The smoke was from fires in Gippsland – seen from Mt Feathertop – and from the Strathbogies fire on the drive home. The mirrors were on flat-surfaced pools in sections where, ideally, there would have been a little more flow and riffle.

I headed off to the upper Ovens valley as February was about to turn into March, for a few days bushwalking, socialising and a little flyfishing. I hadn’t been north of the Goulburn catchment since last autumn, so I was keen. We had a large group (13): some non-fishing bushwalkers, a few competent flyfishers and a few beginner flyfishers. The fishing goal was mainly to help the beginners with their basics, and hopefully get a few chances for the more experienced.

I at least partly set myself for instruction being the main aim, because the actual fishing reports were dire! On internet forums, and whispered at the local fly shop, all the talk seemed to be about cormorants, low/warm water and impossibly tough fishing. This turned out to be (unintentional no doubt) smoke and mirrors, too.

On the first evening, I snuck out for the witching hour with a very competent mate, while others ate, drank and laughed. Neither of us was terribly familiar with the area, so we picked a stretch for its easy access more than anything.

The stream was very low and clear, and felt warm – it had been a hot day. I quickly decided that much of the stream would not likely hold fish, and I’d need to find the spaced-out runs with the most depth and cover. Although I covered a few possible lies, I saw nothing of much promise up to where my mate was engaging with a riser in a bigger pool, 50m or so ahead. I closed to where I could tell him I’d leave another 50m or so, and I raced past, well back from the water of course.

Back on the stream, I couldn’t get a riser in a draggy tail to take, but one in the nicely deep seam ahead did. A few heart-thumping pulls later, the fish came away. Grrr.

On I skipped. There was no point dawdling in barren sections as the light faded; there were pool eyes to be found and picked! I didn’t pause for maybe 50 more metres. A casual observer might have wondered why the heck I was racing so fast – was there a wild dog on my tail? I stopped before a small but deep/fast run, where a solid and exceptionally strong rainbow around a pound hit the dry and cavorted about – before coming off right at the net. Grrr again.

As I was reapplying floatant and considering the rest of the little run at my feet, I snuck a peek at a bigger pool about 40m up. Its mirror surface betrayed a riser. Several times.

My mate called out through the blackberries on his leapfrog past, so I told him about the riser ahead, and he got in through a gap. By the time I worked up, he was casting to a second fish, with the first having refused his fly and disappeared. When a tangle wrecked his tippet, he suggested I have a crack. The second fish continued to rise sporadically, but I couldn’t get it either, although a rainbow from the noisy run-in got us on the board pretty much on dark!  So, success was (very) modest, but we’d had quite a bit of action. At least the stream was far from empty, and we’d had some real fun.

On the Friday, the non-fishers in our large group went up Mt Bogong, while the rest of us mainly socialised, except for few hours over on the Kiewa, where reports had been better. I coached a brand-new beginner, but the river stayed stubbornly high (and difficult) for heatwave power generation. I should have checked the levels! The beginner got a decent cast going and really enjoyed himself anyway – he’s vowing to buy his own gear and be ready for the same trip next year. A fish or two was seen, but that was it. The other pair (my mate from the previous evening and another beginner) fared the same. A great BBQ that night at our hosts’ amazing ‘outdoor kitchen’ was a trip highlight, but meant no evening rise for the fishers!

We had a full bushwalking day over Mt Feathertop on the Saturday, and dinner at the pub. No evening rise again!

Then on the Sunday, we rose lazily to a long breakfast, and most of the party left for home. I didn’t get out until mid-afternoon, this time with another beginner mate, who’d arrived while we were on Feathertop. Mostly I was instructing, and I gave him the likely lies. The water again felt warm, and, to be honest, I think we’d have been better off getting out earlier in the day when it might have been cooler.

Things were looking quiet, and then we hit a very public access point. But fish surprisingly appeared! My mate spooked one with a splashy cast, and then another while wading up. And then I spooked another moving up myself. Well, they were about after all! We just needed to fish to them rather than scare them off.

I slunk along the bush line slightly ahead to scout, while my mate dealt with a tangle. I eventually spied a properly solid brown finning in a small depression; this was a much better class of fish. The best cast option was a backhand roll or Belgian from where I already was, with trees aplenty – and both of us knew my mate couldn’t do it. So I asked if he’d mind if I had a crack? The brown rose consistently to no-see-ums, and totally ignored my size 14 and then size 16 dry. I’m normally not one for going to tiny flies, but in this case, smaller seemed the only choice; this fish wasn’t even looking at the size 16. I searched for an 18, but came up with a size 20 flying ant. He took the first decent presentation confidently, but I struck into thin air.

Although the fish went back on station for a while and I didn’t move, he suddenly turned and swam back through the legs of my astonished mate, who looked at me with wide eyes and said: that was BIG!’ My guess was a couple of pounds or so, but who knows? I hadn’t even hooked up, but I really enjoyed the fishing!

We fished a bit more, and found a few risers in the prime lies. My mate put out some good casts, but didn’t hook any. In easier, less exacting conditions, he’d have caught fish for sure. I took a few other lies without visible risers and did no better – maybe I needed easier conditions too! We headed off for a swim and some shopping at Bright, and again dinner plans with our hosts got in the way of any thoughts of an evening rise.

Next day was home day, but I had a couple of hours on my own to spare from around 11am or so, before needing to go.

Yes, you guessed it, I went back to look for the big brown. And yes: he was there. He took my 16 caddis without a care, and seemed solidly hooked. But did I mention the trees behind the casting position? Raising the rod tip, I briefly tangled fly-line in the branches, and the few seconds it took to clear allowed the fish to run downstream. I was still confident, as he seemed solidly on, but I didn’t want him to run into the stick-strewn rapid/run just below, so I held fairly tight. I was focusing on stopping him going down, and he sat thrashing his head side to side at that slow cadence shake that little fish don’t do. Then suddenly, the fish turned and bolted across the stream… and under a big smooth log. It didn’t look too tangly under there, but whether I just over-pressured him or he wrapped an unseen stick, he managed to ping off!

Back at the car, I figured I still had 90 minutes or so of fishing, and a friend with more local knowledge advised by phone that I consider a stretch where there should be more regular depth in runs on bends, and fewer shallow/broad straight sections. So there I went. In most prime lies, I found a fish either already rising, or willing to respond to a fly. I polaroided the odd one finning quietly too. I think I hooked eight (and missed others on the strike), but found ways to lose most of the hooked ones that don’t bear retelling. I’m not usually as skilled at losing fish, but I have my moments! Anyway, while I landed only two, it was very good action.

During this trip, we collectively chatted to locals in shops and on the stream, and I personally spoke to a gold-panner who was a keen trout fisher. The story seemed universal, and agreed with the reports I’d heard before going up: the fishing was terrible. Cormorants had been everywhere like a scene from ‘The Birds’. So-and-so knows a guide who couldn’t find a single fish for clients. A group of six on a dedicated flyfishing trip hadn’t seen a scale. ‘They’ need to stock all the streams immediately, because they are empty. And so on.

Don’t get me wrong, fish numbers were not high; certainly not compared to the last few seasons which have spoiled us. They are more like a normal late summer, with low/warm water. One thing about a low and slightly warm stream, the fish become really concentrated in the prime lies. Sure, the odd one will spook from a tiny lie on a shallow edge, but nearly all the trout were where you’d expect – where there was depth and cover, and ideally, just downstream of a bit of oxygenating whitewater. So long as you understand this and focus on these areas, the fishing can be lively.

The last thing I would do is stock these streams! For one, there’s not that much holding water right now. But the trout are there; clearly the survivors of low warm flows, and attacks by cormorants (and fishers). When better stream flows and cooler temperatures return, these fish will feed up and gain condition quickly – some are already in very good nick. With relatively low competition, I can imagine some unusually large lunkers by next season. And trout do spawn very well in those freestone waters. I for one don’t want to take a fish-farm experience and translate it to our best wild trout streams. Or even boost small-fish numbers with fry or fingerlings that haven’t been selected by the tough conditions in the wild. They would also possibly just keep cormorants artificially interested for longer. Let’s just let the natural cycle do its thing. There’s still good (if challenging) fishing for wild fish right now, and there’s every reason to believe it will get better, naturally.