THE HEMINGWAY HATCH

I just received the annual Christmas note from a distant relative’s husband, late as always. It’s all about the wonderful holidays they have had this year, “Africa 2007 was much better than 2004,” and “this year we lost the last of the Grandparents generation but we still managed to get away skiing at Easter to St. Moritz.” He also tells us constantly how well the practice is doing, so I guess he must be a doctor or a solicitor, maybe if I read the letters more carefully I’d know. His children: Tristan and Isolde, are both studying for their bar exams, I think they are 12 and 10 respectively. He describes himself in the letter as having had a good year as a sportsman, telling us as evidence of salmon on the Dee, jumping sailfish off the African coast, tuna in the Caribbean and a 1200lb shark caught from Hemingway’s own boat. I suppose in a little jealous of those fishing opportunities although what Hemingway had to do with it I wasn’t really sure. There was even a driven grouse shooting story detailing numbers of brace shot and how his son also “acquitted himself well.” I couldn’t help thinking poor grouse, they should be tracked on foot for miles over the moors, stalked, EARNED. They should never be treated as accessories in some up market coconut shy. I’ve always likened driven grouse shoots as similar to fly fishing at a trout farm, you could do it but well why? My main feeling was how good I felt that I had emigrated to Australia where the words sporting and gentleman rarely appear in conjunction. Sure he may work really hard for his money, and good luck to him with that, but I can’t get my head round that mentality. However it got me thinking about a lot of stuff. For example: if I was going to write back with my fishing stories what was the most memorable trip of the year?
Before any trip I like to look at my fly boxes, hatch charts and old note books and check if I’ve got the right flies. This makes practical sense for a number of reasons. Firstly I’m not a great stream side tier, my best results are quietly at my bench at home in good light. I tie styles more than patterns, and use a few dead specimens in jars I’ve collected over the years, but mainly now I use digital images as references for the actual insects. When I’m by a river I like to fish, not fly tie. The other reason I like to get everything ready is that it’s sort of a ritual that helps builds the trip up as something special, something that needs special preparation, something to really look forward to.
Well the trip in question was to be to a new stretch of water to me, and I asked around but couldn’t find anyone who admitted to have fished it. A farmer I spoke to said, “some used to get fish from the lower creek near there, but there’s a tiger (snake) behind every tussock.” Thank Kate. I’ve been known to tell people that just after I’ve let them know about a favourite spot -just to double check their character.
I don’t own a four wheel drive; as a result I’ve ruined the shocks on my car and have to park up as soon as the track gets hairy. And let me tell you that is not very near the river at all. The trek up the track and into the bush takes most of the day. At one point I discover my compass is broken, but the tree cover is quite thin at this altitude so I think I can figure out where I’m going from the glimpses of peak I get once in a while, and a rough guide to direction given by my watch and the sun. Anyway the river’s got to be at the bottom of the valley so as long as I don’t start going up hill I’ll find it. Which I did but not until it’s nearly dark, much longer than I guessed from the map but it doesn’t matter, I’m by myself for a few days so am on my own time. The first thing I do is set up my camp by tying a tarp to a couple of trees as a lean to in case it rains. Then I collect some firewood and have a brew.
The remnants of England still flow in me in the form of a love of football (Plymouth Argyle) and tea. The tea is made Australian “billy tea” style, boiling the leaves in the water and swinging the billy in a big circle to settle them down. I drink it black because I can’t be bothered to carry any milk with me. I don’t think the Queen would recognise it as tea, or serve it at her garden party, but the surroundings are a trifle less manicured and the result is better than drinkable. Billy tea on the banks of a new and potentially great trout stream is one of my favourite drinks. And the water looked indescribably fishy.
I string up slowly and carefully, changing my leader at once from the 12’ one I’ve been using to a 7’ to allow me to cast in the confined overgrown water, and I soon discover that even with the short leader I’m having difficulty.
The rod I’m using is a 7’6” #4. It’s graphite from a leading tackle maker who won’t want me to mention there name for reason’s that will become apparent. I soon realise it’s not a good choice, a #5 or #6 would roll cast better as given the lack of space that would be a big help, still I’m not going back to the car to swap rods. I bought this one so this one it is.
There are a few rises but I can’t see any insects on the water, certainly nothing you could call a hatch, so I tie on a red tag, part attractor and part beetle. It’s a personnel favourite of mine, easy to tie and productive anywhere. I don’t know what it is with trout and peacock herl but it’s a favourite of theirs too.
The red tag floats along beautifully in the slow pools but takes it’s first trout when washed under the surface on a broken run. I learn the lesson and switch to nymph, and take a second fish out of almost the exact spot. It could have been a clone of the first, both browns, both 12”, sadly neither in prime condition, the drought has had a bad effect on a lot of rivers this season and under weight fish seem common this year.
The pool itself was Y shaped with two runs entering it at the top and a section in the middle where the two merge creating very difficult currents to cast into but where the fish seem to be.
It was at that point the hatch started.
If Australia has one iconic mayfly it’s the Kosciusko Dun. The truth appears to be a little more complicated as there appears to be at least two separate species of Leptophlebiidae known locally as Kosciusko Duns, both a sort of sandy terracotta colour, one about a #10 and one a little smaller say #12. There may be more species involved, only DNA analysis will tell us if the CSIRO ever makes entomology a priority for their research grants. The spinner is a little brighter orange colour, the nymph a couple of shades darker brown. For the fisherman it doesn’t really matter as they share a similar natural history, just fish what you see.
The hatch began slowly enough with a no more than a handful of duns floating towards me. I tied on an emerger pattern, more in hope I was missing the early stages of a hatch, and after a few casts to the top of the pool managed to get the drift right and connected.
There followed almost an hour of great match the hatch fishing, followed later in the evening with a heavy spinner fall as the whole river once again came to life prompted by clouds of dancing bugs.
When I eventually waded my way back to my camp, contented, I ate with the hunger reserved for a day spent in the outdoors. Under the stars I soon fell asleep and dreamt I was Ernest Hemingway.
The next morning I woke early to watch the mist rolling along on the top of the stream as I downed my usual quick breakfast of cous cous and dried fruit.
The day’s fishing started slowly, well very slowly. I knew after yesterday’s feast the trout would be a bit harder to fool. I worked upstream but without success. Finally after about an hour I found a shady bubble run tight by the bank I knew must hold a good. I was indicator nymphing at this point and as soon as the little float paused I struck hard. Far too hard, my rod tip hit a branch above me and snapped just below the top guide. Breaking a rod, is expected every now and again but is never a good feeling. The trout was quickly landed and released and I the damage assessed. The nearest replacement rod was a days walk away, but with a bit of trial and error I realised I could flick my fly with a side-on action about 30 feet. Not “presented” so much as “delivered” but because I was there I decided to stay on for a while and see if I could get by.
It was at the next pool that I lost my footing and fell on my rod, snapping it above the handle. Now this was serious. Again I was faced with a dilemma. Should I give up and go home or try and improvise. I had some 20 lb mono in my pocket, the type you use for the butt of your leader, so I proceeded to strap the handle and reel to the bottom section of my rod by the stripping guide. Again with a shortened sideways action I could almost cast.
By now I had lost a large part of the morning and was thinking about heading back to camp when I saw a little back eddy with a trout’s nose poking around. My first thought was “shit – if my rod wasn’t busted up ….” But as I examined the situation I realised I could just about cast there. I didn’t know what the fish was doing, and didn’t want to get any closer in case it spooked so I guessed there were Kossie spinners in the surface film left over from the night before. My friend Mick had shown me how to tie a para-loop spinner pattern, and I had been recently experimenting with different post materials. (Mine aren’t as pretty but somewhat easier to tie.) I was keen to show one to a trout for a true verdict. Fishing eddies is tough especially with a broken rod because it’s almost impossible to mend your line. Luckily my drift can’t have been too bad because on my second attempt the trout lazily swam open mouthed into it. I struck, as well as I could and soon found myself connected to a fighting trout who held all the aces. It was all I could do to stay connected but after a few short runs the fish started to loose ground. Not a trophy fish but a memorable catch none the less.
A couple of days later I was in a favourite tackle shop with my broken rod. The rod, as I have already said, was a “good” make and came complete with a lifetime guarantee. This is something of a novelty for me as nearly all my rods are second hand. I discovered that this meant the manufacturer guaranteed to be able to repair the rod, or replace it. It did not guarantee the costs and I was expected to pay $250 for the repair. As far as I’m concerned that’s false advertising.
Still the rod did acquit itself well and now rests, unrepaired, on my wall to prompt any visitors to ask me about my most fishing trips.