Category: Between Casts

Late May on the Goulburn, and Why the Quiet Weeks Still Matter

By the third week of May, the Goulburn begins to feel as though it is speaking more quietly.

The river is still open. The trout are still there. In many cases they are feeding beautifully. But the tone changes. The bright urgency of spring and summer fades into something more measured. The mornings arrive colder. The shadows stretch further across the water. The anglers who remain are usually the ones who genuinely want to be there.

For many people, the season feels all but over by now. Football has returned. Frost settles across the paddocks at daylight. The forecast no longer carries the promise of warm evenings and careless rises. Yet late autumn often produces some of the most satisfying fishing of the entire season.

Not because it is easy.

Because it asks something different of you.

The river itself changes first. Aquatic weed that grew thick through summer begins to thin. Long slicks of clean walking-speed water reappear. The current takes on definition again. Seams sharpen. Bubble lines become easier to read. Fish that spent much of summer spread through fast oxygenated water begin holding in slower, softer lies.

The insects change too.

The big summer terrestrials are mostly gone now. Just a few crickets and beetles remain. Late autumn on the Goulburn becomes a smaller, quieter game. Tiny Baetis mayflies appear through the middle of the day. Midges gather in the softer edges during calm conditions. Some afternoons still produce surprisingly steady dry fly fishing, but rarely with the recklessness of early season. These fish feed with far more caution now.

You find yourself fishing longer leaders, finer tippets and smaller flies.

And strangely, many experienced anglers enjoy this more.

There is less noise around the river in May. Less racing from run to run searching for obvious surface activity. The fishing slows down in the best possible sense. Anglers begin watching more carefully again.

A trout rising steadily in late May often feels more significant than twenty careless summer fish.

There is also something deeply Australian about these final weeks before the close. The willows begin shedding heavier leaves into the current. Mist hangs low over the flats early in the morning before lifting into pale blue skies. Black cattle stand motionless in frosted paddocks beside the river. Wedge-tailed eagles drift overhead in the middle of the day.

The landscape starts preparing itself for winter.

So do the trout.

By now many fish are beginning to colour slightly ahead of spawning. Larger browns in particular can become increasingly territorial. It is important during this period that anglers fish responsibly and understand what the close season is intended to protect.

The annual winter closure exists for a reason. Wild trout need the opportunity to spawn with minimal pressure and disturbance. Healthy fisheries depend on restraint as much as opportunity. One of the privileges of living beside a river like the Goulburn is understanding that we are only temporary participants in something much older and more important than ourselves.

Good anglers eventually learn that not every season is supposed to be endless.

There is value in things stopping for a while.

In truth, many guides quietly welcome the close season too, even if we rarely admit it publicly. After months spent rowing boats, studying weather forecasts, preparing lunches, untangling knots and living by the rhythms of clients and river conditions, winter offers something increasingly rare in modern life.

Stillness.

Not complete stillness, of course. There are always fly lines to clean, boats to repair, bookings to organise and next season to prepare for. Winter workshops begin shortly after the rivers close and for many anglers this becomes one of the most productive learning periods of the year. Without the distraction of actively chasing fish, people often improve far more quickly.

The quieter months are also when future adventures begin taking shape.

New Zealand season planning is already underway for next summer. Montana preparations continue in the background as another American season slowly approaches. Maps are studied. Flights watched. Gear sorted. Conversations begin again around campfires, airport lounges and kitchen tables.

For many anglers, anticipation is half the enjoyment.

And perhaps that is part of why the final weeks of the local season carry a certain feeling to them. Not sadness exactly. More an awareness that another chapter is closing and another is already quietly forming somewhere beyond it.

A good guide notices these transitions after enough years.

The angle of the light changes. The birdlife changes. The pace of conversations in the boat changes. Even clients fish differently by late May. There is often less urgency and more appreciation. People linger longer at the take-out ramps. They stand quietly beside the river before driving home.

Some seasons pass almost unnoticed. Others leave an imprint behind.

This one certainly felt like the latter.

The Goulburn has again produced some remarkable fishing at times this year. Vignettes rather than sustained glory.

There have been difficult periods too, as there always are. Yet the river continues to remind us why tailwater fisheries remain so compelling. No two drifts are ever truly identical. Conditions evolve daily. One afternoon can humble you completely while the next restores every ounce of confidence you thought you had lost.

That uncertainty is part of the attraction.

It always will be.

As we move toward winter, we will continue sharing a mixture of technical pieces, seasonal observations and stories from further afield here on the blog. There is also another long-term project slowly nearing completion in the background, one that has occupied many quiet evenings over recent years.

More on that in due course.

For now though, there are still a few weeks left.

A few final drifts.
A few cold mornings.
A few trout still rising carefully in soft autumn light.

And for anglers willing to slow down enough to notice, late May may still hold some of the finest fishing of the season.

Part IV: Between Casts — Reflections from the Road

When you’re in the middle of a trip like this — twelve days, three regions, hundreds of miles of road and river — it’s easy to fall into the rhythm of it all.

Early alarms. Coffee before daylight. Boats launched into cold morning mist. Rods rigged in motel carparks. Long drives between rivers. Burgers eaten leaning against fuel bowsers. Maps spread across tables. Weather forecasts checked one last time before sleep.

Then you wake up and do it all again.

And somewhere in amongst that repetition, the trip slowly begins to gather meaning.

Not just in the fishing itself, but in the quieter moments around it.

The conversations over breakfast.
The silence during long drives.
The strange satisfaction of peeling off wet waders after dark.
The way a group of people who barely knew each other twelve days earlier somehow ends up moving through the world in rhythm.

That’s the part difficult to explain to people who haven’t done trips like this before.

The fishing matters enormously.

But eventually it becomes about something larger than trout.

Three Regions, Three Different Worlds

One of the things I’ve always loved about these Montana trips is how dramatically the landscape — and the fishing — changes as you move across the state.

Craig and the Missouri feel entirely different to Dillon. Dillon feels completely different to Yellowstone.

Each region asks different things of anglers.

The Missouri is technical, measured water. Long leaders, subtle rises, careful drifts and endless patience. It’s a river that teaches restraint. Everything about it feels calm and deliberate. You find yourself slowing down because the river demands it.

It’s also one of the finest dry fly fisheries on earth when conditions align properly.

The fish aren’t always enormous by Montana standards, but they are beautifully conditioned and incredibly honest. If you make a good cast and present the fly properly, they usually tell you quickly whether you’ve succeeded or failed.

There’s something deeply satisfying about that.

Then you arrive in Dillon and everything changes.

The Beaverhead can humble excellent anglers very quickly. Tiny flies. Complex currents. Heavy fish sitting in difficult positions. The Big Hole, by contrast, feels wild and unpredictable. One moment delicate dry fly fishing, the next throwing larger attractors against undercut banks or fishing through pocket water beneath looming mountains.

It’s rougher country somehow.

Less polished.

And then Yellowstone changes the mood entirely again.

By the time you reach the Park region, the scale of the landscape begins overwhelming the fishing itself. The rivers are extraordinary, but so too are the bison standing beside them, the distant mountain ranges, the geothermal steam drifting through timber at daylight and the constant awareness that this is still genuinely wild country.

You feel small there.

In a good way.

Montana Through Australian Eyes

Australians tend to react strongly to Montana for reasons that often have very little to do with fishing.

Of course the rivers are magnificent. The trout fishing can be exceptional. But what stays with most people is the atmosphere surrounding it all.

The openness.
The scale.
The old western towns.
The diners.
The endless public land.
The absence of fences in places where Australians instinctively expect them.

For many of our guests, particularly those in their fifties, sixties and seventies, Montana awakens something they thought modern life had buried a long time ago.

A slower rhythm.

Days built around weather, movement and daylight rather than notifications and appointments.

People often speak about “wilderness” as though it’s simply scenery. But real wilderness changes your internal pace. After a week or two over there, people start sleeping differently. Talking differently. Looking up more often instead of down.

Even the conversations change.

By the second week, very few people are discussing work anymore.

Why These Trips Changed

When I first started running Montana trips back in 2010, the structure was quite different.

Larger groups.
More movement.
More ambition.
Trying to fit too much in.

Over time I realised the best moments were rarely created by rushing.

So the trips evolved.

Smaller groups.
Better accommodation.
More breathing room.
More flexibility.
More attention to atmosphere and rhythm.

These days four anglers feels about right.

Small enough that everyone can genuinely relax.
Small enough that we can adapt plans around weather, energy levels and fishing conditions.
Small enough that solitude still exists when people want it.

That matters more than many realise.

Some clients want conversation constantly.
Others need periods of quiet after years spent in busy professional lives.

The smaller structure allows both.

It also creates stronger friendships.

By the end of a good trip, people know each other properly. Not in the shallow way modern travel often produces, but through shared discomfort, shared excitement, long days and accumulated moments.

That’s difficult to manufacture artificially.

The Rivers Change You Slightly

I’ve now spent a significant part of my adult life guiding, hosting or fishing in Montana.

Long enough to watch rivers change.
Long enough to watch towns change.
Long enough to notice myself changing too.

The Missouri today isn’t exactly the Missouri of 2010.
The crowds are larger in some places.
The gear is more sophisticated.
The fly fishing industry itself feels louder and more commercial than it once did.

But the core experience remains remarkably intact.

Good rivers endure.

And perhaps more importantly, the reasons people travel to them endure too.

People come looking for trout.

But often what they really need is perspective.

A fortnight where life becomes simple again:
Wake up.
Fish hard.
Eat well.
Sleep deeply.

Repeat.

Modern life rarely allows that anymore.

Looking Ahead

We’re already planning the next Montana season now.

The structure will remain similar because, after years of refining these trips, it simply works.

Three regions.
Different water styles.
Smaller groups.
Carefully chosen guides and accommodation.
Enough movement to feel like an adventure.
Enough stillness to actually absorb the experience.

But every season ends up different regardless.

Different flows.
Different weather.
Different hatches.
Different wildlife encounters.
Different personalities within the group.

That unpredictability is part of why these trips remain exciting after all these years.

They never become fully repeatable.

And honestly, I would never want them to.

In Closing

What begins as a fishing trip almost always becomes something else by the end.

People arrive thinking about trout.

They leave remembering:
the light across the Madison at dusk,
coffee beside drifting fog,
the sound of bison moving through grass,
the first sight of the Yellowstone canyon,
friends laughing in a restaurant after fourteen hours outside,
or a single fish rising steadily beneath a bank halfway through a long afternoon.

Those are the moments that survive.

The older I get, the more I think good trips are measured less by numbers and more by memory.

Montana seems particularly good at creating those kinds of memories.

Perhaps it’s the scale of the country.
Perhaps it’s the movement between rivers.
Perhaps it’s simply the accumulated effect of living outdoors properly for a couple of weeks.

Whatever the reason, people rarely return unchanged.

Some come home wanting to fish more seriously.
Some simplify their lives slightly.
Some reconnect with old parts of themselves they hadn’t visited in years.

And some simply carry the calmness home with them for a while.

That might be the most valuable thing these trips offer now.

Not escape exactly.

Perspective.

A reminder that another way of living still exists out there somewhere beyond airports, traffic, meetings and screens.

You just have to follow the rivers long enough to find it.

Part III: Wildness and Wonder — Yellowstone and the Upper Madison

After eight full days of fishing across the Missouri and Dillon regions, we packed the vehicles early and headed east toward Yellowstone for the final leg of the trip. Spirits were high, the playlist was good, and the landscape began changing dramatically with each passing mile.

We left the dry hills around Dillon behind and wound through the open country near Twin Bridges before climbing toward Virginia City and Ennis. In Ennis we stopped for lunch and wandered through the fly shops, each full of character, gear and local gossip. The Madison ran alongside the highway almost the entire way, broad and clear beneath a huge western sky. Drift boats slid through boulder gardens and long riffles, anglers casting as the current carried them downstream.

Every bend in the road revealed another stretch of famous water.

Eventually we crossed into Idaho and arrived at our base near Henry’s Lake. The house sat well back from the road among lodgepole pines and open grasslands marked with fresh moose tracks. A small creek wound quietly past the property, holding trout of its own beneath cutbanks and undercut grass.

Mornings settled into a rhythm quickly. Coffee on the deck. Deer feeding out in the frost. Thin cloud stretching across distant peaks. After the pace and movement of the earlier legs, this part of the trip felt calmer somehow. More spacious.

Caddis, PMDs and the Slide Area

Fishing on the Upper Madison was everything we had hoped for.

Below Lyon Bridge we encountered classic western river water. Broad gravel runs, heavy pockets, submerged boulders and aggressive trout willing to move for a well-presented dry fly. Early in the trip PMDs and caddis dominated. Spinner falls appeared most mornings, while egg-laying caddis gathered in astonishing numbers late in the evenings.

By the third trip in late July, spruce moths and hoppers had become increasingly important. The takes changed too. Less subtle inspection and more outright violence. Fish launched at large dry flies with complete commitment.

Further upstream, below Quake Lake, lies the famous Slide Area.

Here the Madison narrows and accelerates into chaotic whitewater, weaving through enormous boulders and deep green slots formed after the 1959 Hebgen earthquake. The landslide that followed dammed the river, created Quake Lake overnight and buried an entire campground beneath rock and debris.

The scars remain visible today.

Before fishing the Slide Area we visited the Earthquake Lake Visitor Centre. Standing there among the silence, reading accounts of the disaster and looking across the collapsed mountainside, gave everyone a deeper appreciation for the landscape surrounding us. Places like this feel alive in ways that are difficult to explain.

And perhaps because of that, they demand a certain respect.

Still Water and Quiet Fish

One afternoon we spent several hours stalking trout in Quake and Hebgen Lakes.

With the right light and just enough wind to ripple the surface, fish became visible cruising the shallows. Calibaetis spinner falls brought steady rises, while spruce moths occasionally drew larger trout from deeper water.

Stillwater dry fly fishing always feels slightly surreal to me. Everything slows down. You watch individual fish moving through the clear water, tracking, refusing, turning back again.

Every cast feels deliberate.

One moment in Hebgen stood out in particular. A fish rose quietly just beyond a weed edge, barely visible through the chop. One of the group laid a Calibaetis spinner over the top of it perfectly.

The trout followed the fly.
Refused.
Disappeared.

He false cast once, settled himself, then dropped the fly back into the same lane. This time the fish rose properly.

Sip.

The line came tight and the trout tore across the bay before eventually coming to hand. A thick rainbow of around twenty-two inches, bright and heavy in the afternoon light.

For a few seconds no one said much.

Moments like that rarely need improving with conversation.

Into Yellowstone

Over several days we made multiple trips into Yellowstone National Park itself, mixing fishing with sightseeing and long scenic drives.

The meadows between Quake and Hebgen produced some beautiful fishing. PMDs, caddis and midges gathered in huge numbers over the softer water and trout fed steadily through long sections of ankle-deep current. On one occasion we watched a fish refuse an emerger, drift downstream, then return several seconds later to eat the exact same fly from a different angle.

It all unfolded in water barely deep enough to cover its back.

A distant grizzly sighting one morning reminded us quickly where we were. The bear was feeding near a partially buried carcass well away from the trail, but it changed the mood immediately. Bear spray suddenly felt less theoretical hanging from everyone’s belt.

Conversations became quieter in the timber after that.

Further north, the Lamar Valley and its tributaries delivered some of the most visually stunning fishing of the trip. Slough Creek, Soda Butte and the Lamar itself flow through wide valleys surrounded by open grasslands, bison herds and distant mountains.

The cutthroat trout here rise differently to most fish.

Everything about them feels slower.

You cast.
Wait.
Wait longer still.

Then a golden head appears beneath the fly almost in slow motion. Strike too early and you miss them completely. Spook one fish and the entire meadow seems to tense up around you.

The fishing demands patience.

On our final day inside the park we drove the South Loop past geysers, mud pots, hot springs and eventually the Lower Falls of the Yellowstone. Standing at Artist Point among crowds of tourists from all over the world, everyone simply stopped talking for a while.

The scale of the place overwhelms you eventually.

Water seems to shape everything there.

Good Meals and the End of the Road

Evenings brought us back toward warmth and civilisation.

At TroutHunter in Last Chance we ate exceptionally well. Elk medallions, good beer, heavy desserts and long conversations that stretched late into the evening. In West Yellowstone we visited the Buffalo Bar and Hank’s Chop Shop, both loud and full of tired fishermen, tourists and stories from the river.

By now the mood had shifted slightly within the group.

Everyone knew the trip was nearing its end.

Every hosted trip eventually develops its own rhythm and personality. Ours had slowly settled into something comfortable and unspoken. Over two weeks we had fished technical tailwaters, freestone rivers, meadow streams and stillwaters. We had covered an enormous sweep of the American West together.

And by this point, everyone was tired in the best possible way.

The kind of tiredness that comes from full days outdoors, good food, constant movement and complete immersion in a place.

Nothing forced.
Nothing wasted.

Next Up: The Final Dispatch

The final piece in this series will reflect on the broader meaning of these trips and why they continue to resonate so deeply with people long after they return home.

For now though, this final Yellowstone leg stands on its own as a reminder that some places resist explanation.

Some fish cannot be measured in inches.

And some moments — moose in the yard at first light, a hopper disappearing in a meadow pool, cutthroat rising silently beneath distant mountains — remain with you far longer than expected.

Montana has a way of doing that.

It gets into your bones.

There’s a moment that happens each year, about five minutes after stepping off the plane in Bozeman. You look up at the sky – it’s wider than you remembered – and everything slows down. The world doesn’t stop, but it exhales. That’s how it begins.

Most of our Montana guests choose to arrive two or three days early. It’s a smart move. After a long-haul flight from Australia, the extra time allows you to settle in, reset the body clock, and gently sink into the rhythm of the American West.

Bozeman is a town that wears its fly fishing heritage on its sleeve. It’s a gateway to world-class water, but also a place with a foot in both worlds – old timber shopfronts, rooftop bars, high-end fly shops, and a genuinely friendly local crowd. We recommend guests explore the town, visit the Museum of the Rockies, wander through the gear shops and coffee haunts, and stretch the legs along the Gallatin River trail.

The night before our official trip start, we always meet for dinner – and a few laughs. This year, we found ourselves front and centre at a local comedy club. To our delight (and slight terror), we had front-row seats for a show by none other than Rich Hall – Montana-born comedian, writer, and all-around razor wit. Unfortunately for one of our group, Rich took exception to a bit of good-natured heckling. What followed was ten minutes of savage, hilarious takedown. We were in tears. It broke the ice perfectly and set the tone for the trip: no egos, just humour, humility, and a shared love of the game.

On the Road to Craig

The next morning, we loaded up and headed out. The drive from Bozeman to Craig takes you through Helena, climbing up and over hills that roll like low-slung mountains. It’s a transition – geographically and mentally. The bustle fades, the road narrows, and eventually you drop down into a wide, windswept valley where the Missouri River quietly weaves through cottonwoods and cliffs.

Our base for the first leg of the trip was a set of lodges right on the river’s edge. Picture an expansive deck overlooking the Missouri, complete with a huge stone firepit, a BBQ kitchen station built for serious grilling, and the sort of oversized deck chairs that seem made for post-fishing bourbon. We had private water access, easy boat pickup, and enough room to comfortably stretch out after a long day in the sun. It felt like home, but with a better view.

The Missouri River – A Drift Fisher’s Dream

Craig itself is barely a town – more a handful of buildings, a post office, two pubs, and The Trout Shop, which somehow anchors it all. But don’t let its size fool you. Craig is the beating heart of Missouri River fly fishing, and the river itself is a masterclass in classic tailwater fishing.

Every day, we’d meet our guides at the shop early – coffee in hand, rods rigged, flies chosen with the usual blend of wisdom and hopeful guesswork. The Missouri here is a large river, with long, glassy glides and endless seams. It’s big water, but not intimidating. Most fishing is done from drift boats, allowing you to cover miles of water with grace and precision.

The technical challenge lies not in distance or power, but in nuance. This is delicate dry-fly work: size 16–18 PMDs, 20-24 Tricos, and 16 caddis. Some mornings we fished pods of trout rising steadily to spinner falls, needing downstream reach casts with long leaders to avoid drag. Other evenings, we cast to sporadic caddis risers in the shadows of the banks. Accuracy mattered. So did timing.

One standout feature of the Missouri is the sheer density of fish. The river is rich with healthy rainbows and browns, and while not every rise is a guaranteed hook-up, there’s a real sense that if you do things right – if you make the cast, get the drift, choose the fly – you’ll be rewarded.

Hatch Match and Memory

We arrived early-July, right in the heart of the PMD spinner window. Mornings often began with pale duns drifting like confetti in the back-eddies, while spinners lay crumpled on the surface in the slow water. The fish keyed in on them with surgical precision.

Caddis came on strong in the late afternoons, especially during the second and third days. There were times when you’d drift through a slow corner and see dozens of dimples – a trout ballet, set to the rhythm of emerging adults skittering on the surface. We fished everything from X-caddis to CDC emergers and even managed a few fish on soft hackles swung across the current when the rise form turned splashy.

Tricos also made an appearance, especially on the flatter water on the mornings of the warmest days. By the third trip they brought with them fine weed mats – typical of late July – but the key was to false cast just enough to knock off the debris. Some days, that was all it took to stay in the game.

One of our anglers, a first-time Montana visitor, hooked a chunky rainbow on a #18 spinner just as the wind picked up and the water went dead calm. The fish rose three feet upstream of his fly, hesitated, then reversed course and sipped it as if in slow motion. It was a moment we all saw and will long remember.

Craig After Hours

Evenings in Craig carry their own kind of magic. After fishing, we’d reconvene on the deck, sharing stories and photos over drinks while the sky shifted from bright blue to dusty gold. The Missouri would soften into a mirror, disturbed only by the occasional rising trout or the silhouettes of other guides drifting home.

Dinner was often at The Trout Shop’s restaurant, where the set menu featured hearty mains – steaks, ribs, Montana lamb – paired with local craft beers and simple, seasonal sides. Service was friendly, meals unpretentious but satisfying. Afterward, some would wander across the road for a local brew and a game of shuffleboard, while others lingered by the firepit, talking gear, politics, or nothing at all.

The beauty of this first leg of the trip is the way it balances technical challenge with emotional ease. You can get as focused or as relaxed as you like. The water is consistent. The town is small enough to exhale in. And the shared rhythm – fish, eat, laugh, rest – works like a reset button.

A Shift in Pace

By the fourth morning, as we packed the trucks for the next leg of the trip, there was a subtle but noticeable shift. We’d found our rhythm. The banter had warmed. The casting had sharpened. The sense of “holiday” had given way to something more grounded – an immersion.

Next stop: Dillon. The land of tighter rivers, trickier drifts, and wilder landscapes.

But Craig had done its job. It had softened the transition from home to here. And it reminded us – gently, steadily – why we travel halfway across the world just to follow the rise of a trout.

30 Years on the Goulburn…  and What the River Still Teaches

Montana skies, Australian roots, and a quiet sense of loss.

I’m writing this from the porch of a cabin in Montana. It’s been nearly a month on the rivers – long days of dry-fly fishing, laughter, late-night debriefs, and coffee-fuelled mornings that come around faster than you’d like. The Missouri, the Madison, the Yellowstone… these names have become part of our rhythm.

I’ve been making this journey for years now. Not as a guide or operator – the local professionals here do an outstanding job of that, and besides, I’d rather not get myself deported – but as a fellow traveller. I organise the logistics and share the experience with a small group of like-minded anglers, most of whom have become good friends over the years.

It’s become a winter tradition – our winter, their summer. A seasonal rhythm that offers both great fishing and, strangely enough, a chance to think more clearly about home.

And no matter how far you travel, a part of you stays back there.

Australia on My Mind

Maybe it’s the altitude. Maybe it’s the distance. But I often find that it’s here, halfway around the world, that I reflect most deeply on where Australia is heading – and what we may be leaving behind.

Like many others, I was raised in a version of Australia that felt… quieter. Fairer. Cohesive, even when imperfect. People worked hard, looked out for one another, and had faith that the country was broadly on the right track.

These days, I’m not so sure.

It’s not just one issue. It’s everything, all at once. Cost of living. Housing. Political distrust. A creeping sense that too many of our leaders are asleep at the wheel—or worse.

Over decades of guiding I’ve spent thousands of hours in drift boats and dusty utes, in honest conversation with Australians from all walks of life—doctors, sparkies, farmers, barristers, and soldiers. Lately, a common theme has emerged:

“It doesn’t feel like the country I grew up in.”

That’s not nostalgia talking. It’s concern. Quiet, thoughtful concern – for the future.

The Drift Boat and the Current

Back in the ’90s, when I first began guiding on the Goulburn, drift boats were almost unheard of here. We were the first to use them in Victoria. Not because it was trendy – but because it made sense.

You see the river differently from water level. You move with it. You learn to read its shifts. You feel the current and adjust. You don’t fight it – you flow with it.

That simple act – drifting – taught me something lasting.

Australia feels like it’s caught in fast water right now. There’s turbulence, conflicting pulls, and no clear signpost to a safe eddy. And while I don’t pretend to have the answers – no one really does – I do believe we need to pay closer attention to the current.

Where is it actually taking us? And is that where we want to go?

If we don’t pause and read the water, we risk drifting right past the takeout… into waters unmapped, and not entirely by choice.

Between Casts

This blog – Between Casts – was born out of reflections like these. A space between the action, where we can stop and think.

Some posts will be about fishing. Others will explore the deeper currents: philosophy, politics, history, and the stories we tell ourselves about who we are.

I don’t claim to speak for anyone but myself. What I write is simply the product of three decades spent in quiet conversation with people on rivers and roads across Australia. These are the thoughts of one man who still believes in the value of honest discussion and considered words—spoken with respect for all, regardless of creed or conviction.

If that sounds like a conversation worth having, I’m glad you’re here.

Author Bio:

Anthony Boliancu is the owner of Goulburn Valley Fly Fishing Centre. A full-time guide since the mid-1990s, he helped to pioneer drift boat fishing in Victoria and has led thousands of trips both locally and abroad. When he’s not rowing, teaching, or being a father, he’s reflecting on the state of the river – and the world around it.