The Way of an Angler
… a brief extract from David Scholes’ fabulous book by that title. This chapter was headed Nights on the Goulburn
One evening in the summer of 1940 I went well downstream to fish a couple of pools where the flow was faster and the fish more fixed in their positions. By standing on the rocks you could drift a fly over them nicely, without rushing and tearing before they got out of range. When it became probably dark and impossible to see any longer I would normally set off back towards my lodgings at Eildon township, as usual following the course of the river. I cannot mention these return journeys in the dark without reliving the most tragic event that befell me one especially dark night. I walked straight into the butt of a huge gum tree, thereby breaking three inches off the tip of a new rod. It was a woeful experience and I cursed continuously all the way home. Never since that night have I walked in the darkness with the rod pointing in front of me; I always carry it butt first at my side.
Anyway, on this night, once it became dark off I went as usual carefully following the rough pathway and quite content to take my time, the lights of my destination occasionally visible in the distance. I had not gone far, however, when I was somewhat startled to hear the unmistakable screech of line being stripped from a reel, and it seemed to me like the sound of a fly reel. I was interested to know that another angler was in the vicinity, so I thought I would check on his fortune.
But upon investigation I found no sign of a fisherman anywhere. Thinking I had mistaken the direction I stopped quite still, listening for further guidance. Since nothing stirred I decided my quarry had departed, and fully expected to hear rustling in the undergrowth upstream. But there was no sound at all. Even the river was silent. Then suddenly I detected a movement immediately in front of me, right at the extremity of a little promontory. I made my way slowly towards it.
I know that anglers are frequently odd people and you should never be surprised at anything they do. Yet here before me was a man on his knees, bent close to the ground and supporting himself with one hand, peering into the darkness with great concentration and obviously in the process of fishing! At my approach he raised himself to a kneeling position and turned to greet me. As is the case when two fishers meet, whatever their station or calling in life, we were soon on speaking terms and began to discuss the season’s fishing, especially the Goulburn. It was abundantly clear that this was far from his first visit to Eildon. He had fished the Goulburn for 30 years, and I think he knew miles of it like the back of his hand. His name was Jock.
We were yarning quite casually when, without warning, in the middle of a sentence he spun quickly towards the water. “Quiet a minute,” he said, dropping on all fours. “Did you hear that rise?” Before I could answer he went on, “There he is again.” He crept a few feet upstream, right to the edge of the river, and stared at the water. At the same time his rod was working and he dropped a short line into the gloom. He moved again, another foot or two, listening intently. He cast again, lowering his head and adopting a similar position to that in which I had first found him during our discourse. I had not mentioned anything about his behaviour, and neither had he. But by now I had no need to raise the question – it was perfectly clear.
“Can you see where he is?” I asked, moving a little closer. Jock answered immediately, “From down here I can. Quick come and take a look. There are two fish working, not one. Put your gear down and come in here on my left.”
Quickly I did as he said, creeping right to his side. We were on the eastern bank and from our low level when looking west there was still a slight afterglow, its reflection on the river surface like a pale mirror. Jock cast again and the fall of the line cut a thin momentary thread of silver across the glassy pool.
“Can you see the fly?” I queried. “No, but I know where it is roughly. I go by hearing mostly. Look! There’s one again! Hear him?”
I could. The rise was solid and loud – a glorious sound, as all who fish will agree. I had no idea of the fly’s whereabouts, and would never have struck at the next rise. Yet in a moment the water erupted – you now how it does when a trout is first hooked. For a second or two neither of us spoke. Then Jock broke the silence.
“Not a bad fish” he remarked, standing now as he played it. I asked if I could help but Jock said “No” to everything, and “Keep your torch off.”
So I just watched as, with remarkable ease, he handled the whole business, eventually netting out a handsome brown of at least four pounds, about as good a trout as ever I saw from that part of the river.
This demonstration was an eye-opener to me, and I began to ask questions. Jock was quite happy to expound his theories and give his advice. I was particularly interested in the fly that he used. It was a Coachman on a No. 3 down-eyed hook tied with a generous but slightly clipped ginger hackle and fan-wings from the neck feathers of a white cockatoo trimmed to the right shape beforehand. He ran a fine gold wire through the peacock body to reinforce it, and the whole thing floated admirably.
For night fishing of this kind, calm weather was obviously essential, while strong moonlight was beneficial to vision. On some nights he said he fished until 11 o’clock or after, especially when there was moonlight. He had caught many big fish by this means, up to 8 pounds, these bigger fellows only appearing after dark to cruise lazily near the edges sipping and all that they found. Jock carried a small torch in his pocket to illuminate the changing of flies or other adjustments to tackle, such being kept to an absolute minimum due to the prolonged adverse effect the light had on one’s night vision.
His method of operation was to fish the evening rise in the usual way, then wait for the inshore cruisers. In addition to the dry fly he had, at one time anyway, employed natural beetles as bait. These were brown cockchafers, dug from the earth around the bases of large gums and threaded on a No. 2 hook and then given a thin coating of Cerolene line dressing to assist in flotation.
Although those beatles were deadly he preferred the fly because apart from its comparative refinement, there was no catching required, and it was far more durable.
Jobs fished a little more that night but had no further success. Undoubtedly the time spent on my instruction had robbed him of most of the available opportunities, but he was quite unconcerned. At length we walked back towards the township together, parting company near his caravan camp. I was not to see him again.
The next day I had agreed to go with a party to fish the Big River, and on my return he had gone.
Following my excursion to the Big River I once again became a regular attendant at the evening rise on those slow pools of the Goulburn. One night I dabbled in Jock’s method, resulting I’ll have you know, in the capture of the best fish of the night by far. In consequence I became an ardent follower of the practice, so that on any suitable night I always ended up fishing until late. The more I tried it, the more I enjoyed it. I found it quite fascinating and highly absorbing. I still feel it has much to commend it, in spite of my anti-night fishing attitude.
Since then I have had sundry reversionary bouts of this fishing, whenever I felt the desire, and always everywhere I tried it the results have been well worth while. In Tasmania my most successful scenes of operation have been on the lower Meander and, to a lesser extent, on the North Esk. The essential requisites for the method are not hard to find on many rivers, and also on lakes. They consist in the main on a quiet slow pool with a flat oily surface and no rapids or gurgles nearby to impair one’s hearing. Almost any lake is suitable on a calm night when fish are rising. In Tasmania the possibilities are practically unlimited.