The Lap

This won’t be a fishing trip. That’s what I told my wife as we set about planning a 12-month lap around Australia in our 4WD ute and 20-year-old Jayco camper trailer. And for the most part, I was a man of my word. But there’s a lot of water to drive past in more than 40,000km and it was only fair that I do a little bit of fishing along the way.

And so, with everything else you need for more than a year on the road, I managed to pack a 5-, 8- and 10-weight fly outfit, a bare-bones selection of flies covering all bases, and enough clothing to suit everything from sub-zero mornings in the southern high country to midday sun in the tropical north.

We departed from Perth WA in early February 2024 and hightailed it for the South Australian border, with a plan to make our way across the bottom of the continent to the eastern seaboard and then from the southernmost tip of Tasmania to the northernmost tip of Queensland at Cape York.

What followed over the next year was the trip of a lifetime, as we chased the sun through the changing seasons and I sampled the fishing that each State had to offer — from permit in the north to brown trout in the south and plenty in between.

SALMON & CARP

Some of the wildest and most exhilarating coastline in all of the country stretches from the Great Australian Bight and into South Australia’s Eyre Peninsula. A rugged and rocky shoreline of towering cliffs and sparkling white beaches, with crashing surf rolling in from the Southern Ocean.

The Australian salmon is an often underrated fish that frequents these areas. They are a great fly target, often found in big schools close to shore — aggressive feeders and spectacular fighters. Finding somewhere sheltered enough to get a fly in front of them is not so easy, but one morning, standing atop the cliff at Locks Well, a dark smudge of salmon stood out in the bay 50 metres below.

They sat tantalisingly close to shore but still required a chest-deep wade, avoiding the gutters underfoot and timing it between breaking waves, to coordinate a cast with the rod held high overhead. After much frustration, I managed to put a fly in front of the school and hook a fish, before hightailing it back up the beach to bring the fat torpedo onto the sand.

Continuing our journey and reaching Adelaide in early March, friend Matt Denton had been keen to show me SA’s underrated trout fishery, but in the midst of a hot spell we opted for another European import — carp.

Along the marshy shorelines of Lake Alexandrina, at the mouth of the Murray River, we were greeted by tails flipping about in the shallow murky water. Never having chased carp before, it proved to be tricky fishing that took me half a day to figure out before I started hooking fish. Following Matt’s lead we used a range of buggy trout patterns, with a strike indicator a metre or so up the leader.

These fish wouldn’t move to take a fly, so the technique was to find a feeding fish and put the fly just ahead and past it, then drag the fly back until it was right under its nose, using the strike indicator to judge its whereabouts in the near-opaque water. It was then a matter of watching the fish’s body language and trying to judge if and when it sucked up the fly, then lifting the rod to sometimes feel the weight of these very solid carp. It was a very challenging but very rewarding style of fishing.

HIGH COUNTRY TROUT

I first heard of the Howqua River many moons ago while watching that seminal TV series, A River Somewhere. And so, as we ventured into Victoria in early April and up into the high country, we first paid our respects at the Kerrigan family’s holiday home from The Castle in the town of Bonnie Doon, before heading up into the mountains.

We camped at several spectacular campsites on the banks of the beautiful Howqua with its crystal-clear flow, but the fishing proved tough, with few trout about, and very spooky. However, perseverance in wading and casting dry flies did eventually bring a few small browns and rainbows to hand.

We travelled deeper into the high country and it was there that friend and trout guide Scottie McPherson gave us the benefit of his hard-earned local knowledge, putting us onto a campsite on the grassy banks of the Mitta Mitta River and providing a handful of flies and a pair of waders. Over the next week I experienced some of the most magical afternoon rises I’ve ever had the pleasure of fishing.

During the day, I waded my way up the river, learning to cast a dry and a dropper, with just a few small fish for reward. But as the sun approached the horizon each afternoon, bigger fish would begin swirling and leaping in the fast-flowing water, taking Kosciuszko duns from the surface. I hooked and landed some beautiful big browns by casting dun imitation dries, losing plenty more to pulled hooks and mistimed strikes. When the session ended each day I strolled back along the riverbank to our campsite under the stars.

As we headed north into New South Wales in mid-May, a big rain-bearing depression sitting over Sydney and much of the coast pushed us inland, into the forests near Ebor and Australia’s northernmost trout water.

In the cold, fast-flowing streams amidst the tall trees of the national park, the fishing proved futile. In Ebor itself, where the Guy Fawkes River winds its picturesque way through the surrounding farm paddocks and into town, locals at the pub told me it would be hard going. Fish were again few and far between, but by covering some kilometres on foot I found a few smaller trout rising that were happy to take a dry fly drifted onto them. The grassy banks also provided my closest call with a snake, stepping straight over the top of a big copperhead that thankfully lay doggo in the cold weather.

It was now June and that same cold weather put paid to my chances of Australian bass and saratoga, with plenty of casts in prime-looking locations coming up empty as we continued north and into Queensland.

SALT & SWEET WATER

We followed the sun and moved into northern Queensland deep in July, but the trout rod wasn’t getting a break just yet, with the clear rainforest rivers and streams holding plenty of freshwater species including jungle perch and archer fish.

I’d long been fascinated by jungle perch. Sight casting to them in the rainforests around Cairns and Daintree, they’re very wary and will clear out if they catch wind of you. But if you can stay undetected and drift a floating fly — a foam ant or big caddis — they’ll hit them with great aggression.

I found archer fish holding station in the smallest of streams, waiting for insects and other edible flotsam to drift by. Again, casting a bigger dry fly upstream and drifting it back to them would usually get a reaction. Their cautiousness was fascinating to watch as they would first nudge the fly with their nose, then, if it passed that test, take it in the very tips of their lips before finally biting down on it so you could set the hook.

We saw out the winter by continuing on to the tip of Cape York, before stopping at Weipa in early September on the way back down, intending only to stock up on supplies and keep moving. But Weipa is one of the real epicentres of saltwater fly fishing in Australia and I couldn’t resist the chance to go fishing. So, I fired off a couple of emails to local guides, enquiring about a daytrip. Within the hour, Josh Hutchins from Aussie Fly Fisher was on the phone: ‘We’ve just had two spots open up on a mothership trip leaving tomorrow — are you in?’

After a short conference with the wife, we decided that yes, we were in. First thing next morning we were on the road to Yeppoon to meet up with the boats. From there we sat back and relaxed, warm tropical wind in our hair, as we ran up the wild Cape York coast before winding upriver to the mothership. When you’ve been sleeping in a camper trailer for the best part of a year, just lying on a regular bed is a touch of luxury, and so a few nights aboard a moored mothership was on the next level.

We were met with some of the toughest fishing weather all season, with wind and constant cloud rolling over, but the guiding efforts of Josh and Brody Sutton were relentless, and after drifting flat after flat I was eventually able to put my first East Coast permit on the deck. We pulled barramundi from snags, sight cast to queenfish on the flats, and came within a whisker of hooking a couple of XL GTs.

TASMANIAN SWANSONG

With summer now on the horizon we headed back south via the Red Centre, and on the last day of November 2024, drove the car and trailer onto the Spirit of Tasmania for the 12-hour crossing of Bass Strait.

I have tasted Tasmania’s trout fishing on a couple of previous flying visits and it has always stayed deep in my imagination — the windswept Western Lakes with their shallow-water polaroiding; swampy lagoon edges and their early morning tailers, and the ripples from finicky midge-feeders in the highlands at first light.

I’m fortunate to have several good friends who are Tassie-bred and happy to share their knowledge — where to look for fish, what fly to tie on and how to fish it. Pat Statham had me out of bed by 4.00am for a week straight, as we drove out to fish at dawn on the lagoons around Launceston and the Central Highlands. As a result we enjoyed amazing fishing as big, healthy brown trout foraged in the swampy edges, waiting for their tell-tale swirls so we could cast small nymphs on their noses, then twitch them lightly until the line came tight.

Our one foray out to the Western Lakes was met with bad weather and barely a fish to be found, until we rounded a small headland and in one shallow rocky bay found a handful of tails up in the air. Attempts to sink a small nymph in front of them met with failure, snagging up on the bottom. But a faithful Red Tag dry placed nearby was happily sipped off the surface.

At Great Lake, Bruce Barker escorted me out onto his home water where we tracked early morning midge feeders from the boat as they rose at random around the current lines. With eyes peeled for the subtle boils, a quick cast to intercept the cruising fish was usually met with a swirl as the dry fly disappeared from view. These were smaller, leaner fish than in the shallow lakes and lagoons, but they fought hard in the cold, deep water, pulling line from the reel in a fitting swansong to our time on the Apple Isle.

LIFE AFTER THE LAP

Now, sitting back in civilisation, would I recommend quitting your job and hitting the road to explore our vast country? Ab-so-lutely.

It’s not inexpensive, but people make it work every which way, whether by saving beforehand or working as you go. Young or old, kids or no kids, cats or dogs, there are no excuses and you’ll find them all out there on the road.

We barely touched the sides of the great variety of fishing on offer around Australia, and there’s one thing for certain — we’ll be back!