The cold is all that’s biting

Opening day is never optional. Over a lifetime of “bothering trout” I have fronted up on most occasions, even when I was exiled in Sydney. The only excuse for non-attendance grudgingly accepted by my fishing mates, was being on assignment outside Australia. Living in London I would get calls in the middle of the night. “Wooley, where are you? There are fish everywhere. We got 10 between us. They were in beautiful condition. And you are going to miss a great pig roast at the Bradys Lake Fire Station. Everyone will be there. Except you.”

For about 30,000 Tasmanians (and mainlanders who wish they were Tasmanian) the first Saturday in August, the opening of the trout season, is not to be missed. Some take the date literally with a ritual start at the stroke of midnight.

Years ago, I was at Lake Pedder for the season opener. A boisterous late dinner in the chalet was followed by the summons to board a flotilla of small boats and surge perilously into the dark and formidable waters of the lake.

I doubt in these onerously responsible times such an event would still happen.

At least not without a designated diver — someone to pull adventurous fishermen out of the icy water.

Another time I was fishing the opening day with a wellknown Tasmanian journalist, Mike Tatlow. We were out before first light on Little Pine Lagoon, south of the Great Lake. Little Pine is the windiest and coldest place I have ever fished. Canada, Scotland and Lapland are Mediterranean by comparison. “Tatters” and I had to resort to a flask of Scotch to maintain warmth.

We fished hard but with no reward. Our flies remained untouched somewhere out in the watery darkness. As the first light of dawn crept across the lake Tatters erupted in laughter. “Look. There’s why we have caught nothing. The lake is frozen over. We have been casting our flies on to the bloody ice.”

We retired to the comforts of a log fire and an early breakfast back at the old Bronte Park Chalet which sadly is no more. But that is another story.

I must have had many more successful first day forays in pursuit of early season trout but none that I remember better than that time on Little Pine. Somehow, standing in the dark on a frozen shore, casting a fly on to an ice floe is a metaphor for my lifelong experience with trout.

I have been at this quixotic business of bothering trout with hooks and feathers for more than 40 years. I know a little more than I knew on my first opening day but in truth I could spend another 40 years and still have so much more to learn. Which is why on one of the coldest days of the year, this week I was back for more.

The ritual began the night before with a three-course preopening dinner in the lakeside cabin of trout guide Greg Beecroft. Greg is a very private man and he was a little embarrassed when I sang his praises a few columns back.

This time in the interest of balance let it be reported that when we went fishing the next morning, he caught nothing. It was one of the rare times I equalled him.

The water temperature was 4C but whenever I waded in, Dusty the dog, on his first opening day, insisted on coming with me. I had waders and thick socks. He had fur but nothing to cover his oversized puppy feet. When I restricted myself to the shore to keep him warm, Dusty then went back in to join his new friend “Croftie”, who might have slipped him a few treats at dinner the night before.

It was then we noticed how quickly Dusty’s thick, coarse fur shed water.

When fly fishers are around, other than trout, no creature is safe. Rooster’s hackle, parrot’s feathers, the cat’s tail, granny’s fur coat and miscellaneous roadkill, all ends up in furry and feathered concoctions on the shank of a fish hook.

I am told it is illegal in Tasmania to remove fur or feather from roadkill. But fly tyers (if you think it’s a strange spelling, it’s an even stranger pursuit) would argue customary practice, natural justice and of course a higher purpose — to fool a wild trout.

As always, opening day ended with yet another excellent three-course dinner, this time at the lakeside residence of John Cleary, a former state government minister for inland fisheries.

In office John fished diligently, as he continues to do in retirement. And he ties a lovely fly.

We have called it the “Dusty Caddis”. It is based on one of Greg Beecroft’s creations, the “Bronte Caddis”, which mimics a discreet, small, black and orange insect found mostly on Bronte Lagoon. “When fish are rising and you can’t see what they’re feeding on, try this fly,” Greg once told me.

As I said at the outset, there is so much to learn. Before Greg gave me a Bronte Caddis, I had never noticed those little buggers. Now I see them buzzing around everywhere.

The process of fly tying caused Dusty no distress at all. Grateful for any attention he found it mildly interesting.

Unfortunately, the next day it snowed. I had to leave before the roads were closed, so the Dusty Caddis remains untested.

The caddis, sensibly enough, is a warmer weather insect (only fly fishers are mad enough to be out on the water in winter) but in the spring if the Dusty Caddis proves irresistible I am sure it will be on sale at the Bronte shop.

WE FISHED HARD ... BUT OUR FLIES REMAINED UNTOUCHED. AS DAWN CREPT ACROSS THE LAKE TATTERS ERUPTED IN LAUGHTER. “LOOK. THERE’S WHY WE HAVE CAUGHT NOTHING. THE LAKE IS FROZEN OVER. WE HAVE BEEN CASTING OUR FLIES ON TO THE BLOODY ICE.