Great Forester River, Tasmania

Day 8: Saturday, 31 January

I drove to Scotsdale in the north east of Tasmania to fish the Great Forester River. The drive took me over a mountain pass, and the steep gradient and sharp bends made it a hair raising ride. I stopped at a lookout point to admire the view of farmland stretching to pale blue mountains in the distance.

When I reached the valley floor and saw the river from the road, I could see it was a lot smaller in scale than I had been expecting. The word "great" in its name had perhaps given me the wrong impression. The surrounding land was flat and pastoral. The river was cut into the soft soil of the valley and flowed sedately, through a series of serpentine bends. It made an exciting change from the rocky rivers I had fished until now. 

I pulled into a farmyard and drove up to the farmhouse, where baying dogs greeted me. A lady opened the door and assured me the dogs were friendly, and I asked for permission to fish the river running through the farm. The lady said of course, and wished me luck.

I parked near a road bridge and cut down to the farm, and then waded into the river. An innocuous looking strand of wire ran across the width of the stream in front of me. Knee deep in the water, rod in my right hand, I lifted the wire with my left hand so that I could crawl beneath it. Whilst I was on my haunches, I heard a slow rumbling sound which grew in volume until it culminated in a crack as loud as a gunshot, when I received the mother of all electric shocks. It was very painful, with a stabbing pain in the middle of my chest. I let go of the wire and my left hand went numb (my hand would remain numb for several months afterwards). It wasn't a very pleasant way to start a fishing outing, but I probably should have known better. 

The banks were overgrown with large trees and brambles so I waded up the river's channel, treading gingerly on the bed of soft silt and fine gravel. I paused when I saw a trout rise. The fish sipped at my parachute Adams very gently and not knowing whether the fly had been taken, I struck just in case, and was thrilled to feel the trout's thudding resistance through the fly line. The fish was hooked for a while, long enough for me to see it was a rainbow trout of around 12" before the hook was shaken free. 

I pushed on upriver and came to a small pool of dark trout concealing water. I watched the pool for a while and my patience was rewarded when I spotted a rise near the tail. I crept up and cast a parachute Wulff into the pool, but it fell short of where the fish had risen. The fly quickly drifted into the fast tailwater and began to drag. I was just about to lift the fly from the water when a fish took it. I didn't see the trout but it felt hefty. It took off upstream in a single charge which came to an abrupt end when the hook came free once again. I cursed under my breath and began to wonder if I was in for one of those days when the fishing gods ordain that nothing will 'click'. It had also started to drizzle and I had stupidly left my raincoat behind in my tent.

I flicked the fly back into the same pool, this time a little further upstream, and a trout took it. 'Wait' I said, as I was now accustomed to doing, and as a second ticked over to two, I struck and prayed for the hook to remain firmly engaged this time. This trout fought spiritedly. It wouldn't give up and valiantly made run after run in the confines of the pool. With nerves frayed I eventually brought the fish close enough to reach with my hand. It was a brown trout of 15" and my best from Tasmania so far. I chuckled to myself when I thought the electric shock had been worth it.

Later, I sat on a rock with both feet in the water, to remove my fly from brambles. Beside me was an old tree stump at the water's edge with a hollow beneath it. Suddenly there was a gurgling boil of water near my feet and a small platypus emerged into view. It was such an unexpected shock - but not as bad as the first one! In a flash, the creature was gone. When my nerves settled I realised how special it was to have seen a platypus in such close focus.

I caught two more trout - both with a Royal Wulff. The first was a good fish of around 13 inches. The last was 8 inches long and caught in the most peculiar fashion. I cast my fly into a run and must've looked away for a brief moment, because when I tried to find it, it was gone. As the trout in these parts tend to rise very gently - without an audible splash - I wondered if the fly had been taken, so I flicked my rod upwards to feel for pressure. There was none, and the fly raced back towards me just beneath the water's surface, with a trout racing after it! Sadly, momentum lifted the fly from the water before the trout could reach it. In a fluid, unthinking movement, I flicked the fly back into the middle of the run. I thought the trout now facing me must surely have seen me. When my fly alighted on the water, the trout turned and raced towards it, and sucked it in aggressively. I struck, and voila! An unprecedented capture.

The weather turned for the worse at 3pm when it started to rain persistently and the cold downstream wind strengthened. I decided to pack it in for the day and return to Myrtle Bank by the scenic mountain pass. Other than my numb hand, this had been an enjoyable day of discovery.

Next: North Esk River

Previous: St. Patrick's River