St Patrick's River, Tasmania

Day 5: Wednesday, 28 January

From the Tyenna I drove to the island's central plateau. The drive was a somewhat monotonous affair of mile after mile of eucalyptus forest, broken every now and then by vast lakes. I stopped at Lake Echo, which is given a great review in Greg French's book. It was a huge expanse of water. The wind was howling, causing enormous waves, and I didn't see another soul on the lake or shore. I pushed on, stopping at Little Pine lagoon which was beside the main road. Two elderly fly fishermen were packing up as I arrived. I watched a trout rise not more than 10 metres from the bank, and one of the sage anglers said to me "I wouldn't waste your time on them. They will cause you a lot of disappointment." The anglers drove off and left to my devices I thought I could do better. The temptation was just too strong. An hour later, despite several rises in the vicinity of my fly, I had been licked too! Thank goodness the old gent wasn't around to witness my futile efforts and say 'I told you so'!

I was awed by the sheer size of Great Lake. I wouldn't know how to begin fly fishing a lake of its size and catching trout must surely be like finding a needle in a haystack. I stopped to buy petrol at the Great Lake general store which had antiquated petrol pumps. I spoke with the girl in the threadbare store who seemed pleased to have someone to talk to. She said her dream was to leave Tasmania, and she mentioned that "the cost of living is so high that some weeks all we can eat is Devon and potatoes." I nodded sympathetically, without knowing what Devon was (I later learned that it's a processed meat).

A deserted Cow Paddock Bay at Lake Arthur

I camped for the night beside Lake Arthur, another great big lake almost dead centre of the island. Greg French's book suggested it was a good place for beginners to 'practice' catching Tasmanian lake trout before moving to more difficult waters. I found a deserted place to camp near the shore of 'Cow Paddock Bay' and as the evening fell I made a log fire to keep me warm. The night time temperature was noticeably colder on the plateau, and in the early hours of the morning I nearly froze to death! I was forced to sleep in my car. Funnily enough, it was my best sleep of the trip so far.        

Day 6: Thursday, 29 January

I woke up early and drove to the Central Plateau Conservation Area. From here I planned to leave my car and hike overnight into the wilds to fish for trout in some of the smaller lagoons and lakes. But I was worried about my lack of warm clothing and the weather was foul. It was raining and an icy wind pierced my windbreaker with ease. I was raring to go but I realised that if it got any colder I could be putting myself in harm's way. I decided to push on north to Tasmania's second urban centre, Launceston, where I could buy some warm clothing and perhaps find a sheltered river to fish in the afternoon. 

The drive between Great Lake and Launceston was exhilarating, an ear-popping descent of many hairpin bends and a pleasure to experience. Launceston felt a little more upbeat and inviting than Hobart. I bought thermals and other warm clothing, and enjoyed a late morning breakfast and coffee at a café on the main street. Now fully provisioned, I drove to a campsite at Myrtle Bank, 40 minutes north east of Launceston. The campsite runs down to the bank of the St. Patrick's River and as I set up my tent I could see a trout nymphing in the river's crystal clear water. 

With a few hours in the afternoon spare, I drove to Corkery's Road and followed the river upstream until I came to a bridge. I parked and watched a trout rise from the bridge. When my rod was made up I cast a parachute Adams to the trout, which rose and gently sipped in the fly. It measured 12".

A first trout from the St Patrick's River

The water of the St Patrick's River was far clearer than any of the river's I had fished in the south. I could spot and stalk individual trout but it was by no means easy, because the trout were incredibly spooky. Most of the trout scrambled for cover long before I could cast a fly to them. I finished a couple of hours later with a tally of six trout. Five had taken a parachute Adams and the sixth a black nymph. The trout which had taken the dry fly (and several others which were lost) had all sipped the fly without making any splash or surface disturbance. Never before had I encountered such gentle 'sippers' nor indeed such a consistent rising pattern amongst trout.

The parachute Adams claimed another trout

This was a really pretty stretch of river and I thoroughly enjoyed fishing in warm afternoon sunshine. I thought to myself that it was my favourite experience of trout fishing in Tasmania yet, but that was probably down to the shot in the arm of feeling vindicated for leaving the lakes of the central plateau behind.  

Day 7: Friday, 30 January

My new thermal clothing worked a treat and I slept warmly and soundly. I could hear the wind howling outside my tent in the early morning and decided to have a little extra sleep, eventually arising at 9am. A Tasmanian couple who were touring the island on a motorbike had set up a tent nearby, and they mentioned that the weather was very unseasonal.

I wanted to fish the headwaters of the St Patrick's River, largely because of the alluring write-up and images in Greg French's book. It was a long drive along a gravel road and I missed a turn off along the way, which delayed me.  

The headwaters of the St Patrick's River

I eventually found the place I had demarcated on my map at 1pm. The river was hemmed in by thick rainforest and ran glass clear over very fine gravel. It was a stunning scene, the river's charm enhanced by its remoteness. I set off upriver, either wading in the channel or beating my way through the bush. I saw several fish along the way but they were extremely nervous. To provide an example, I observed a trout rising to dainty emergers in a tiny pool no deeper than the midpoint between my ankle and calf. The trout was easy to spot, coloured dark and moving sinuously above the the river's pale gravel. I was able to sneak into casting range without being seen and then flicked my fly forward. The fly fell two or three feet behind the trout, but even then the gentle touch of the fly on the water was enough to send the fish fleeing for cover. I was truly licked by the wily trout in these headwaters, but I think being beaten by trout once in while is a good thing. It helps to keep me grounded.

The best I could achieve was to get a fish to rise to my parachute Coachman, but I mistimed the strike. Another fish flashed up to my dry but turned away at the last micro-second and fled to cover. And that was it! It was hard going through the bush and with every step I took from the road I felt ever more like Davy Crockett, exploring the unknown. It came as a surprise then when I saw the jarring sight of a fresh boot print in the sandy margin of the river. Just the single boot print. No other trace of its owner. Perhaps somebody had fished the river in the morning. And perhaps it explained why the trout were so skittish.

On the way back to my campsite I stopped at a bridge over the St Patrick's river on the Targa Hill Road and cast to the trout rising in the bridge pool. My first cast was taken by a trout which felt very large because it ran like a freight train into the roots of a tree where my tippet snapped like old cotton thread. I did catch another trout from the same pool, with a parachute Adams, so at least I wasn't completely skunked on the day. It was a dark fish, matching the deep, dark pool it came from. Like the trout the day before, it too rose to my dry fly very measuredly and sipped the fly incredibly gently. By then I had learned to say "wait" before striking. 

Dark trout, from a dark pool

I was treated to a deep red sunset in the evening

The St Patrick's is a gorgeous river. A very demanding one too. I like the campground at Myrtle Bank and will use it as a base for the next few days.  

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