Tag: Brown Trout

By the time we crossed the Tasman again, New Zealand had started to feel almost mythical.

Not because the rivers had changed, or because the mountains had somehow become grander during the years we were locked away, but because absence has a way of sharpening memory. The last full season we completed before the world closed down was 2019–2020. Back then, news reports played quietly in the background while we guided. Every few days another border tightened somewhere. Another flight route vanished. Another country introduced restrictions that seemed unimaginable only weeks earlier.

We finished that season with the uneasy feeling that something larger was approaching.

Then suddenly the world stopped moving.

Like most people, we assumed normality would return far sooner than it did. Instead, seasons passed. Summers disappeared. Rivers we had walked for decades became inaccessible. Clients postponed trips repeatedly, unsure whether international travel would ever truly feel straightforward again. For many anglers, New Zealand slowly drifted from being a destination on next year’s calendar into something that felt more like a memory.

When the opportunity finally arrived to return for the 2022–2023 season, it felt significant in ways that had very little to do with fishing alone.

Back home, much of Victoria was dealing with floods. Familiar stretches of the Goulburn sat beneath heavy discoloured water. Roads were closed. Riverbanks had disappeared. Uncertainty lingered over much of the region. At the same time, reports filtering across from Southland spoke of stable weather, clear rivers and an unusually warm start to summer.

Eventually the decision became obvious.

We loaded the gear, pointed ourselves toward New Zealand and left.

Officially it was a fishing trip before the main hosted season began. Unofficially, I suspect most of us understood it was something else as well.

A reset.

A chance to breathe again.

There is something psychologically restorative about arriving in New Zealand after a long absence. The scale of the country immediately alters your thinking. The valleys seem wider. The rivers colder. The distances between places somehow larger. Even the quality of the light feels different.

For the first few days we based ourselves in Te Anau while our usual accommodation at Dunrobin continued undergoing renovations. It hardly mattered. We were simply happy to be back. The Eglinton, Waiau and Whitestone greeted us with excellent conditions. Dry flies drifted through clear currents once again. Brown trout slid from undercut banks to inspect presentations. Familiar routines, dormant for years, returned almost immediately.

That was perhaps the strangest part of all.

How quickly it came back.

The feel of cold water pressing against your legs. The crunch of gravel beneath wading boots. The instinctive scanning of seams and current lines. The quiet concentration required to stalk visible trout properly. After years dominated by restrictions, uncertainty and cancelled plans, standing in clear New Zealand water again felt deeply restorative.

Not triumphant.

Just quietly right.

One afternoon in the Eglinton Valley we encountered a wounded deer attempting to cross the river. Its pelvis appeared badly broken and we assumed the current would sweep it away almost immediately. Instead, against all logic, it fought through the flow and somehow reached the far bank.

I still remember all of us standing there silently watching it disappear into the grass.

Out there, moments like that tend to linger longer than fish.

Eventually we returned south toward Dunrobin, the farm that has become our seasonal home in New Zealand over so many years. There is always a particular feeling driving back into that valley after time away. Familiar fences. Familiar hills. The Aparima winding quietly through the flats below the house. Some places slowly become woven into your life whether you realise it at the time or not.

I first began guiding in New Zealand more than two decades ago. Over the years we’ve watched clients become friends, friends become regulars, and regulars become part of the extended family that forms around any long-running operation. The fishing remains important, of course, but after enough seasons the rivers become connected to something larger than trout.

They become connected to people.

The fishing itself reflected the conditions of the year. Southland was dry. Water levels dropped steadily as summer progressed and by late season many rivers had become exceptionally clear and technical. On famous systems such as the Mataura and Oreti, angling pressure concentrated around the sections still producing consistently.

That is the nature of modern New Zealand.

Information travels quickly. Social media accelerates everything. Rivers once considered remote no longer remain hidden for long.

Yet Southland still rewards anglers willing to move differently.

Again and again during that season, it was the smaller rivers and anonymous creeks that produced the most memorable fishing. Narrow streams winding quietly through farmland. Water too insignificant-looking for most travelling anglers to notice while driving past. Those rivers suited the season perfectly.

The fish were spaced carefully through long shallow glides, often occupying only the best pieces of structure in miles of water. Success demanded patience. Presentation mattered enormously. Rushing achieved very little. By late summer many trout required near-perfect drifts before moving confidently to a fly.

That challenge remains one of the great attractions of New Zealand fishing.

At its best, New Zealand rewards thoughtfulness. Observation. Restraint. The fish are not difficult because they are unusually intelligent. They are difficult because the environment is so honest. Clear water exposes every careless movement and every rushed decision. There is nowhere to hide from poor presentation in Southland.

Some evenings we fished the Waiau until darkness beneath heavy caddis and mayfly hatches. Those sessions became a highlight for many clients. Early dinners in Te Anau followed by twilight fishing beneath fading light while trout rose steadily through long slick currents. Not everybody chose those late evenings. Some preferred a whisky beside the fire back at the farmhouse, which is understandable too. But those who stayed often spoke about those sessions long after individual fish had blurred together.

That is something I have noticed repeatedly over the years.

People rarely remember trips purely because of fish.

They remember atmosphere.

They remember fatigue.

They remember weather, conversation, shared meals and unexpected moments.

Looking back now, what stays with me most strongly about that season is not any individual trout or river.

It is the feeling of movement returning.

Vehicles loaded before daylight. Clients arriving excited at Queenstown Airport. Guides discussing weather and river levels over breakfast. Wet waders hanging outside the farmhouse at dusk. The simple rhythm of travelling, fishing and sharing rivers together after several years when none of it seemed guaranteed.

Perhaps that is why the season carried such emotional weight.

The pandemic reminded us that experiences we assume permanent can disappear remarkably quickly. Travel. Friendship. Gathering together. Standing beside rivers in distant countries. None of it should be taken entirely for granted.

As the final weeks approached, autumn began edging slowly into the valleys. The season had come full circle.

And once again, the South Island reminded us why we continue returning year after year.

Not simply because the fishing remains exceptional, though it certainly does.

But because certain places eventually become intertwined with memory, friendship and identity itself.

After enough seasons, New Zealand stops feeling like somewhere you visit.

It starts feeling like somewhere that quietly becomes part of your life.

Ant

The truth is that there isn’t really a single answer.

The river changes enormously across the course of a season. Water levels rise and fall with irrigation demand. Insect hatches build and collapse. Trout reposition themselves constantly as current speeds, temperatures and food sources evolve from spring through to winter.

In many ways, the Goulburn fishes like several completely different rivers across a single season.

That is part of what keeps it endlessly interesting.

The Goulburn has occupied a large part of my working life since the mid-1990s. When I first began guiding here, drift boats were virtually unknown in Victoria. Most anglers approached the river on foot and much of the water we routinely fish today received relatively little attention. Over the decades I have watched floods reshape entire bends, seen drought reduce sections of river to a shadow of themselves, witnessed extraordinary insect hatches and endured years where fish populations struggled badly.

The river has changed repeatedly.

So have the anglers.

And perhaps so have I.

Yet despite all those changes, certain seasonal rhythms continue reappearing often enough that you begin recognising them almost instinctively. Not as rigid rules—rivers rarely obey those for long—but as recurring moods that shape the character of the river from opening day through until winter.

This is not intended as a technical manual.

More simply, it is an overview of how the river tends to evolve from opening day through to the close of the season, and some of the lessons it has taught me along the way.

SPRING

September – Low Water, Clear Flows and Careful Fishing

Opening week on the Goulburn often arrives with the river running low and exceptionally clear.

Unless Lake Eildon is near spilling, releases are usually reduced heavily throughout winter and early spring while water is captured for the irrigation season ahead. The result is a river sitting near minimum flow levels with beautiful clarity and highly wadable conditions.

At the same time, many surrounding freestone rivers remain cold, high or discoloured from winter rain and snowmelt.

That contrast is one of the reasons the Goulburn becomes so important early in the season. While many rivers remain difficult to fish, the Goulburn is often stable, accessible and already producing hatches.

The trout, however, can be extremely cautious.

 

Months of low, clear water make fish nervous and highly aware of movement. Large browns frequently sit along inside bends, gravel edges and shallow feeding lanes where they are easily spooked by careless approaches.

September is not generally a month for charging around the river.

It rewards patience, long leaders, careful positioning, good light and accurate presentation.

One of the great mistakes many anglers make in September is assuming the fish are difficult because they are not feeding. Usually they are feeding quite actively. The problem is that they can see almost everything. Shadows, poor wading, drag, heavy footfalls and rushed casting all become magnified in low clear water.

The fishing early in the month remains largely subsurface, though evening rises build steadily week by week. Midges dominate initially, along with small mayflies and scattered caddis activity. Yet even during opening week, larger pale duns often appear unexpectedly during mild evenings.

That first proper spring rise after winter remains one of the great pleasures of the season.

October – The River Wakes Properly

By October, the Goulburn begins feeling fully alive again.

Water temperatures rise noticeably and insect life accelerates quickly. Depending on rainfall and irrigation demand, flows may remain relatively low or begin climbing steadily through the month, but either way the river generally fishes exceptionally well.

This is when the first truly significant hatches begin occurring consistently.

Caddis appear in heavy numbers through the day. Mayflies build each evening. Caenids begin hatching in extraordinary densities on calm mornings.

Some years the river feels almost covered in insects.

And importantly, the trout know it.

October dry-fly fishing on the Goulburn can become remarkably technical. During heavy caenid activity especially, trout often feed rhythmically and selectively in flat slick water. Tiny flies, long leaders and drag-free presentation matter far more than heroic casting distance.

Many anglers overcomplicate imitation during these hatches.

Presentation usually matters more.

Getting the fly into the correct lane at the correct moment is everything.

There are mornings during peak caenid activity where the Goulburn rivals any dry-fly fishery I have seen anywhere in the world. That may sound like a bold statement, but after spending considerable time fishing New Zealand, Montana and other celebrated trout destinations, I remain convinced that the Goulburn at its best deserves far more recognition than it receives.

November – Crescendo

If October is excellent, November often becomes ridiculous.

By now almost everything is hatching.

Caenids at first light. Caddis throughout the day. Large evening mayflies. Spinners at dusk. Stoneflies. Flying ants. Termites on humid afternoons.

The river enters a period of abundance where trout seem permanently tuned toward the surface.

This is one of the great dry-fly months on the Goulburn.

The famous Kossie Dun also begins making regular appearances around this time. These large mayflies emerge right on last light and can trigger explosive short-lived feeding windows from some of the river’s better fish.

There are evenings where trout ignore almost everything for hours, then suddenly begin feeding aggressively during the final twenty minutes of fading light.

You learn to stay late in November.

Many memorable fish are hooked after most sensible people have already started walking back toward the car.

Termite falls can also produce astonishing fishing during humid weather. Fish become completely locked onto them and rise with extraordinary confidence. Having a good imitation during one of these falls can transform an ordinary afternoon into something unforgettable.

November feels like abundance.

The river is rich. The trout are active. The insect life is extraordinary.

Everything seems to be happening at once.

SUMMER

December – Terrestrials and Edge Water

By December, the river usually rises significantly as irrigation demand increases downstream.

Higher flows change the entire shape of the fishing.

Fish move tighter to structure and softer edge water while the main currents become faster and less efficient feeding zones. Trout begin sitting astonishingly close to the banks beneath grass, willow roots and submerged structure where slower current delivers food consistently.

This is where drift boats become incredibly effective.

The rise of irrigation flows during summer was one of the reasons drift boats proved so valuable when we first introduced them to the river. Water that is difficult or impossible to fish effectively on foot suddenly becomes accessible. Long banks lined with willows, undercut grass edges and flooded structure can be covered quietly and efficiently.

Many visitors are surprised by how little of the river’s productive summer water is actually located in the middle. The best lies are often only a metre or two from the bank.

Summer also marks the beginning of the great terrestrial period.

Cicadas appear. Hoppers increase. Beetles become important.

And then eventually the willow grubs begin falling.

For many Goulburn anglers, willow grub fishing defines summer entirely.

Fish feed on them with astonishing commitment, often rising repeatedly beneath overhanging willows for hours at a time. Large trout simply patrol beneath the trees waiting for the next helpless grub to fall.

The river feels rich during December.

The river feels rich during December, and the trout are among its greatest beneficiaries.

January and February – The Tailwater’s Great Advantage

January and February reveal the Goulburn’s greatest strength.

While surrounding rivers often become warm, low and increasingly stressed by summer heat, the tailwater influence keeps the Goulburn comparatively cool and productive. This is what makes it such a special fishery.

Backwaters, flooded edges and softer side channels become critical.

These areas hold extraordinary numbers of trout throughout summer, many of them large fish feeding quietly away from the heavier main current.

This is visual fishing at its best.

You often see the trout before casting. Watch them feeding. Position the boat carefully. Then attempt to place the fly naturally into tight feeding lanes along the edges.

Some of the river’s biggest browns become surprisingly vulnerable during this period.

Provided you approach properly.

The backwaters become fascinating places. Large trout cruise slowly through submerged grass and quiet lagoons feeding on everything from beetles and hoppers through to spiders, wasps and drowned insects washed from the banks.

Big attractor patterns fish extremely well now, though paradoxically downsizing can also become important when fish become suspicious in very clear water.

That contradiction is very Goulburn.

AUTUMN

March – Transition

March sits between seasons.

The heat still lingers. The terrestrial fishing remains productive. But the river slowly begins changing direction again.

 

Water levels often fall gradually and the first stronger aquatic hatches begin rebuilding after the heavy irrigation flows of high summer.

The trout remain fat and heavily conditioned from months of easy feeding.

Backwaters continue fishing well, though fish slowly redistribute back toward seams, runs and bubble lines as flows decrease and aquatic insects regain importance.

There are no strict rules in March.

And that uncertainty makes it wonderfully interesting.

April – Perhaps the River’s Finest Month

If forced to choose a favourite month on the Goulburn, April would be very difficult to overlook.

The river often settles into beautiful medium flows. The weather softens. The crowds reduce. The fish feed heavily ahead of winter.

And importantly, both terrestrial and aquatic fishing remain excellent simultaneously.

Few months offer such variety.

You can still catch trout confidently on hoppers, beetles and ants while also encountering increasingly technical mayfly and caddis fishing.

Autumn feels different emotionally as well.

The urgency of spring has passed. The abundance of summer begins fading. The river seems to slow its breathing slightly. Mornings arrive cooler. Shadows lengthen earlier. The first leaves begin drifting onto the water.

Perhaps because I have spent so many years guiding through these months, autumn increasingly feels like the season when the river becomes easiest to appreciate.

Not necessarily easiest to fish.

But easiest to understand.

May – Quiet Water and Precision

May is perhaps the most beautiful month on the Goulburn.

Cool mornings. Still air. Low clear water. Trout rising steadily through the middle of the day.

The river slows down now.

Midges and blue-winged olives dominate much of the fishing. Presentation becomes increasingly delicate and fish become highly aware of movement again after the heavier summer flows disappear.

Stealth matters enormously.

You begin stalking fish properly once more.

Careful wading. Long leaders. Tiny flies. Soft approaches.

The rewards, however, are immense.

May trout are often in magnificent condition and the atmosphere along the river during stable autumn weather can feel almost perfect.

And occasionally, almost absurdly, Kossie duns still appear right into late May and even June.

The river always retains the ability to surprise you.

WINTER

June to August – The River Rests

The trout season closes during winter so fish can spawn undisturbed.

For guides and anglers, winter becomes the season of tying flies, servicing gear, writing, planning and thinking ahead toward spring once again.

Or occasionally heading north to Montana and Idaho where another trout season is just beginning.

The cycle never really stops.

Only shifts hemispheres.

Final Thoughts

People often ask whether I ever become bored guiding the same river for so many years.

The honest answer is no.

Partly because the river never truly repeats itself.

But mostly because familiarity and understanding are not the same thing.

The longer I spend on the Goulburn, the more I realise how much remains to be learned. Every flood changes something. Every drought reveals something. Every season offers new puzzles for those paying attention.

That, perhaps, is the real gift of a tailwater.

Not consistency.

Curiosity.

The Goulburn is not perfect. No river is. It has endured floods, droughts, changing water management, cormorant pressure and countless other challenges over the years. Yet it remains one of the most fascinating trout fisheries in Australia.

Thirty years later, the river is still teaching.

And I suspect it always will.

Ant