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Friday 23 October 2026

Read our previous Goulburn River fishing report

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Goulburn River Fishing Report: 13 October 2026

There are times in guiding when the responsible decision turns out to be the wrong one, at least as far as the weather is concerned.

A couple of clients from Perth were booked to fish with us for three days this week. Because they were flying across the country and had accommodation and flights to adjust, we needed to make a decision last week rather than waiting until the last moment. At that stage the forecast was remarkably consistent. We were being told to expect roughly an inch of rain on Monday, another inch on Tuesday and perhaps half an inch again on Wednesday.

Had that rain arrived across the catchments, the expectation was that the tributaries would rise and releases from Lake Eildon would be reduced to capture the incoming water and avoid unnecessarily adding regulated releases to natural flows downstream. The Goulburn gathers water from numerous tributaries below the dam, and river levels farther downstream can rise substantially even when releases from Eildon are modest. Goulburn-Murray Water also notes that releases can change in response to inflows, observed rainfall and updated weather forecasts. Goulburn-Murray Water.

Given the information available, cancelling was the only sensible call.

Naturally, the rain largely failed to arrive.

As I write this, conditions have been mostly mild and overcast, with very little rainfall. Instead of the river dropping, releases are now climbing rapidly. It is frustrating for the clients who changed their plans and frustrating for us, but this is the nature of working outdoors. Decisions have to be made using the forecast in front of you, not the weather that eventually arrives.

The river is coming up

The most recent Goulburn-Murray Water schedule was issued at 10 am on Monday 12 October. It showed the Lake Eildon release at 1,900 ML/day, rising to 2,300 on Tuesday, 3,400 on Wednesday, 4,800 on Thursday and 5,300 ML/day on Friday. These are releases at Lake Eildon, and the changes will take time to work their way down the river. But today it is coming up with more rises scheduled.

Goulburn-Murray Water has 40 GL of inter-valley trade water planned for delivery from the Goulburn system to the Murray during October. The published information does not specify exactly how much of each daily increase is attributable to environmental water, customer demand or inter-valley trade, so we can’t label this simply as an irrigation rise. What matters from a fishing perspective is that the river is now moving towards something resembling its summer height.

That will change the fishing considerably.

Before the latest rise began, sections with a reasonable concentration of trout were fishing ok. Other stretches were exceptionally difficult. We have worked hard using streamers, nymphs, dry-dropper combinations and straight dry flies, and it has been eye-opening to see how little fish activity there has been in places that otherwise appeared close to ideal.

The river was below 1,500 ML/day for much of that period. Water temperatures were around 13°C and dissolved oxygen was above 10 parts per million. From a water-quality perspective, it does not get much better. There was a little colour left in the river after the previous week’s rain, but that has largely disappeared. As the higher release pushes through over the next few days, I expect the river to become extremely clear again and remain that way for the foreseeable future.

Good conditions does not automatically mean more fish, of course. That remains the underlying question in many of the sections we have been fishing over the past few weeks.

Rising water has unsettled the trout

Even comparatively small changes of 200 or 300 ML/day have been enough to unsettle fish during the early part of the season. As water begins covering additional gravel, edges and side channels, trout move into newly available water and once again must jostle for position and reestablish the pecking order. This takes time. Feeding lanes alter. Current speed changes. A comfortable lie one day may be less useful the next.

The latest increase in flows is much larger, and it will take the fish some time to settle into it.

The positive side is that once the river reaches these higher levels and remains reasonably stable, a great deal more habitat comes into play. Fish can move towards softer edges, flooded grass, backwaters, current breaks and bankside structure. These are the sorts of positions that make summer drift-boat fishing on the Goulburn so interesting.

The rise will also give us a much clearer opportunity to assess what is actually in the river. At low water, fish can remain concentrated around a handful of deeper runs, access points and stocked areas. At 4,000+ ML/day, there is enough water for trout to redistribute through much longer sections. It also opens the entire river up to drift boat access and scares off most of the wade fisherman who relocate to nearby smaller streams.

If the release remains reasonably stable for any length of time, we should begin seeing fish take up recognisable summer positions. We are also only a few weeks away from the larger terrestrial insects becoming genuinely important, which should encourage more trout towards the edges.

When you find a rising fish, stay with it

The main advice I would give anyone fishing the Goulburn at present is simple. When you find a worthwhile rising fish, take your time.

Do not rush the first cast. Do not make a poor presentation simply because the trout has risen twice and you are worried it may stop. Watch the fish, work out its rhythm, identify the best position and only cast when the opportunity is right.

We spent roughly an hour on one trout this week.

We anchored the boat nearby, altered the leader and tippet, selected the flies and watched. For perhaps forty minutes we simply tracked the fish through the seam and backwater with polarised glasses. It moved from one feeding line to another, occasionally slipping into a position where a cast was possible, then drifting back somewhere the presentation would have been compromised by drag almost immediately.

The clients may initially have wondered whether I had lost my mind by devoting so much time to one fish. At one point I was sure it was gone and stood on my rower’s seat for about 15 mins before finally sighting it again, which gave us the confidence to persevere with it.

We cast only when it moved into exactly the right place. Eventually, on one of the few occasions when it zigged rather than zagged, the fly arrived perfectly and the trout ate.

It was probably the largest trout the client had hooked in Australia, and understandably he became nervous during the fight. The fish was brought close to the boat too early while still very green. I broke one of my own rules and took a swipe at it with the net because I was concerned about the amount of pressure being applied and could sense the tension that it might be lost.

For a moment the fish was inside. Then, as I lifted at full stretch, it slid forward over the lip and back into the river. That produced another anxious five minutes before we finally got it into the net properly.

The landing was untidy, but that is not the important part of the story. The important part was everything that happened before the fish ate. We did not waste the opportunity. We watched, waited and made the cast only when the odds were as favourable as we could make them.

That matters at present because those opportunities can be a long way apart.

There are access points and bridges where recently stocked fish have remained in greater numbers than elsewhere. At the right time of day, particularly during an afternoon hatch or near evening, anglers may catch two or three good fish within a relatively short period. Away from those concentrations, the river has often required much more searching.

When you locate a quality wild fish feeding steadily, it deserves proper attention. Stay with it until you catch it, spook it or learn enough to know that continuing is no longer productive.

The hatches are still developing

Up until now the changing flows have unsettled the fish more than they have interrupted the insects.

We are still seeing spinner falls during the afternoon, which means mayflies are emerging somewhere through the system, perhaps close to last light or after dark. Caddis are becoming increasingly noticeable, along with grannoms, dragonflies and beetles. We have also seen the first flying ants.

This ant activity is worth noting. Flying ants are one of the most anticipated events of every Spring. They can produce very selective surface feeding by large numbers of fish, and the feeling is that the next warm, humid evening may bring them properly into play. Carry a few termite imitations in the box at all times.

You’ve been warned.

There are few things more frustrating than finding trout rising confidently to insects you knew would eventually appear but neglected to carry.

As the weeks roll on, the caddis numbers will accumulate through a much larger section of the river than they currently appear in. There are more and more of them every day, but they aren’t in such enough numbers yet to properly excite the trout. It’s close. But it’s not quite here yet.

All of these bugs: the duns, spinners, caddis and terrestrial insects will begin arriving in new feeding lanes along the banks and across submerged gravel as the river continues to rise. It may take the trout a little time to find those slots, but the broader direction of travel is encouraging. More water. More bugs. More opportunities to find a good riser tucked in behind a line of willows or swinging to and fro in the bubble line.

More of the river is now available

At the lower flows, we deliberately limited ourselves to particular sections. Some gravel bars were extremely shallow, and there was little room to pass bank anglers without interfering with their fishing.  At the forecast levels, almost every regular drift section comes back into consideration. The extra depth gives us room to pass anglers on foot without pushing through the water they are fishing.

In truth, I have seen remarkably few bank anglers during the past several weeks. On some long drifts, the river has felt almost empty.

As the water rises, the drift boat becomes increasingly useful. We can cover the quieter kilometres, search long banks, explore side water and stop when we find something worth working at. The boat also allows several rods to remain rigged for different situations, which is particularly valuable when moving between slow pools, gravel bars, boulder fields, rock walls and bubble lines.

Drift boating will be the most effective way to explore the Goulburn for the remainder of the season.

Small streams are providing another option

The smaller rivers are fishing reasonably well at present. I have received reports from several anglers, and some of our guides have been out over the past four days across streams between Alexandra and Marysville. Most have managed to locate fish.

That is a welcome addition to the local fishing options.

The small streams allow anglers to fish elsewhere through the quieter parts of the day, while the Goulburn can be targeted during its better afternoon or evening windows. The main consideration is finding a stretch without another angler already working it, though lately that has not been especially difficult. Only the rivers closest to Marysville have been particularly busy.

The smaller water is also a good place to watch the season develop. Beetles, ants, caddis and mayflies often become more obvious to the fish on these waters before they do on the larger river. A short walk along a small stream can tell you a great deal about what is beginning to happen across the district. You can stand in a tail out and clearly see everything that is ending up on the water as the rivers drains past your legs from one pool to the next.

Beginners on the water

We had another beginner workshop running over the weekend, along with several private lessons on the Goulburn and smaller streams. A few trout were landed, but perhaps more importantly, everyone saw fish.

There is nothing quite like watching a live trout feed. You can explain reading water, presentation and drag on a lawn or through diagrams, but the learning curve changes completely once a beginner watches a fish move within a current.

They see the body language. The small adjustments. The way the trout shifts sideways to inspect one presentation and ignores another. They begin understanding that the fish is not sitting motionless waiting to be caught. It is continuously making decisions and using the current to its advantage.

Watching that happen is one of the quickest ways to improve, and it is also one of the best ways to get somebody genuinely interested in fly fishing.

The outlook for the coming week

After the forecast that failed to arrive, I would treat any longer-range prediction with a little humility.

The current outlook is for cooler, cloudy conditions early in the week, followed by a mostly dry and warming run. Wednesday is presently expected to reach around 18°C, Thursday 20°C and Friday 22°C, with some possible rain or drizzle early on Friday. The weekend then looks warmer, with approximately 23°C on Saturday and 24°C on Sunday, followed by a possible 27°C on Monday with the chance of afternoon showers.

That sequence could provide for some great opportunities across the region.

The initial rise in river level will probably make the fishing unsettled. Once the bulk of the increase has passed through and the river begins stabilising, the warmer weekend should see more bugs on the water and help trout establish themselves in the new water.

I would not expect the fishing to switch on everywhere immediately. The next few days are likely to be about exploration. We will be checking edges, side channels, slower water and new feeding lanes, while also revisiting the sections that have held fish during the lower flows.

By the weekend we should have a much clearer picture.

Drift boats and group bookings

We have drift boats available through the coming weeks and once again have enough guide capacity to run proper multi-boat days.

For groups of up to six anglers, we can generally organise several boats without too much difficulty. With sufficient notice and subject to existing bookings, we can sometimes accommodate groups of eight.

That opens up the possibility of fishing several river sections simultaneously, or running a longer progression down the Goulburn over multiple days. It is particularly useful for groups of friends who want to fish together.

Call us with your preferred dates and we will give you an honest account of the conditions and guide availability.

New Zealand and Montana

We have been concentrating heavily on New Zealand during the past couple of weeks. In that time more than 130 information packs have gone out to people who have enquired about the coming Southland season, and bookings are now moving quickly.

Anyone seriously considering joining us this summer should get in touch so we can look at the remaining weeks and find suitable dates.

Southland will provide a valuable alternative for anglers wanting to escape what may become a warm, difficult summer across parts of Victoria, New South Wales and Tasmania. Cool rivers, long daylight hours and the flexibility to move between different catchments give us options that can be difficult to find at home during prolonged heat.

Montana bookings have also begun moving, including a couple of larger groups and a number of individual anglers.

We are offering four departures across two months. Each trip runs for 13 days and 12 nights and includes three distinct fishing regions, with four nights based in each. That is important. We do not remain at one lodge and hope the local river happens to be fishing well. The journey is designed around variety, allowing us to fish different rivers, experience different hatches and make the most of the conditions as the trip develops.

Each hosted group is kept to a maximum of four anglers. On selected departure dates we can run two separate groups simultaneously, using different hosts, accommodation, vehicles and guide teams. Anglers are welcome to join individually, and groups of four or more can also speak with us about arranging a private departure.

For now

The river is changing quickly.

By the end of this week, the Goulburn may be running at almost three times the level it carried only a short time ago. That will create disruption before it creates opportunity, but it also brings much more of the river back into play.

Expect a few unsettled days. Watch the edges as the water rises. Carry ants and termites. If you locate a rising fish, slow down and make the opportunity count.

We will have boats on the river through the week and should develop a much better understanding of the higher water opportunities. Anyone coming to the district is welcome to call for an up-to-the-minute report.

You can phone, text or send a WhatsApp message to 0418 995 611. When I am guiding, calls will go to voicemail, but I will return them at the first opportunity. Usually when we stop for a coffee. In any case, I am usually off the river by around 8 pm.

I hope this helps with your planning, and I hope you manage some time beside the river soon.

Tight lines,
Anthony

Goulburn Valley Fly Fishing Centre
0418 995 611

There is a moment on the drive from Dillon when Montana changes again. We leave the dry Beaverhead Valley behind, pass through Twin Bridges and begin climbing towards Virginia City and Nevada City, the old gold-rush towns sitting little more than a mile apart in Alder Gulch. Virginia City has been preserved rather than simply abandoned, and there is enough of the original town remaining that it does not require much imagination to picture another version of Montana operating along the same street. Old shopfronts remain. Boardwalks run past historic buildings. Inside are collections of machinery, furniture and objects from a period when gold rather than trout determined where people travelled and why they stayed.

Years ago, we wandered into a restaurant there and discovered the owner was Australian. What followed was one of those conversations that only seems unusual until you have travelled for long enough. Two Australians standing in an old mining town in Montana swapping stories about home and grizzly bears. He told us about bears coming onto his property and, on one occasion, one finding its way into his garage in the middle of the night. He had become accustomed to living with animals that would make most Australians reconsider taking the rubbish out after dark. It was another small reminder that although Montana can occasionally feel familiar to an Australian, particularly in its agricultural towns and dry open country, the similarities have limits.

The road keeps climbing beyond Virginia City. Forest appears out to the right and for a while there is little indication of what lies ahead. Then you reach the top and the Madison Valley suddenly opens beneath you. It is difficult to describe the scale of that first view. The valley is broad enough that the mountain ranges on either side appear to belong to different landscapes. Huge, almost level benches step down towards the valley floor, one terrace below another, before eventually reaching the river. Beyond them the Madison Range rises sharply, jagged against the horizon. Ennis sits below, small enough from above to seem almost incidental to the country surrounding it. After the tighter landscape of the gold towns just passed, the sudden space is startling.

We usually stop in Ennis for lunch. It is a proper Montana town rather than a town created primarily for visitors. There are bars, real estate offices, a library, fly shops and businesses serving the ranching country surrounding it. Rodeos and hunting are as much a part of the place as fishing. Main Street is not large, but it feels lived in. People are travelling through as well as staying. Roads meet there from Bozeman and the north, Dillon and Virginia City to the west, and West Yellowstone and Idaho to the south. Eventually we get back into the vehicle, drive out of town and almost immediately cross the Madison.

I first fished the river in 2010. My wife was with me on that trip and I had rented a farmhouse near the water, using it as a base while clients came through for a couple of weeks. Like most anglers arriving at a famous river for the first time, I thought I understood roughly what the Madison was. I had seen photographs and read about it for years. I knew about salmonflies, drift boats, boulder water and the famous fifty-mile riffle. It seemed straightforward enough. Sixteen years later, I am less certain that there is any single thing called the Madison.

I have now fished it from the meadow country inside Yellowstone National Park through Hebgen Lake, the short tailwater between Hebgen and Earthquake Lake, the water around Quake itself, the Slide, the walk-and-wade reaches below it, the long drift-boat water towards Ennis, and farther downstream through Bear Trap Canyon and beyond. I have fished it from boats, from the bank, in small one-man rafts and standing waist-deep in the current. I have fished tiny dry flies to individual trout on flat water and rubber-legged attractors through whitewater. I have chased salmonflies large enough to make delicate presentation seem faintly ridiculous and watched lake fish refuse mayflies almost too small to see. It is one river, but it contains an extraordinary number of different rivers within it.

The section most anglers picture when they hear the name is probably the water above Ennis, the famous fifty-mile riffle. The description is close enough to literal that it makes sense once you have spent a day there. The river runs over a broad bed of cobble and boulders and seems almost reluctant to form anything resembling a conventional pool. You come around a bend expecting the current eventually to ease, only to find another long run of broken water. Beyond that is another. Then another.

The Madison has an energy that is immediately recognisable. On many rivers the angler searches for the fast water among slower pools. Here you often search for the ten per cent reduction in speed. A depression behind a boulder. A small slick. A subtle shelf. A narrow seam beside heavier current. The trout use tiny variations in velocity because there is so much current everywhere else. Fishing it properly demands concentration. The fly is moving almost from the instant it lands. Line begins bowing downstream. Mends need to be made quickly and accurately. The boat is moving as well, and the guide is constantly positioning it around boulders, other boats and the next piece of useful water. There are moments when the angler, guide, line, flies and current all seem to be travelling at different speeds and somehow have to arrive at the same place together.

Years ago, David and I floated a long section in Water Master Kodiaks, little one-man inflatable craft with a seat between the tubes. Your legs hang in the water and a small set of oars sits atop the tubes, but much of the steering can be done with fins. On the Madison we discovered another advantage. By pointing our feet almost vertically down, we could let the tips of the fins brush across the tops of submerged boulders, creating just enough resistance to slow ourselves while we fished a run. We must have looked ridiculous. Proper drift boats passed with anglers and guides looking across at two Australians sitting low in the water, legs hanging beneath them, occasionally scraping their fins across the riverbed to avoid being swept away from the water they were trying to fish.

It worked, though. We fished all day and eventually came out below Varney Bridge completely exhausted. What really brought home the distance was retrieving the vehicle afterwards. Driving back along the highway at Montana speeds still took roughly thirty-five minutes. We did not fish the following day. The river had extracted enough from us in that foolish thirteen hour float.

There is another way to experience that same water, and it remains one of my favourite events in American fly fishing. The salmonfly hatch moves progressively through the Madison each year as summer takes hold. These are not subtle insects. They are enormous stoneflies, often several inches long, and when the hatch is properly underway they cling to bankside vegetation, fly awkwardly across the river and hit the water with enough impact to attract attention. The guides follow them. Everyone follows them. During the peak of the hatch, boats seem to arrive from everywhere. Fly shops know roughly where the leading edge of the bugs is. Guides talk to one another. Reports move quickly. A section that was relatively quiet yesterday can be full of boats tomorrow because the insects have moved several miles upstream.

On one of my early trips we hit it properly. Through dumb luck rather than careful planning. Rather than accepting that we would drift through the hatch once and leave it behind, the guide organised the day around the insects. We floated the productive section, pulled out, drove back and did it again. Then we repeated the process a third time. It was not one of those ridiculous stories where seventy trout somehow find their way into a net before lunch. We probably caught twenty fish across the day. What I remember is their quality and the violence of some of the takes. Big browns came out from structure to eat enormous dry flies. Some smashed them hard enough to make you instinctively tighten your grip on the rod. Others rose beneath an undercut bank with such restraint that the only indication of a take was that the fly was suddenly no longer there.

The contrast fascinated me. The insect was enormous. The fish was large. The river was fast. Yet the eat could still be little more than a sip.

By July, the fishing changes again. PMDs and caddis become important, and later the river can fill with terrestrials. Spruce moths appear in high summer and occasionally fall onto the water in sufficient numbers for trout to become completely preoccupied with them. They are terrestrial insects associated with the surrounding conifer forests rather than something emerging from the river, but the trout do not care about taxonomy. When enough reach the water, fish begin looking for them and can become surprisingly reluctant to eat anything else. The fishing can be exceptional. Then there are hoppers. Caddis. Spinners. Attractor dries. Large rubber-legged patterns worked through broken water. The Madison gives an angler plenty of reasons to keep looking up.

It also gives you difficult days. On one of our more recent trips I was fishing from the back of the boat while we worked likely pockets along the edge. The fishing had been slow from the beginning. There had been some cloud early and we found a handful of trout sitting in the little pieces of softer water behind boulders, occasionally willing to eat a spent caddis or spinner, but as the day warmed the opportunities became fewer.

At some point I wrapped my fly line around a boulder. There are sensible ways to deal with this. The guide can pull the boat to the edge and anchor. You can then walk back and retrieve the fly. Even slowing the boat can buy a few precious seconds to throw a loop back out and free the line. But I was annoyed with myself and chose none of them. Rather than make the guide stop because of my mistake, I pointed the rod directly at the boulder and pulled. About twenty feet of fly line broke off.

There are moments in fishing when decades of experience express themselves as calm judgement. There are others when it apparently expresses itself as destroying a perfectly good fly line because you are irritated with yourself. We still caught eight or nine trout that day, which says something about the strange standards Montana can create. Back home, most anglers would consider that a great session. On the Madison, after several days of exceptional fishing, it felt difficult. We eventually stopped, climbed onto a large boulder overlooking the valley, ate lunch and watched other boats move past below us. Later we swam. It was still a good day.

That is something these trips gradually teach people. A hard fishing day does not necessarily need rescuing.

Upstream of the fifty-mile riffle, the Madison begins changing so dramatically that the name alone stops being useful. Inside Yellowstone National Park it is meadow water. The river moves through open country lined in places by low, scrubby willow growth and vegetation thick enough to conceal an animal remarkably well. I have always felt slightly more alert fishing there than I do on most rivers. Grizzly country changes the senses. You hear things differently. Timber and brush cease to be scenery and become places from which something may emerge.

The Madison eventually leaves the park and enters Hebgen Lake, a large reservoir sitting west of Yellowstone. The river disappears into still water and the fishing changes with it. Hebgen is famous among fly fishers for its gulpers, trout feeding rhythmically on mayflies across the surface. On the right summer morning, particularly when Callibaetis and other mayflies are on the water, the lake can appear to contain an impossible number of rising fish. The guide runs a small motor to reach a productive bay, shuts it down and takes the oars. Then everything becomes quiet.

You watch. A fish rises. Then again. Perhaps ten metres away another begins feeding. Behind it is another. Soon there are rings appearing everywhere and the problem becomes deciding which fish to present to.

The trout often establish a rhythm. Rise. Swim. Rise again. Sometimes they are visible beneath the surface and you can track them between rises. At other times all you have is a sequence of expanding rings from which you try to calculate direction and speed. The guide rows quietly, attempting to put the boat somewhere that gives the angler a chance of placing a tiny dry fly ahead of the fish without putting line across its path. It is technical fishing. Leaders are long. Tippets fine. Presentation matters. The surface is flat enough for mistakes to remain visible for an uncomfortable amount of time.

Refusals are part of the information. If a trout feeding confidently turns away from your fly from two feet below it, something is probably wrong. The pattern, the size, the tippet or the presentation has given the game away early. If the fish rises until its nose almost touches the imitation before deciding against it, you are much closer. Sometimes the answer is another fly. Sometimes the same fly simply needs to arrive more naturally the next time. That process can occupy an experienced angler for hours. A fish rises six times on naturals. You make what appears to be the perfect cast. It approaches your fly and refuses it. Then it rises again five feet away as though nothing happened.

There are mornings when the lake seems covered in fish and you still feel as though you cannot buy one. There are others when everything aligns. The wind can help for a while. A little surface movement disguises the leader and creates lanes where insects collect. Too much eventually makes tracking individual fish difficult. By late morning, as the wind strengthens or the rise begins fading, we often leave the lake and move onto the river.

The transformation can be almost absurd. An hour earlier you were casting a tiny mayfly to one visible trout in flat water. Now you are throwing a Chubby Chernobyl or another large attractor into heavy current and mending frantically as the Madison tries to carry the fly, the line and perhaps the angler towards Ennis. Both are the same river system. That is what took me years to fully appreciate.

Between Hebgen and Earthquake Lake lies another short section of Madison. I have fished it several times, including days when a small boat was useful simply for crossing the river to reach water inaccessible from the road side. Once across, you can walk downstream towards the delta and fish back upstream through a mixture of fast and flatter water. It is beautiful country. Forest rises around both sides and the landscape begins merging with the vast connected country of eastern Idaho and Yellowstone. It is not wilderness in the sense that nobody has ever been there, but there are large areas without roads and remarkably few people once you leave the obvious access points.

That matters because the bears use it too. Last year, while clients were fishing with guides, I had a day to myself. At the trailhead I found a warning sign stating that a carcass and a bear were somewhere in the area. The information was precise enough to make you nervous and vague enough to be almost useless. Other anglers arriving at the trailhead were making the same calculation. Nobody seemed particularly interested in walking farther along the trail without knowing where the carcass was or whether the bear remained with it.

The fishing conditions were almost perfect. Blue sky. Mild warmth. Very little wind. Fish rising everywhere. If this had been New Zealand, I would have regarded the situation as idyllic. Instead I started walking alone down a trail calling, “Hey bear,” every so often into the forest.

It is difficult to describe how much that changes fishing. Rationally, I knew grizzly encounters were uncommon. I carried bear spray. I understood the basic precautions. None of that stopped the older part of the brain from becoming extremely interested in every sound coming from the trees. Eventually I reached a point where I needed to cut through to the river. Between me and the water was a dense wall of vegetation perhaps fifteen feet high. I could not see through it. The only way forward was to push into it. I remember standing there reconsidering how badly I actually wanted to catch a trout.

Eventually I went through. Once in the river, the fishing was excellent. It should have been one of those quiet afternoons when everything else disappears. Instead, every drift was accompanied by another glance over my shoulder. Cast. Mend. Watch the fly. Look behind. Cast again. Nothing happened. I did not see a bear. That did not make the bear feel absent.

Eventually the Madison enters Earthquake Lake, and here the river’s story changes for reasons having nothing to do with trout. The first time I saw Quake Lake, I knew almost nothing about what had happened there. But no one needed to tell me that something extraordinary had occurred. The mountain had a wound across it.

Even from a distance the scar was obvious. An enormous section of forest simply stopped, replaced by exposed rock and debris running down the mountainside towards the lake. Dead trees protruded from the water. Along the Slide itself, timber lay among boulders and broken ground as though the landscape had been picked up, shaken and dropped again. Photographs do not convey the scale particularly well. A wide-angle image reduces the scar to a pale patch on a mountain. Standing among the debris is different. The visitor centre sits within the slide area, and as you drive towards it the size of the material around you begins providing scale. The mountain above towers over the road. What looked like gravel from across the valley becomes rock. What looked like rock becomes boulders.

The event that created it happened late on the night of 17 August 1959. At 11.37 pm, a magnitude 7.3 earthquake struck near Hebgen Lake. Within seconds of the strongest shaking, a section of the canyon wall approximately 1,300 feet high collapsed into the Madison Canyon. Tens of millions of cubic yards of rock, earth and timber crossed the valley, ran hundreds of feet up the opposite wall and buried part of the Rock Creek campground. Twenty-six people died beneath the slide. Nineteen were never recovered. The earthquake’s overall death toll was twenty-eight.

The detail I find hardest to shake is the timing. Eyewitness accounts suggest the landslide began only seconds, perhaps half a minute, after the strongest shaking subsided. I sometimes try to imagine that from the campground. You are asleep. The ground begins moving violently enough to wake you. Perhaps things are falling inside the camper or tent. People are shouting. It is dark. You have not had time to understand that there has been an earthquake, much less decide what to do next.

Then another sound begins.

I imagine it as something beyond thunder. Rock, trees and part of a mountain accelerating down the slope must have produced a sound for which there was no useful comparison. I can picture being woken by the shaking more easily than I can picture understanding what came after it. In daylight, standing across the canyon, the direction of the slide is obvious. In a tent, in the dark, with the ground still moving, I wonder whether you would even have known which way to turn.

The accounts of what followed are scarcely easier to comprehend. The slide drove a wave of muddy water and a violent blast of displaced air through the camping area. Survivors gathered on higher ground at Refuge Point, trapped between the landslide downstream and damaged roads upstream. By half past six the following morning, the rising water had covered the cars and trailers in Rock Creek Campground. Helicopters eventually evacuated the most seriously injured, while a rough road bulldozed around the damaged sections allowed the remaining survivors to leave.

The visitor centre makes those events difficult to keep at a comfortable historical distance. There are photographs, seismograph records, recovered objects and personal accounts, along with a film that runs through the story. Outside is the actual mountainside. You can look at the evidence indoors, then turn towards the windows and see where it happened. I remember finding that more affecting than any single display. There was no need to imagine the setting. It occupied the view.

Blocking the river created another emergency. Water backed up behind the slide, and the new lake continued rising. Engineers feared it could overtop the debris and erode a breach, sending a destructive flood towards Ennis and other communities downstream. There was also concern that the rising lake could destabilise Hebgen Dam upstream. The shaking had stopped, but the situation was still developing.

The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers organised the construction of an emergency spillway. By September, 62 pieces of heavy equipment and 190 operators and mechanics were working around the clock. On 10 September, 23 days after the earthquake, water began flowing over the new channel. Even then, the work was not finished. Uncontrolled erosion cut into the steep lower spillway, and attempts to protect it with enormous boulders proved unsuccessful. Draglines were brought in to excavate a lower outlet while the water continued flowing. A stable configuration was finally achieved on 29 October.

I had once assumed that the weight of the slide had simply compressed everything into a barrier solid enough to hold the lake. Learning about the excavation changed that picture. The outlet was not merely a gap the Madison had found for itself. People had worked through the debris to give the water a controlled passage before it could cut an uncontrolled one.

The drowned trees are perhaps the easiest part of the story to read without entering the visitor centre at all. They were standing in the valley before the earthquake, and the rising lake inundated them where they grew. Their trunks still project from the water. The earthquake and slide happened in moments; the lake took shape over the weeks that followed. When I fish Quake now, I find myself looking at those trees almost as often as I look at the scar. From a boat, they give the scale of what happened a more familiar measure.

Below the lake, the water leaves any resemblance to stillwater fishing behind.

On one of my more recent visits, I had been working on my book while the clients went out with their guides. We were one person short on that trip, which left a spare seat beside one of the anglers. His guide had prepared a second lunch in case I decided to join them. I declined, partly because I wanted to write and partly because it seemed a shame not to let the client enjoy having the boat to himself. The guide gave me the lunch anyway. Later, with the weather looking good and a day still ahead of me, I decided to take it down to the Slide.

Getting to the water required a careful descent from the road through loose gravel and broken ground. From above, I could see that the river was fast. Once I reached it, the height of the waves and the size of the boulders became much more apparent. Some of the rocks were as large as small vans. Water struck them, climbed against their faces and dropped into narrow slots before being forced around the next obstruction. Timber complicated the picture further. Looking at that particular water as a rower, I had no desire to put my drift boat into it.

Fishing it on foot required its own caution. I had a wading staff, but that did not turn an awkward stretch of river into a safe one. Every step needed consideration, as did what might happen after a slip. There were places where the current would carry a person straight into the next obstruction, with very little opportunity to recover. Much of the fishing involved working around or over rocks rather than walking through the river, and even that demanded attention. The next useful foothold mattered at least as much as the next useful cast.

At first the water appeared almost too violent to hold fish. After a while, smaller pieces began separating themselves from the general confusion. There was a cushion of softer water against the upstream face of a boulder, a narrow slick behind another and a dark slot running along a rock wall. Some pockets were scarcely larger than a dining table. Others were no more than a turn in the current, briefly slowing before being drawn back into the main flow. Those were the places I began fishing.

One fish remains particularly clear in my mind. I was standing on a boulder, looking almost directly down into a patch of shaded water beneath another. The main current swept past hard, but a small reverse flow curled back under the rock ahead of me. The surface was so broken and distorted that I could get close without seeing directly through to the bottom. There was barely any casting involved. I simply lowered the dry fly into the eddy and kept the line in the air away from the surrounding current.

For perhaps thirty seconds I held it there, making small adjustments as the fly drifted and dapped beneath the boulder. Then a trout took it. After all the effort of getting into position, the actual fishing had involved little more than dropping a fly directly below me and keeping it bobbling in the right water.

I caught a couple of very good fish in that section and lost others that I couldn’t stop. Once a fish reached the heavier current, the balance changed immediately. There was no open gravel bank to follow it along and no way to move quickly between the boulders. Some fish broke me off. I remember being surprised by how few small trout I encountered. The water looked improbable from the road, yet it held fish substantial enough to make the struggle to reach it seem understandable.

Working upstream, I kept looking between the boulders around me and the exposed mountainside above. At the visitor centre, the scale had been measured in photographs and figures. Down here, it was measured in the effort required to get around one rock and then another. The river was loud enough that it was difficult to imagine hearing anything else, and occasionally my thoughts returned to what the canyon must have sounded like that night.

Farther downstream, around Three Dollar Bridge, you find another version of the Madison. It is still quick, still broken and still capable of making wading hard work, but the fishing becomes a matter of examining smaller differences within a much broader sweep of water. From the road, several anglers spread across a section can make it look thoroughly occupied. On foot, I have found that a surprisingly small patch can take a long time to fish properly. One boulder conceals several possible presentations. A shallow seam leads into a slot that was not visible from the bank. Water that appeared uniform from above begins dividing into separate pieces.

There is no need to charge along covering every metre. You might spend a considerable time in an area that would barely register during a drift. The work is in getting a fly through one pocket without having the faster water beside it pull the line away. Then the angle changes, or you move a few steps, and the same section offers something else. It is absorbing fishing, although the concentration can leave you surprisingly tired by the end of the day.

Nor does the river keep that character all the way downstream. Ennis Lake interrupts it again, and below the dam the Madison enters Bear Trap Canyon, where the enclosed canyon eventually gives way to a broader, more open river. My fishing there has generally belonged to the earlier part of the season. Once the summer heat takes hold, I’m usually looking elsewhere. Later, when the inner tubes and rafts begin filling the lower river, it can be difficult to connect that floating summer gathering with the quiet lake fishing or the rough water below Quake.

Moving between these places is one reason the local guides matter. I have fished the Madison with people from several operations over the years, including Big Sky Anglers, TroutHunter and Anderson and Platt. The guides I have particularly enjoyed are the ones who remain good company even when a day proves to be challenging. Some of the Dillon crew have a dry, self directed humour that feels familiar to an Australian. There is plenty of joking, but beneath it they are paying attention. A morning planned for the lake might finish on a river, and not necessarily the river I had expected.

One day, after fishing the lake from a drift boat, I assumed we would launch on the Madison for the afternoon. Instead, the guide decided we would fish the Gallatin. Rather than tow the boat all the way there, he drove back to a junction, pulled over and unhitched the trailer. Then he left the entire outfit beside the main road and we drove away.

I spent considerably more time thinking about that decision than he did. To me, it looked like an expensive boat being left unattended where anyone could attach it to a vehicle and disappear. He did not seem remotely concerned. When pressed on it, his explanation was that people knew the boats and knew who owned them. The wrong boat behind the wrong pickup would attract attention. I understood what he meant, but it did not entirely settle the part of my mind that had watched him disconnect the trailer and walk away.

It is one of those small incidents that has remained with me despite having almost nothing to do with the fish we caught. I cannot now remember every detail of the afternoon on the Gallatin. I can still picture the boat sitting beside the road.

The towns around this part of the trip have similarly distinct characters. Ennis remains the place I most readily recognise as a working Montana town. West Yellowstone is useful and sometimes enjoyable, but I rarely feel any desire to stay in the middle of it. After a day on the water, the crowded streets, souvenir shops and constant traffic can be a difficult adjustment. There are good meals to be found, and it is convenient for accessing the park, but I prefer having somewhere quieter to return to.

Island Park suits me differently. From the main road it can seem scattered and almost without a centre, yet turn into the forest and there are cabins and houses everywhere. On summer evenings, ATVs appear in numbers that initially surprised me. They pass along the roadside tracks, stand on trailers outside accommodation and gather near the bars. It is not silent country during daylight hours. Nevertheless, once dinner is finished and people retreat to their places among the trees, the evenings we spend there are generally quiet.

At TroutHunter in Last Chance, we have often eaten overlooking the Henry’s Fork. After a day on the Madison or Hebgen, it is mildly absurd to sit down for dinner beside yet another river capable of occupying an entire trip. The lodge and shop bring anglers together from all over the world, and the conversations around the tables tend to reflect it. I have heard enough discussion of rivers during dinner there to fill another day before anyone has ordered dessert.

More often, we go back to the house. We usually stay outside the busiest parts of town, around Henry’s Lake or in deep in the timber, with enough room for people to spread out. Someone puts the barbecue on while the others shower. Ribeyes, salad, baked potatoes and a bottle of wine make a fairly reliable dinner after a day outdoors. Photographs are passed around. Calls are made home. Someone may have a book open while another is sorting gear for the morning. Occasionally deer or a moose appear outside and interrupt whatever everyone is doing.

These evenings do not need organising in the way the fishing days do. By this stage, the group has generally worked out how to share the space. Some want to talk. Others are happy sitting quietly for a while. The conversation may stay with the day’s fishing, but it is just as likely to move somewhere else entirely. After enough days together, nobody feels obliged to keep discussing flies simply because it is a fishing trip.

This is usually the final part of our standard journey. There have been three days on the Missouri, a break while we move, three days around Dillon, another day between regions and then these last days near Yellowstone. That spacing matters. People are not simply being marched through two weeks of consecutive fishing days until they can no longer lift a rod. There has been time to travel, look around, eat somewhere different and arrive at the next river with some interest left.

By the final evening, most are content rather than desperate. They have caught fish, sometimes a great many, and have spent days working through different techniques with guides who know their water. They have fished from boats and on foot, watched insects arrive, missed fish they should have caught and landed others they did not expect. An angler who was uncertain on the first morning in Craig may now be making adjustments without waiting to be told. You notice it in the little things, including how much less time they spend looking at the guide for reassurance.

The next morning I will drive them back to Bozeman. Some are flying home. Others are meeting their wives to continue travelling, and a few will remain longer in the West. There are bags to organise and flight times to check, but the final dinner rarely feels hurried. People talk about the places they liked and the fishing they would return for. There are thanks, which I always appreciate. Much of hosting happens before anyone reaches the river, and it is good to know when the work has allowed people to settle in and enjoy themselves.

When I think back over this leg of the trip, though, I do not see one final scene that neatly gathers it all together. I see the lake on a quiet morning, with so many rings appearing that I briefly lose track of the fish we are following. I see the shaded pocket beneath that enormous boulder. I see the empty trailer hitch as a guide leaves his boat beside the road, apparently untroubled by a decision I am still considering a long time later.

The Madison I first imagined from photographs was not wrong. It was simply incomplete. I knew about the riffle water, the salmonflies and the boats. I had not pictured how different the same day could become after moving only a short distance, or how much of the river’s present shape could be traced to a night within living memory. Some of what I now recognise came from guides. Some came from fishing badly enough to have to reconsider what I was doing. Some required putting the rod down and walking into the visitor centre.

Yet the stretch that most often returns to me is the long water above Ennis. I can still feel the movement of the boat there and the need to keep adjusting the line as the fly travels past one boulder towards the next. There is always another small piece of softer water to examine. Before I have quite finished with it, the boat has carried me towards another bank, another seam, another place that deserves a cast.

The valley opens around us, with those level terraces stepping away towards the mountains. Ahead, the river bends out of sight. On most rivers I would expect to find a pool somewhere beyond it, a place where the current gathers and slows enough to give everyone a moment. Here, the bend reveals another long stretch of broken water, moving at much the same pace as the one we have just left. The guide adjusts the boat. I lift the line and cast again.

On this part of the Madison, you eventually stop waiting for the pool.

The river simply keeps going.

Anthony Boliancu
Drift Boat Guide

 

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More from the Madison

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Goulburn Valley fishing report – Friday 25 September 2026

With the Grand Final long weekend underway, here’s an update after two full days of drift boating on Wednesday and Thursday. I fished with a father-and-son team across several parts of the Goulburn, finishing Thursday with five fish in the net and around twenty hits or follows on streamers. In the clear water, we could often watch the whole encounter unfold.

We also sighted around twenty platypus on Thursday alone, some within a couple of rod lengths of the boat. Between watching flies, looking for fish and having platypus surface alongside us, there was plenty to keep everyone occupied.

The river is rising gradually, insect activity is building and the willows are filling out. Fish are still thinly distributed through the stretches we’re covering, but the past two days have given us a better picture of how to approach the fishing, along with some good reasons to get out.

Streamers have been the best option

Wednesday was warmer, with less water in the river, and the fishing was challenging. Thursday’s increase gave several runs more depth and made manoeuvring the boat across the shallow gravel bars noticeably easier.

Fishing streamers has been our most productive approach, and also the most exciting. In the clear water, you can track the fly from the moment it lands all the way back to the rod. Sometimes a fish appears behind it and follows without committing. Sometimes there’s a sudden flash and a hit. It’s extremely exciting and almost entirely visual – quite different from the picture many people have of retrieving a submerged fly through a lake. You see the approach, the hesitation, the change of direction and, sometimes, the take. There’s much more to the day than the final tally in the net.

Thursday’s five landed fish came from around twenty hits or follows. There was enough interaction to keep us experimenting and paying attention, but those numbers also need some context. Two or three years ago, a day fishing this way could quite readily produce a dozen to fifteen fish, with forty or fifty follows, bumps, hits or looks along the way.

To me, that comparison points to substantially fewer fish in the river. We’re still finding opportunities, but we’re covering plenty of water to find them.

With fish spread out, streamers let us search successive banks and runs while watching how the trout respond. The interest doesn’t always turn into a hooked fish, but each follow gives us something to work with.

I first walked into Kelly Galloup’s Slide Inn in Montana in 2010, after an American friend made me promise I’d stop by. I came away with a bunch of new flies and some fresh ideas for fishing the Goulburn. We spent a few weeks experimenting between summer dry-fly sessions in Idaho. While the timing wasn’t ideal for streamer fishing, those early outings changed how we approached our home waters. We’ve been refining that approach ever since.

I’ve recently put together half a dozen outfits covering three different systems, with line and fly combinations suited to different water levels and presentations. They’ll allow us to get the best out of the conditions as they change over the coming months. If you’ve been interested in trying a day of streamer fishing from the boat, this is a good opportunity to get a feel for it.

There are rising fish, too

On Thursday, I bumped into GVFFC founder and my former business partner, David Pickering, at the boat ramp at the top end of Breakaway. He was fishing with our guide Chad and drifting down towards Alexandra. They found a few fish rising throughout the day. Their best was a rainbow of around three pounds, which took about an hour of attention and several fly changes before it finally ate the fly.

There are opportunities on the dry fly, but they’ve been scattered. At present, I’d come prepared to search with streamers and stop when a rising fish gives you a reason to change.

When that happens, take a moment to watch. Where is it feeding? How often does it rise? What is the current doing between you and the fish? David and Chad’s rainbow was a reminder of how much patience can matter once you’ve found a worthwhile trout.

A lot of the rising fish we’ve found have been in mirror-like water, where stealth and presentation are paramount. Don’t be afraid to extend your leader and go finer with the tippet when the fly and fish warrant it. A 10–12-foot leader down to 5X is a useful starting point, but we’ve gone longer and as fine as 6X to tempt fish in the slower pools.

In the boat, it’s handy to have several rods rigged for different situations so we can swap methods quickly. When wading, you need to be more proactive about making those adjustments yourself. Take the time to alter your leader or tippet rather than persevering with a setup that isn’t giving you the presentation you need.

The river is coming up

Heading into the long weekend, releases from Eildon are forecast to continue their gradual rise. They were around 800 ML/day on Wednesday just gone, to approximately 1,100 ML/day yesterday, with 1,300 ML/day forecast for today, Friday.

These small increases make a noticeable difference at the lower end of the flow range. They put more water over the gravel bars, give us additional clearance for the boat and open up more room for fish to hold and feed. A little extra depth can make an exposed run feel considerably more comfortable for a trout.

The release forecast issued at 10 am on 23 September sets out the following:

Date	Forecast release
Friday 25 September	1,300 ML/day
Saturday 26 September	1,450 ML/day
Sunday 27 September	1,500 ML/day

These are releases from Lake Eildon, rather than measurements at every point downstream. Changes take time to travel through the river, and actual releases can vary from the forecast. Check the latest Goulburn–Murray Water release forecast before heading out.

Significant rain could change the picture and see releases reduced again. We’re not yet into the main summer irrigation period, but the river is beginning to have that feel about it, with releases edging upwards.

With the lake lower than we’d like, my hope is that summer flows remain moderate – around the 3,000- 5,000 ML/day mark for much of the main season – rather than reaching the much higher levels we sometimes see. That’s a hope from a fishing perspective, rather than a release forecast. We’ll follow the actual operating updates as the season develops.

A note for anyone rowing below Gilmore’s Bridge

There are two dangerous shallow runs over gravel bars below Gilmore’s Bridge where the current sweeps hard from left to right, pushing boats towards the willows.

The difficulty is that the water on the left can be too shallow to get an effective stroke with the left oar, just when you need it to counter the current. A boat can be swept into the trees before the rower has much opportunity to recover.

The first of the two is particularly awkward late in the day, when the low sun can obscure your view on the approach and through the run. Discretion is the better part of valour here. If you’re unfamiliar with these passages at the current levels, stop well upstream and inspect them. My preference would be to walk the boat through where the footing, depth and current allow that to be done safely, rather than commit to rowing through without a clear line.

I know most readers won’t be rowing this stretch themselves, but if you are and would like a heads-up, drop me a line. I can send Google Maps pins identifying the two locations.

We’ve drifted the upper river several times since opening, along with stretches around Breakaway and Alexandra. This week was our first drift below Thornton. We waited until the river had risen enough to give us more room to pass wading anglers without disturbing their fishing.

Despite plenty of traffic crossing the bridges, we saw only four or five anglers along roughly fifteen kilometres of river.

The insects are the early arrivals

The insect activity is what feels particularly advanced for September. Across Wednesday and Thursday, I saw an extraordinary number of dragonflies – possibly more than I can remember seeing in any comparable 24 hour period. There have also been large numbers of grannoms.

Those two stand out as perhaps a month ahead of what I’d normally expect. Mayflies have been sparse during these sessions, with only a sprinkling of other caddis. Earlier in the week we saw some spinner falls, and beetles have been landing on us in the boat.

The willows are closer to their usual schedule, perhaps a week early. They’re putting on leaf quickly, and I’d expect them to look fully bushy within another five days or so.

It’s an interesting combination: a familiar spring change along the banks, with some insects appearing unusually early and in remarkable numbers. That gives us plenty to watch over the next few weeks, although abundant insects don’t automatically mean trout rising everywhere.

A cooler change for the weekend

The forecast we’re working from has Alexandra reaching 23°C today (feels warmer than that), followed by 18°C on Saturday and 16°C on Sunday. Saturday brings showers and a southerly change, with 1–5 mm indicated.

Monday and Tuesday look mostly dry, with tops of 18–19°C. Farther ahead, the forecast shows showers on Wednesday 30 September, followed by 10–20 mm on Thursday 1 October and 5–10 mm on Friday 2 October.

Those later rainfall totals are still several days away and may change. If the rain arrives across the catchments, we’ll need to reassess the smaller rivers.

The cooler spell may interrupt some of the insect activity, but it will be interesting to see what happens when the next run of warmer days arrives.

Finding fish remains the challenge

On the way home, I ran into a former local guide while getting fuel, and we had a lengthy chat about what we’d both been seeing.

He’d spent a week camping and fishing here, wading, stalking the edges and backwaters, and working through the runs and pools. He’d found very few fish away from the areas immediately around the access points and bridges where trout had been stocked for opening.

Nearly all the fish being caught in those areas were rainbows, which was consistent with his impression that the recent stocking was providing much of the activity.

I’ve also had a report passed on from an angler with Australian team experience who struggled to locate fish away from those main access areas.

These are observations from particular anglers and stretches, rather than a population survey, but they agree with the amount of searching we’re doing and the difference we’re seeing compared with a few years ago.

It’s worth knowing that before a visit. Good-looking water won’t necessarily hold the number of fish you remember from earlier years. Moving, exploring and making the most of the fish you locate are all important at present.

The boat gives us options through the quiet stretches. We can cover more water, reach places that are difficult from the bank and stop when we find something worth working on. The clear water also makes that search absorbing: even a fish that follows and turns away can teach you something.

There’s plenty happening beyond the trout, too. We’ve been seeing azure kingfishers along the river, and Thursday’s platypus encounters were exceptional. Having one surface close enough to watch it properly, then quietly disappear again, is a lovely interruption to a day’s fishing. Seeing so many, along with the kingfishers and everything else happening around us, made it a memorable outing.

Keep an eye on the smaller streams

The smaller rivers may offer some of the more interesting opportunities over the coming weeks.

The figures I’ve been looking at put Lake Eildon at around 61% of capacity, with combined inflows of roughly 2,000 ML/day. That doesn’t tell us the condition of every tributary, but it gives us a reason to check rivers we might ordinarily expect to be running higher at this point in spring.

On the Rubicon, we often associate the first reliable dry-fly fishing with November. During some of the drought years, however, we were fishing dries from opening day, with insect activity seemingly brought forward by as much as two months.

If suitable flows persist and another warm spell follows this change, there could be worthwhile small-stream fishing well before the usual calendar suggests.

Start looking now. Check the individual river, spend a few minutes watching the quieter water and let what you find guide your approach. Next week’s rain may change the picture, so stay flexible.

Looking towards summer

Our recent Montana trip is still in the back of my mind. It was among the hottest, driest visits I can remember. By mid-July, a number of rivers were facing restrictions on fishing hours, with some closures following as heat, low flows and water temperatures became increasingly difficult.

Basing our fishing around tailwaters gave us access to good fishing despite those wider problems. Even so, it reinforced my feeling that June through to around mid-July is becoming the better window for the variety of fishing we want to do there. Later summer can still produce excellent fishing, but I’m increasingly reluctant to assume we’ll have the same range of options.

That experience doesn’t predict our summer, and early dragonflies don’t tell us exactly what February will bring. I’m sharing these observations because they’re worth keeping in mind as we decide where and when to fish.

I’m optimistic about the Goulburn over the next few months. Last November, December and January produced some exceptional sessions, and there is potential for very good fishing again as food becomes more available and the flows give us more water to work with. How consistently that happens will also depend on the fish available in each stretch.

Although Eildon at around 61% is lower than we’d like, my assessment is that there is ample stored water to carry the Goulburn through this summer with cold releases and good fishing opportunities. The longer-term concern is what happens if we don’t receive adequate rain next winter and spring to replenish it.

We’ll continue watching river temperatures and releases. Very hot air temperatures may also influence the hours we choose to spend on the water, particularly in January and through February, even when the river itself remains cold.

The smaller streams may offer their best opportunities earlier, with the Goulburn becoming increasingly important as summer progresses. Beyond that, I’m also looking forward to the fishing that March, April and May can bring.

Come for a drift

We have multiple boats on the river most days and more capacity for local bookings this season. Whether you’re considering a half-day drift, a full day or a few days fishing and staying locally, you’re welcome to get in touch.

If the streamer fishing appeals, let me know. The outfits are ready, the water is clear, and watching a trout appear behind your fly adds another dimension to the day. It’s also a lot of fun and can easily replace a cardio gym session if you’re worried about a ‘sedentary’ day of drifting in the boat.

We’ll give you an honest account of the conditions and help choose an outing that suits your experience. Short-notice enquiries are welcome too – if a day opens up at your end, it’s always worth asking.

Enquire about a drift-boat day

Enjoy the long weekend, whether you’re watching the football, heading for the river or fitting in a bit of both.

Tight lines,
Ant

Goulburn Valley Fly Fishing Centre
03 5773 2513 | 0418 995 611
gvflyfishing@gmail.com

 

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Goulburn Valley fishing report: 22 September 2026

There were beetles landing on us while we fished yesterday. We’ve already seen a few weak spinner falls, caddis are starting to appear, and another run of warm weather is approaching. For the fourth week of September, there is quite a bit happening.

After today’s cooler conditions, Alexandra’s forecast climbs to 20°C on Wednesday, 23°C on Thursday and 25°C on Friday, with temperatures staying in the low twenties through the weekend. There is very little rain indicated before early next week. Combined with a gradual increase in river flows, that gives us something to look forward to.

The Goulburn is very clear. Releases from Eildon have been around 400 megalitres a day, but the forecast issued on 21 September sets out the following increases:

Date	Forecast release
Tuesday 22 September	600 ML/day
Wednesday 23 September	800 ML/day
Thursday 24 September	1,000 ML/day
Friday 25 September	1,000 ML/day

Beyond Friday, we’ll wait for the next update. These are planned releases from Eildon, and they can change; check the latest Goulburn–Murray Water forecast before heading out.

That extra water should make a useful difference. As the river rises, more of the gravel bars and their edges come into play, giving fish additional feeding water and a little more cover. We’ll be watching for trout moving into those areas as more food becomes available.

It also opens up our drift-boat options. Being able to work along a bank, cover successive runs and spend time out in the bubble lines where fish are feeding gives us more opportunities across a day. With the river clear and insect activity building, drift boating is becoming a much bigger part of our week again.

The fishing itself still requires care. The Goulburn has had a difficult couple of years, and the recent low, clear water has been demanding. We’ve brought a few fish to the fly this week, but our recent beginner sessions, including two boat days, have finished without a fish. The trout we are finding rising are asking for a good approach and an accurate, drag-free presentation.

That is worth knowing before you arrive. Give yourself time to watch a fish, work out its feeding rhythm and choose your position before making the first cast. A few well-considered presentations are often more useful than repeatedly covering the same trout.

We started the season doing more streamer fishing, but have increasingly moved towards dry-dropper rigs and straight dry-fly setups. From the boat, a nine-foot leader – and sometimes something shorter – with a stronger tippet can work well when we can position ourselves for a controlled drift. For stalking fish from the bank in the current clear water, I’d be starting with a 10–12-foot leader down to 5X.

Keep an eye on what is actually arriving on the water. The spinner falls have already given us reasons to stop and watch, caddis are becoming more noticeable, and yesterday’s beetles were a reminder to have a few terrestrial patterns handy. Flying ants are something I’ll be watching for next. If the warmth continues, it will be interesting to see how early the cicadas appear.

The smaller rivers deserve attention too. On the Rubicon, we often associate reliable dry-fly fishing with November. During some of the drought years, though, we were fishing dries from opening day, with the usual progression of insect activity seemingly brought forward by a month or more.

We may see some of that again. My advice is to start looking earlier than you ordinarily would. Visit a favourite stretch, spend a few minutes watching the quieter water and let what you see determine how you fish. There could be some very worthwhile small-stream fishing over the next couple of months.

Looking further ahead, the Bureau’s latest climate update confirms an established El Niño, while emphasising that its strength does not translate directly into the severity of local conditions. That’s spoken like a true politician. A warm, dry season is something we need to prepare for, but September cannot tell us exactly how every river will look in February.

Our recent Montana trip was a reminder of how much water choice matters in a difficult summer. It was among the hottest, driest visits I can remember. We found good fishing on the tailwaters while other waters were affected by heat, low flows and fishing restrictions. That experience has me thinking carefully about the coming season here.

If our smaller rivers become low and warm, their best fishing may come earlier, and there may be periods when we should leave them alone. The Goulburn’s cold releases from Eildon give us an important option, although we’ll still be watching temperatures and flows rather than assuming conditions will remain suitable everywhere.

For now, there is plenty to watch with interest: clear water, a measured rise in flows, insects appearing and warm days ahead. I have five consecutive days with experienced fly fishers coming starting tomorrow, which should give us a better picture of how the river responds.

We expect to have boats on the river most days from now on. Whether you’re thinking about a half-day drift, a full day on the water or a few days fishing and staying locally, get in touch. It’s always worth asking if an opportunity comes up at short notice.

We’ll keep you posted as the flows change and the fishing develops.

Tight lines,
Ant

0418 995 611

 

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After three days on the Missouri, people begin to think they have Montana worked out. This is usually about the time we leave.

There is none of the careful packing that accompanies an airport day. The rods don’t even go back into their tubes. They’re left fully rigged and laid in the vehicle among the bags, ready for whatever we decide to fish next. We say goodbye to Craig, turn south and begin the journey towards Dillon.

The first part of the drive gives little indication of how much the country is about to change. Interstate 15 follows the Missouri through narrow country south of Craig, with steep canyon slopes pressing towards the road and the river appearing and disappearing beside us. Old railway lines, bridges and smaller creeks cut through the folds in the landscape. For a while, the country still feels connected to the river we have just left.

Gradually it opens.

Beyond Helena the distances become larger. Mountain ranges that once seemed close enough to touch retreat towards the horizon. Dry grass fills enormous valleys between them. Around Butte, the scars of mining appear on the hillsides, reminders that people were drawn to this country for very different reasons long before fly fishing became part of its modern identity. Continue south and the landscape becomes drier again. Rock and pale grass replace much of the green. Irrigated fields appear almost unnaturally bright against the surrounding country.

By the time we reach Dillon, Craig feels considerably farther away than the distance on the map suggests.

Dillon is still a proper Montana town. Pickups line the streets. American flags hang from houses and businesses. Bars and restaurants sit among practical shops serving people who actually live and work in the surrounding valleys. Sparky’s has enough 1950s and 60s memorabilia to occupy you while waiting for dinner, including booths fashioned from old vehicles. There is a small brewery, several fly shops and a taco truck that has become something of an institution for us. After enough years returning to a place, convenience and familiarity eventually become their own form of luxury, and sometimes a good taco eaten without ceremony is exactly what everyone wants.

We generally stay outside town on acreage rather than in a motel. The house we have used on recent trips has a large L-shaped balcony wrapping around the second storey. Below one side is a working yard where horses are handled and exercised. Around the other, the view opens towards distant mountains that spend the afternoon looking bleached by the sun before deepening in colour as evening arrives. Dillon can be oppressively hot in July, but once the sun drops, sitting on that deck with something cold to drink is a very pleasant way to finish a fishing day.

Mornings begin with coffee and the short drive into town. The guiding operation we use has become familiar enough that arriving now feels more like returning than checking in. Hunting dogs are usually somewhere around the shop. Some mornings they wander over looking for attention. Other times they barely bother lifting their heads from beneath the wader racks, offering something approaching a canine nod before going back to sleep.

Around them, the owners are usually in motion. Boats need guides. Guides need clients. Clients need rivers. Lunches need loading and decisions made about where everyone is going. A large operation may have boats scattered across several rivers and sections on the same day. Water temperature, flows, hatches, yesterday’s reports, fishing pressure and client ability all enter the calculation. So does something less measurable: what people actually feel like doing.

That matters around Dillon because there is no single obvious river. Within reach are the Beaverhead, Big Hole, Ruby and Jefferson, with the Madison not much farther away. They are not different sections of the same experience. They ask completely different questions. After three days learning the Missouri, that can come as a surprise.

The Beaverhead usually makes the point first. We drive south on the interstate towards Clark Canyon Reservoir, leave the highway and cross the dam wall. The reservoir sits broad and still on one side. On the other, the Beaverhead emerges below the dam and immediately begins winding across the dry valley floor. From above it looks almost insignificant, particularly after several days on the Missouri.

Then you reach the ramp.

It does not seem to matter how early we arrive. There are usually boats ahead of us. Everyone joins the queue in the order they arrived and moves forward one place at a time. Nobody seems particularly bothered by the wait. Guides use the twenty minutes to prepare boats, assess the water, alter leaders and tie on flies. Clients drink coffee and watch the river. Eventually your turn arrives, the boat slides down the rough ramp and another day begins.

From the boat, the Beaverhead feels completely different. It is narrow, intimate and surprisingly quick. In places it may be only twenty or thirty yards across, occasionally widening beyond that, before bending back upon itself beneath bankside vegetation. Channels split without warning. Some carry similar amounts of water, leaving the person on the oars only a few seconds to decide which one to take. Timber appears around bends. Shallow gravel accelerates the current. The river is constantly asking the rower to look ahead.

That is part of what makes it enjoyable to row. You are rarely sitting passively on the oars. The boat needs positioning, correcting and anticipating. The angler needs to remain in useful water while the guide is already considering what lies around the next corner. On a large river, there is often time to see trouble developing. On the Beaverhead, decisions arrive more quickly.

The fishing can be equally startling. The upper river holds extraordinary numbers of trout, many of them substantial fish. The conventional approach is often deep nymphing. Not vaguely deep. Properly deep. Long droppers, two weighted nymphs, split shot and indicators large enough to look faintly ridiculous until you watch one disappear.

The first time you see the rigs, it is difficult not to think of the barrels Quint stuck into the shark in Jaws. You wonder how any trout could possibly pull the thing under.

Then the indicator vanishes. Sometimes it doesn’t merely dip. It is violently dragged beneath the surface and begins travelling upstream at a rate that leaves no doubt about what has happened below. The guides want the flies on the bottom. You can often see the indicator tapping rhythmically as the rig moves through the run. Tap, tap, tap. The flies are down where they need to be. Then one of those taps becomes something else entirely.

It is enormously productive. In the upper few miles there can be so many fish concentrated in the cold tailwater that guides will anchor boats along the edge of a run or below a drop off and repeatedly work the centre channel. At times there may be several boats lined along the same run, with different anglers hooked up simultaneously.

My Australian instincts struggle with this.

More than once I have approached a line of anchored boats, shipped the oars and tried to sneak through whatever narrow gap I could find between the bank and the boats because I did not want to row across somebody else’s fish.

The American guides look at me as though I have lost my mind. “Just go over them.” The first few times I assumed they were simply being polite. They weren’t.

There are plenty of fish, they tell me, and the trout are accustomed to boats. Rowing over the top is preferable to creating chaos along the bank or interfering with a client’s backcast. After enough years I understand the logic perfectly well, yet some part of me still finds it difficult.

Perhaps that is why we have gradually developed a different way of fishing the Beaverhead. Most guides operate something close to conventional hours. They launch around eight or nine and finish somewhere around four or five. We try to get ahead of that rhythm. If conditions allow, we are on the water around seven, sometimes among the very first boat to launch. Then we keep moving.

Rather than spending eight hours working every productive nymphing run, we cover the first drift in four or five. We pick the eyes out of the water, concentrate heavily on dry flies and keep moving downstream. When we reach the takeout, we stop for lunch, return to the top and do it again. By the second drift, many of the boats that followed us in the morning are either well downstream or beginning to finish. For much of the afternoon, the river feels considerably quieter.

There is a trade-off. If the sole objective were numbers, it would be foolish to ignore the deep nymph fishing. Twenty fish is entirely possible. Sometimes more. Our approach may produce five or ten good fish on a pass, perhaps a dozen when everything comes together.

I will happily take that exchange. Fewer boats. Dry flies. Rising trout.

The Beaverhead offers surprisingly good dry-fly fishing for anyone prepared to look away from the obvious way of doing things. Terrestrials can be worked tight to grassy edges and beneath cover. PMDs bring fish into slower water. Spinners gather over flats. Anywhere the current softens slightly is worth examining, particularly where shade reaches across the river.

Double dry-fly rigs allow us to search while still presenting something small enough to interest selective fish. We miss plenty. Some refuse at the last moment. Others rise, inspect the fly and disappear again. And when you snag a branch its $7 gone, not $3.50. That is part of it.

The trout themselves can be exceptional. The lower forty-eight states are not generally associated with the size of trout Australians encounter in New Zealand, but certain fertile tailwaters are different. The Beaverhead is one of them. Heavy brown trout are common enough that landing several genuinely good fish in a day is unremarkable by local standards.

It is easy, in those circumstances, to become complacent. That is probably the greatest danger on the Beaverhead. The river looks small. The boat feels controllable. Fish are everywhere. Then you round a corner and discover fast water, shallow boulders and timber exactly where you do not want it.

There is one section beneath an interstate bridge that has always commanded my attention. The river narrows, accelerates through boulders and shifts heavily from one side to the other before dropping towards trees. At certain flows there is very little time to carefully pick a line and the decision has already been made for you. Years ago, I came through there with a couple of mates while another boat followed behind. I heard the water before I properly saw it and managed to pull over just high enough to get my anglers onto the bank. With the boat lighter, I pushed through alone, sliding across shallow boulders before pulling up below. A few small dings on the hull the only damage to show.

Then I thought about the second boat. The person rowing it had considerably less experience. I ran upstream. By the time I reached them, there was no realistic way for the rower to stop above the rapid. I ended up scrambling onto the rocks, grabbing the boat as it came through and using my weight, the anchor and whatever footing I could find to help slow it enough to get the anglers out. Then I rowed that boat through as well.

A local guide might reasonably describe the rapid as small. In the broader scheme of western whitewater, it is. But small rapids can still put inexperienced rowers into trees, particularly when everything happens quickly. I have sat nearby waiting to photograph clients coming through that slot and watched other boats get pushed into the timber on the far side.

The lesson is not that the Beaverhead is inherently dangerous. It is that complacency can make any river dangerous.

The next morning may be entirely different. The Big Hole opens the country again. Where the Beaverhead feels intimate and contained, the Big Hole feels like a western freestone river. There is no large storage dam controlling its upper reaches. Gravel moves. Channels alter. Timber accumulates and disappears. Spring runoff can rearrange pieces of river between visits. That impermanence gives the Big Hole much of its character.

Large ranches spread away from the banks. Gravel bars open beneath wide skies. Long rock walls have been built along some outside bends to protect against erosion. Cottonwoods, pasture and distant mountains replace much of the tight vegetation of the Beaverhead. Deer are more common. Birdlife seems more obvious. The river feels less engineered even where people have clearly worked hard to hold it in place.

It has good years and lean ones. That matters too.

Not every famous Montana river fishes brilliantly every season, and there is little point pretending otherwise. The Big Hole has experienced difficult periods, and by midsummer conditions can vary enormously. Yet even on a modest fishing day it remains one of those places where the journey itself carries considerable value.

The Ruby changes the pace again. It is smaller water, approached on foot rather than from a drift boat. Pools, riffles and runs replace the constant movement of rowing. You slow down. Watch. Walk. Perhaps wait for a fish to reveal itself before making a cast.

For anglers who have spent six days sitting in boats, that alone can feel refreshing.

The Ruby also introduces another peculiarly western issue: access. For years, disputes around bridges on the river became part of a larger argument over Montana’s stream-access laws. Wealthy landowners challenged whether anglers could legally reach public water from county bridges, leading to litigation that eventually reached the Montana Supreme Court. To an Australian visitor, the intensity of these arguments can seem strange until you understand how important public access is to western fishing culture.

A river can be public while the land surrounding it is not.

That distinction shapes where people park, where they enter and how they move along the water. On the Ruby, the argument was never merely about trout. It was about who gets to reach them.

The Jefferson is another possibility, though by the time we usually arrive in July it can simply be too warm. Earlier in the season it can fish very well. Later, responsible decisions about water temperature become more important than whether somebody would like another day on a particular river. That is where the depth of local guide knowledge becomes invaluable.

A guiding operation may have twenty boats spread across different rivers and sections on any given day. Reports return every evening. Guides know which water is warming, where hatches appeared, which section received heavy pressure and where somebody unexpectedly found good fish.

The following morning, all of that information is redistributed. Sometimes the decision has little to do with where the most fish were caught. A client may have spent two days watching an indicator and simply want to throw dry flies against grassy banks. Someone else may want to sight-fish. Another may be tired and prefer a less technical day. A guide who ignores those things can put somebody on the objectively “best” river and still give them the wrong day.

Occasionally the answer is the Madison. It requires a longer drive from Dillon, through Twin Bridges and Virginia City towards Ennis, but it has rescued more than one trip when conditions or restrictions elsewhere narrowed the options. The river itself changes character repeatedly, from the country around Yellowstone through Hebgen and Quake lakes, down through the Slide and into the long section anglers call the fifty-mile riffle before eventually flattening towards Ennis.

By then, the idea of “Montana fishing” as a single thing has become almost meaningless. The rivers are too different. So is the country surrounding them.  One of the pleasures of staying around Dillon is discovering that the landscape carries stories far older than the fly shops.

Beaverhead Rock rises above the valley north of town. In 1805, Sacagawea recognised the landmark as Lewis and Clark’s expedition moved through the region and understood that they were approaching the country of her Shoshone people. The expedition desperately needed horses if it was going to cross the mountains. A shape in the landscape told her they were getting close.

Nearby, William Clark climbed high ground to survey and sketch the country. Today we drive through the same valley in air-conditioned vehicles, watching river reports on phones and deciding where to fish tomorrow.

A little farther away is Bannack. Gold was discovered there in 1862, and for a brief period the settlement became one of the most important places in Montana Territory. Today much of the town remains standing. You can walk along the old main street past weathered buildings, looking through empty windows into rooms that once held schools, businesses and families.

Ghost towns are strange places. The buildings remain, but the reason for their existence has disappeared. Coolidge, hidden in the Pioneer Mountains, feels different again. It grew around silver rather than gold. Reaching the remains involves leaving the vehicle and walking through forest into country where the industrial ambition of another era is slowly being absorbed back into the landscape. Mining structures, abandoned buildings and remnants of the old operation remain among the trees.

It is difficult to reconcile those quiet ruins with the effort required to put them there.

Then there is the Big Hole Battlefield. I first visited without fully understanding the story attached to the place. The trails move through open country towards the edge of the timber. Interpretive markers explain what happened there in August 1877, when more than eight hundred nimíipuu, or Nez Perce, were travelling with their families and thousands of horses during their attempted flight from U.S. forces.

The attack came at dawn. Nearly ninety Nez Perce were killed, many of them women and children, along with soldiers and civilian volunteers. The survivors continued eastward, fighting and travelling for weeks before much of the group was eventually stopped close to the Canadian border.

I remember walking the trails and reading the markers. At one point we saw what appeared to be a bear near the distant timber. Mostly, though, I remember the quiet.

Places like that require very little interpretation from the visitor. The landscape is still there. The distances are still visible. Once you understand that families were moving through this country with children, horses and possessions while being pursued across hundreds of miles, the neat lines on a modern map become something else entirely. Montana contains a great deal of that.

A road followed because it leads to tomorrow’s fishing may also cross the route of Lewis and Clark, pass an abandoned mining settlement, skirt a battlefield or run beside country used for thousands of years before any of those names existed. The fishing is only one layer.

By the time we leave Dillon, clients have usually been in Montana for more than a week and fished six full days. Something has changed. The nervousness of the first Missouri morning is gone. They have caught trout in slow slicks and fast pocket water. They have watched indicators disappear and fish rise to dries. They have blind-fished likely banks, stalked individual trout and learned that a guide changing tomorrow’s river is not necessarily changing the plan. Sometimes that is the plan.

They are also tired in the good way. The bags go back into the vehicle. The rods remain rigged. Then we turn towards the next part of the journey.

Usually that means West Yellowstone or Island Park, and another complete change of scale. Drift boats may give way to wading. The next trout might be a native cutthroat in Yellowstone National Park. There will be bison, thermal basins, high meadows and the possibility of wolves or bears at first light. The Madison remains nearby. So does the Henry’s Fork. By this stage nobody needs convincing that the next river will be different.

Put me into a drift boat on any of these waters and I would know where I was almost immediately. I wouldn’t need the mountains, a road sign or a familiar house on the bank. The river itself would give it away. The Missouri with its broad, deceptive slicks. The Beaverhead turning back upon itself beneath willows and brush. The Big Hole opening across ranch country. The Madison running seemingly without end through riffle water.

After enough time, you recognise them in much the same way you recognise familiar handwriting. Not because you consciously examine every detail, but because the details together could belong to nobody else.

That is perhaps what changes most during these middle days of the trip. On arrival, clients know the names. Missouri. Beaverhead. Big Hole. Madison. They are famous rivers collected over years from books, magazines, films and conversations with other anglers. Six days later, the names have acquired shape and movement. One is broad and subtle. Another narrow and quick. One asks you to stare at a tiny dry fly in flat water. Another has you throwing something large against a grassy bank while the boat moves beneath you.

Tomorrow there will be another river.

Somewhere ahead, Yellowstone is waiting.

And nobody expects it to look anything like the water we have just left.

 

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