Explorations

In many ways, explorations drive me. But what is it I’m looking for—is there an end goal? Big fish, hidden hatches, solitude, a prolonged hunt for the lost fisheries of nostalgia? To be honest, I don’t exactly know, except that I have a strong curiosity about the unknown.

My explorations started early in life, in rural Ireland. Armed with my lurid orange mountain bike, a 9’6″ fly rod, and lots and lots of energy, I developed a seasonal regime of exploration: salmon runs in the spring, trout creeks in the summer, and pike lakes in the winter. The distances I covered even then were a little outlandish: from my home in Ballybeg to the village of Quinn was 20 kilometres return, not bad for a 13-year-old. Don’t worry, my parents weren’t neglectful—they just didn’t know! The rod was often gaffer-taped to the bike frame, whilst my fishing bag swung loosely from the handlebars. On arrival at Quinn, alongside the old crumbling abbey, I chased eight-inch trout in the limestone river, and learnt how to dry fly fish and to match the hatch. I explored hidden runs, studied wizened anglers, and watched pine martens run from tree to tree.

If Quinn was out of the question, I’d head to Dromoland Castle, where I had my first ever job, as a gamekeeper’s assistant. Out of hours, I’d poach trout and pike from the lake and river, just as the gamekeepers themselves did on their days off. Unexplored bays and stretches of hidden river were all fair game. A really good day would end with the poached quarry sold back to the estate’s kitchen.

Then there was my home river, the Fergus, and my home lakes at Ballybeg. Both were visible through my bedroom window. The Fergus is a beautiful limestone river, a cast-length in width, consisting of gliding pools and bubbling runs. Salmon would run in the spring and summer, whilst hatches of blue winged olives, gnats and sedge would bring trout on the rise throughout the season. We’d fish beautifully named pools through town: the Mill Run, the Sandy Hollow, and the Post Office Pool. Yet another run, Monks Bridge, was adjacent to my school and the nearby Garda (police) station. It was here that a local garda would question why I was fishing, instead of in school. I explained that the hatch was on, to which his reply was “Right so, well I’d better leave you to it then.” The Irish appreciate the more important things in life.

Skip forward 20 years, and I am still busily exploring. The river systems of Tasmania’s Western Lakes, and their clear-as-air lagoons provide a seemingly inexhaustible setting for endless explorations. Insignificant hillocks and bogs hide clear, sandy-bottomed tarns, where we sight-fish to wild trout, and hunt down old bush huts. Botanical minutiae provide the conventional beauty among the harsh glaciated landscape of this World Heritage Area, while the starkness of the heath and the Narnia-like appeal of the rainforests is what makes it so different from anywhere else I’ve ever seen.

Likewise, the rainforests and sub-alpine grasslands of the Tasmanian wilderness valleys guide the rivers of our explorations: the Mersey, Styx, Florentine and Arthur. The Arthur runs for more than 100 kilometres through the little known Tarkine Rainforest. The anonymity of the whole area is amazing, considering that the Tarkine is the largest temperate rainforest in the southern hemisphere, and only bettered in size by the forests of British Columbia.

So back to the start, and I ask myself what drives our explorations? Perhaps simple adventure is the driver of our quests, and fun the basic outcome. They are simple human traits, but increasingly hard to find as our urbanised societies continue on their relentless march towards sterility, homogeneity, and digitisation. Thankfully, they are three destinations that you won’t find in the wilderness.