Tarana Tale

“You’ll fair dinkum freeze yer swonicles off fishing up there, ol son. Here. Take this,” says a dear chum from my local fishing club, handing over a bottle of homemade rum, meticulously distilled through his socks the night before.

“Moonshine?” I ask.

“Guaranteed to send yer blind.”

I regard him with a look. “Um… you kinda mean that literally, don’t you?”

Nods. “Don’t look at the sun for two days after drinking it.”

“Um. Right… ”

“And if yez knock orf the whole bottle, there might be a slight ringing in your left ear. Don’t panic but. It will go away.”

My liver groans as I wave his smoking Landcruiser up the driveway but not before hiding the bottle from the liver police (aka my wife) and smuggling it into my creel.

Tarana Valley, just over the Great Dividing Range in New South Wales, is only a lazy two-hour drive from Sydney, or 25 minutes from Bathurst or Lithgow. The name Tarana is believed to come from the Aboriginal word meaning ‘small car with six-cylinder engine’ but more likely the word for ‘big mountain’ or ‘big waterhole.’

Tarana is a pretty place set high in the hills, cupping spectacular meadows and dissected by sparkling sinewy creeks. Sadly, it copped an economic hiding when the Sydney Morning Herald splashed ‘No Fish in the Fish River’ across its pages some years ago during the drought.

“Hurt a lotta people, that article,’’ says Kerwin, the bush-tanned owner of Casuarina House—our luxury digs perched above the glorious Fish River. “Lotta people offset their living with the fishermen an that.”

The meandering Fish River rises on a plateau southeast of Oberon and flows to the northwest where it becomes the headwater of the Macquarie River, just east of Bathurst. It was thus named by explorers due to the large number of fish found in it.

So I am here to ‘fish the Fish’ with guide John Coles, and long-time companion Scott Levi, of ABC’s top-rating Big Fish program. Both better fly fishermen than me by a long chalk.

Psst! Something I must tell you about fishing guides: they take themselves awfully seriously. In fact, John has only just forgiven me for my gentle lampooning of him in a recent Short Cast. Moreover, when I arrive he tells me—with a wry scowl—that only that week a client started making mysterious spoon jokes before finally pulling out said FlyLife and reading it aloud to the other clients over one of John’s fabulous gourmet dinners, embarrassing him no end.

Anyway, he mustn’t be too cranky with me. I’ve been invited along again! John has invited us down to prove how much the Fish River has bounced back from years of drought and to get the message out there: the Fish River is aptly named.

We are easily convinced because as we don waders and make for the river through a series of squealing cattle gates, trout are rising in a chainmail of rings across the water. They are frisky with hunger, snatching cascading insects skidding across the sunlit river. We eagerly connect rods and attach flies, panting with anticipation.

This kind of fishing is new to me as the ‘fish on the Fish’ are extremely spooky. The only way to catch them is to creep up on them from behind, as if under fire on Omaha Beach. This is ‘trout stalking’ rather than ‘trout fishing’. Most of my fly fishing hitherto has been prospecting boisterous freestone rivers or vast lakes and pretty dams. This is hunting in its quintessence.

Scott shrewdly chooses a 5-weight rod, while John snatches his tiny 3-weight. Ideal for photos of small fish! I, on the other hand, cannily choose a longer, 7-weight rod. There is a sound reason for this: it’s my only rod (groan).

It’s not long before John stalks a lively plump brown positively gorging on mayflies. He methodically crawls up behind it, gently casts over it, drifts the fly onto it, before jagging it. It is thrilling to watch someone so confident with a fly rod. There is no doubt. No hesitation. He quickly releases the honey-gold brown while I snatch a photo, before he’s off stalking another further upstream.

Behind him, Scott immediately hooks a small rainbow in a riffle. That day the river yields plenty of fish but there is slight melodrama. The problem with fishing a small river with three fishing tragics is that each wants to sneak ahead upstream to look for fish in new pools. And while John is a patient fisherman, methodically covering all the water, when it comes to fly fishing, my mate Scott is like a fat man at a smorgasbord. A couple of casts, spook the pool, and he’s off. So it’s funny watching John and Scott trying to constantly ‘upstream’ each other, bellies jiggling under waders as they race ahead. Fishing passion made manifest. Love it!

“Where is he?” one asks me. “He’s not gone up and spooked all the bloody pools again, has he?”

What isn’t so funny is the trifling fact that your author is left with the dregs, mostly fishing quaking pools, flogged by them both.

At beer-o’clock we leave the river to make for the local pub. It is a charming place, with pressed-metal ceilings and a roaring fireplace. I adore country pubs. Beer and conversation is always first-rate. We are not disappointed. We meet the barrel-chested Big Jack, face glowing with the red-glaze of schooners. Big Jack works for Country Energy. Like a lot of country people he speaks slowly, as if emerging from a coma. He has a dry sense of humour and a great banter with the publican, Chris, whom Jack declares is the crankiest publican in Australia. Chris agrees, laughing it off. But I am told there is no swearing allowed at the bar. Chris nods, gravely.

An elderly couple steps in for dinner, their breath flowering before them in the chill at the door. They briskly rub their hands at the fire before unbuttoning thick tweedy coats. Chris takes their order and passes them a metal spike with the number 97 wedged in it. John, Scott and I howl with laughter from the bar, as they are the only diners in the pub on a Tuesday night in downtown Tarana.

We are soon joined by a vociferous young cocky in an Akubra that would provide shade for a family of four in Kalgoorlie. I move up to make room for the hat. Scott, sporting his own modest Akubra, fits right in. I don’t wear an Akubra as I feel anyone who drives a Toyata Yaris should be barred from wearing one in all States. I have an Orvis cap, which I picked up in the US. This implies I only use expensive high-end fly gear. So my hat is as spurious as Scott’s city bush lid.

Over frothy schooners we talk all things fly fishing. Big Jack and Kerwin (who has joined us for a schooner or three) talk about the good old days, when locals would hunt for trout with a 303. There must have been some big fish in times past, I think, wiping a scum of froth from my lips and making notes, each line more illegible. From the corner of his mouth, in his sandpaper dry voice, Big Jack says, “I tried fly fishing once. Walked to the river, cast a fly into a pool, unfolded a camp chair and sat there until I drained me esky full of beers. 24 cans. Nothing!”

Big Jack and Kerwin eventually confess that they can’t comprehend fly fishermen coming to Tarana and spending all day on a trout stream, only to release the fish as soon as they are caught. I think: it’s exactly the same reason men climb mountains only to immediately come down the other side. But keep it to myself.

Later that night at our accommodation, we unpack the esky and get stuck into the Crownies. John has prepared a superb Sri Lankan curry, replete with yogurt, condiments and crisp pappadams. Best curry I’ve had. He loves his cooking and you can taste it. I like a guide who doubles as a gourmet. Tremendous value. After demolishing the beers, we open the red and chat before a pot-bellied fire.

John feels there are just as many big trout in NSW as there are in Tassie. Scott argues that fishing is a doddle in New Zealand. John counters by saying that you still have to bloody catch them. Shooting fish in a barrel, Scott says, waving him away with a sloping glass. I interrupt them to break open the moonshine (carn, you knew it was coming.).

This is where we let ourselves down. We should have left it at the red wine.

As we drain the bottle we immediately feel its curious and manifold effects. I’m sure this is what Marie Curie must have felt like after discovering radium. After several shots of the viscous spirit, I nip upstairs to grab some socks but inadvertently hit the bed like a sack of doorknobs, sleeping with my tongue out like roadkill. John crawls off to bed with his eyes crossed. But, sadly, my dear old mate Scotty is up all night. He blames a virus but we don’t believe him. It’s the moonshine.

We wake to diluvial rain. I open one eye like a sleeping hound and stare at the ceiling. I feel as if an elephant is balancing on my skull on one leg. As I emerge downstairs holding one eye, I note John is a distinct shade of green. Scott eventually staggers in, groaning and clutching his guts. He’s too sick to eat. With the rain, the moonshine hangover and Scott’s all night vigil at the porcelain, there is only one thing for it. We don the waterproofs and fish the river with nymphs in the horizontal rain. Scott impresses me because I offer to pack up and drive him home with a sick bag at his feet but he proves himself to be a true tough SOB fly fisherman. He works the river just as hard as John and me, without complaint.

After fishing in the rain for an hour, the sun begrudgingly comes out. But, sadly, not enough to raise a hatch.

Upstream I find Scott crawling along on his belly beside the stream.

“Where is he?” I whisper.

“What?”

“The trout?”

“What trout? I’m not stalking anything. I looked into the sun and now I can’t see. Help me up.”

I’d call John for help but he can’t hear me due to the strange ringing in his left ear.

As Scott’s eyesight returns, his Akubra blows into the river with a sudden gust. It is sinking into a deep hole. The only way he can rescue it is to cast a fly onto the brim. He has only seconds as it sinks into the turbid depths. Only one thing for it. He casts like a trick-cowboy and hooks his hat! Playing a soggy ‘worn-out-west’ Akubra with a size 14 pheasant-tail nymph, on 4 lb tippet, becomes the catch of the trip. And much crowed over in the car on the way home.

With the downpour and the cold, the fish are not rising as they were in yesterday’s intense heat. So we have to blind flog most of the river. The boys still winkle out fish. John spots three rises and calls out to me, “You’ve caught nothing this trip Dorian, how about you take these fish,” but it comes out as, “Hey, watch me nail these three fish!”

Scott and I watch John nail three fish. I sigh, but John is not guiding—he’s fishing with mates. Fair call.

I suggest we call it a day. As we climb the bank and wade through a tall paddock, blurred yellow with rape (now sold under the marketing- friendly name ‘Canola’—South Australia, Rape Capital of the World just didn’t quite work, apparently) we disconnect rods and chat.

So if you are looking for trout within a stone’s throw of Sydney, I can recommend Tarana. There are still plenty of fish in the Fish.