In writing this, I cast my mind back to my own duel on the banks of the Murray. One evening I caught a glimpse of a surfacing brown trout over against the far bank. Instinctively, I made a cast, awkwardly landing the fly half a meter upstream of my quarry. The fly drifted down, and drag threatened at precisely the wrong moment. But, to my surprise, up came the brown. I struck into solid resistance only to have the arrogant brute smash the surface three times and escape, my straightened hook telling the tale.
The following evening I returned to the same spot ready to resume our contest. Again the brown rose at the last hint of light, and I felt I was in with a chance. Up he came again to the impossibly tiny fly, tied to an impossibly fine leader, and attached to a ridiculously fine rod. This time I made no mistake, and I even managed to turn him before he headed into the tangle of willow roots.
But, as I remember this, I have an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. Unhooking my prize, I glimpse a rise near the willow. Had I targeted the wrong fish? The water is lapping at my legs, the silhouette of the eucalyptus-covered mountains is darkening. Pointy-eared kangaroos eye my progress, while spinners fall spent on the surface. Next time, I promise, I'll make sure.
Article © Peter Julian, 2001
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