Is easy fishing an entitlement? If it is, then I’ve been ripped off regularly over the decades of my flyfishing life. I can recall countless examples. For instance, the time I was fishing for bass at Somerset Dam in Queensland. On what was turning out to be a tough day, my expert companion John abruptly sounded a huge school of bass 20 feet under the boat. He estimated there were literally thousands beneath us. Surely this was the turning point?

John efficiently changed our fly-lines to fast sinking models, tinkered with leaders, and changed our flies to patterns appropriate to the low light at depth. Every so often, I find myself fishing with someone who really knows what they’re doing in terms of species, location or both… whilst I don’t really have a clue. It’s a good feeling. The responsibility for success, for want of a better term, is only partly yours. For someone who is usually the guide, it’s quite luxurious.

With the school of bass still virtually blacking out the sounder, we cast in opposite directions, counted down to near enough to 20 feet, and began varying retrieves. The anticipation was electric. I braced for the tug of a big bass. Then I did the same thing again, and again… nothing. It was the same for John. As he described it, the fish must have literally been parting to let our flies through.

Such experiences aren’t limited to notoriously moody bass. A few years ago, despite recent poor reports, Mark and I impulsively called in to Cowpaddock Bay at Arthurs Lake on our way to our base for the week at Miena.

What was that about poor reports? Through the windscreen, we could see trout rising before we’d even pulled up! In light winds under a Simpsons sky, the next few hours were paradise as we stalked black spinner feeders in the shallows. Meanwhile, the background soundtrack was the plop of damselfly leapers all the way across the bay. In the calm conditions, the sound was almost constant. And if I looked up from my inshore targets for a moment, the bright flashes and splashes of airborne trout, extended as far as the eye could see.

We ended up with some nice browns each, all caught sight-fishing with dry flies. Brilliant!   

When we met our fishing mates at the cabin that evening, Mark and I could barely contain our enthusiasm. Never mind the numerous alternative options – the Cowpaddock was the place to go the next day.

Well, as we launched the boats the following morning – boats being an added advantage from the previous day – the conditions weren’t quite the same, with a cool breeze blowing. That would no doubt explain the lack of rises, although we expected that would change once the day warmed up. In any case, thanks to what we had witnessed 12 hours earlier, we knew for certain that the shallow bay was absolutely full of decent trout, and with boats, we could cover any part of it.

While we waited for the inevitable frenzy of rising trout, the five of us confidently began pulling wet flies – or at least Mark and I were confident. Just a matter of time surely? After all, the trout were undoubtedly there in huge numbers.

Thirty minutes turned to an hour, then two, then three. Nothing. I think we might have seen one rise, and perhaps the other boat caught one small fish. But with fishing time evaporating, Mark and I eventually had to swallow our pride and admit the return to Arthurs had been a failure. While my brother and I could possibly have risked persisting, with this being the very first session of the trip for our three companions, we needed to move to another lake.

That session was not the first time I’ve expected success on trout water, only to be let down. It won’t be the last either. The thing is, had that second session been our first, I suspect it would have been tempting to blame a simple lack of fish for our poor result. I mean, we had five pretty competent anglers applying 15 hours of effort for next to no catch. And with the water reasonably shallow, the trout would have been seeing our flies, right?

However, after the spectacle of the previous afternoon, the no fish excuse wasn’t available. Either we weren’t good enough, or the trout were feeding in such a way that they couldn’t be caught. Which, if I think about it, also amounts to, ‘We weren’t good enough.’

After three years of good to exceptional trout fishing on the south-east mainland, expectations of what constitutes an acceptable day’s fishing possibly got a bit out of hand. One consequence is, if I head out to, say, a north-east Victorian stream or a Snowy Mountains lake in December 2024, expecting the fishing I experienced in December 2023, I’m immediately at a disadvantage. Maybe the trout are there, but just like the Cowpaddock experience on day 2, I can’t catch them as easily. Or, perhaps the trout numbers really are lower.

In either case, two things probably need to happen if I’m to continue to enjoy myself. First, I should adjust my definition of success. I’m simplifying here, but perhaps a 20 fish day in summer 2023, is now matched by a 5 fish day. Second, things I may have got away with 12 months ago – like fishing through water a bit too quickly or carelessly – aren’t going to cut it now. For example, I’m going to need that drag-free drift every time if I’m not going to miss those more fleeting opportunities. And looking for redemption around the next bend, might need to be replaced with real effort on the bit of water I’m fishing right now.

It may or may not surprise you that I’m looking forward to this resetting of standards. Over the half century of my flyfishing life, I’ve come to realise that getting a good result, commensurate with conditions and opportunities, is what’s most satisfying. A 14 inch trout from little Ogilvies Creek is worth one of those slightly ridiculous whoops of delight – even when there’s no one in sight. The same fish at Lake Eucumbene later in the day, would probably be shaken off the hook with hardly an acknowledgement.

I think the concept of success in flyfishing is relative to all sorts of variables, and that’s the way it should be.

Philip Weigall

Editor