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:

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

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:

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

Opening Week — September 2026

Lake Eildon: 60.7%
Inflows: 3,500 ML/day
Goulburn release: 1,000 ML/day
River temperature: 13.1°C
Dissolved oxygen: 10.0 ppm
Rainfall, past 24 hours: 0 mm
Eildon Pondage: 49%

The trout season has begun in fairly typical September fashion: a little chaotic, a little frustrating and with enough signs underneath it all to remind us that the good fishing is not very far away. Rain on Friday afternoon and evening made a mess of the river almost immediately, with dirty water right up through the upper river below the Pondage. We deliberately stayed away from the opening-weekend circus, although we did have a boat out for a reconnaissance run. We weren’t interested in flogging the river. The idea was simply to have a look, see what had changed over winter and find out whether anybody was home.

There were fish willing to move to streamers. We had a few bumps and managed one to the net, which was enough to open the account for another season. Through the week the Goulburn crept up to around 1,000 ML/day and gradually began to clear. By midweek there was enough visibility to fish properly through the upper sections, and by the end of the week we had fishable water all the way down below Alexandra.

That extra 600 ML/day over the winter minimum makes quite a difference. At 1,000 the river covers a lot more gravel, reconnects edges and side water and gives trout considerably more room than they have at 400. It also makes them a little less exposed and, in places, a little less nervous. I am not entirely sure how long this slightly higher flow will remain, but while it does, there are certainly opportunities there for anyone desperate to get out and have a look.

The fishing itself has been modest rather than spectacular, which is about what I would expect in the middle of September. We have taken fish on nymphs and had some interest in dries (one landed), with small, slim copper-bodied nymphs proving useful. On most sessions there have also been at least a handful of fish rising somewhere, and there are a few duns beginning to appear in dribs and drabs through the day, with some evenings showing a little more activity.

It is not boiling yet.

In truth, it is not even simmering.

But the first bubbles are starting to appear.

That is often how September feels. You can watch a pot of water for what seems like forever and nothing much happens. Then one small bubble rises from the bottom. A little later there are two or three. Then a few more. Before long the whole thing is moving and suddenly it is boiling. The river feels much the same at the moment. There are a few duns, a few rising fish, water temperatures creeping in the right direction and longer afternoons beginning to do their work. Nothing has really taken off, but for the first time this season you can see the first signs that it is about to.

The river temperature is sitting at 13.1°C with dissolved oxygen around 10 ppm. Another couple of decent high-pressure systems, a little more warmth and some stable water, and things can change surprisingly quickly. My feeling remains much the same as it does most Septembers: Grand Final weekend and beyond is where I would rather have my days in the diary.

We had another enquiry only this morning asking whether I would recommend fishing in the next week or pushing the booking back. My answer is always much the same at this time of year. If you only have one available day, go fishing. There are trout to be caught now, and at 1,000 ML/day the river is in much better shape than it is at the winter minimum. But if you have the luxury of choosing, I would save the day of annual leave for a little later. September rewards patience.

What sort of spring are we heading into?

There is plenty of local speculation about the season ahead. The current climate outlook is pointing towards a warmer and generally drier spring across our part of south-eastern Australia, with the present El Niño expected to persist into autumn next year. That does not automatically mean poor fishing. In fact, for the Goulburn it could produce some very interesting conditions.

Lake Eildon is currently at 60.7%, so we are beginning the season with a substantial amount of stored water. A warmer, drier spring should also bring terrestrial activity forward, particularly ants, beetles, grasshoppers and eventually the larger summer insects. Irrigation demand is also likely to become important as the season develops. Exactly what that means for river flows will depend on allocations, demand and water-management decisions, so I would not pretend to know in September what the Goulburn will be running at in January.

What I can say is that some of our most consistent drift-boat fishing occurs when the river settles into solid, moderate irrigation flows rather than the very highest releases. A season with extended flows somewhere in that middle range can make an enormous amount of the Goulburn accessible and productive, and from a drift-boat perspective it can often produce more consistent fishing than a season dominated by the very highest water. So there are reasons to be quietly optimistic.

The smaller rivers may be the other interesting part of this spring. If the warmer, drier pattern develops as forecast, the smaller streams may come into condition earlier than they do in a cool, wet year. The trade-off is obvious. The same streams that benefit from an early warm spring can become difficult later in January, February and March if the summer turns genuinely hot and dry. For now, though, they are worth watching and they may come alive quickly.

More boats available this season

There has also been a bit happening behind the scenes. Tony Edwards has established a base here in Alexandra and will be spending considerably more time on the Goulburn this season while continuing to guide the Tumut as well. He now has a drift boat based at each location, so if you particularly want to fish with Tony on either river, sing out.

We have also had one experienced guide become available again after a couple of years away and another tell me he can give us considerably more time this season. I will introduce them properly when everything is settled, but the important consequence is that we again have considerably more multi-boat capacity. Tony and I will be available through most of the season, and with the wider guide team we can now put together two, three and, with enough notice, four-boat days.

That opens up something we have been doing in various forms since the 1990s.

The Goulburn River Journey

For a group of friends wanting something more substantial than a single guided day, we have formalised one of the trips that has effectively been part of GVFFC since the early years. The Goulburn River Journey follows the river progressively downstream from the Eildon Pondage towards Molesworth over three or four days.

The standard group is four anglers in two drift boats, although with enough notice we can organise up to eight anglers. The idea is not simply to fish four unrelated sections of river. You travel through it. At the top, the Goulburn is colder, tighter and more obviously influenced by Lake Eildon. Farther downstream it broadens, tributaries enter, islands appear and the surrounding country changes. Eventually you reach sections below Alexandra that very few anglers ever see properly on foot.

The three-day version moves through the river more quickly, beginning each morning around where the previous day finished. I prefer the four-day version. It gives us time to overlap some water from one day to the next. You see a piece of river twice, perhaps under different light or at a different time of day. You get another chance at the fish somebody missed yesterday. You begin recognising bends and runs instead of simply passing through them.

In the 1990s we sometimes camped beside the river on these longer trips. These days we have become slightly more civilised. We pull out each evening, get everyone back to comfortable accommodation, find a decent meal and begin again the following morning. For four friends looking for a proper fishing trip without getting on an international flight, it is worth considering.

Link to the Goulburn River Journey at the bottom.

New Zealand this summer

For those who do want to get on a plane, we still have some room in Southland this coming summer. At the moment there are three weeks where we could still accommodate a complete group of four.

Our New Zealand weeks run Sunday to Sunday through January, February and March, with seven nights at Dunrobin and six full guided fishing days. Five days are fished at one guide to two anglers, and every guest now gets one full day of individual 1:1 guiding. If four friends take the available places in the same week, that week effectively becomes your own small-group trip.

There is no need to put a group together before contacting us, though. Individual anglers and pairs are equally welcome and we can usually find the right group for them.

Workshops are starting again

We also had a small workshop running this weekend. The regular beginner workshops begin properly next month and will run each month through the season.

If your own fly fishing has become a little rusty over winter, or you know somebody who has always said they would like to learn but does not know where to begin, point them our way. The workshops are two days, all the equipment is supplied, and importantly Sunday includes actual river fishing. We spend the first part building the fundamentals and then begin putting those skills to work on real water.

That distinction matters. Fly fishing makes a lot more sense when the casting, flies, currents and trout are finally all in the same place.

For now…

So for the moment, September is doing what September usually does. If you are desperate for a fish, the Goulburn at 1,000 ML/day is clear enough now to make a day worthwhile, and that extra water is certainly preferable to scratching around at the winter minimum. If you have flexibility, however, keep accumulating those brownie points.

Mow the lawn. Finish the jobs you have been promising to do. Be an exemplary husband. Be unusually productive at work. Perhaps do not mention that you are doing any of it because you are quietly banking a fishing day.

There is a cooler change moving through before conditions improve again later in the week, but the river is beginning to show those first little signs. A few duns. A few rising fish. Clearer water. Longer afternoons. Magpies swooping again.

It is a little like watching that pot of water.

For ages, apparently nothing happens. Then the first bubble rises. Then another. And another.

Before long, you look away for a moment and the whole thing is boiling.

We are not there yet. But the first bubbles are visible. After a long winter, that is enough for now.

Thanks, as always, to everyone who has supported us through the quieter months. It is very good to have some sunshine again, clear water flowing out of the lake and another trout season underway.

Tight lines.
Anthony

Goulburn Valley Fly Fishing Centre
0418 995 611
info@gvflyfishing.com

Links

1. The Goulburn River Journey
2. New Zealand Trips
3. Fly Fishing Workshops

For years, Yellowstone had been a fishing place to me. I knew it through the Lamar, Soda Butte and Slough Creek, through long days walking into isolated lakes and mornings spent searching for cutthroat in water that seemed almost too beautiful to spoil by wading. Some seasons I fished inside the park for twenty or twenty-five days. In others, only five or six. Either way, it was always one of the high points of the trip. I knew where to stop, where to walk, which stretches were worth the effort and which roads would be clogged by midmorning. I knew which valleys held their cold longest, where the bison tended to gather, and how quickly a quiet roadside pullout could become impossible once the traffic began.

I had spent first light in the Lamar Valley with a long lens, tripod and teleconverters, scanning the hillsides for bears and wolves before turning my attention back to the rivers. Wildlife had always been part of Yellowstone for me, but usually as an opening act. Once the light strengthened, the camera went away, the rod came out and the day reorganised itself around water. I thought I knew Yellowstone.

This time, I was seeing it through my children. We had been moving through the park and the surrounding country for almost two weeks. We entered first from the south, after driving through Grand Teton National Park and stopping at Schwabacher Landing, where my wife and I had been married years earlier. We stood there again with our children beneath the same mountains, looking across the water towards the Tetons. The scene was familiar, but not in the way I expected. Memory had held it still. Life had not.

Returning with the children changed the place. It was no longer simply the backdrop to an earlier part of our lives. The four of us were standing inside the same landscape years later, trying to reconcile memory with the people we had become. There is something strange about returning to a place that has carried such importance in your mind. You expect it to unlock the earlier version of yourself, but it rarely does. The mountains are still there. The reflections still gather in the same water. What has changed is the person looking at them. My wife and I were no longer the couple who had stood there alone. We had arrived with two nearly grown children, each seeing the place without the weight of our memories. To them, it was simply beautiful. To us, it was beautiful and crowded with time.

Nearby, we visited Jenny Lake and the overlook above the Snake River, then spent time hiking in the country between Jackson and Victor. Later, we drove around and entered Yellowstone through West Yellowstone, beginning a more familiar circuit through Old Faithful, Grand Prismatic, Yellowstone Lake, Hayden Valley and the canyon. The children were interested in the fact that we were driving inside a volcano. As we moved through the park, I tried to explain the caldera, pointing out sections of its rim and showing them on Google Maps and paper maps. It is one thing to tell someone that Yellowstone sits inside one of the largest volcanic systems on earth. It is another to show them that they have been driving across it for hours without reaching the other side.

The scale is difficult to comprehend because the landscape does not present itself as a single crater. It arrives as forests, rivers, lakes, valleys, geysers and long roads. You pass through it piece by piece, never quite able to hold the whole thing in your head. I explained the magma chamber, the ancient eruptions and the continuing movement beneath the ground. I pointed towards steaming hillsides and mineral terraces and tried to make the invisible machinery beneath us feel real. They listened, asked questions and then, quite often, fell asleep. That became part of the rhythm of the trip. I would begin explaining some geological or historical detail with the confidence of a man delivering essential information, glance into the rear-view mirror and find both children asleep against the windows.

Our mornings began at four. To see Yellowstone properly in summer, you need to move before most people have left their beds. By first light, we were already in Hayden Valley, binoculars raised, searching the slopes and timber edges for grizzly bears. At that hour, the roads were quiet and the park still belonged largely to the animals. The light arrived slowly across the valley floor. Bison moved through the grass, and every dark shape near the timber demanded a second look through the binoculars. The mind begins playing tricks in country like that. A stump becomes a bear. A shadow becomes a wolf. A distant bison lying in the grass can occupy ten minutes of serious discussion before finally standing up and resolving the matter.

The forecasts had suggested temperatures in the mid-thirties, but we were fortunate. Most days remained overcast and rarely climbed beyond the high twenties. The cooler conditions kept the animals active for longer and gave us more time before the heat, traffic and crowds began to take over. At first light, the park felt almost empty. We walked along raised timber boardwalks above steaming mud and mineral-stained ground with barely another person in sight. The smell of sulphur hung over everything, sometimes so strong it turned the stomach. Steam moved across the path in slow sheets, briefly hiding the landscape before lifting again. The ground hissed, bubbled and breathed beneath us.

There are few places where the earth feels so visibly unfinished. The surface looks temporary, a thin crust stretched over heat and pressure. Water appears in impossible colours. Mud boils. Fumaroles breathe. Entire hillsides seem to be decomposing in front of you. The boardwalks are there for good reason. Wander a few steps in the wrong direction and what looks like solid ground may be little more than a fragile lid over boiling water.

Our first close bison encounter came near one of those thermal areas. It moved beside the boardwalk with the complete indifference of an animal that had seen thousands of people and been impressed by none of them. The size of a bison is difficult to appreciate until one is close. Photographs flatten them. From only a short distance away, the weight of the shoulders, the thickness of the skull and the quiet authority with which they move become impossible to ignore. There is no hurry in them. They move as though the rest of the world will make way, which, generally, it does.

Later, we watched them walk between stopped vehicles, bringing traffic to a standstill while people leaned from windows and held up their phones. Some got out and moved far closer than any sensible person should. That part of Yellowstone never changes. The wildlife is extraordinary. The human response to it can be equally remarkable, though not always for the same reason. Every year, people are warned to keep their distance. Every year, someone seems to interpret a bison standing beside the road as an invitation to move closer for a better photograph.

The children loved the bison, elk, deer and the few moose we managed to find. They slept between sites, waking when something appeared beside the road or when we reached the next stop. Their days developed a rhythm of early excitement, midmorning exhaustion and sudden revival whenever an animal came into view. For me, the pleasure was not simply in seeing these things again. It was watching them see them for the first time. There is a particular expression children have when something exceeds whatever picture they had formed in their minds. It is not quite surprise. It is recognition mixed with disbelief. The animal, mountain or geyser is suddenly real, but larger and stranger than expected.

Before this trip, Yellowstone had been organised around opportunity. Which river was fishing well? Where were the cutthroat rising? How early could I reach the second meadow without running into a bear? There were still fish, of course, but they fitted around everything else. This time, the park itself was the point.

If we happened to pass a river and saw fish rising, it did not take long to pull over. I could be out of the car in shorts and sandals, vest on, net in one hand and rod in the other. I might catch a few fish and be back on the road within half an hour. Those brief sessions had their own appeal. There was no time to overthink them. You saw a rise, found somewhere safe to pull over and stepped into the river with whatever you already had rigged. A few casts, perhaps a cutthroat or two, and then the vest came off, the rod went back in the car and the journey continued.

There is a freedom in fishing without trying to build a day around it. You accept the water as you find it. There is no pressure to solve everything, no need to stay until the last rise. You are simply passing through and lucky enough to be holding a rod when something happens. There were also a handful of more serious sessions, when the fishing became the purpose and we walked some distance from the road to reach quieter water. For the most part, though, it happened only when it fitted comfortably with the rest of the day. That was new for me. In other years, everything else had been arranged around the temperament of trout.

There is something special about standing in a river in Yellowstone, especially with your family nearby. It feels different from fishing with a mate who understands the country, knows the risks and is responsible for himself. When your children are with you in bear country, your attention stretches well beyond the water. You look over your shoulder more often. You listen harder. You notice the wind, the timber behind you, the smell of the air and any movement along the bank. All the senses seem to sharpen at once.

Bear encounters are not as common as people imagine, and bear spray, sound judgement and knowing how to respond make the risk manageable. But none of that entirely silences the older, more instinctive part of the brain that keeps rehearsing the worst possible outcome. You begin calculating distances without meaning to. How far are the children from the car? Which direction is the wind carrying our scent? How thick is the timber behind us? Where is the bear spray? Is it still clipped where it should be? It heightens the fishing rather than diminishing it. The current against your legs, the rise of a cutthroat, the sound of water over stone and the knowledge that you are standing in a genuinely wild place all seem more vivid. It makes you feel intensely alive.

We also did the things I had often passed by. We sat on bar stools and ate a classic American breakfast in one of the tourist places near Old Faithful. There were eggs, bacon, coffee and the familiar low hum of travellers discussing routes, weather and what they hoped to see. We waited for geysers, walked among thermal basins and stood with everyone else above the canyon and waterfalls. In other years, those places had often been something to move past on the way to a river. This time, we allowed them to become destinations in their own right.

Old Faithful is easy to dismiss because everyone knows it. Its eruption times are predicted, the seating fills and hundreds of cameras are raised before anything happens. Yet when the water finally surges into the air, it is still extraordinary. The familiarity of an image does not make the real thing ordinary. The same was true of the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone. I had seen it before, photographed it and passed through with fishing gear waiting in the car. Standing there with the children, with no immediate need to hurry elsewhere, I understood how often purpose can narrow a place. You see what you came to see and overlook the rest. None of it was new to the world, but much of it was new to us as a family.

By ten in the morning, the park began to change. The empty boardwalks filled. Cars appeared from every direction. By the time we reached Grand Prismatic, we had to park hundreds of metres away and walk back towards the access points with crowds moving in both directions. The difference between dawn and late morning was extraordinary. Only a few hours earlier, we had been walking through thermal country with barely another person in sight. Now every car park was full, the roads were slowing and the quiet of the morning had been replaced by doors slamming, engines idling and people trying to work out where to go next.

At first light, Yellowstone feels enormous. By midday, it can feel strangely confined. A single animal beside the road can stop traffic for kilometres. One full car park pushes vehicles onto the shoulder, then farther along the road, until the landscape begins to look less like wilderness and more like an event everyone has arrived late for. When we left through West Yellowstone around midday, the line of incoming vehicles stretched from the entrance, through the traffic lights in town and beyond its outskirts. It was difficult to look at that line and imagine it as sustainable forever.

Still it remains one of the most extraordinary places on earth, but it is becoming increasingly clear that a place can be loved too much. Not through neglect or indifference, but through the sheer number of people who want to experience it. We were part of that number. My family had every right to see the park, just as the people waiting in those cars did. That is what makes the problem so difficult.

It is easy to complain about crowds when you are already inside the gate. It is easy to imagine that your reasons for being there are somehow more legitimate than everyone else’s. The angler believes he understands the rivers. The photographer believes he rises earlier and behaves better. The family has crossed the world to be there. The retired couple may have waited their whole lives. Everyone has a reason.

The challenge is not keeping people away. It is finding a way to let them in without slowly destroying the very experience they have come to find. Perhaps the answer begins with time: earlier mornings, longer stays, shuttle systems, fewer cars in the most congested places, and a willingness to accept that some landscapes cannot absorb unlimited access simply because demand exists.

Perhaps it also begins with the visitor. Move earlier. Stay longer. Walk farther. Give animals space. Accept that not every sight needs to be approached, photographed or converted into proof. Let other people experience the place without becoming part of their experience.

At dawn, those ideas feel possible. The roads are empty. Steam moves across the boardwalks. Bison graze without an audience. For a brief hour or two, Yellowstone appears untouched by the pressure gathering beyond the entrances. Then the sun rises, the cars arrive and the spell begins to thin.

That may be why first light has become the Yellowstone I remember most clearly from this trip. Not simply because the animals were active or the roads were quiet, but because it allowed us to see the park before it became an attraction again.

For years, Yellowstone had been a fishing place to me. This time, fishing became one small part of something larger. I still remember the cutthroat rising, the rivers slipping through meadow country and the familiar pull of wanting to stop at every piece of likely water. But I remember just as clearly the children waking when a bison appeared beside the road, standing again with my wife beneath the Tetons, steam crossing an empty boardwalk and four of us driving through the caldera before sunrise.

I had thought I knew Yellowstone because I knew its rivers. It took my family to show me how much of it I had been passing by.

Reflections on the final week of trout season

There is something different about the final week of a trout season.

The river itself has not changed dramatically. The water still slips through the valley much as it did in September. Trout still rise when conditions align. Cormorants still patrol the shallows. The river gums still lean over the current as though they have been doing it forever. And yet everything feels different.

Perhaps it is because we know what is coming.

In a few days the season will close. Boats will be pulled from the water. Waders will be hung up to dry. Rods will be returned to racks in sheds and garages. The familiar rhythm that has carried many of us through another spring, summer and autumn will pause once again.

The river will remain.

We simply won’t be fishing it.

I’ve always found this final week carries a mood all its own. The urgency of opening day is long gone. The excitement of summer hatches has faded. What remains is something quieter and, in many ways, more meaningful. Reflection.

The boat ramps tell the story first. Back in September there is often an energy about them. Vehicles arrive before daylight. Anglers compare river levels and weather forecasts. New fly lines are stretched across lawns. Optimism hangs in the air. By late autumn most of that has disappeared. The mornings are colder now. Frost settles across paddocks. Breath hangs in front of faces. The valley takes longer to wake. Boat ramps that were busy a few months ago now sit empty until the wattles bloom again.

For those willing to brave the cold there is a certain beauty in that. The river feels larger somehow. Not physically larger, but quieter. More spacious. Less hurried.

Looking back over the season, one of the things that stands out most is how differently reality unfolded compared to expectations. Back in November I experienced one of the busiest mornings I can remember on the Goulburn. In the space of a couple of hours, four commercial rafts jumped ahead of me. At the time it felt as though every guide operation in Victoria had decided to launch on the same stretch of river. Yet after returning from New Zealand in March, I did not see another commercial boat for the remainder of the season.

Not one.

The same river. The same season. Completely different experiences.

That is one of the lessons rivers continue teaching. Conditions change. Pressure changes. Expectations rarely survive contact with reality.

The season surprised me in other ways too. After more than 150 days spent on the water, I saw remarkably few snakes. Three all season, and all of them swimming from one side of the river to the other. None at boat ramps. None while stepping out of the boat for a quick bathroom break. None in the places where I would normally expect to encounter them. Most years there are several memorable snake stories by the time autumn arrives. This year there were almost none.

It’s a small observation, perhaps, but after thirty years on rivers I have learned that the smallest details are often the ones that stay with you. Every season develops its own personality. This one certainly did.

Many of the most memorable moments had very little to do with trout.

One day we guided a father and his daughter who had recently finished high school. On the surface it was simply another family fishing trip. Yet as the day unfolded, it dawned on me that I had first met her father twenty-nine years earlier when he was travelling through Australia on his gap year. Nearly three decades had passed. Somewhere along the way he had built a career, raised a family and returned to the same river with his daughter sitting where he once sat himself.

Guiding occasionally provides moments like that. Little reminders that time moves faster than we realise.

This season also brought the return of several familiar faces we had not seen for years. Some had travelled extensively with us through New Zealand, Montana and Patagonia before gradually disappearing after 2018. In business it is easy to assume that silence means someone has moved on forever. Yet life is rarely that simple. Careers change. Families grow. Priorities shift. Then one day the phone rings, an email arrives, or a familiar name appears on a booking form.

And suddenly they are back.

Their return reminded me that relationships built over years often remain intact even when there are long periods of silence between conversations. Sometimes people are not leaving at all. They are simply off exploring different chapters of their own lives before eventually finding their way back.

Perhaps that theme of returning sits at the heart of fly fishing itself. People return to rivers. They return to places. They return to friendships. And sometimes they return to earlier versions of themselves. The older I get, the more I notice that many of the things we value most seem to operate this way. We wander away for a while, distracted by work, family, travel or simply the demands of ordinary life. Then one day we find ourselves standing in familiar water again, surprised by how much we remember and how much the river remembers of us.

One of the most memorable fish of the season illustrated that beautifully. We were fishing willow grubs to a feeding trout when it all went awry. The fish ate, we hooked it, and almost immediately everything unravelled. Normally that would have been the end of the story. Instead, the trout immediately resumed feeding as though nothing had happened. We presented another fly, hooked the fish again, landed it, and recovered both flies in the process.

It was absurd.

It was improbable.

And it was exactly the sort of thing rivers occasionally do when they feel like reminding you that they still have a sense of humour.

The older I get, the more convinced I become that the fishing itself is only part of the attraction. People arrive carrying all sorts of things onto a river. Some are escaping pressure at work. Some are navigating retirement. Some are celebrating milestones. Some are quietly carrying burdens they rarely discuss anywhere else. Over the course of a day on the water, something often changes. Not dramatically. Rivers rarely operate that way. Instead, they slow people down just enough to notice things again.

A current seam.

An eagle overhead.

The smell of grass after rain.

The sound of oars moving through still water.

Modern life asks for constant attention. Rivers ask for something different. They ask us to observe. That may be one of their greatest gifts.

Looking beyond the Goulburn, my own most memorable day with a fly rod in hand this year did not occur in Australia at all. It happened on Montana’s Upper Madison, in the rough water below Quake Lake where the river tumbles through boulders left behind by the earthquake that changed the valley forever. I spent an entire day alone in the Slide section. Not another angler. Not another voice. Just the constant white roar of fast water and trout appearing beneath big dry flies wherever the current eased for even a fraction of a second.

The fish were wonderful.

The solitude was better.

That same trip also reinforced another lesson. After a difficult series of late withdrawals left me carrying more financial risk than I had anticipated, one particular group of clients quietly stepped forward and looked after me in ways they didn’t have to. Their generosity wasn’t loud or performative. They simply understood the situation and acted with kindness.

After thirty years in business, moments like that still humble me.

We often talk about rivers and trout as though they are the attraction. Increasingly, I think they are simply the mechanism through which good people find one another.

Looking back over the season, that may be what I feel most grateful for.

Not the fish.

Not the numbers.

Not even the rivers themselves.

The people.

The continuity of old friendships. The return of familiar faces. The conversations shared over lunches, campfires, boat ramps and long drives home.

Rivers change.

People change.

The friendships endure.

Of course, the close of one season also marks the beginning of another. Before long attention will shift elsewhere. New Zealand is already beginning to appear on the horizon. Maps will be studied. Flights confirmed. Gear checked and repacked. Montana preparations are quietly underway. At home, a family road trip we have talked about for years is finally approaching, while a manuscript that has occupied countless late evenings for almost a decade edges closer to becoming an actual book.

Life, like rivers, continues moving forward.

Yet for the moment, none of that feels especially urgent.

There are still a few days left. A few more cold mornings. A few more drifts. A few more opportunities to stand beside moving water and appreciate a fishery that has given so much to so many people over the years.

The anticipation of opening day has always been one of fly fishing’s great pleasures.

Strangely enough, so is the close.

The final week reminds us not to take any of it for granted. Not the trout. Not the river. Not the friendships. Not the seasons themselves.

Before long the boats will be parked away and winter will settle properly across the valley. Frost will return to the paddocks. The river gums will stand bare against grey skies. The Goulburn will continue its journey through the valley, carrying no awareness that another trout season has come and gone.

The river will rest.

And perhaps we should too.

Until spring.
Ant

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.