After a succession of Christmas/ New Year gatherings, and possibly a bit too much food and drink, earlier this week I dragged myself off the couch and up to mate JD’s place to open the 2025 stream fishing account.

I can’t remember the last time I didn’t enjoy good fishing on one of these trips (in fact I honestly don’t think there’s ever been a bad one). There are a couple of reasons for that. One is, given JD actually lives up there, we have the luxury of planning our fishing at short notice. In the unlikely event conditions look appalling, we can usually postpone.

However, another factor is, we’re in broad agreement as to what constitutes good fishing. For us, encounters with fish – by which I mean sightings, eats; even fish hooked and lost – can contribute to a good day almost as much as a fish safely in the net.

The formula is complex and of course extremely subjective, but here are a few encounters from the last couple of days.

Along an overgrown section of the Rubicon, we found a stretch of willows which had been half stripped by willow grubs. So despite the weather at  that point being cold, cloudy and decidedly un-grubby, it was also windy enough, we reasoned, to dislodge a few of these green morsels into the mouth of a waiting trout.

Eventually, we found a riser – and of course it was in a difficult spot. The target area was about half a square metre, with tall grass and flowers on one side, willows on the other, and an overhanging branch in exactly the wrong spot – although to be fair, that branch was also the source of the grubs in the first place!

While I watched on, JD crept into position. He then managed not one, but four pinpoint accurate casts, before the trout eventually relented and ate his fly. Despite what appeared to be a perfect strike, the hook only held for a moment before pulling. Yet we both agreed this was possibly a highlight of the day; in some ways better than the few fish we’d actually caught. Given the level of difficulty, just getting the eat was amazing.

The next day, we fished a couple of the faster freestone streams. Under sunny skies and warmer conditions, the trout were really out and about, equally interested in the Royal Wulff, or the caddis grub beneath it. However, the fish seemed to be concentrated near cover, and were extremely critical of drag.

For example, in one tricky spot where two currents converged, JD had a rainbow flash under his hopper – but he couldn’t get a result on subsequent casts. While he changed fly, he insisted I have a go with my small Royal Wulff and grub. The first few casts drew a blank, so I headed up towards the next pool. Then, almost as I was passing the tricky seam, I had another flick. Being so close, I was able to better manage the drift, and the trout grabbed the Wulff – despite the fly having been through the exact spot three or four times earlier.

The next couple of hours were similar. For some reason, I missed a lot of apparently committed takes, or lost fish after a few headshakes. However, it honestly didn’t matter. Visual takes, in beautiful water on a bluebird day, were enough.

Then it was off to the mighty Goulburn, humming along at 6000 ML/d; cold and clear. At this height, the river pushes well back into the fringe of willows that typically line one or both banks, and usually, some trout follow. In contrast to the freestone streams experience, this backwater/ floodwater fishing is almost completely reliant on seeing your target first, and then getting the fly in the right spot. For me at least, this is almost as challenging as flyfishing gets. Just sighting a trout in the mottled shade, amongst all the flooded logs and sticks, is demanding. They often cruise rather than hold on station – even assuming you spot a trout, it may well vanish again, and you have to decide whether to stay put and wait, or go and look for another.  Then there’s the small matter of presenting the fly while surrounded by clutter above the water, and in it.

After a couple of half chances, JD spotted a good fish, then lost sight of it again. While he staked out the area where it was last seen, I waited in the spot where he’d originally noticed it, 20 metres downstream, hoping it might come back. I’d barely got in position, when a big brown that wouldn’t look out of place in Lake Purrumbete, appeared from under a log, and casually swam towards me in less than knee deep water. Then, for just a moment, it grubbed for something on the bottom and I took my chance to flick a very small Royal Wulff and light caddis grub off the rod tip. I could see every spot on the superbly-conditioned two foot trout as it responded to the plip, and casually angled up to within a few centimetres of the Wulff… then moved away. I twitched the flies, and this time the disturbance of the grub caught the trout’s attention. It tilted down towards it, I waited for the white of its mouth… but nothing. It then swam off  lazily, not to be seen again.

Once I could breathe, I discussed what had just happened with JD. We agreed that this encounter was difficult to categorise. On the one hand, I’d seen the trout in time, and had somehow put the flies in the right place, at the right moment, without spooking the fish. But on the other hand, it didn’t eat either fly. I’d done a lot right – which was good – but, unlike the freestone stream misses earlier in the day, this one felt like a lost opportunity.

And writing this a day later, it still does.