Tasmanian getaway Part 1

As Dan has already mentioned, the 2019/20 winter fishing in the UK was dire. Fortunately, I had the opportunity to travel to the Southern hemisphere and swap seasons for just shy of a month, spending most of my time camping and fishing in Tasmania’s vast wilderness.

With the season comparable to early June in the UK, I planned to spend    most of my fishing time targeting trout and leave marine species till the last week of my stay. Unfortunately, after an early heatwave in October, the weeks leading up to my arrival in Tassie were characterised by unseasonal storms, snow and sub-Antarctic wind. I secretly hoped this lull in spring would pass by   the time I arrived, but sadly this wish did not materialise. Despite passing through smoke-ridden Sydney, I touched down in a windy, 9°C Hobart. The walk to the terminal building got me questioning whether I’d packed enough warm clothes, as I had intended on spending a considerable amount of time in the west and central highlands.

All negative thoughts soon disappeared; no sooner had I stepped into ‘Spot On – the fishing connection’, Hobart's legendary tackle shop, I was eager to cast a line. I must have spent a good hour discussing different lakes and rivers to try over the coming weeks but did eventually head off with a license and selection of new lures to try.

The first session was an urban trip in South Hobart, working my way upstream from the CBD, fishing the creek that supplies Australia’s oldest brewery. It was a pleasant trip, I caught about half a dozen pristine trout from the minute creek in the company of numerous wallabies, cockatoos and pademelons. Although I enjoy fishing tiny urban streams, I had my sights set on exploring some of the more remote areas where the trout have often never seen an angler.

Cascade Brewery and Mt.Wellington in the distance

An urban trout

 After an evening pouring over maps, a plan was hatched with Jon to climb mount Anne and fish the mighty Tyenna river on the return to Hobart, hoping the water levels would have dropped by then as no more rain was forecast. The Tyenna has been somewhere I’ve wanted to fish for some time, this small river is renowned for being incredibly productive; every year double figure fish are pulled from its idyllic waters.

Sadly, we heard the following morning that the Mt Anne region was closed due to bushfire damage so quickly came up with a plan B. We elected to head north-west to Mount Field national park, hike the Tarn Shelf circuit and fish the Tyenna over the long weekend.

The weather was glorious in Mt Field, I distinctly remember applying copious amounts of sun cream before we shouldered our bags. Fishing rod in hand, we began a steep ascent through mixed forest dominated by the endemic and charismatic Richea pandanifolia, the giant grass tree. A few patches of slushy snow were scattered through the forest, but we thought little of it. As we climbed higher, the pandani grove morphed into a thicket of snow gum and the patches of slushy snow became more prevalent. 

Jon beneath a towering 'Pandani'

First signs of snow

Rather alarmingly, at perhaps 1050m altitude, there was a good 5 inches of snow on the track. This did not bode well as the track would climb several hundred metres more before levelling out and following the tarn shelf. We spotted a couple walking towards us, which sent alarm bells ringing. It was still early in the morning; surely no one would have managed to already complete the circuit anti-clockwise? My fears were confirmed, we were told they lost the trail above the treeline in deep snow. Eager to carry on, we ignored their advice to turn back and sought an alternative route to the plateau. We hoped it would be possible to at least make it out if the trees and get glimpse of Lake Seal. Thankfully we did find the track and managed to join up with another set of footprints which followed the route we were following on the map for several kilometres. We were blessed with blue skies and stunning views; a white blanket coated the peaks and cols above us, in stark contrast to the dark, tannin stained waters of Lake Seal below.

A surreal scene for Australian summertime

Our hearts soon sank again as we saw the two figures who had been walking ahead of us approaching. A quick chat revealed that making any progress through the waist deep snow and icy bogs which lay ahead was unpleasantly arduous, so they had chosen to turn back. We decided to carry on regardless, following their footprints to a hut in the distance where we could stop for a bite to eat and assess the situation – it was almost midday and we hadn’t even seen the lakes I planned on fishing! From the hut I could see the Mackenzie tarn, the first of a series of 8 small lakes which the trail follows. It appeared to be frozen over, not something you often come across in Australia!

We decided to make our way slowly down to the tarn, we still had ten hours of daylight and no other plans. It was quite entertaining, trudging through deep snow whilst probing for rocks and pools, every now and then coming across the top of a trail marker confirming we were still on the right track. After a few obligatory pictures by the frozen tarn, we decided to venture onwards to the next one (which was only half frozen) so I could finally cast a line. I wasn’t surprised that nothing was interested in my lures, but nonetheless felt some sense of achievement for attempting to fish in this surreal location.

Not a bad spot for lunch!

We made the decision to have lunch then turn back to go and fish one of the lower lakes below the snowline. Whilst sitting by the lake, a German girl who was running the route showed up and exclaimed “Oh, I guess the footprints end here then!”. We had a chat and explained how we were turning back; it had taken five hours to walk little more than a quarter of the circuit. She tried to persuade us to continue as she didn’t have a proper map, only a small pamphlet with a sketch of the route. We decided against it and wished her good luck before finishing lunch. Feeling slightly worried for her, I climbed a small crag to see if I could spot her bright blue jacket in the snow. I caught sight of her, however she appeared to be lost, stuck on the wrong side of the next tarn, penned in by a braided creek and boggy ground hidden by snow. We decided to continue to show her the correct route, crossing the stream on the other side of the lake. She thankfully saw us and re-joined the right track. We decided to try and reach the next tarn and have a few more casts before heading back, however in the distance ahead of us we could see a group of brightly clothed hikers! This signalled that we’d reach the halfway point if we met, assuming they had started at a similar time to us that morning. We decided to put fishing on hold and meet the group. It turned out that the snow was a lot sparser ahead and progress a lot quicker.

This meant we could finally justify an hour or two fishing the tarns and streams that abound the high plateau. We caught numerous pristine trout from this magical place before heading off at pace to complete the circuit before darkness fell. Reaching the Tyenna valley in twilight, we pitched our tent and cooked two trout surrounded by a plethora of endemic Tasmanian fauna emerging to graze on the lush floodplain. We ended the monumental day by hunting for glow worms amongst tree ferns in the nearby forest before setting pre-dawn alarms for the next fishing trip, in total awe of the experience we had just been through.  

An immaculate brownie, note the vivid red spots on the adipose fin

Living in the moment

Winter was a pretty dreary affair, hopes of grayling fishing shattered with almost comical lifts of rivers into flood just hours before the weekend. With more than enough work on the PhD to keep busy anyway, it has been hard to build drive to stay engaged with fishing. By the new year I’d all but given up with fishing, my heart broken by the flow gauge one too many times, with a month covered in travelling to the Czech Republic for a Genomics training course (think computer programming meets analysing full genome datasets) and heading North to Scotland to sample some excellent winter mountaineering in full-on storm conditions. Precious little time that was found whilst based at home largely found me seeking out toothy, but diminutive canal pike on the fly. On my last visit, whilst returning another of the average stamp of 3-4lb jack, a broad set double figure fish shot out from the part flooded rotten rushes at my feet, sulking in plain view but refusing to acknowledge a fly. Rewarding enough to keep total angling deprivation and withdrawal depression at bay, the mind was ever set on the dawn of coming spring and the new trout season to bring some much needed psych back.

Canal pike on the fly.

 But now everything seems uncertain as we enter an unprecedented state of society- not to mention restriction on the long awaited fishing- all because of the word of the moment (I’ll spare mention of the word!). It’s Sunday tomorrow, at least I think so, I can’t really remember what I’ve done day to day for the past couple of weeks other than consume copious buckets of tea, only the occasional live stream of church meetings or virtual coffee break interrupting the timeless haze. I’ve found myself stalking the comments sections of angling groups on social media too closely for my own good. One time, maybe yesterday or last week, I get called out as an extremist by a bass angling group for advocating that we should be speaking with a united voice as anglers towards conservation of our already plundered inshore ecology rather than squabbling greedily to fill our freezers with the last barely mature fish still scraping by. More recently, I've seen an article criticising the suggested reintroduction of burbot to our waters, a fascinating native species to the UK which was driven locally extinct by a mixture of habitat destruction and climate change, no doubt also suffering from widespread pollution issues that almost universally affect our rivers. It’s all good though now, with less monitoring by the EA on rivers, driven by budget cuts, we’re now missing pollution events and not scrutinising water companies’ discharges, so the rivers are, at least on paper, not in such bad shape! Sorry, I lost my train of thought there. But the burbot; there’s been fantastic work done by Norfolk Rivers Trust and a number of other forward thinking individuals to restore the flood plain habitat that this species needs and work hard to raise the funds for an effective reintroduction campaign. Brilliant, obvious conservation work being done to right a wrong in our native ecology, our natural heritage in Britain in the midst of so many terribly sad losses. But who should criticise this effort but the Angling Times themselves, citing this to be wasted funds and compounding issues of non-native predators in UK waterways. I’m yet to see an article decrying the non-native king carp to British waters, funny that. Not to mention the EU legal obligation to reintroduce native species to their habitats where they are now absent, surely it’s only in every angler’s interest to see native ecology and a really cool fish species restored, grandkids now able to catch the fabled species of their grandfathers and look in admiration. My gut sinks deeper as I delve into that darkest area of the internet, the comments section. Every other dim-witted remark is lauding the article and suggesting that we should get back to exterminating otters whist we’re at it, not a single voice critiquing the magazine for putting out such a narrow vision based purely on speculation and spitting on science.

Argh!

For those unfamiliar, freshwater ecosystems are perhaps the most at threat ecosystem globally. The UK is not immune to this, with modification to our freshwater ecosystems occurring as early as the 11^th century, driving decline in our freshwater fish species. Wind forward the clock and freshwaters in Britain face a myriad of stressors, from dams and barriers preventing breeding migrations of many of our most threatened fish species, arable nutrients leaching into rivers and lakes and causing eutrophication and choking oxygen out of the system, pesticides killing our naturally rich insect life, erosion dumping sediment into rivers and choking gravels into nothing more than a stinking muddy puddle, over-abstraction of water, canalisation of once free flowing rivers into monotonous canals… I mean we’re now even seeing feminisation (male fish becoming sterile or even female!) of fish from pharmaceuticals flowing in from sewage treatment plants. It’s enough to make an ecologist weep and, in my case, keep you busy in a job. Let’s be clear then, otters, beavers, cormorants, even burbot have coexisted in the UK for many millennia with the rest of the fish species which we enjoy catching. Declines in our fish life is then not a result of brilliant work being done to restore these native species to a richer, more diverse native ecosystem function, but because of the multitude of ills that we have inflicted upon our poor waterways. And I’m damned sure that the Angling Times know it. Why then stoke this misinformation? Is it because we want to greedily catch more and more bloated specimen fish from stagnant water, the makings of perfect magazine cover material? Does this prize outweigh the ecosystem services to society that natural freshwater systems provide? Did the author once lose a card game against a freshwater ecologist? We may never know, but, for picking away at hard fought restoration work which will benefit waterways and the people around them immensely, they should hang their heads in shame. One last note, before I bookmark this rant. Grayling were long persecuted in the belief that they harmed trout and salmon, ruthlessly slaughtered by gamekeepers along much of the UK’s chalkstreams by the orders of the various lords and ladies of the land. An innocent victim and now rightly recognised to hold high esteem as a wild fish species alongside trout and salmon.

Sigh. 

Well the original intention of this post was to fill in with my trout fishing up until lockdown set in, so after that lengthy vent, I’ll hopefully finish on a cheerier note! The 15^th of March, opening day of trout season, finally arrived but only after another big dump of rain. Fortunately, we had a plan. Driving north, we passed blown-out river after blown-out river, prospects not looking brilliant. The heavy rain lifted to drizzle however as we entered Exmoor and by the time we were at the coast it was merely overcast. Concerned that the larger rivers might be unapproachable during this spate, and the lowland tributaries of the Exe colouring too quickly from soil erosion, we settled upon the magnificent river Heddon. Between steep wooded Exmoor slopes runs this turbulent stream, less steep than the nearby East Lyn, holding not a bit less character, running directly onto the cobbles of the beach. As we tackled up to make our first casts, we pondered the scene of salmon and sea trout running from the cove up the shallow flow along the beach into the river to find the site of their own conception and give rise to the next generation of glistening fish. Awesome stuff. Despite the clarity being less than a foot, the fish came quickly to feed on heavy tungsten nymphs dropped into slacker water. One particularly nice fish of 10 inches had the good humour of taking my nymph just below Stuart’s own feet in water that he had fished through, before performing some spectacular acrobatics right in front of the disbelieving Stuart. As the day passed on, the colour of the river dropped off and we were both happy to see plenty of eager, hungry trout after what has felt like a very long close season. The trip was of course toasted with half a pint of Exmoor beast in the Hunters Inn before journeying back south.

Yes, that's the sea you can see in the background!

Thereafter the weather finally began to smile upon us, as biblical amounts of rain became a mere memory, enabling many a lunchtime wander with the fly rod. Having recently joined the Crediton Fly Fishing Club, it was nice to explore some entirely new rivers to myself as well as revisiting new sections of already familiar rivers. Such trips were commenced to a visit to the Creedy, pestered by a curious group of bullocks before slipping in to fish the odd pool here or there. It was all pretty quiet still, but just before leaving, an 11 inch fish kindly took a look at my nymph run through a deep pool, colours still muted in the cool winter water. Initially jilted on the Culm, it was a relief to later pick up a plump 12 inch fellow who took in a wide shallow run in the afternoon sun. Best of all was my final trip, rivers really fine by this point, on the Yeo. Amidst the fresh tang of wild garlic, I squeezed beneath barbed wire fences to access the most favourable looking pools. The fish were joyfully colourful and apparently tasteful, refusing more tarty large flies for more natural size 16 nymphs. With a fish of 12 inches already taken from one pool and released after much admiration, I was pretty pleased. Working up a modest size pool, I targeted the deeper flow to the righthand side without so much as a polite nod from a trout, bringing attention to a small back eddy away from the main flow. Typically, this back eddy just happened to be guarded by the clutching grasp of a sycamore tree, fresh sticky buds punctuating long dangling digits. Wading as carefully as I dared, cringing at the crunching gravel beneath my feet, I was just about able to manoeuvre to position to lower my pair of nymphs below the rod tip into this eddy. Within a moment, the line checked and the tip arced over. A splendid dance followed, a fine fish apparent from the deep stubborn fight carried around the whole pool, long fought before resignation. Admired, and a few snaps taken, this fish was not only gorgeous in its own right, but also a good thirteen inches long – already beating my best fish of last season (excluding sea trout of course!). Happily, I gathered a net full of wild garlic before tramping back to the car, one foot squelching from leaky waders, for the last time for some time.

Special mention too should be given to a couple of less solitary trips shared with Stuart. Most of my trout fishing tends to be a lonely affair, making company on the bank a really nice change. Driving up a short way from Exeter, we quickly pass over the popular topic of our current public health situation and quickly pick up onto more important matters of discussion, namely salmon. Parking up behind a housing estate, a lady passes by and huffs loudly enough to express apparent upset at ourselves. Pondering the meaning, I make a point of smiling and making as much eye contact as possible as she passes by again. It’s a mean world folks, but we can all smile it away. The water appeared to be in absolutely top condition, clear but with just an edge of tinge that screamed fishy to both of us. The day started in courtesy, each picking up fish in turn from every likely looking spot, but an edge of slight competition soon crept in. Jumping a fence behind a council building we regained access to the urban river again to find a splendid large pool which I had bookmarked on a previous visit. Wide enough for both of us to cast, we must have taken ten fish between us from the one pool before moving on. Competition was not simply about quantity of trout, highest esteem was held for the most brightly and vividly spotted, or those with the cleanest white stripe on their anal fin, each fish a joyous piece of art. Contrasted with comically urban and criminally modified river, we left the day giggling and giddy at one of the best trout fishing days for both of us. Perhaps more can be said of this trip another time. Lastly, on Stuart’s birthday we made a post-work trip up onto the West Dart. Shrouded in thick fog, cold and in the last weak grey haze of the day, it was quite clear that conditions weren’t quite matched to optimal catching. No matter, despite the blank we shared casts up the gorgeous clear water, complimenting each other on particularly fine presentations to make up for the lack of eager fish to do so, and making plans for return in the scorching bliss of summer.

Brilliant memories, I’m very grateful for the little time that I was able to make the most of. This whole time seems a good reminder that nothing in the future is certain, with plans currently on hold and digested day by day. Make the time now for memories that’ll see you through the rough times and let’s make sure we pass on healthy ecosystems to those after us so that they can do the same. Maybe I’ll see you on the bank when this is all over!