Tag: Brown Trout

After the Silence: Returning to New Zealand

By the time we were finishing our last week in March of 2020 in New Zealand, the news had begun to intrude upon the ordinary business of guiding. Every few days another country announced restrictions, international flights were being cancelled and there was growing uncertainty about how far the virus would spread. We were still doing what we had travelled there to do, taking clients fishing, watching the weather and moving between rivers, but conversations increasingly wandered towards what was happening elsewhere. It was difficult to know how seriously to take any of it. The restrictions being discussed seemed extraordinary at the time, and I suspect most of us assumed that whatever disruption lay ahead would be relatively short-lived.

We finished the season and returned to Australia. Within weeks, international travel had become almost impossible, and the prospect of returning to New Zealand the following summer disappeared. There were bookings to rearrange, clients to contact and plans that had to be abandoned or postponed. Initially, the conversations were largely about dates. Perhaps the following January would work. Perhaps the borders would reopen sooner than expected. There was little point making firm arrangements while the situation remained so uncertain, but neither did anyone particularly want to accept that an entire season might be lost.

Eventually one season became two, and then the absence began extending into a third summer. For a business that had been taking anglers to Southland since 2000, it was a peculiar interruption. We had become accustomed to spending a substantial part of every Australian summer across the Tasman. By late spring, preparations would normally be well underway. Guides would be organising equipment, clients would be discussing flights and accommodation, and the familiar conversations about river levels, summer weather and likely fishing conditions would begin. Without those preparations, the months seemed strangely open. There was still plenty of work in Australia, but a part of the year that had acquired its own established routine was missing.

The clients were in much the same position. Some had been travelling with us for years and knew the Southland rivers almost as well as we did. Others were preparing for their first visit and had spent months looking forward to fishing places they had previously known only through photographs and other people’s accounts. The uncertainty was especially difficult for those who had organised other parts of their lives around the trip. Leave had been arranged, flights booked and, in some cases, family travel planned around the fishing. We kept in touch, rearranged what we could and waited for circumstances to improve. After a while, even talking about the next season began to feel rather speculative.

When the opportunity finally came to return for the 2022–23 season, conditions in Australia provided another reason to head across early. Much of Victoria was dealing with the effects of significant flooding. The Goulburn and several of its tributaries were carrying heavy, discoloured water, and familiar stretches of river had become difficult or impossible to fish. Access tracks were damaged, sections of bank had disappeared and there was little certainty about when the main river would return to something resembling normal conditions. At the same time, reports from Southland suggested an unusually warm start to summer, with relatively stable rivers and excellent visibility.

We decided to go across before the main hosted season began and spend some time fishing for ourselves. It was an opportunity to look at the rivers, see how the country had changed during our absence and return to the routines we had followed for so many years. There was work to be done before clients began arriving, but it was also a chance to enjoy a few days without the responsibilities that normally accompany a full guiding schedule.

Our usual accommodation at Dunrobin was still undergoing renovations, so we began the trip based in Te Anau. That gave us convenient access to the Waiau, Eglinton and surrounding rivers, country I knew well but had not visited for several seasons. It was a slightly different arrangement from our usual one, although after so long away I doubt any of us was particularly concerned about where we were sleeping. We had rods, transport and a selection of rivers in good condition. That was enough to begin with.

There is a particular familiarity to fishing Southland that returns quickly once you are standing beside one of its rivers. The water is often clear enough that you can see individual stones across much of a run, although the surface reflection and the angle of the light can make the same piece of water almost impossible to read from another position. The banks are frequently open, with long stretches of grass, gravel and low vegetation offering little concealment. You become conscious of your outline against the sky and the way your movement is carried through the water. There are places where the first reasonable opportunity to cast comes only after several minutes spent deciding how to approach.

On our first days back, those habits returned almost without effort. We found ourselves walking slowly along the banks, looking into the likely water before approaching it, using the available light and adjusting our position whenever a reflection made the bottom difficult to see. A trout holding beneath an undercut bank might remain almost invisible until it shifted slightly into the current. Another would appear quite clearly against the pale gravel, only to disappear the moment a cloud passed overhead. After years of guiding this sort of water, much of the process becomes instinctive, but it was still a pleasure to find ourselves doing it again.

The fishing was good. We encountered brown trout holding in familiar positions, feeding beneath banks, moving through the shallower glides and occasionally rising to insects drifting along the surface. There were enough opportunities to remind us what we had missed, but not so many that the fish required little thought. We still had to work out the correct approach, choose the presentation and occasionally stand watching a fish for considerably longer than we spent casting to it. Some refused. Others moved confidently to the fly. After the uncertainties of the preceding years, there was something particularly satisfying about having our attention occupied by problems as familiar as those.

I was also reminded how physically different wade fishing in New Zealand feels from spending most of the year rowing drift boats on the Goulburn. On the larger river at home, much of my day is spent watching ahead, thinking about current, positioning the boat and deciding where clients should cast. In Southland, the process is slower and more deliberate. You may spend twenty minutes walking before locating a fish, then another twenty working out the best way to approach it. Once you begin fishing, you are responsible for your own position in the water and for every movement you make. There is no boat to reposition, and a poor decision can mean starting the search again somewhere farther upstream.

The Eglinton provided one of the more memorable incidents of that early visit, although it had nothing to do with trout. One afternoon we encountered a deer attempting to cross the river. Its hindquarters appeared badly injured, and from the way it moved we suspected it had suffered a serious pelvic injury. The crossing looked almost impossible. The animal was struggling to maintain its balance, and the current was strong enough that we expected it to lose its footing and be swept downstream.

Instead, it continued fighting its way across. We watched it struggle through the deeper water, sometimes appearing almost stationary against the current before managing another little piece of progress. There was nothing we could usefully do from where we stood. Eventually, against our expectations, it reached the opposite bank and disappeared into the grass. I can still picture the three of us watching that last part of the crossing, waiting to see whether it would manage to pull itself clear. We never knew what happened afterwards.

Incidents like that are part of spending so much time outdoors. You occasionally witness something that would otherwise pass entirely unnoticed, and there is no particular reason for it to fit comfortably into the day you had planned. We had gone to the Eglinton to fish. By the time we left, I remember the deer more clearly than any trout we encountered.

Some of the evenings around Te Anau were particularly enjoyable. We would have an early dinner, then head back towards the Waiau to fish through the last few hours of daylight. The river has always held considerable appeal for me, particularly when caddis and mayflies begin appearing over its slower water. Trout that have remained relatively inconspicuous during the day can begin rising steadily as the light fades, often in areas where their positions become difficult to determine once the surface loses its reflections.

There is an interesting adjustment required when fishing towards darkness. Early in the evening you can usually see enough of the water to identify the better feeding lanes and perhaps watch individual fish moving beneath the surface. Later, the rises become easier to hear than to see. The fly itself may be difficult to follow, and you begin relying more heavily on where you expect it to be, the behaviour of the leader and the faint disturbances made by feeding trout. When everything comes together, it can be exceptional fishing. You may find yourself reluctant to leave even after the light has deteriorated to the point where tying on another fly becomes an unpleasant exercise.

Not everybody wanted to spend the evening that way. Some preferred to finish at a sensible hour, have dinner and enjoy a drink rather than venture out again. I can understand that perfectly well. A full day walking rivers is tiring enough without adding another session after dark. But I have always enjoyed those late hours, particularly on rivers where the fishing can change so much during the final part of the day. Several of the people who chose to stay out spoke about those evenings long afterwards.

Eventually we returned south towards Dunrobin and the farmhouse that has served as our New Zealand base for so many seasons. The Aparima runs through the valley below the property, close enough that the river is part of the everyday view. It is a practical place from which to run the operation, but after more than two decades of returning, it has become considerably more familiar than most accommodation I use while travelling. There are roads I can drive almost without thinking, sections of river that bring particular clients to mind and stretches of farmland whose fences, gates and access points I have known for years.

I am conscious that most people encounter accommodation like this for only a week. They arrive, unpack, fish for six days and eventually leave with a collection of photographs and memories attached to the place. For those of us who return to work there season after season, the relationship develops differently. The same rooms, roads and surrounding hills become part of an annual routine. The rivers acquire histories that are not necessarily apparent to somebody visiting for the first time. I can walk into a particular run on the Aparima or Waiau and remember fishing it with someone years earlier, sometimes recalling the conversation more clearly than the trout we caught.

The return also meant seeing people we had not worked alongside for several summers. One of the pleasures of running the same operation over many years is that the relationships extend well beyond the formal business of arranging guiding days. Clients become familiar with the guides, guides get to know returning clients, and friendships develop among people who might otherwise never have met. Some anglers have been coming with us for so long that their arrival feels less like the beginning of a new booking than the continuation of an earlier visit.

By the time the main season began, the familiar activity had returned. Clients were arriving through Queenstown, vehicles were being loaded and guides were discussing weather and fishing conditions before heading out for the day. Decisions about which river to fish were once again occupying a considerable amount of our attention. There were lunches to organise, equipment to sort and the usual small problems that accompany moving several people between different catchments. None of it was particularly glamorous, and much of it would have seemed thoroughly ordinary in any season before 2020. After the long interruption, I was pleased to have those practical concerns back.

The fishing changed steadily as summer progressed. Southland had experienced a dry beginning to the season, and water levels continued falling through many of the rivers. By late summer, some were exceptionally low and clear. The famous waters, particularly the Mataura and Oreti, attracted considerable attention around the sections still producing consistent fishing. That was hardly surprising. Visiting anglers naturally gravitate towards the rivers they know by reputation, and modern fishing reports allow information about productive stretches to travel quickly.

There is still remarkable fishing available on those larger rivers, but conditions sometimes favour a less obvious approach. Over the years we have spent an enormous amount of time exploring the smaller streams that wind through the Southland farmland, including creeks that barely look substantial enough to hold trout when viewed from a passing vehicle. Some are little more than narrow channels between grassy banks. Others open into surprisingly long glides or deeper bends where the outside bank has been gradually undercut by the current.

In a dry season, that sort of water can be particularly interesting. The trout may be widely spaced, with long sections offering little reason for a fish to remain. A shallow run might lead into a bend with just enough depth, cover and current to provide a comfortable lie. Several hundred metres farther upstream, another piece of water may offer similar conditions. The challenge is not necessarily persuading fish to eat once you have found them. It is locating them without disturbing the few places where they are likely to be holding.

That becomes a different kind of fishing from covering long stretches of a river and expecting regular opportunities. You walk, stop, look and walk again. Sometimes the best view comes from well above the water. Sometimes a slight change in the sun’s angle reveals a trout that was invisible only moments earlier. The fish may be stationary against the current or moving slowly through a feeding lane, and a good deal of the work involves deciding whether it is actually feeding before attempting a cast.

Low, clear water exposes poor approaches very quickly. A careless step can send a fish disappearing beneath the nearest bank long before the angler has seen it. Standing too close to the river creates a silhouette that may be obvious to a trout several metres away. Even a well-presented fly can be refused if the fish has already become suspicious. By late summer, when the water has been low for weeks and the trout have encountered other anglers, the margin for error can become very small.

There were plenty of occasions when we had to spend considerable time on one fish. A trout might be feeding steadily but occupying a position that made a conventional upstream presentation difficult. Another would be holding beneath an undercut bank, where the fly needed to drift extremely close to the grass without catching it. Sometimes we had to wait for a fish to move into a more favourable position before casting at all. Those are the problems I particularly enjoy in New Zealand. They require the angler to understand the fish and the surrounding current rather than simply rely on a particular fly pattern.

I have never been particularly convinced by the idea that New Zealand trout are inherently more intelligent than trout elsewhere. Their environment often makes them more difficult to catch. Clear water, limited cover and the spacing of fish through long stretches of river place greater importance on finding the correct approach. A fish that sees you before you see it is unlikely to offer a fair opportunity, no matter how carefully you choose the fly afterwards. By contrast, a trout approached properly may respond with surprising confidence to a relatively straightforward imitation.

The smaller streams provided some of our most memorable fishing during that season, although they rarely attract the same attention as the famous rivers. There is something appealing about arriving beside water that appears almost insignificant, walking a short distance and discovering a substantial brown trout feeding beneath the grass. The surrounding landscape may be ordinary farmland, with fences, paddocks and distant hills rather than dramatic alpine scenery. Yet once you find a good fish and begin working out how to catch it, the size of the river becomes almost irrelevant.

That is one of the reasons I have always enjoyed guiding in Southland. The range of water is extraordinary, and there are often several different approaches available on the same day. Conditions on one river may be unsuitable while another, only a relatively short drive away, is fishing beautifully. A larger river may provide excellent afternoon hatches, while a small creek can offer a day spent stalking individual trout. There is considerable value in knowing those alternatives and being able to move between them without feeling obliged to fish a particular river simply because it has a famous name.

The work is not without its frustrations, of course. There are days when the wind makes spotting trout difficult, when a change in light removes the advantage of clear water or when an apparently promising stretch produces very little. Fish can refuse well-presented flies, and occasionally an entire morning is spent walking past water that should hold trout but does not appear to contain any. A guide still has to make decisions about when to persist and when to move. In some ways, those decisions are more important in New Zealand than almost anywhere else I have worked, simply because the fish can be so widely dispersed.

What I enjoy is watching clients gradually adapt to that style of fishing. On the first morning, some are inclined to cast at every likely piece of water, particularly if they have spent most of their fishing lives on rivers where trout are difficult to see. After a day or two, they begin looking more carefully. They understand why the guide sometimes walks past a beautiful run without making a cast, or why everyone may spend ten minutes staring into a small patch of water before deciding whether a dark shape is actually a fish. Their approach becomes quieter, and the time spent observing begins to occupy as much of the day as the casting.

There are also plenty of moments away from the water that become part of a season. Guides discussing the following day’s weather over breakfast. Wet waders drying outside the farmhouse. Someone sorting flies at the table while another looks through photographs from the afternoon. Clients returning tired but pleased after a long day walking. Dinner conversations that begin with an account of a particular fish and eventually wander towards families, work, travel and whatever else people have brought with them from home.

Those routines had been absent for several years, and it was good to have them back. I had missed the company of the guides and clients, but also the familiarity of the work itself. There is a particular satisfaction in organising a day properly, choosing suitable water and watching people return having enjoyed themselves. It does not require extraordinary fishing every time. Sometimes a difficult day that produces one memorable trout is enough. At other times the hatches are generous and everyone comes home with more stories than they can comfortably fit into dinner.

As the season progressed towards autumn, the days began shortening and the character of the valleys gradually changed. The mornings became cooler, the light arrived at a different angle and the urgency of midsummer began to fade. Some of the smaller rivers remained very low, while others continued providing good fishing through the final weeks. We were once again approaching the familiar task of finishing a New Zealand season, packing equipment, sorting accommodation and preparing to return to Australia.

That final period has always carried a mixture of satisfaction and reluctance. After several months away, there are things at home that need attention and people I am looking forward to seeing. At the same time, I know that certain rivers will remain in excellent condition after we leave, and there is usually at least one stretch of water I would have liked another day to explore. It has never been easy to arrive in Southland with enough time to fish everything that interests me.

The difference that year was the knowledge that we had returned at all. For several seasons, the normal assumption that we would be back the following summer had proved unreliable. We had postponed trips, watched the calendar move on and tried to make plans while having little control over whether they could proceed. By the end of the 2022–23 season, the familiar routines of guiding, travelling and hosting anglers in New Zealand were operating again. We could talk about the following summer with some confidence, something that had been missing for a surprisingly long time.

I still remember the injured deer in the Eglinton, the late evenings on the Waiau and several of the better trout we encountered on the smaller streams. I remember the pleasure of seeing familiar faces again and the satisfaction of watching clients settle back into fishing rivers they had missed for years. There were plenty of good days, along with the usual difficult ones, and enough variety to remind me that no two New Zealand seasons are ever particularly alike.

But when I think about that first return, I often come back to the drive towards Dunrobin. The farmhouse, the surrounding hills and the Aparima running through the valley below were all familiar. We had made the same journey so many times that there was little about it we needed to discover. After several summers away, I found myself looking across the river country again and thinking about the ordinary questions that would occupy us the following morning.

What would the weather do? Which rivers were in good condition? Where should we begin?

It was good to have those questions back.

Ant

Notes on Current, Position and the Quiet Hierarchy of Rivers

Most anglers spend remarkably little time simply watching trout.

Not casting to them.
Not moving toward them.
Not trying to catch them.

Just watching.

Yet some of the most valuable lessons rivers offer emerge during those quieter moments when you slow down enough to properly observe how large fish behave in current.

The trout featured in this short unedited footage had been holding in the same section of the Goulburn for some time. Big fish in tailwaters often become deeply connected to particular lies, especially those offering the ideal balance between security, oxygen, current speed and food delivery.

To somebody unfamiliar with rivers, the fish appears almost motionless.

In reality, it is constantly making tiny adjustments.

A slight tilt of the body.
A subtle movement sideways through the seam.
A gentle rise in the water column to intercept a drifting insect before sliding back into exactly the same current line again.

Large trout rarely waste energy unnecessarily.

That is one of the first things years on rivers begin teaching you.

Everything about a mature fish revolves around efficiency.

The best lies in a river are not random. They are positions where a trout can maximise reward while minimising effort and exposure. A fish holding properly should be able to access oxygen-rich current, drifting food and nearby protection without constantly fighting the river.

The larger the trout becomes, the more carefully it tends to position itself.

That is especially true in rivers like the Goulburn where fluctuating water levels constantly reshape current seams and feeding lanes. Unlike stable spring creeks, tailwaters are dynamic systems. Water rises. Water drops. Gravel shifts. Current pushes differently through bends from one week to the next.

And every significant change in flow alters the hierarchy of the river.

Prime lies emerge.
Others disappear.

Fish that once held comfortably beneath a bank suddenly become exposed. New seams form. Current pressure changes. Feeding lanes improve or collapse almost overnight.

Then the quiet reshuffling begins.

Smaller trout are displaced first. Larger, more experienced fish generally adapt quickest, slipping back into the newly formed prime water with remarkable speed. Years spent surviving in moving water seem to sharpen their instinct for positioning. They understand current in ways difficult to fully appreciate until you spend enough time watching them closely.

This is one of the reasons experienced anglers become slightly obsessed with observation.

The more time you spend watching trout rather than simply fishing for them, the more patterns begin revealing themselves. You notice how fish behave differently depending on light levels, water height, insect activity and pressure. You begin recognising the subtle distinction between fish that are actively feeding and fish merely holding in comfort water.

You also realise how much of trout fishing revolves around understanding current itself.

Current is everything.

Food delivery.
Security.
Oxygen.
Energy expenditure.

The river determines all of it.

A trout holding comfortably behind a submerged rock may only need to move several inches to intercept food drifting downstream. Another fish positioned poorly in heavy current may burn enormous energy simply trying to maintain its place in the river. Over time, these differences matter. Large trout do not survive many seasons by making poor energy decisions repeatedly.

That economy of movement becomes fascinating once you start noticing it.

Watch a truly dominant fish long enough and it begins to feel less like randomness and more like quiet calculation. Not intelligence in the human sense, of course, but instinct refined through survival. Every movement is measured against current speed and opportunity.

Sometimes the fish barely moves at all for several minutes.
Then suddenly:
tilt,
rise,
eat,
return.

The simplicity of it is strangely compelling.

Tailwaters like the Goulburn make this type of observation particularly interesting because the fish are often visible for extended periods. Long slicks, gentle seams and controlled flows allow anglers opportunities to study trout behaviour in remarkable detail if they resist the urge to immediately cast.

That patience is difficult for many anglers initially.

Modern fishing culture often encourages constant movement. Cast here. Change flies. Cover more water. Chase outcomes. Yet some of the most important understanding develops while standing quietly on a bank doing almost nothing at all.

Just watching.

Over decades guiding on the Goulburn, I’ve probably learnt as much observing trout as I have catching them. Certain fish teach you things. Certain lies reveal patterns that repeat throughout rivers everywhere. Eventually you stop merely seeing “a fish” and begin recognising structure, current relationships and feeding opportunities almost instinctively.

The river starts making more sense.

You begin understanding why one seam consistently produces better fish than another seemingly identical run nearby. You notice how changing light alters trout confidence. You recognise how subtle increases in flow reposition fish through entire stretches of river.

These are not dramatic revelations.

Most occur gradually over years.

And perhaps that is one of the reasons fly fishing remains so endlessly interesting. Rivers refuse to fully surrender their patterns all at once. They reveal themselves slowly to those willing to keep paying attention.

The trout in this footage will likely shift position many times over coming seasons as the river changes around it. Floods may reshape the run entirely. Lower flows may expose the lie completely. Another larger fish may eventually displace it.

Nothing in rivers remains static for very long.

That constant change is part of their appeal.

Still, for this brief moment captured on camera, the fish sits exactly where experience has taught it to be: balanced perfectly between effort, opportunity and survival.

A good lie in a river is a valuable thing.

The trout understand that well.

Notes From Thirty Years Watching a Tailwater Change

The Goulburn River Through the Seasons

People often ask me when the best time to fish the Goulburn is. After more than thirty years working on the river, I still find it a difficult question to answer, partly because the river changes so much throughout the year and partly because different anglers are looking for entirely different experiences. Someone who enjoys wading clear, shallow water and sight-fishing to individual trout may have little interest in the heavier summer flows. Another angler might happily wait until December, when the river rises and the banks become the centre of attention from a drift boat. For some, the arrival of the first substantial mayfly hatches is reason enough to plan a visit. Others prefer the quieter weeks of autumn, when the crowds have largely disappeared and the fishing becomes more deliberate.

I have my own preferences, although they have changed over the years. There were times when I would have chosen November without much hesitation, particularly during seasons when the insect life seemed almost limitless and trout were rising from early morning until dark. These days I am equally drawn to April, when the weather settles, the river begins losing some of its summer urgency and there is often a remarkable variety of fishing available. But ask me after an exceptional evening on the river in October and I may give you a different answer again.

Much of what makes the Goulburn so interesting is the influence of Lake Eildon. Unlike the surrounding freestone rivers, where flows follow rainfall and seasonal runoff, the Goulburn below the dam is heavily regulated. Water is released to meet irrigation, environmental and other operating requirements, and the timing and volume of those releases can change the character of the river almost completely. A section that appears broad, shallow and easily waded in September may be carrying many times as much water by December. Gravel bars disappear, banks become inundated and current lines move towards the edges. Trout that were feeding in the middle of the river only weeks earlier may now be lying beneath grass or overhead willows, sometimes within a metre of the bank.

When we began drift boating the Goulburn in 1994, very few anglers approached the river that way. Most fishing was done on foot, and large sections of the river received comparatively little attention, particularly once irrigation releases made wading difficult. Drift boats allowed us to explore water that had previously been awkward or impossible to fish effectively. They also changed the way I looked at the river. Spending so much time moving downstream, often over the same sections in very different conditions, gave me an opportunity to watch the entire system change through the seasons rather than concentrating on the handful of pools and runs accessible from the bank.

Since then I have watched floods move gravel through long stretches, seen entire bends altered by erosion, endured drought years when the fishing deteriorated badly and witnessed hatches that would be extraordinary on any trout river in the world. I have also seen seasons when the conditions appeared almost perfect but the trout were difficult to find. Water temperature, clarity, insect populations and river flows can all be encouraging, yet none guarantees a strong fish population or a successful day. The longer you work on the same river, the more careful you become about drawing conclusions from any single set of conditions.

Even so, certain patterns return often enough to be useful. What follows is not intended as a rigid calendar. The weather does not organise itself around the months, and the timing of irrigation releases, insect hatches and seasonal changes varies considerably from one year to another. It is simply how I have come to recognise the Goulburn through the fishing year, beginning with the opening of the trout season in September and finishing when the river closes for winter.

Spring

September: Low Water, Clear Flows and Careful Fishing

Opening week often finds the Goulburn running relatively low and exceptionally clear. Unless Lake Eildon is near spilling or other conditions require higher releases, much of the winter and early spring is spent with comparatively modest volumes of water entering the river. The larger gravel bars reappear, long shallow runs become accessible and there are opportunities to wade sections that would be difficult to reach during the irrigation season.

The contrast with the surrounding rivers can be remarkable. The Rubicon, Acheron, Steavenson and other freestone streams may still be carrying cold runoff or discoloured water from winter rain, while the Goulburn is flowing clear below the dam. For anglers keen to begin the season, that stability is particularly attractive. There is often a great deal of river available to explore, although the appearance of easy water can be misleading.

Trout that have spent months in low, clear conditions can be extremely cautious. They may occupy shallow feeding lanes beside gravel bars, softer seams along inside bends or positions close to submerged structure where they have a good view of anything approaching. A careless step, a shadow across the water or several unnecessary false casts can be enough to end an opportunity before the fly has landed. On the Goulburn, a fish does not always need to move far to avoid an angler. Sometimes it simply slips out of the feeding lane and becomes almost impossible to see again.

September rewards people prepared to approach slowly. I often encourage anglers to spend several minutes looking at a likely section before stepping into the water. Use the light, work out where the current is delivering food and try to establish whether anything is moving before deciding where to cast. Polarised glasses are invaluable, although even with good glasses there will be plenty of trout that are difficult to distinguish from the riverbed until they shift position.

One mistake I see repeatedly is assuming that a lack of rising fish means the trout are not feeding. Early in the season, much of their activity may be taking place beneath the surface. Small nymphs, midge pupae and other aquatic insects provide food even when little is visibly happening above the water. A carefully presented nymph can be extremely effective, particularly through slower runs where fish are holding close to the bottom. The important distinction is between a river that is not showing much surface activity and one that is genuinely holding few feeding fish.

As the month progresses, insect activity generally becomes more noticeable. Midges are often present from the beginning, with small mayflies and increasing numbers of caddis appearing as the weather improves. On suitable evenings, larger pale duns sometimes emerge much earlier than expected. I have always enjoyed those first proper rises after winter, particularly when trout begin feeding in water that appeared completely lifeless an hour earlier. It is often a brief opportunity, and there are seasons when the better fishing occurs during the final half-hour of daylight.

September can be a wonderful month, but it is rarely one for anglers expecting the river to provide obvious opportunities from morning until evening. Much of the satisfaction comes from finding fish, approaching them properly and making relatively few casts count.

October: The First Substantial Hatches

October is usually when the river begins feeling more active. The days lengthen, water temperatures gradually increase and insect activity becomes more consistent. The timing depends heavily on weather and releases from Eildon. Some years the river remains low and clear well into the month. In others, increasing water demand or environmental releases bring a substantial rise, forcing fish to adjust to new current lines and feeding positions.

It is tempting to assume that rising water must improve the fishing immediately, but that has not always been my experience. Even relatively modest changes can unsettle trout for a period. A fish that was holding comfortably in a shallow seam may find that the current has strengthened or that a newly submerged edge now offers a more efficient feeding position. Until the river stabilises, the fishing can be surprisingly difficult. I have spent plenty of October days looking at clear water, good temperatures and considerable insect activity while wondering why so few trout seemed interested.

When conditions settle, however, October can produce some of the finest technical dry-fly fishing of the year. Caddis become increasingly important, mayfly activity builds and caenids can begin appearing in extraordinary numbers during suitable weather. These tiny mayflies are responsible for some of the most demanding fishing on the river. Trout feeding on them often establish themselves in slow, almost featureless water, where they rise repeatedly to insects that are difficult to see without getting close enough to examine the surface.

During a substantial caenid hatch, the problem is rarely finding a fly small enough to resemble the natural. It is getting that fly to arrive in the correct feeding lane without drag. A trout may be taking hundreds of insects drifting at almost exactly the same speed, and an imitation travelling slightly faster or slower can stand out immediately. Long leaders, fine tippet and careful positioning become far more useful than casting another ten metres. Sometimes a small adjustment to the boat or the angler’s position is worth more than changing flies.

The feeding behaviour is equally interesting. A trout may remain almost stationary, moving only a few centimetres to take each insect. Others travel slowly through a slick, rising in a sequence that becomes predictable once you have watched them for long enough. Learning where the fish begins its movement is often more important than casting at the last visible rise. The ring tells you where the trout took an insect, but not necessarily where it was holding before the take.

I have seen mornings on the Goulburn during which the number of rising trout would compare favourably with anything I have encountered on the celebrated dry-fly rivers of New Zealand or Montana. Those days are not guaranteed, and there have been plenty of disappointing Octobers as well. But when the river is carrying a heavy fall of small mayflies and the fish are feeding confidently, it can be extraordinary. A good angler might spend most of the morning working individual fish without moving far at all.

November: The River at Its Most Generous

November has traditionally been one of my favourite months because so many different insects can be present at the same time. Caenids may be bringing fish to the surface early in the morning, caddis can become increasingly noticeable through the day, and larger mayflies often appear as the light begins to fade. Spinners, beetles, flying ants, termites and occasional stonefly activity add further variety.

Some years the abundance is difficult to believe. A quiet pool may be carrying several species of mayfly simultaneously, while caddis gather along the willows and trout rise in different parts of the current to entirely different bugs. It is one of the reasons the fishing can remain technically demanding even when there are plenty of insects available. Finding rising trout is only the beginning. You still need to work out what they are taking.

Ciacadas are now far more likely to start appearing in the middle of November than. This is a marked shift from when I was a child and their emergence was generally a December event. The good news is this gets the fish eating big flies earlier in the season.

The Kossie Dun is one of the insects I particularly associate with this part of the season. These large mayflies can begin appearing towards evening and sometimes bring better trout to the surface during a remarkably short feeding window. I have guided plenty of days when the afternoon fishing was ordinary, with only scattered rises and little indication that anything substantial was about to happen. Then, as the light faded, large duns began appearing and trout that had shown themselves only occasionally started feeding with considerably more confidence.

It pays to be prepared to stay late. There is often a temptation to finish at a reasonable hour, particularly after a long day on the water, but some of November’s better opportunities arrive just as the river is beginning to disappear into the evening. A fish that has ignored smaller insects for hours may suddenly become very interested in the larger mayflies. The important thing is being in position when it happens, rather than spending the best part of the hatch travelling between pools.

Flying ants and termites can provide equally memorable late spring fishing. Their appearance is strongly influenced by weather, particularly warm and humid conditions, and the timing is never entirely predictable. A substantial fall can bring fish to the surface in places where little activity had been visible beforehand. Trout sometimes become so focused on these insects that they will ignore everything else drifting past them.

There are few more frustrating experiences than watching large trout rise confidently across a slick while discovering that the one pattern you neglected to carry is precisely what they are eating. I have become fairly particular about ensuring that suitable ant and termite imitations remain in the fly box throughout this period, even on days when there seems little reason to expect either.

November does not always produce the same hatches in the same order, and a sudden increase in releases can rearrange the fishing almost overnight. Nevertheless, when the weather, water levels and insect activity come together, it can be a remarkable time to be on the Goulburn.

Summer

December: Rising Water and the Importance of the Edges

By December, irrigation demand commonly brings a substantial increase in releases from Lake Eildon. Depending on the season and the operating requirements, the river may rise in stages or move relatively quickly towards the higher levels associated with summer. For an angler accustomed to fishing the Goulburn on foot during spring, the change can be dramatic.

Gravel bars that were exposed only weeks earlier disappear beneath several feet of water. Runs that were easily crossed become fast and deep, while the main current occupies a much greater proportion of the channel. The fish respond by moving towards more efficient feeding positions. Softer edges, flooded grass, willow roots, backwaters and submerged structure become increasingly important because they allow trout to remain close to food without expending unnecessary energy fighting the heaviest current.

This is the season when drift boats become particularly valuable. Much of the productive water is difficult to reach from the bank, and even where access is possible, the current can make wading uncomfortable or unsafe. From a boat, we can work long stretches of shoreline, positioning anglers to cast beneath overhanging branches or along the narrow seams created where fast water meets the quieter margins.

People fishing the Goulburn for the first time are often surprised by how close to the bank we ask them to cast. There is a natural tendency to look towards the middle of a large river and assume that the best fish must be holding somewhere in the deeper water. In summer, however, some of the most productive lies may be within a metre of the shore. A trout tucked beneath an overhanging willow or undercut grass bank can intercept insects drifting along the edge without having to move far from cover.

The challenge is getting a fly into those positions without immediately catching it in the vegetation. Good drift-boat fishing involves a constant series of adjustments. The guide changes the boat’s angle, slows it against the current or moves slightly closer to the bank while the angler prepares for the next opportunity. There is often only a short window in which the cast can be made effectively. A fly landing a metre too far from the structure may travel through perfectly good-looking water without attracting any attention from fish that are loathe to wasting energy chasing small rewards out in fast current.

Terrestrial insects become increasingly important as summer develops. Beetles are frequently present, grasshoppers become more common as the surrounding country dries and cicadas remain active. These insects introduce a different kind of fishing from the delicate mayfly work of spring. A larger dry fly landing close to cover may be taken aggressively by a trout that has been waiting beneath the bank for something worthwhile to arrive.

Then there are the willow grubs.

For some anglers, willow grub fishing is almost synonymous with summer on the Goulburn. The larvae fall from overhanging willows and become available to fish holding beneath the trees. When the grubs are falling consistently, trout can become remarkably focused on them, rising repeatedly in a very small area while ignoring all other food.

The takes are not always obvious. Sometimes a large brown simply appears beneath a willow, makes the slightest movement at the surface and disappears again. Watching the same fish feed repeatedly can reveal its patrol route in backwaters, allowing the guide to position the boat so the angler can place a small imitation exactly where the fish is likely to return, or even better, in the fish’s path. It is absorbing fishing, but it can require considerable patience, particularly when the trout is moving back and forth between heavy cover and open water.

December is when much of the summer character of the Goulburn becomes established. More water brings more habitat into play, the banks become increasingly important and a great deal of the fishing begins taking place in areas that were not available earlier in the season.

January and February: The Tailwater’s Greatest Advantage

The hottest months of the Australian summer reveal one of the principal advantages of the Goulburn. While many surrounding rivers become low, warm and increasingly difficult for trout, the release of cooler water from Lake Eildon can maintain comparatively favourable conditions through much of the upper river.

That advantage should not be mistaken for a guarantee. Water temperatures vary with distance from the dam, weather conditions, flow rates and the contribution of tributaries. Nor does cool water automatically mean that trout populations are strong. Nevertheless, during periods when freestone rivers are suffering from prolonged heat, the Goulburn can remain one of the more reliable places to fish.

By this stage, fish have often established themselves in the softer water available during the higher releases. Backwaters, flooded margins, small side channels and submerged grass can hold trout feeding away from the pressure of the main current. These places are particularly interesting because the fish are frequently visible, moving slowly through clear water and searching for insects on or immediately beneath the surface.

Some of the best fishing is little more than stalking from a boat. We approach a backwater quietly, stop rowing and look. There may be no obvious rises initially. Then a trout moves beneath a patch of submerged grass, or a broad brown back appears briefly as the fish takes something from the surface. Once you know where to look, other fish sometimes begin revealing themselves.

The fishing can be surprisingly delicate. Although we may have reached the area by drifting down a river carrying several thousand megalitres a day, the actual presentation may involve a tiny fly and a long leader in water that is barely moving. Trout cruising slowly through a backwater have plenty of time to inspect an imitation. A fly that would be taken without hesitation in fast water may be refused repeatedly when the fish can examine it from several angles.

This is where it becomes important not to assume that bigger flies are always better simply because it is summer. Grasshoppers, beetles and other substantial terrestrials can produce excellent fishing along the main river, but there will be occasions when the fish are taking something much smaller. Willow grubs, tiny beetles, ants and other insects trapped in the film may require sparse imitations and exceptionally careful presentation.

I have spent many summer afternoons watching trout move through backwaters without making a cast for considerable periods. There is little point repeatedly throwing a fly at a fish that is moving unpredictably or positioned where the leader will immediately drag. Sometimes we simply wait for it to return to a particular feeding lane. At other times we change the position of the boat by a few metres and suddenly find that the presentation becomes straightforward.

Good fishing during these months often comes down to understanding how much water is actually worth covering. It can be tempting to drift continuously because there is so much river available, but some of the most memorable opportunities arise when we stop and devote time to a small area holding a handful of worthwhile trout.

The late evenings can also be excellent. As the heat begins leaving the valley, caddis and other insects may become more active, and fish that remained beneath cover during the brighter part of the day sometimes begin feeding along the margins. The river takes on a different appearance as the light fades. Long shadows reach across the water, and a rise that was easy to overlook in the afternoon becomes obvious against a dark reflection beneath the willows.

For anglers who enjoy visual fishing, January and February can be exceptional. The skill lies less in covering large amounts of water than in locating the right fish, understanding its movements and presenting a fly without disturbing it.

Autumn

March: The River Between Seasons

March is difficult to characterise because it often contains elements of both summer and autumn. Warm days remain common, terrestrial insects can still produce good fishing and irrigation releases may continue at substantial levels. Yet the shortening days and cooler nights gradually begin changing conditions.

As demand for water eases, releases often begin declining, although the timing varies considerably. Sections that were inaccessible during summer slowly become easier to fish, while trout that occupied flooded margins may begin redistributing themselves into the runs, seams and deeper holding water exposed by the falling river.

It is not always a smooth transition. A substantial change in flow can unsettle the fish for several days, particularly if the river is dropping quickly. Feeding lanes that were productive during summer may disappear, and trout have to find new positions. There are times when the river looks better to the angler after a reduction in flow, yet the fishing becomes more difficult until the trout have settled.

The insects begin changing as well. Beetles, hoppers and other terrestrials remain important during suitable weather, but aquatic insect activity often becomes increasingly noticeable again. Mayflies and caddis can provide good fishing, particularly when stable conditions allow fish to establish themselves in predictable feeding positions.

March is one of those months when carrying a varied selection of flies is particularly useful. A day might begin with small nymphs through a deeper run, develop into delicate dry-fly fishing during a mayfly hatch and finish with trout taking terrestrials along a grassy bank. There is no need to commit to one method simply because the calendar says summer has ended.

The fishing can be inconsistent, but the variety is part of its attraction. It is often a month when local knowledge becomes especially valuable because the river may change noticeably from one week to the next.

April: Perhaps My Favourite Month

If I had to choose one month to spend on the Goulburn, April would be very difficult to overlook. The weather is generally more comfortable than during the height of summer, the crowds begin thinning and the river often settles into levels that allow both drift boating and some wade fishing.

There is a softness to the valley during autumn that I particularly enjoy. The mornings are cooler, the light arrives at a lower angle and the first substantial leaves begin collecting along the edges of slower water. On suitable days, mist hangs over the river before gradually lifting as the sun reaches the valley floor. The surrounding paddocks begin losing some of their summer colour, and the long shadows across the water appear earlier each afternoon.

The fishing can be exceptionally varied. Terrestrial insects remain available during warmer periods, while mayfly and caddis hatches become increasingly important. Trout that have spent much of summer feeding along the flooded edges begin occupying more conventional river positions as flows recede. Runs and bubble lines reappear, and fish can often be located in water that is easier to read from the bank.

One of April’s great advantages is the opportunity to choose how you want to fish. There may be enough water to make a drift boat worthwhile, particularly through long sections with limited bank access, while other stretches become suitable for walking and stalking individual trout. Some days I am perfectly happy to spend hours working rising fish in a single pool. On others, covering several kilometres from a boat offers a better opportunity to locate fish and take advantage of changing hatches.

The trout are often in excellent condition after a summer of relatively abundant food. Fish that have spent months feeding on terrestrials and aquatic insects can be substantial, and there is something particularly satisfying about encountering them in the clearer, slower water of autumn. They are not necessarily easier to catch. In fact, as flows decline and visibility improves, the fishing can become increasingly demanding.

I have always liked the slower pace of April. There is less need to organise every hour around the possibility of oppressive afternoon heat, and the fishing often develops through the middle of the day rather than being concentrated entirely around dawn and dusk. Clients seem more willing to linger beside the river, and some of the best conversations occur during those quiet periods when we are waiting for an expected hatch to begin.

Perhaps that is why April has gradually become one of my favourite months. It offers much of the technical fishing I enjoy without requiring the same urgency that can accompany the more crowded parts of spring and summer.

May: Clear Water and Careful Presentation

May brings the trout season towards its close. The days are shorter, mornings can be bitterly cold and the river is often running at relatively modest levels. The heavier summer releases have usually subsided, exposing gravel bars and restoring the familiar pattern of riffles, runs and pools.

For anglers who enjoy sight-fishing, these conditions can be extremely attractive. Water clarity is often excellent, and fish may be visible holding beneath current seams or feeding in the slower sections of the river. There are fewer people around, particularly during the working week, and it is possible to spend long periods on sections that receive heavy attention during the warmer months.

The insect life is generally smaller and less conspicuous. Midges and small mayflies, particularly blue-winged olives, can become important during the middle of the day when conditions are suitable. The hatches may be brief, but trout can feed steadily when the insects appear. Occasionally larger mayflies surprise us very late in the season, including the odd Kossie dun at a time when most anglers have stopped expecting them.

The fishing demands a careful approach. Low, clear water exposes movement, and trout that have been disturbed repeatedly through the season may be reluctant to tolerate anything unnatural. A good presentation often begins well before the cast, with the angler choosing a position that avoids throwing a shadow across the holding water or allowing the leader to drag through several conflicting currents.

This is also a time when I become more conscious of the approaching spawning season. Larger brown trout may begin changing colour, and fish behaviour can alter as winter approaches. The closure is intended to protect trout during this period, and I have always regarded it as an important part of maintaining the fishery. There is no shortage of opportunity to enjoy the river before then without disturbing fish that are preparing to reproduce.

May is not necessarily the month for anglers hoping to catch large numbers of trout. Some days the fishing can be slow, and the best opportunities may be restricted to a relatively short period during the warmer part of the afternoon. But when a good fish begins rising steadily through a quiet pool and there is nobody else in sight, I find it difficult to imagine a much better place to spend a few hours.

Winter

June to August: The Closed Season

Winter brings a different set of priorities. Under Victoria’s trout regulations, the Goulburn tailrace from Eildon Pondage to Trawool Bridge, together with the designated tributary waters, is subject to the trout closed season. The restriction includes a prohibition on hook-and-line fishing in the tailrace during the closure, not merely a requirement to release trout. Eildon Pondage itself is managed separately and remains a year-round trout fishery. Anglers should always check the current regulations and exact boundaries before planning winter fishing.

For the river, the closure coincides with an important part of the trout’s annual cycle. Brown trout move towards suitable spawning areas, often travelling into tributaries where gravel, current and water quality provide conditions for reproduction. The success of those spawning movements can influence the fishing in later years, although recruitment is affected by many other factors as well, including water conditions, survival and the availability of suitable habitat.

For guides, winter provides a necessary break from the daily routine of being on the water. There are boats to maintain, trailers to service, equipment to repair and an enormous amount of preparation for the following season. Flies need replacing, rods and reels checking and the inevitable collection of minor problems accumulated over months of guiding finally receives some attention.

It is also a useful period for teaching. Beginner workshops and casting lessons can continue without the pressure of trying to locate fish during the same session. There is time to work properly on casting mechanics, line control, knots and the other fundamentals that are easily overlooked once someone becomes distracted by rising trout. Some anglers make considerable progress during these quieter months precisely because they are not trying to catch fish at the same time.

Winter has also become the period when I often head to Montana. While the trout season is closed at home, the American summer is beginning and another collection of rivers is approaching its most productive period. It is a pleasant reversal, moving from cold Victorian mornings to the long daylight hours of the northern hemisphere, although returning home generally means discovering that winter has passed rather more quickly than expected.

By August, preparations for the Goulburn season are well underway again. We begin watching the weather and releases more closely, guides confirm their availability and clients start asking the familiar questions about opening week. After months away from regular guiding, I generally find myself looking forward to getting back into the boat.

The Best Time to Fish the Goulburn

Looking across the entire season, I can understand why anglers have such different preferences. The Goulburn in September bears little resemblance to the same river in January, and by April much of the water has changed character again. The trout are still responding to the same basic requirements for food, shelter and efficient use of current, but the places where those requirements are best met can shift considerably as water levels change.

For someone who enjoys walking and sight-fishing in low, clear water, September or May may be particularly appealing. An angler interested in heavy hatches and selective rising trout might prefer October or November. Those wanting to experience the Goulburn from a drift boat, working the banks and backwaters during higher releases, will often find December through February especially interesting. And for those who like a little of everything, April remains difficult to beat.

None of these preferences guarantees good fishing. Some of the strongest hatches I have witnessed occurred in seasons when the overall trout population was disappointing. Conversely, there have been years when fish were plentiful but the expected insect activity never developed properly. A river is influenced by considerably more than the month printed on the calendar.

That is one reason I hesitate when somebody rings months in advance wanting to know exactly when they should come. I can explain what usually happens, what sort of fishing they are most likely to encounter and which periods have historically suited their interests. What I cannot do is promise that the Goulburn will behave as expected. Weather, releases, insect activity and fish populations do not always arrive together in the combinations we would prefer.

The Goulburn has occupied much of my adult life, and I have spent enough days on it to recognise most of its familiar moods. There are bends I remember before floods changed them, stretches where once reliable hatches have become less predictable and pools that still bring particular clients or days to mind. Sometimes the changes occur gradually enough that they are barely noticeable from one season to the next. Occasionally a flood rearranges a section of river in a matter of hours.

One of the pleasures of returning to the same water over many years is that familiarity does not remove the need to pay attention. I can know exactly what a particular bend looked like last summer and still approach it carefully after the next substantial change in flow. The current may be occupying a different line, the gravel may have moved or the fish may have found a better position somewhere I would not previously have considered.

That is particularly true of the Goulburn. A regulated river may appear more predictable than a freestone stream, but in practice the changing releases, the extraordinary variety of insect life and the influence of the surrounding catchment make it a river that requires continuous observation.

If there were one particular period when the Goulburn consistently produced everything I wanted from a day’s fishing, I would probably spend considerably less time thinking about the rest of the season. Fortunately, that has never been the case.

Ask me in November, after an evening when large mayflies have brought trout rising all along a quiet stretch, and I may tell you November is the finest month of the year.

Ask me again on a clear April afternoon, when the river is running at a comfortable height and a good brown is rising steadily in an empty pool, and I suspect I will give you a different answer.

Ant