Return to Omeo

“Someone’s feeling sorry for us,” mused my mate John, as he released another healthy, plump brown into the upper reaches of the Bundarra River in Victoria’s north-east.

It had been two years since he and I made the trek to the high country. We’d been pretty well skunked the season before last, with high waters and small flighty fish. Maybe we had made our quasi-regular Omeo Valley sojourn a week or two early that time. But whatever it was this summer, the gods were smiling on us.

As we rounded the bend to the Omeo Highway from the now fully-sealed Falls Creek Road, and set eyes on the Mitta Mitta for the first time in two years, we just had a sense that this was going to be a week to remember. Leaving behind temperatures in the high 30s, we inhaled the crisp mountain air like a long-lost friend and headed straight to the Blue Duck. The city’s clutter was a distant memory as the first of many refreshing ales trickled down the backs of our throats, and a golden speckled trout could be seen gliding carefree around in the pool below, gently picking off drifting nymphs.

“Ahhh, this is the life.”

Little were we to realise just how abundant and healthy the mountain streams were, and just how engorged our piscatorial friends had become in the space of a few short spring months.

SETTING CAMP

We often stake a claim on the rooms at Helen Packer’s ‘Willows’ a little further up Callaghan’s Road (FL#54), but this time stayed at the Bundarra Cabins. Built in the 1960s and now owned by Donald Beveridge, these are self-contained, rustic and functional, but what they lack in affectations they make up for in spades when it comes to location.

Perched on a rocky escarpment above the Bundarra River, our cabin’s balcony offered a view that can only be described as magical. At one’s doorsteps (after a scurry down a steep, but not unmanageable slope) are fishable pools and pocket waters of the Bundarra. And if a scurry was not on the agenda, what better way to while away the hours than with a good book and/or ale and/or malt and/or… well, whatever takes your fancy really… disturbed by nothing more than the murmurs of the cascades below?

But we weren’t here just for the scenery, the tranquility or the relaxation. After two years, we were here to reacquaint ourselves with the area’s fishing, and to say g’day to a few old friends. And so, having emptied the hire car, loaded up the fridge and got a stew going on the stove, we headed straight up to Helen Packer’s pools to try our hand at the evening rise.

THE BUNDARRA

The sun was beginning to set on the Valley, and the Bundarra was by that hour running a slightly warm but bearable 18ºC in the shade. With no obvious surface or near-surface activity to speak of that evening, and a quick turn of a few submerged rocks, we both rigged for nymphing.

Having quickly worked through the riffle trailing out from the pool ahead, I made out the tell-tale flash of white as a trout up front snared a drifting nymph. It was where it should have been: nestled in a current shadow behind a rock at the tail of the pool, and within easy striking distance of the passing smorgasbord. I adjusted the indicator to get more depth, shot a cast about 6 feet ahead of my quarry, and caught my first Bundarra trout for quite a long time.

That week offered some of the best high country fishing we had experienced in over 15 years. With the days starting at a cool 13º or 14º and progressively rising to no more than 18º by late afternoon, the conditions were tantalizing. Rains in September had contributed to an abundance of subaquatic life and activity. We’d never seen the river so healthy, so rich in food sources and so forgiving of rusty streamcraft, misdirected casting and questionable fly choices. The usual array of nondescript nymph patterns worked a treat, as did a Wyatt-inspired DHE from time to time.

Each day we brought to hand healthy browns of all sizes, up to 2 lb. Their broad flanks and overall condition spoke volumes about the health of the streams. It was good to be back.

THE COBUNGRA

Beyond the Blue Duck is the Cobungra. We don’t often fish its lower reaches, figuring that they’d be heavily explored by guests staying at the Duck. But this day, we just couldn’t resist. In all, we fished the Cobungra no more than three hours. We did take fish, up to a pound and a half, but the water temperature was already a tad higher than comfortable, so most decent sized fish were in deep, dark, cool places.

John was keen to try some Rich Osthoff-inspired Buggers and attractors. The soft hackle ‘hot butt’ Bugger with its distinctive orange tag resembled the native bees we’d come across earlier, heavy with pollen on their hindquarters.

The casts didn’t need to be anywhere near perfect (so it was perfect for us) as the aim was to get these large generic something-or-others down into the holes and crevices. A delicate application of tungsten putty soon had John’s two-fly rig plummeting through the water column.

If there’s no real secret to fishing deep Woolly Buggers, there’s still a fair degree of art. Once the fly is in the zone, it’s a matter of keeping in touch with it, to detect any take however subtle. John worked the flies masterfully, at times allowing them to free drift; at other times, actively manoeuvring them with a gentle lift here, and a soft strip there. All the time keeping a keen eye on the indicator, just in case.

If only he’d kept his eyes on the indicator all the time. It was certainly a good-sized fish for this area, maybe three pounds. From my vantage point across the narrow stream, I saw the indicator hover for a good two or three seconds. John saw the big silvery flank from no more than four feet, before it sipped, turned and spat and disappeared with a flick of the tail.

Time for that foaming libation.

THE MITTA MITTA

When the waters in the smaller streams got too hot, we headed to the larger deeper pools and runs of the Mitta Mitta (Big) River; and even searched out obvious areas of cool fast water, particularly where inflowing creeks adjoined the main stream.

Over the past six or seven years I had barely set foot in the Mitta, and I regret that. The Mitta offered up some amazing, if technically challenging fishing. John and I are both cack-handers, but the Mitta’s wide enough for us to fish up side-by-side. We systematically fished the runs, the tail-outs and the heads of pools, targeting fast aerated water and obvious cool, holding zones.

There were abundant hatches throughout the day of mayfly, and of caddis and stonefly later in the afternoon. There was even the odd grasshopper, getting an early start to the summer. My 3-weight copped a serious pounding, when I struggled to control a 3-pounder that dove headlong into some fast water. Eventually, with the help of John’s net, it was brought to hand. The 6-weight probably would have been more sensible.

On the other side of the river, John’s killer giant caddis nymph (tied on a #10 long-shank curved hook) was doing its trick, again and again. Subtle adjustments of depth were managed by sliding the indicator along the length of the leader, to make sure the flies were drifting through the bottom zone. No point them hanging in the mid-column! We also put an intermediate line to the test in some of the deeper pools as we searched in vain for the monsters we visualised below.

REDEMPTION

That vanishing flank of Cobungra silver was a burden, no doubt… the stuff of nightmares. Regular bent rods throughout the week were a tonic, but true redemption was only achieved late one evening on a quiet Bundarra pool. The sun had set, and we were angling by the reflected glow of twilight. The thunderstorm that passed through earlier in the day was a distant memory, though it had cooled both air and water temperature.

Notes on Flies

The mainstays were nymphs such as black and brown Hare & Coppers (#14 & #16) and olive bead-heads (#14), weighted with lead, a copper bead or a tungsten bead depending on water speed and depth. Pheasant Tail Nymphs were also successful, in any dark colour, tied with a pronounced wing case. Whether fished individually or in tandem, the key was to get the nymphs to the bottom.

John had unerring success with a caddis nymph tied to a #10 long shank curved hook. The fish were full of stick caddis, and John’s killer nymph was stick caddis writ large. He had two in the box, ‘had’ being the operative word—rewards offered for safe return. Caddis patterns were successful throughout a drift with high-sticking proving particularly deadly, and also drew strikes when activated with the Leisenring lift.

Emergers including #12 to #14 DHE (Wyatt) and #14 parachute Adams attracted fish, as did the Klinkhamer tied on a #16.

A variety of Rich Osthoff sub-surface flies drew fish from deeper lies. Tied in flashy colours these sub-surface attractors were actively ‘led’ through the water column. Next time, the trick will be to watch the indicator all the time!

We’d mooched our way down to the Bundarra for the evening ‘rise’, expecting no surface activity to speak of, as had been the way for the best part of a week. Camouflaged by a bankside gum, we took in our surrounds. The stream murmured casually below us, and the pool reflected the crimson skyline to the west. The constancy of the stream’s cascade was only punctuated by the croak of frogs, a sure sign that the water had returned to prime health.

Then the stillness of the pool ahead was similarly punctuated, not by emerging frogs but by what was clearly the discernable snout of a feeding trout. Not one, but two or maybe three. They weren’t slashing, surface-busting rises but systematic, subtle sips. On closer inspection, we could see the fish were taking something within or just below the surface film.

John replaced his twin-nymph combination with a single #14 parachute Adams, confident that it would nestle nicely into the surface film. He degreased the first six inches of 5X tippet, just to be sure. There would be no more than one or two shots before the fading light beat us, or worse, our quarry took flight.

Slipping into the water downstream, he moved stealthily across to find the best position to launch a drag free cast. He waited. Another ring formed ahead; maybe 15 or 20 feet, no more. A couple of false casts to gauge his range, and the fly was on the water. Wait… patience… wait. From his low angle, immersed waist-deep, John could barely make out the small tuft of white, no greater than the size of a match head, drifting casually towards him. The intermittent glare made visual contact all the more difficult.

Then in a flash that wee match- head disappeared, sucked asunder. A flick of the wrist and the line tightened, and a strong Bundarra brown was securely hooked. John released it before there was even time for a quick photograph. It was a magic moment to end our week.

The Fishing Gods were smiling, and so were we.