When the fish aren't biting

I find camping grounds scary places. You wonder why people didn’t just stay at home – with tents the size of McMansions, BBQs bigger than the average stove and enough fishing gear to send Lake Jindabyne dry.

So we normally avoid them at all costs.

That’s why I’ve discovered the Snowy Mountains in summer is not a bad alternative to the beach. The clime is slightly cooler and in Kosciuszko National Park you can camp anywhere you like so long as you can’t be seen from the road.

Our aim on our five-day trip was to do a major Alpine walk, explore a bit, try our hand at freshwater fishing and camp out. I’ve since realised it pays to be organised on such expeditions.

Many years ago when I lived in the Kimberley and Northern Territory my ute was equipped with a tin box full of camping utensils, including a couple of billies, a swag and water bottles. All have disappeared over the years. So into the back of the trusty Subaru we packed a couple of sleeping bags, a tent, the fishing lines and hooks, a bag of plastic plates and cups, knives and forks and  a thermos.

After a magic day of walking from Thredbo to Charlotte Pass, we headed off on our camping adventure. It was years since I’d been to the Snowies in summer and it was exciting to see the wildflowers out in bloom and the mountains green from all the rain. The unexpected part was also seeing people had lit fires at their camping spots – no bushfire ban so far these holidays.

Mmm, some matches might be a good idea, I thought as we stopped in Khancoban to buy supplies, including a torch at a rather under-equipped store. At the petrol station we were able to get fishing hooks.

“Do you have bait?” we asked.

“No, you have to go to 42 Alpine Way for that,” we were told and we headed back past the store.

An enterprising local had a thriving business selling worms from the neatest shed I’ve ever seen – with rows of caps and stubby holders displaying his collecting habits.

We asked if he knew where we could buy a billy – and he suggested the local op shop.

No billies there but decent frying pans and some more plastic plates.

“You need something good and deep for frying the trout you’re going to catch,” the woman in the store said hopefully.

 

Back up the road we found a good little picnic spot for our lunch and a possible place to throw in the line but then I realised we’d forgotten to get a license. Having been stopped before by a Hot Lips Houlihan lookalike when fishing on the south coast, we didn’t think it was worth the risk.

At Cabraumurra we swapped yarns with ruddy-faced men from Merimbula who’d been exploring back roads and finally picked up a licence as well as emergency food of tinned tuna and fresh bread. We were directed to Three Mile Dam opposite the Selwyn Snowfields as a good place to camp and fish.

It wasn’t long before we found a spot and took the tent out. Problem was it was missing a part and was therefore useless and anyway I thought we’d be warmer and more comfortable sleeping in the car. Then the March flies struck, stinging even through layers of clothes. Lucky the one thing I hadn’t forgotten was the Aeroguard.

Down at the dam the late afternoon sun was warm, leftover Christmas cake and luke-warm tea tasted heavenly as I read a novel and my husband fished. I could hear the wack wack of him hitting something with an empty bottle but ignored it.

But the fish weren’t biting, even with all that fresh worm bait. All he’d managed to catch was a pile of March flies.

 “Don’t worry we’ll go into Kiandra tomorrow and have a big brekky,” I said.

It wasn’t till the next morning as I stood at the Kiandra cemetery eating my bread and tinned tuna, since we also discovered the historic town had no shop or café, it dawned on me what would have made perfect bait: March flies.

A country pub joke

I was in the tiny hamlet of Wee Jasper recently, having taken a back road from Tumut to Yass (NSW).


After winding our way down the mountain on a rough, potholed road through part of the Brindabella Ranges, we stopped for a drink at the pub overlooking the Goodradigbee River. You can usually find a few jokes and funny comments on walls or in posters at such pubs, if not from patrons sitting at the bar.

I thought the one I found tacked to the wall worth sharing but can only paraphrase it:

Well Julia Guillard and Bob Brown decided it was time they visited the "country", talked to country folk and hopefully drummed up a few country votes. They dressed in their moleskins and Akubras and headed bush. Just for good measure they took a blue cattle dog with them.

Finding a nice country pub they wandered in to the bar.

"A couple of middies," Bob asked the bartender and they settled in the corner with their dog, waiting for likely constituents.

The next thing an old farmer came into the bar. He looked at the dog, picked up its hind leg, put it down, looked puzzled then walked up to the bar and asked for a drink.

About ten minutes later another farmer came in. He also looked at the dog, picked up its hind leg, put it down, with a very puzzled look and walked out again.

Yet another ten minutes and another farmer came in. This time he also did what the others had done but Bob could stand it no longer.

"Hey mate, why are you all looking under our dog like that?" he asked.

"Well," the farmer said. "I was told there was a cattle dog in here with a couple of arseholes."