10 gigabytes  out of the 15 held in the camera. There’s no real need for flash cards at all and the battery had lasted for the full week of a trip to the Victorian High country without being charged once. Basically, I just shoved the camera into one of my fly fishing shirt top pockets, pressed down the Velcro seal on the pocket and wandered off.

I don’t know what more to say about this little beauty. You can shove it in your pocket for a week, use it daily, above and under the water, fall into the water, drop it a few times while taking shots of fish underwater, fall off a small cliff, shove it in a travel bag, pull it out at the end of the trip and download 500 shots, given extremely limited software skills. I’m not sure what else a digital camera is supposed to do.

But the real reason I wanted to be able to download the shots myself was that I’d taken the Lumix into the birthing suite for the arrival of our second child and I wanted to see if they’d worked before consulting Jeanine in case I’d mucked it up.

Judge for yourself. Below is the love of my life and new son John, aka Jack.

Lightload Towels

When I’m fishing, personal hygiene is not normally my major concern.

Wild trout don’t like the scent of fancy soaps, insect repellents, anti-itch creams or sunburn lotions, so washing of hands is out. No need for towels here.

When I’m staying at a lodge, I get the sulks when there are no clean soft towels and lots of fancy soaps and moisturisers after a day in the sun. Again, no need for a lightweight towel.

So I wasn’t quite sure how to evaluate this little sample of two Lightload (viscose) towels sent to me from the USA. Being an Aussie bloke and a grub: when would I use them?

My mother in law on the other hand, had no trouble at all. She nicked one I had drying near the sink and used it for a tea towel and it came in handy there for a week or two. Held together nicely. So, as a substitute for linen tea towels, they work fine.

But after a couple of months of fishing trips, I still had the remaining sample in my vet back pack.

So I stuck it in my swimming bag. You see, I go training two or three times a week in the local Olympic pool and, being stupid, I sometimes forget things: like togs or a towel.

You can always buy a pair of togs at the pool shop, but they don’t run to towels. So, after a month or so, I found myself, wet and cold, after a shower, but with no towel.

Out came the Lightload towel … which was when I found I only had the little 12-inch square model, not the bigger one. Oops. Still, I opened it and dried my aged, plump torso as well as I could; then wrung it out and wiped a bit more … then wiped and dried … you get the picture.

It worked. I was dry and warm and the little towel was tucked away, for the next emergency, in a side pocket.

These towels work. If you don’t need one for your fishing trips, stick one in your swim bag. Or leave them near the sink for your mother in law. They’re available on line from the link below.

www.ultralighttowels.com

At Greymouth’s local Pike River Coal Mine, 29 underground miners have died in a couple of mine explosions. They were mostly local Kiwis, with a couple of Australians.

My heart hurts when I think of their families and mates this week and over the coming months as they come to terms with what has happened to them and to their little Coasters’ community, where everyone knows someone who has lost their lives.

A trust fund for the miners’ families has been started by the company and I’ll add details to this post when they are available. A hundred dollars from every overseas fly fisherman who’s ever visited that area to arm wrestle the local brown trout would be a good way for us all to start Christmas.

Meanwhile, you can drink them a Christmas toast with a Monteith’s Black. Or several Monteiths Blacks – to help both you and the Greymouth economy.

Update, December 7, 2010.

Donations to The Pike River Miners’ Relief Fund can be made to the fund by direct credit to 06-0501-0121759-02 or by post to Pike Miners’ Relief Fund, PO Box 2793, Wellington.

ANZ bank donated $NZ100,00o  into an account it opened to receive donations for the miners’ families.

People can donate at ANZ or National Bank branches (both with account number 01 1841 0052483 00).

BNZ bank also set up an account, 02 0844 0074501-00, and donated $100,000.

The ASB bank said it would be making a substantial donation to the account it set up, 12-3205-0146728-00.

The Parents Centres New Zealand also started an account fund to receive donations for a trust fund to support the families of miners who were soon to be fathers or had small children.

Donations could be made to ASB account 12 3142 0161284 01.

Variety International has received significant donations from New Zealanders living in America, following the international media coverage. Donations could be made at www.variety.org.nz.

It’s called a lodge and although it doesn’t have the traditional lodge styled dining and lounge areas, I love it.

It’s right on the mighty Tongariro, the best fly fishing river in the world for libidinous steelhead on their winter spawning run and for bad tempered browns in the summer. You can just walk out the back gate and you’re there.

And after a successful day on the water, there’s nothing quite like walking in the back gate and up past all the other guests enjoying their afternoon beer, while you are nonchalantly swinging a six pound plus steelhead. Look at me. Man hunt good. Primal stuff.

There’s a drying room for your waders, a cleaning room for the trout, there’s a crusty old guy called Horty up the road to smoke and vacuum pack your trout and there’s plenty of local places to eat.

Try Valentinos for some Italian; there’s a pub further up the river which has a curry night every Thursday and we really enjoyed the Tongariro Lodge meals which are open to Creel guests most nights.  There’s a full kitchen and fridge in each room and the local supermarket sells everything a civilized person could want … including fresh mussels, ginger, garlic and beer, New Zealand lamb, rosemary, some nice reds, some delightfully soft and tangy cheeses. It’s not hard to take.

The rates are very reasonable and there’s a wireless network if you want to bring your computer and keep in touch with the rest of the world. I wrote my election review articles from the front porch over a bottle or two of the South Island Monteith’s Black Beer accompanied by smoked trout. It’s fun watching New Zealand news services as the journalists there tend to report news, rather than talk to each other and call it expert commentary.

Out in front is Scottie who runs the Creel Tackle House and Steve who ties the flies and there’s a lovely old chocolate Lab who checks out all the guests. Scottie can put you in touch with a local guide, if you need one.

Up the back is the owner Peter, who keeps an eye on things. Creel is open 365 days a year, like the Tongariro. Put it on the bucket list if you haven’t already been.

Creel Lodge Link

It wasn’t the best of starts, really.

Here I was, with the bride to be, in the heart of the Scottish highlands, trying to pronounce the Gaelic names of my dad’s Scottish ancestors and getting to know the new Pommie in laws.

In a lay bye café en route to Loch Rannoch, we had seen our first kilts, casually worn in an everyday fashion, by large, bearded, redheaded men. Standing behind another, more conventionally dressed redheaded couple chatting away in the coffee queue, I observed to my future father in law that, despite my genealogical research, I couldn’t understand a word of this local Gaelic. I was trying to be modest. You know, to make an impression.

He replied, deadpan – “That’s not surprising, really John, they’re talking in German”.  Ouch.

The Rannoch region had been devastated by English government troops after the 1745 rebellion, when the Redcoats built their barracks at the headwaters of Loch Rannoch, on the River Tummel.

This barracks, presumably with a few more recent add-ons, is now the home of Lord Pearson of Rannoch. Fortunately for me, Lord Pearson has a ghillie called Ian Nelson, who told me that a pike, in Barracks’ Pool, near Lord Pearson’s home, had been ‘creating merry hell’ with the local trout.

So, the next afternoon, armed with a new fluorocarbon leader, complete with wire trace and my best Aussie Murray Cod frog fly, I appeared nervously at the Barracks’ Pool. Also in tow were Jeanine’s parents, out for the drive, and looking a little sceptical.

The Barracks’ Pool is about 50 metres long and about 25 metres wide and spreads in a graceful arc, before the River Tummel joins the Loch. It looked up to four to five metres deep, and had some huge brown boulders right in the middle, easily visible in the whiskey-coloured water a metre or so down below the surface – exactly the right sort of cover for an ambush predator like the Australian Murray Cod, and, I guessed, for some Tummel pike.

I flicked out a floating line from my eight weight Loomis and popped the artificial frog behind, and then in front of, all the biggest rocks in the middle of the pool, working my way systematically upstream, trying to arouse the territorial instincts of the creatures I knew were down there. I gradually became totally absorbed by that wonderful combination of science, nature and art that is fly-fishing.

Nearer the banks, I’d plop the frog fly gently down on the water, like it dropped from a branch, then two bloops, drift downstream, slow retrieve, then pause like the frog was injured or tired … then repeat a metre further upstream.

It was one of those days when my cast seemed to work, no snags or tangles, the line shot out perfectly, the fly hit exactly the right spot … one bloop, two bloops, then BANG!

One of the nastiest looking predator pike I’d ever seen hit my little frog fly with such upward force it was momentarily airborne, starting a 20 minutes tug of war between me and what can only be described as an underwater thug, which had to be turned and then steered away from every underwater obstacle in the pool, until he was finally pulled onto an exposed ledge of the rock I’d been standing on, with his massively disproportionate jaws still trying to chew his way through my wire trace. Seven pounds of angry trout-eating pike were out of the pool for good. I could almost hear the trout cheering.

The deer haired body of my fly had been mangled and it had lost one eye, the wire trace was kaput, and I was exhausted. But I’d proved a point. I was fishing with a fly I’d picked myself, in untried waters, with a totally different species, based only on what I’d been able to learn in another country on the other side of the world. It felt great.

When I got home to Australia, I asked my beloved how I was travelling with the in-laws, after the trip, what with a few minor hitches, namely that I was 20 years’ older, divorced, with three adult children, protestant, and an Aussie to boot. Little things like that.

Apparently, I was fine. I’d passed muster. The reason?

The fly fishing afternoon on the Barracks’ Pool had convinced the in laws that anyone who could master such a graceful form of artistic endeavour as fly fishing, was good enough for their only daughter.

Yet another reason, dear reader, to go fly-fishing whenever you can. And try to take, not only your beloved, but the in laws as well.

Copyright John Black 2007. Pictures by the lovely Dr Jeanine McMullan. First published in FlyLife Short Casts.

Half an hour from Brisbane’s CBD, Mount Crosby Road crosses the Brisbane River. It’s a little bridge just north of Ipswich, called College’s Crossing.

There’s a picnic and recreation ground, plenty of clean water for kids to splash in … and there’s fish.

My intrepid fishing mate and I headed out mid-week during the summer school holidays, as part of our dedicated research effort, on your behalf, dear reader, to find spots within an hour or so of Brisbane’s CBD, where small groups could enjoy a quick and cheap fly fishing experience.

And we found a lovely little spot at College’s Crossing. When you drive across the Brisbane River, pull into the grassy parking area, to the south of both the River and Mt Crosby Road.

In a scene reminiscent of a latter day Tom Sawyer’s adventure, we saw schoolboys who’d bicycled up from Ipswich, with tin cans full of worms, supermarket special spinning rods, pockets full of odd sized sinkers, and a need to explore.

In keeping with this economical nature of our outing, we had ditched the ultra pricey $2000 rods and expensive waders and traveled light and cheap – armed with fly rods and reels ($70 total price from our local supermarket), Dunlop volley sandshoes, some tackle warehouse bread flies, and two bread rolls each. A cheap date.

Walking up the southern side of the river, towards the city, we came across an old pair of concrete pipes which we walked across, to check out the water and the casting potential from the northern side.

And, lo and behold, as thick as sardines in can, we saw schools of fresh water garfish, feasting on the weedy river bottom. The local Huck Finns were having a go, without much luck.

So out came our bread rolls, and we proceeded to burley them up to the surface, then we dropped a couple of el cheapo white, deer haired, bread flies right amongst the floating bread particles.

That afternoon, learning to strike swiftly at those nervous, soft-mouthed little gar, and playing them back to shore with no nets, we had as much fun as we’ve ever had, in far more exotic and expensive locations.

We even impressed the kids, who were pretty pleased to learn that they didn’t need to carry those cans of worms on their bikes, all the way from Ipswich, if they could get on board with this fly fishing caper.

We also found that the bread flies, which began to sink after a little while, were also getting hits from the local bream lower down, around one-metre depth, and we pulled in a number of these little fellows, again, to the great amusement of the locals.

After we’d used up all our burley, the two of us walked further up the north bank of the river and crossed down on a shallow bank, where we cast a variety of flies under natural structures, without much luck.

We figure a light inflatable canoe is the next logical step here, to get over to both sides of the river and drop the fly in the best spots downstream. Next time.

After two hours, we were on our way home, three or four gar each, heading for the wok, accompanied by a little garlic and ginger.

And all within 30 minutes drives of the Brisbane CBD. Give it a try.

Pictures by Warwick Powell. Originally published in Sunday Mail.

On the last trip to the beautiful Bundara, I noticed the fly vest was getting a bit heavy and my more minimalist mate Warwick politely suggested I should “chuck out some of that useless shit”. But how could I? It was all needed, perhaps some of it a little more frequently than others. I concede that. I’m healing now.

Here’s the full list of the contents of my fly vest, under rough sub headings.

For on the water constant use: clippers, leader straightener, scissors, hemostats.

For sinking the fly: tungsten putty, split shot, sinkant. Tungsten putty AND split shot?

For floating the fly or leader: indicators (7), yarn, stick ons, floatant, floating putty, polystyrene ball (never used).

For actually catching fish: ten flies boxes. All right, I know it sounds a lot, but every one of them is vital in the right context and includes four small boxes which were a present from my oldest son and which I use to extract the more commonly used flies for the day with nymphs, emergers or dries for the most observed insect life. I don’t want to even think about cutting these back.

For connecting flies to fly line: tapered hardy leaders (7), flouro leaders (3), flouro tippet rolls (3 of varying strength in a locked bunch), mono tippets (7 of varying strength in a locked bunch).

Medicinals: zinc cream for the sun, lip balm, for the same sun, stingose for the mossies and sandflies, unopened first aid kit from the airport lounge my wife made me buy. I often carry up to four insect repellents for the Kiwi and Scottish sandflies and for European wasps, which are absolute bastards. And I have about half a dozen creams and lotions I use for those overseas sandflies, to which I’m kind of allergic … if not allergic, then mildly paranoid.

Fishing Forensics: Two lids, white, magnifier with two lenses and cute little built in light and carry case (sweet!), green plastic tweezers from the wife’s surgery (thanks dear), thermometer for checking water temperature (very important, seriously), tape measure (to make sure the little fishies are big enough) and a set of scales for measuring that trophy ten pound trout (in mint condition, never had to be used).

Odds and Ends:

sharpening stone for blunted flies (very useful),

Hardy priest (for donging the occasional unfortunate fish on the head – seems harsh but the best alternative if you’ve got to be eaten),

chrome secateurs (the most useful tool in the vest, for getting flies out of stream side branches and brambles and cutting down that bloody shrub that keeps getting your back cast in a tricky casting situation),

petzl led lamp (the little pocket sized three AAA battery one I’ve had for years, which my two year old son likes to road test by throwing against walls – now due to be discarded for hat with built in lights – see review),

compass (which I know how to read now, but never use … I mean, you get out of the car, you walk up the river … you walk back down the river, you get in the car),

sharp filleting knife (see priest),

hip flask (for single malt – essential in the event of good luck or lack of good luck),

sunglasses (see latest review),

cheap magnifying glasses for changing flies (now chucked, see latest review),

net for sandflies (picked up in Scotland and fantastic),

hats 3 (well perhaps three of them is a bit over the top, but one had a big brim for sun protection and keeping the sandfly net out from my face, then there was a beanie for keep warm on winter evenings on the water, and a baseball style cap – now this is one with the lights in it – see review),

spare spool for Precious (Precious is my Hardy Smuggler and the spare spool has a sinking line – fantastic for deep pools and a quick swap over and back to the floating line on the main spool),

poncho (from airport lounge – fantastic – light and small and perfect for that unexpected stream side shower – I usually leave the old ones for my host and buy a new one every trip, as once they’re unpacked, they can never by re-packed the same),

plastic bags 4 (for keeping fish away from other gear in back pack),

one sealable bag (for keeping things dry – but with nothing in it),

gloves, polypropylene (great for top of the hand sun protection on hot days – that’s where skin cancers can start – and keeping warm in winter),

fishing licenses for two states and three countries (very handy sometimes),

two broken retractor spools (chucked – see I know discipline!),

two New Zealand $2 coins (now chucked – see above).

So, I think I’ve now chucked the broken retractor spools, the New Zealand coins, the old baseball cap has been replaced by the one with built in lights, the old LED light is going, but I’ll keep one just in case in main bag because you always need them camping, the cheap magnifier glasses are gone, gone, gone, and I’ve realised the sealable bag is for the new Lumix camera … which will be reviewed soon. You know the one you can skim across the water, according to the TV ad. The underwater shot on the Tips and Tricks page was taken with it and it does lovely home movies too.

And, in the spirit of recovery here, I’m wondering why I need ten fly boxes and both tungsten putty and split shot. Actually I know now. It’s so Warwick can borrow the bloody things because he’s always running out. So, you see, I’m fine. Really.

Pictures by Warwick Powell (the bloke lugging around the heavy SLR camera).

It was late afternoon and we were only an hour from the Bundara River when the wind blew up and the high country hoppers began pelting our car windscreen.

The fate of the hapless hoppers notwithstanding, it was a welcome sight for a couple of dedicated fly fishermen. Like the first raindrops from a summer storm on a farmer’s windowpane, the soft staccato splatting of the hoppers foretold good things to come.

I had flown from Brisbane down to Melbourne that morning, to meet up with Frank Jones in Sale and the two of us planned to spend an autumn weekend catching up with old friends at Anglers Rest and dry fly fishing another old friend, the lovely Bundara River.

As we drove through the rising hopper clouds, thinning smoke clouds were drifting on a northerly breeze, down the Tambo River valley to our right, and we detected the unmistakable scent of burnt eucalypts.

We weren’t unduly alarmed, as we could soon see that this fire was by now clearly under control, but it rekindled memories of the havoc wreaked by the bushfires on Australia Day 2003, when a blaze from the top of the Bundara Valley took off and met up with a fire front moving down from Mount Hotham.

The fire destroyed all plant, animal and insect life in its path, right down to the water’s edge, and killed unknown numbers of fish.

Flames converged from three sides on the famous fly-fishing paradise of Anglers’ Rest, at the junctions of the Bundara, Cobungra and Mitta Mitta Rivers. The residents all survived, but many of their homes and huts, along with generations of precious memories were destroyed in minutes.

Melbourne engineer Donald Beveridge had single-handedly fought the flames to save his rural retreat, the Bundara Cabins. These cabins would be our home for the weekend.

Publican Graham Brown, with aide of some stranded road contractors, just managed to preserve the historic Blue Duck Hotel. This is where we would be eating our meal that night.

Graham’s brother Jim Brown was not so lucky and lost his home, which he had just finished building after five years’ hard work. Jim would be our genial barman for the weekend.

So, you can see, the bushfire of 2003 had left its scars on the residents of Anglers’ Rest and on the landscape. But the local residents are a tough bunch and they’d dusted themselves off, and got on with their lives. But what of the Bundara and its fish?

The first shock

It was dusk by the time we arrived at Anglers’ Rest and pulled into Bundara Cabins. We were on the water within minutes and we were shocked at what we saw.

The fires had completely destroyed vegetation right up to the river’s edge, and subsequent flooding rains a few months earlier had washed tonnes of silt and sand from unprotected hills, into the water, and then on downstream, into the deeper holes, near our cabins.

What had once been deep holding pools, with snags and shadows to hide the trout, were now as little as a foot or so deep, with bright yellow or beige sandy bottoms, making it very difficult for the trout to find cover, or deeper cool water.

We didn’t have much time to think about this, as there was only about 15 minutes of light left and precious little moonlight to come, so Frank tied on a Royal Humpy and I used a large New Zealand Royal Wulff, which we cast into whatever shadows we could see on the darker side of the central feed lines.

We had three hits in quick succession and Frank hooked a small brown. By this time, the hoppers had well and truly disappeared, but clouds of small white caddis began hovering over the water, a good early sign for the health of the river.

Normally we would have ignored the dark, changed to a white Elk Hair Caddis, and fished up the river, but I’d been travelling for 12 hours by then, we couldn’t see the end of our rods in pitch darkness and neither of us were confident about the depth of the water, or the firmness under foot of the new silt base to the river, so we considered this to be an appropriate time to gather some intelligence from the locals.

This is another way of saying we were tired and adjourned to the Blue Duck for a cold beer and some background gossip.

At the Blue Duck, the locals arrived in various states of somewhat informal attire, with retired army types and older hippies, joining the high plains horsemen, cow cockies and the occasional cattle dog sneaking in to curl up by the fire and gaze at the moths. Later the locals were joined by bankers, in carefully chosen checked flannel shirts trying to blend in, motor bikers in black leather breaking a long ride from Melbourne, and of course, fly fishermen from all over the world, drinking quietly and sub consciously noting the size and appearance of fellow patrons, the ebb and flow of customers around the tables, and the most popular order from the menu. We never relax.

So we enjoyed a cold beer and a magnificent home made beef and burgundy pie and talked with publican Graham Brown, local retiree Major Russell Smith and other locals, about the rehabilitation of the Bundara since the big fire.

The views on the fate of the Bundara differed. All agreed that the destruction of the canopy over the river had opened it to more terrestrial feed for the trout, and that the ash from the bushfires had cleared the Bundara far more quickly than it had on other rivers, including the Mitta Mitta.

Speculation was that this had brought some of the trout in from the Mitta, up the Bundara, about two years ago, but there was no consensus on the other life in the water and what impact the erosion of silt and sand into the river had had on the migrating trout and subsequent spawning. We’d soon find out.

The next day … hopper magic

While Frank may be a dedicated fly fisherman he doesn’t believe in early starts, so we began at the Mitta Mitta River, near the junction with the Bundara, at about 9am. The air temperature was in the low 20s, the water was about 17 degrees, there was little wind, and only slight hopper movement on the banks.

We then noticed a rise on the Bundara, a few metres up from where it joins the Mitta. In fact, it was the only rise we could see, so we followed it. I managed to spook this fellow with my first clumsy cast in a month, but we could see a nice pool, a little further upstream, so we tried it, as fly fishermen do. We had a plan, of course, but we couldn’t remember it.

The country was still pretty rough, but the water level was a lot lower than usual, and the silt and destruction of adjoining vegetation, had made the banks more accessible and the river itself a lot easier to wet wade. I was in polypropylenes, right in the water, while Frank fished from the side, in thigh waders.

Previously, when wading this stretch of the lower Bundara, in the deeper pools, I was used to putting the cork rod handle between my teeth and swimming for it, but the addition of several feet of silt, made the wading quite civilised, which was especially convenient for Frank, as he was carrying several thousand dollars worth of borrowed camera gear.

We experimented with a range of flies, while Frank checked out the marine ecology, finding plenty of caddis nymphs, tadpoles and frogs … in fact a lot more than usual. The signs were good, but where were the fish?

Then we saw the first signs of trout. But they ignored our polite entreaties and our wide range of flies on offer, and were holding station, wherever they could find a shadow, in little shallow pools, just off the bubble line, waiting for something better to drift along.

The dinner gong

Then at 10am their morning tea arrived, in the form of a gentle breeze and a cloud of all types of hoppers, which, with no restraining vegetation on the bare banks, were falling into the water more readily than usual.

The breeze and accompanying hoppers were like a dinner gong in a boys’ boarding school, and the action was on. The trout were back, all right.

During the next six hours we caught and released 25 trout … almost all of them browns, as we waded the bottom one-third of the Bundara.

Frank had great success with a Bob and Betty Potts’ Franger Fly, so called because its fly line core, bound with different coloured strands of raffia, to simulate a hopper’s ribbed abdomen, is coated a final layer of condom rubber, to keep the fly light and totally dry and ‘floating proud in the water, higher than a honeymooner’s dick’, as Frank would say, and did, while he speculated aloud as to whether glow in the dark condom hoppers would work more effectively at night.

Unfortunately for Frank, after a couple of large brown trout had savaged his favourite Franger, the condom wrapper began leaking, and his fly started to droop sadly below the water’s surface film. He was obliged to change to a Dave’s Hopper, which also worked well, although it floated lower in the water and was harder to see when there was any glare on the surface.

I used a pair of larger Knobby Hoppers, tied on size 7 or 8 long shanked hooks, about 30cms apart, with the end or point fly tied directly to the bend in the first hook. I tried to ensure equal weights between the two flies, or, if one was slightly heavier, the heavier fly went to the end. With similar weights and resistance in the two flies, it was surprisingly easy to cast, even on the end of a 15-foot leader.

The first hopper had a bright yellow body and was tied with orange rubber legs and the second was chosen with either chartreuse or silver body, with a light coloured, high-floating deer haired knob, for maximum buoyancy and visibility over riffles, and the biggest and brightest red legs I could find.

The legs were a trifle academic, in any event, as greedy trout ate them off within a half hour or so, every time I changed them. When I ran out of flies, I simply sharpened the hook, fluffed up the tail, and went with what was left. So long as the outline survived, with a hint of yellow and red, or green, in the tail, the trout kept chomping. It was one of the best day’s fly fishing I’d ever had and I am looking at these two flies as I type. They are stuck in either end of a Grange Hermitage cork and blue tacked to the top of one of my computer screens. I get to see them every time I open an excel file and I’m reminded of that day on the beautiful Bundara.

The main advantage of the double rig, over Frank’s single fly, seemed to be the splat or plopping sound of the dual rig hitting the water, and the promise of a decent feed from two largish hoppers, which, to a waiting trout, looked as tasty as a pair of speciality pies from the Bruthen Bakery. I found, on the trip up, that these are more enticing if one was filled with cauliflower, cheese and leek, and the other with lasagne. The trout, evidently, agreed with my reasoning.

After some eight hours of serious wading and casting, without a break for lunch, by about 4pm I was starting to think even more about these Bruthen pies, and a cold beer at The Duck, when we reached the bank, below Bundara cabins.

Around this time, the wind dropped, the hoppers settled back into the grassy banks, a shower of snowflake caddis arrived and we decided to take stock, not long after I had unsuccessfully tried to wrestle a three pounder into my net for a final photo call, before release.

We’d seen plenty of nymphs, caddis, tadpoles, and frogs, not to mention the hoppers. And the 25 trout we’d hooked, ranged in size from about 18 one-pound trout, around a year old, up to about five or so two pounders around two years of age.

There were a few even bigger, around the three-pound mark. This ratio of size and age told us that a few young trout had in fact moved into the Bundara, after the fires, and had successfully spawned at least twice, to take advantage of an abundant supply of nutrition.

Fertility it seems had also been boosted by the initial intake of ash and nutrients and maintained for a second year. Hopefully this will extend to a third year, by which time the Bundara would have recovered sufficiently to provide more breeding stock for the Mitta Mitta and the Cobungra.

Following another night of exchanging information at the Duck, the next morning, we tried the middle section of the Bundara River, up from the Willows, run by Helen Packer, who hosts a local horse riding and fly fishing complex.

Unfortunately, Helen’s coffee was too addictive, and we only had an hour or two on the water before we had to head back to Melbourne, for what turned out to be a 13 hour commute home to Brisbane.

The middle sections of the river however, also yielded a good supply of one year old trout, but we had to depart before the wind brought on the hoppers.

And again, this middle section of the river had been largely cleared of a covering canopy, the water was much shallower and lighter, because of the yellow-beige sand and silt, with a lot of snags and trout hiding spots cleared away. Despite this, the aquatic life was rich and varied, and the trout were back and breeding.

The bushfire of 2003 had indeed left its scars on the residents of Anglers’ Rest and on the landscape. But the trout, like the local residents, were a tough bunch and they’d dusted themselves off, and got on with their lives. Welcome back boys.

When you arrive at Anglers Rest, on the Omeo Highway, north of Omeo, you will see The Blue Duck Inn Hotel on the left and that pretty much is the CBD of Anglers Rest. There are no automatic tellers or petrol stations, so fill up in Omeo and bring lots of cash and a chequebook, although the Duck takes credit cards. The Duck overlooks the Cobungra River.

Drive just past the Duck and on an old wooden bridge over the Cobungra and you will see Callaghan’s Road, to the left. The Bundara Cabins are a short distance in, on the right, and The Willows, about 3 kilometres along, also on the right. Both are only a short walk from the Bundara.

Photographs by Frank Jones. Story originally published in FlyLife.

Our host for the weekend, Donald Beveridge can be contacted by email at