I often write about the flyfishing experience, and how it may or may not equate to the actual catching of fish. The last few days have epitomised this apparent contradiction.

A humid Thursday afternoon was spent at Lake Wendouree with my sons. While giant thunderclouds grew in the background, the trout fed hard on a lot of things, but mainly spinners, ‘weaving’ their way through the air above the lake. As leapers are inclined to be, these trout were difficult. I explained this to my frustrated boys by way of the Peter Hayes analogy, “The fish are looking through the windscreen at the road ahead.” Our flies were on the proverbial windscreen (the surface), while the mayfly spinners, and sometimes damselflies and dragonflies, were on the road. A nanochip–powered helicopter fly might have worked, but failing that, it was a matter of fast, repetitive and accurate casting… and not giving up.

Through persistence, we had several takes, but missed many on the strike (perhaps due to surprise given a cast-to-take ratio of about 10 to one). We landed only two trout – about our worst Wendouree result lately, at least on paper. However, as per the introduction, the fishing was very good.

Then today, we swapped lake fishing for a stream. Again, there were trout rising everywhere in the humid warmth; only this time, at least they were eating off the windscreen or just beneath it. Individually, the trout were extremely fussy, and to make matters worse, often cruising way off station to feed. There were fish going up the current, down the current, and sideways. A perfect cast mid-air was often off target by the time the fly landed a second later. One memorable beauty looked to be right in line for Sean’s paradun a metre upstream, when it suddenly took off after a dangerously low flying dragonfly.

Yet, thanks to so many chances, we hooked quite a few decent browns, and actually landed several that didn’t dust us in the weed, undercuts or sticks.

The takes were mesmerising. More often than not, we got to observe as a fish acknowledged the fly (some even turning on the tiny plip of a size 14 dry alighting behind them) swam over, looked at it hard (I mean jeez, how much fault can there be in a small, drab paradun or Shaving Brush?) and then either nose-bumped it, or ate it. Some even did one, then mercifully, the other! All in plain view.

Did I mention that this was about as good as the flyfishing experience gets? And it didn’t hurt that there were three of us to share it.