New Soul

There is something wonderful and precious about regeneration and new life. You see it in intense green regrowth taking back the burnt-out bush. You hear it in the pouring rains reviving the waterways and carrying sustenance to all life downstream. You recognise it in a town, once close to the brink, now prosperous again with business. It was as though the Snowy Mountains had a new soul.

I had only fished the Snowys on a handful of occasions since moving away from Canberra in 2013. On those occasions, the fishing never seemed as good, particularly after the strange disappearance of rainbow trout from Lake Eucumbene . Things got worse with the district facing low rainfalls and bushfires. Add a pandemic into the mix and towns like Adaminaby were really struggling.

The contentious Snowy Hydro 2.0 project, whether you agree with it or not, has breathed new life into the town. Three La Niña years had done more than soak the lands. The mighty Lake Eucumbene was at its highest level in 20 years and the surrounding streams were teeming with fish. Although not a Facebook user, I commandeered my wife’s account just to follow the Lake Eucumbene Facebook page. The fishing was buzzing from all reports. I locked in a week in late-January to find out for myself.

FREESTONE FISHING

The trip got off to an outstanding start. Indeed it did for my fishing buddy, Andrew Warnes, who could only join me for the first days of the trip. Andrew landed four fish on the very first pool of a lesser known stream. He got them all on the nymph, to my frustration. I like to start with only a dry fly on this type of water but this had forced my hand. The ‘dry-fly only or dual rig’ dilemma would linger in my thoughts throughout the trip. Although it was summer, the creek was flowing vigorously, consistent with the rain of the past few months. The conditions were akin to early season fishing and Andrew’s large nymph was a sound choice in the stronger flows.

The excellent fishing continued and I did catch more fish when I added a nymph, but I wasn’t going to catch up to Andrew’s cricket score. At times, it was literally a fish a cast. It was only the parting light that would keep the fish safe from Andrew’s wizardry and we ended the day at a gorgy section of massive boulders, where white caddis were hatching in vast numbers.

The following day, we started above the boulders where we had concluded yesterday’s fishing. It is intriguing to view a stream from high ground — it seems motionless, but gradually the waterway becomes iridescent and lively as you descend, beckoning the angler on. A pool or two above the boulders, the river split for a good length. I was happy to fish the smaller branch as it was a perfect match for my 3-weight. It wasn’t long before we accumulated good numbers of fish, as we had on the previous day. The smaller branch was fun and I was able to net a sizeable brown for these waters. The thrilling fishing and prolific numbers of fish up to two pounds continued until the end of the day. This was a stream I had never fished, but we agreed that it was one of the finest fishable streams in the country.

PATTERN OF LIFE

With Andrew heading back home to Canberra, and with the promise of a great forecast, I was excited by the prospect of a week of solid fishing to myself. It didn’t take long to settle into a routine. The day would start around first light at Lake Eucumbene, targeting trout in close that were hoovering up any late mudeyes. As the fog lifted, I would walk the shore looking for the ‘almost impossible to catch’ midge feeders. By this stage I would have worked up a good appetite.

After breakfast it was time to find a river, but this was always via the Adaminaby Bakery for a real coffee and to top up supplies for a riverside lunch. I aimed to be on a river by mid-morning, just as the warmth entered into the valley. Invariably, I would fish until late afternoon. The Snow Goose Hotel was a perfect place for dinner — they still serve a true country-pub meal. Then I would race back to Lake Eucumbene and put on the waders just in time for the evening rise. When I was done targeting the mudeye feeders, it was quite late. The days were long but I never once tired of the fishing.

THE RIVERS

The superb river fishing continued on both the Eucumbene and Murrumbidgee rivers, which I fished for the remainder of the week. Wading these venerated rivers again, felt like catching up with old friends. It’s amazing how much you remember about a river even after many years away — my favourite pools didn’t disappoint. The regrowth in sections of fire-scarred bush was comforting to see. The high plains were thriving with abundant alpine heath dotted with wildflowers. Brushing through sections of fresh scented native river mint on the banks of the Eucumbene River was a welcome extravagance.

The native wildlife was also in a prime state. I saw plenty of birdlife including the threatened gang-gang cockatoos, among other creatures that added to the scenery. In years gone, seeing a brumby out here was a rare and almost mystic encounter. But now, unfortunately, these majestic animals are found in such large numbers, and the damage they cause is very evident. I crossed several mobs during my travels. Wisely, brumby numbers are now being managed in an effort to preserve this fragile alpine environment.

I was able to reach some nice water on the Murrumbidgee below Tantangara Dam. Difficult to access, I don’t think this section of river would have seen much pressure in the past few seasons. Below the dam, the water is cool and clear, and trout were rising to everything. It would have been ideal for a beginner. Nymphs were not even considered.

On another day, I fished the Bidgee well above the dam on Long Plain. Unexplainably, the fishing had been slow on a particular beat, and when I couldn’t raise a fish from a likely pool, I contemplated adding a nymph dropper. But on the next cast I saw a fine brown trout appear from the depths, following the dry-fly for a short moment. The take was inspiring, and served to elucidate the ‘to nymph or not to nymph’ conundrum.

LAKE EUCUMBENE

Although the river fishing was fantastic with fish consistently caught, I would relish nothing more than getting back to the ‘Euc’ for the evening rise. For me, it is a place of enlightenment. As the sun slowly retreats beneath the distant mountains, it is peaceful to admire the ever changing gamut of glowing colours. In the stillness and twilight, my senses heighten. I gaze into the reflected orange glow on the still, cool water, mesmerised in the moment, but it won’t be long before a rise will break my trance.

Indeed, like the rivers, the lake was also fishing well. Lake levels were high and the trout were in excellent condition from the smorgasbord of worms and bugs exposed on the flooded ground. When the hatch started it could be frenetic, with enthralling rises both near and far. Some anglers would arrive at Rushy Plain Bay by boat for the evening rise. This included a father and young son, who were fishing a little bay a good distance away from my preferred stretch of shore.

In the darkness their voices would carry and I could hear the animated and edgy cries from the young boy: ‘Dad, I’m on, I’m on.’ I half expected the dad to spring to his son’s assistance and net the fish, but the reply seemed unfazed, ‘That’s good, take your time’, or something along those lines. Maybe he trusted his son to land it or more likely it is just extraordinarily difficult to focus on anything else when these trout are rising right in front. Who was I to judge?

When the crescendo of the evening rise is over, the night is only getting started. Mudeye fishing would have to be one of the most exciting and involved forms of fishing — it is visual, aural and tactile. In the warmer months, the dragonfly nymphs migrate in large numbers to the shore to hatch, with dusk to the early hours being the optimal time.

My favourite pattern for targeting these mudeye feeders is Bruce Gibson’s mudeye. The fly has a subtle but effective pulsing movement in the water, identical to the dragonfly nymph’s propulsion. The slow retrieve is awfully intense, feeling for any subtle follows — sometimes you can hear the take before feeling the tautness of the line. The bites are often quite abrupt and forceful.

On my last night, I had one take in a similar manner, but the line went immediately dead. Was I mistaken — it must be a snag? But soon the hefty unseen marauder tried to take me to the centre of the lake. I had to regain quite a lot of backing, but in the process of bringing this leviathan closer to the shore, it found security in the submerged bushes. I kept the rod tip high but the fly popped out, just like that. It was a gut-wrenching miss.

Still bewildered, with adrenaline flowing, I wondered what had just happened. I looked up into the night sky with stars so clear that it almost felt like I was amongst them. In that moment I saw and felt a sliver of contentment that helped reconcile my predicament. Another one added to a list of indelible lost fish.