North Esk River, Tasmania

Day 9: Sunday, 1 February

At last, proper sunshine! What a nice change to wake up to sunshine filtering through my tent. There seemed to be so many more bugs floating about my campground in the bright sunlit air and I hoped that the trout would notice them too. Two drab female wrens sang a beautiful chorus as they hopped about in the grass looking for food, the grass taller than all but the birds' erect tail feathers. There was no sign of the brilliant blue male wren this morning. 

In the night an animal had pushed over a bin near my tent and made an awful racket. Optimistically thinking it might be a Tasmanian devil I went out with a torch, and saw two glowing eyes staring back at me, but it was only a possum. I cleared up the shredded remnants of the long life milk carton that I had placed in the bin the day before.

I left the campground at 9am and followed the gravel Camden Road for about 40km. The road followed the forested ridge line of hills for most of the way before it dropped down into the open farmland of the North Esk's valley.

The river flowed leisurely, carving a sinuous course through grassy plains, every bit the typical pastoral stream. The water was dark but clear, and willows lined the banks in places. The sun may have been shining, but the temperature was still cool. There was a strong downstream wind and I wore a windbreaker to stave off the chill. 

The North Esk was predominated by glass smooth water, some of it deep, which moved at glacial speed. I don't particularly enjoy fishing deep, slow flowing pools in rivers, because I never really have much success doing so. I toiled away for several hours, quite fruitlessly, often frustrated by the very strong gusts of wind. I decided to change tack. Instead of fishing through each and every pool, I would walk upstream on the lookout for feeding fish. 

I was walking along the raised grassy bank when I spotted a whopper of a trout in a sheltered bay of the river. I stopped in my tracks and dropped to my knees. I estimated the fish to weigh between 4 and 5 lbs! It cruised confidently between the bay and a low hanging willow bush just upstream, and I lost sight of it. I tied on a green beetle, thinking a terrestrial would be a good choice for a willow-lined stream on a windy day. I flicked the beetle into the bay and waited. Eventually a trout rose nonchalantly from the depths and very casually sipped in the static fly. It wasn't the whopper, sadly, but a trout of 12". Once hooked the fish ran straight into the willows where it stopped and I was left wondering if the trout was still hooked or if my line was attached to tree roots. I rocked the line backwards and forwards ever so gently and felt the unmistakable shake of the fish's head. The trout was still on! It was all or nothing so I yanked hard on the line and pulled the trout from the willows. The line somehow held and the trout was quickly subdued. After 3 hours of fruitless fishing in high winds I was ecstatic to have caught a fish.

I had come to a natural end of that section of the river. There was a farmhouse ahead and I didn't wish to intrude on someone's private property. I decided to drive upstream to where the river might be a little more sheltered from the wind. I knocked on a farmer's door and asked permission to fish the river on his land. The farmer agreed and said "there's not many trout this year because the cormorants have got 'em. But those that are left are large." With that enticing assessment, I thanked the farmer, drove a little way downstream to a bridge, and cut across a field to leave a good stretch of river to fish upstream to the bridge.

I fished for about 3 hours without any joy except for a single missed rise to my Royal Wulff. I struck too soon and the chance was gone. Somewhat dejectedly I reached the final stretch of river with the bridge just up ahead. Then I spotted a trout rising and my spirits lifted. It offered one last chance to go home on a high note. But this was a fussy trout. I tried five different dry flies without success. Sometimes the trout would come up and almost touch the fly with its nose, before declining my offering. At wits end, I replaced the dry fly with a #20 bead head nymph which the trout took confidently at the first time of asking. It's curious how trout reserve their utmost caution for floating flies. This trout was well conditioned and measured 15". I was thrilled! Unlike all the previous Tasmanian trout I had caught, its flanks were flecked in orange rather than carmine. 

I returned back to my tent at Myrtle Bank at 7pm. It had been a long, tough day of fishing. A fresh blister on the palm of my casting hand attested to the amount of casting I had done. I really enjoyed the day though. My written notes begin with "What a day!" I can't recall ever feeling as highly rewarded from a day with so few trout. Catching trout helps, of course, but the scenic drive, the exploration of a new river, and fathoming how to catch the fastidious last trout made it a very memorable day. 

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