Searching for Sea-runners

“They’re elusive. They’re beautiful. They’re absolute bastards!”

Sure, these wayward brown trout are technically card-carrying members of the Salmo trutta family. But at 42 degrees south, they behave exactly like their northern hemisphere steelhead cousins. They’re elusive. They’re beautiful. They’re absolute bastards.

I’ve got a long-standing love/hate relationship with these silver gangsters. They masquerade as freshwater trout, but their annual saltwater sojourn turns them into something else entirely. Something harder, wilder. A fish that defies logic. A fish that doesn’t make sense. A fish that’s damn hard to find… and therefore completely irresistible to chase.

Every year, these chromed impostors bugger off to the Southern Ocean for reasons known only to them. Maybe some trout just hear the call of the sea like their salmonid cousins. Whatever happens out there, the salt water seems to run straight to their ego and rewrite their DNA, returning as salty dogs — tougher, meaner and thoroughly hardened by their pilgrimage.

From stream trout to ocean-going athletes.

They’ll spend months at sea, hundreds of kilometres from home, smashing baitfish and whatever other briny snacks cross their path. There’s nothing out there that resembles a juicy grasshopper or a dainty size-16 dry fly. Just protein and violence. Perfect, really, for an alien out of its depth — pun intended.

I’ve spent 20-odd years chasing sea-runners along the banks of the River Derwent here in Hobart and, shamefully, my success rate is embarrassingly low. Every year, I put in an enormous number of casts for what would likely yield far greater results in the highland lakes or lowland rivers. But that’s exactly why they’re so addictive.

I recall saying to my son Felix, ‘I’d love to do an article on sea-runners.’ He just stared blankly at me, eyebrow raised, wearing a look of confusion: ‘Dad, seriously?’ Of course, the moment a DSLR is pulled from the bag, every fish within a kilometre radius develops a sixth sense and vanishes. With sea-runners, the curse is worse. And there are only small windows each year when they’re even worth targeting.

So, a loose plan was hatched: fish the upper, middle and lower Derwent over a couple of months and hope — pray, really — that we could find a couple of fish for the sake of the story. Because chasing sea-runners isn’t just about the fishing, it’s optimism management.

AUSTIN’S FERRY

Take One. After plenty of favourable reports from fellow anglers, the first port of call was Austins Ferry. There’s an access point near Goulds Lagoon, and within a few metres of leaving the road, you’re standing in a beautiful reed-lined bay — the perfect edge for prowling trout to herd baitfish.

“Standing in a beautiful reed-lined bay - the perfect edge for prowling trout
to herd baitfish.”

It’s early July, and at this time of year, evening fishing can be magic. There’s a bite in the air, a warning of the colder nights to come, yet the sun still throws a warm glow across the water, keeping my shadow pinned to the shoreline. I may be biased, sure, but Tassie light produces some of the most magnificent sunsets in the world. The golden hour here is perfect for fishing and photography alike.

Felix reminding me to clean up my fly box.

Within seconds, Felix is into a fish. I start ranting about it being a sea-runner and how lucky we are. The fish puts up a decent fight on his 6-weight, charging off in short, stubborn runs… only to reveal itself as an Australian salmon. ‘Cocky salmon’, as they are traditionally known, are bloody good fun on a fly rod. Even a medium-sized specimen will put up a respectable fight!

It was one of those beautiful winter nights. The water level was perfect, and the river looked fishy. I was full of confidence, convinced this was the night. As I said… optimism management. The size 12 Humungous I was throwing kept snagging stray weeds, each bump teasing me with false hope, until finally a solid tap thumped through the rod. Righto… here we go

But this is what they do. Maybe you see a swirl. Maybe you get a decent tap if you’re lucky… and then that’s it. The action just vanishes, like someone flicked a switch. My early excitement faded with the light. Two hours slipped by without another touch. The cold started creeping through the Gore-Tex, and a cold beer began calling my name. Alas, my instincts were wrong. We retreated home fishless.

ROSE BAY

Take Two. A few weeks later, Rose Bay was the destination of choice. When the tide is right, the shoreline offers wonderful wading all the way from Lindisfarne to the Tasman Bridge. To say Hobart is a pretty city is an understatement. I struggle to think of another capital where inner-city fishing comes with a postcard view this good.

There’s a carpet of oyster shells, eager to steal your flies.

The shore here is shallow, stitched together with patches of oyster-
shelled beach and the occasional drowned tree, drifted downstream and buried in the sand — perfect structure for baitfish to writhe around and prime cover for trout to ambush them.

A walking track hugs the water, and friendly chats with curious passers-by are part of the deal. There’s not a person alive who can resist asking, ‘Catching any, mate?’

We prospected the shoreline, casting Woolly Buggers, Magoos and Humungous flies — patterns just as deadly in salt as they are in the fresh. Sure, I’ve got plenty of beautiful saltwater flies tied by local legend Simon Ellis… but losing one of his masterpieces to jagged oyster shells leaves me grumpy. 

I’ll cut to the chase. Another glorious winter evening spent flogging the water — the wind was perfect, the tide just beginning to fall, the sunset beyond beautiful. And still, no bloody sea-runners. Our only reward was another greedy little Aussie salmon, eager to prove his worth. Back to the drawing board.

LIME KILNS

Take Three. September crept up fast and, with winter fading, a welcome hint of spring filled the air. But the window for sea-runners was closing. Soon they’d push back into fresh water, and by October the action would all but dry up. Time for a new plan.

We called upon Alex Green from Spot On — The Fishing Connection in Hobart. Greenie’s a mad-keen fly angler and suggested we launch the drift boat at a roadside put-in north of New Norfolk, then work the edges downstream to Murphy’s Flat Conservation Area. He’d fished here plenty of times and reckoned the fish would still be moving through on their upstream run.

Side note: solid black bream can be found along this stretch too — the kind that’ll put a serious bend in a fly rod — but we had to stay disciplined and stick to the plan.

The river runs wide through here, the current carrying a steady pull. A drogue wasn’t necessary, but any stronger and we’d have to drop it in to slow the drift. The breadth of water made my drift boat feel like a Mini on one of those eight-lane American freeways. Thankfully, there were no jet boats tearing up the serenity. Grassy weed beds fringed the edges with the average depth around a metre by the shore — perfect drifting water in my book.

“The river runs wide through here, the current carrying a steady pull. ”

I played guide for Greenie, happy on the oars this time as we slipped into the current and tracked toward the southern shore. Meanwhile, Sam, our photographer, shot across the river in his tinnie, fly rod in one hand and camera in the other, determined to land the first fish. A gulp of cormorants (yes, that’s their collective noun) eyed us off suspiciously as they huddled on a jagged, drowned log. 

Drifting close to the bank produced results.

Bugger me if we didn’t hear him yelling within minutes. We crawled across the bend at a snail’s pace as I rowed frantically against the current to inspect his catch, my dog Rosie frothing with excitement as Sam hoisted his prize into the air. ‘Hurry up,’ he laughed, ‘we need a photo!’

Greenie suggested we stick to the northern shore now — maybe that’s where the fish were holding. Sam shot across the river again, just above our last position, to quite literally test the water on the opposite bank.

We drifted along, chatting, while Greenie methodically prospected the edge with his 10-foot 6-weight, casting a team of flies tight to the weed beds without snagging. He’d let them sink for a couple of seconds, then strip them back at a steady, deliberate pace — patient, precise, covering every inch like a bloke who knew the fish had to be there somewhere.

An eruption of excitement shattered the silence behind us, and we turned to see yet another solid bend in Sam’s rod. The outboard roared to life, and the tinnie shot toward us, Sam holding up another chrome-bright sea-runner. Lucky bastard!

For the next half an hour, the dance continued, Sam criss-crossing the river above us, methodically fleecing the damned trout while we watched on, equal parts impressed and quietly tortured. With every fish, Greenie’s determination cranked up a notch. The pressure was on, he had to be back at the shop soon, and we had yet to put one in the net.

With the clock ticking down, we drifted into the last fishable run opposite the Lime Kilns. A solid fish smashed Greenie’s fly on the hang. Both of us screamed with excitement, but alas, no hookup. 

Now our hard deadline was upon us, and the weedy edge was about to give way to broad, deep water. We cursed our luck, though secretly relieved the fish were still around. Then, a feisty trout smashed the fly right on the end of the run. Talk about leaving it to the last minute. We welcomed a cracking chrome, pushing four pounds, to the net. 

The session finished with six sea-runners between two boats, and I’m happy to report that Greenie made it back to work in time for the Friday afternoon rush. A huge sense of relief washed over me as I powered up the engine to usher us back to the boat ramp. We had finally found some fish.

“They still drive me crazy. And somehow, I already cannot wait to chase them again next year.”

THE OUTTAKE

We finally struck ‘chrome’ downstream of New Norfolk.

So, what did I learn after all this running around searching for sea-runners? The critical factor is always timing, and a healthy dose of optimism. They’re either there or they’re not. The tide needs to be right, ideally high or beginning to fall. The wind, gentle. Late afternoon to early evening is generally best, preferably under overcast skies.

There are fantastic shore-based spots scattered along the Derwent from the Tasman to Bowen to Bridgewater bridges, but ironically, our best sport came further upstream in the estuary on a reasonably bright day — go figure! Perhaps it was timing, perhaps luck, but stubborn persistence eventually paid off. I still love them. They still drive me crazy. And somehow, I already cannot wait to chase them again next year.

As published in FlyLife magazine #123, Winter 2026.

Tight lines! 🎣
Marcus

Winter on Great Lake

“I can’t help but wonder if fishing the highlands in the cold is worthwhile.”

It’s the shortest day of the year, and Hobart’s Winter Feast is in full swing. As hordes of red-capped revellers strip off for the annual Nude Solstice Swim in the Derwent, my photographer mate, Sam, who is always keen to fish no matter the weather, and I rug up and head to yingina/Great Lake to wet a line in winter. The off-season trout cravings are hitting hard, and I can’t help but wonder if fishing the highlands in the cold is worthwhile.

As we climb our way ‘up top’, the jagged snow gums glisten in the early morning light as the sun struggles to break through the mist — a welcome sight to anglers ascending the Central Plateau. At 1,034 metres above sea level, the winters here are renowned for heavy snowfall and winds that could cut through steel.

A quick roadside pitstop reveals very little wind (amazing), and the temperature is a balmy two degrees — practically tropical! A big wedge-tailed eagle sits above us, surveying the ground for breakfast. We clamber back into the ute, turn the heater up, and push on to Miena.

To maximise fishing time with limited daylight hours, I enlist the help of Jason Garrett (Jnr) of Miena Village Guiding. He’s a Central Highlands guide with over 40 years of fly fishing experience, having represented and captained Australia in international competitions — we are in good hands. Jason welcomes us at the Great Lake General Store. I scoff down an egg n bacon muffin and a coffee to warm the cockles as we discuss the day ahead.

Tods Corner power station is always a welcome sight.

Jason suggests putting the boat in at Tods Corner, the southeast bay of Great Lake. He is (fairly) confident that the boat ramp has enough water to launch his 5.4 metre purpose-built aluminium guide boat. However, the lake’s water level suffers from months without rain and extensive drawdowns to generate hydroelectricity — fingers crossed.

As we drive back past Shannon Lagoon, the orange guideposts glow iridescently as the sun struggles to conquer the fog. The morning wallabies stare quizzically as if to say, what the hell are you idiots doing up here? The bumpy track soon reveals the power station — unsurprisingly, Tods is devoid of anglers. The frosty dolerite landscape looks stunning in the morning light, exactly how I imagine a distant alien world.

The boat ramp is more like a runway, with barely any concrete making it into the water. After several attempts and nearly drowning Jason’s ute (no snorkel), we finally manage to get the boat in the water. We make our way to the western shore slowly, avoiding the many submerged trees desperate to upend any boat at speed with their water-logged branches.

The first drift begins twenty-odd feet offshore, using a drogue to hold the boat at a gentle pace. The wind is south-easterly, not perfect, but workable. Ideally, you want the wind behind you, blowing the boat back onto the shore.

“The boat ramp is more like a runway, with barely any concrete making it into the water.”

Jason has rigged up a Sage X and an Orvis Helios in 10-foot 6-weights, with an Airflo type three sweep and type five sinking line, respectively, and a team of three wet flies. The longer rods are an essential tool for loch-style fishing. The extra length makes casting three beaded wet flies so much easier. I commence by alternating casts from close inshore to further afield, covering as much water as possible. The water depth varies from six to ten feet.

I like to let the team of flies sink lower into the water column at first, varying my count from 15 to 20 seconds before beginning a moderately paced figure-eight strip, pause, one hard strip, and repeat. After a while, I’ll vary the sink countdown and retrieval speeds to incite a take. Don’t forget ‘the hang’ once the flies are close to the boat.
Lift the rod vertically without drawing the flies from the water, and pause. This motion surges the flies up to the sub-surface, and trout often smash them at the last second.

I keep my casts short, between 20 and 30 feet from the boat, with a wind-assisted drift. Shorter casts save your arm from aching and avoid a big belly forming in the line as you retrieve. Strikes and hook-ups are generally within 20 feet of the boat. That being said, mid-winter trout are possibly more occupied with procreation than food, so the approach might annoy them into eating a fly.

Great Lake’s epic beauty is only matched by its size.

We spend the morning drifting the edges of Tods, gradually moving into deeper water. It is a quiet start, with only a few non-committal taps from fish near random weed beds. As my feet turn to ice blocks, Jason fires up the motor and heads across the bay to a likely-looking outpost. Three wedgies circle high above the trees as we usher the boat into position, parallel to the rocky shore.

Not long into the first drift, Jason’s rod bends over, hooking and boating a brightly coloured rainbow bearing the scars of a battle fought and won with a cormorant. Jason says rainbows are worth one point and brownies two, with a bonus point if you catch either on a dry (not that we try) — one point for Jason.

The first fish fills me with confidence, and a little burst of sunlight gets the blood flowing again. For a brief moment, I can actually feel my toes. Repeating the same drift back towards the shore multiple times, I manage a few taps but no committed fish. The gentle wind shepherds us towards a cluster of long-dead trees on the point. This spot feels very fishy, and just as my line pulls tight, a golden winter brownie is soon at hand — fooled by an orange-beaded Shrek on the point — two points to me!

A magnificent 360-degree rainbow across the sky beckons us toward the western shore again, and after a tasty lunch and much-needed hot coffee, it is time to try our luck under the organ pipe rock ridge jutting up from the shore. Pulling the boat in so Sam can climb up on the ledge — a great-looking spot for a photo op — he calls out, no pressure!

I throw a couple of casts into the deeper water, and surprisingly, on my second retrieve, a solid thump reverberates through the rod — I am on! A hook-up rarely happens in front of the camera. Don’t stuff it up, I think.

The fish dives, strips off line, and heads behind the boat, dangerously close to the prop. Dropping the rod tip, I manage to steer the fish back to the starboard side, away from tangles. Jason plunges the net into the water in his first attempt of many to land the fish. As I gain some line on the reel, feeling confident, off he goes again, diving deeper and heading for the bow again — desperate to bust me off. This fish knows the drill!

Respect – a worthy fight and a quick release.

We keep this dance up for another five or six minutes, and the fish’s size increases incrementally in my imagination as the seconds tick by. Finally, the gallant battle is over as Jason scoops the fish up gently onto the casting deck. It’s a brownie; two more points to me! We perform the obligatory handshake as Sam calls out. ‘I got all that! It looks fantastic from up here.’ The fish is gorgeous, deep, golden, around three-and-a-half pounds. Well, there are good fish to be had in winter; you just have to persist!

As the temperature plummets, the evening fog begins to set in. Another entanglement with the boat ramp ensues. At this stage of the day, I can’t feel my fingers — nothing an icy cold beer wouldn’t fix, I think. We retreat to the Great Lake Hotel and defrost in front of the fire, then tuck into a hearty pub meal, swapping fishing stories and planning the next trip — a wonderful way to finish the day.

The great thing about fishing over winter is the crisp air, which keeps all your senses heightened. It’s difficult to daydream or be distracted when your limbs vibrate to stay warm, keeping your attention focused on casting technique and retrieve speed. I found this to be oddly satisfying throughout the day, despite the cold.

Let’s not forget that shore-based fishing is still an excellent option in the winter, too. Just don’t scrimp on the quality of your thermals — Merino wool is highly recommended, and multiple layers are mandatory. Stick with an intermediate sinking line and two flies, and wander the shore, knee to waist-deep, varying your sink depth until you find where the fish are. You don’t need to wade far to find a hungry post-spawning brown trout, eager for a meal.

“Drifting in a boat or wandering the shore at Tods Corner is an idyllic way to scratch the winter fishing itch …”

Drifting in a boat or wandering the shore at Tods Corner is an idyllic way to scratch the winter fishing itch. Is it cold? Yes. Is it beautiful? Yes. Is it worth fishing in winter? Abso-bloody-lutely! As they say, there’s no bad weather, just bad clothing.

To experience winter fishing at Great Lake, head to the highlands or contact Jason Garrett at
mienavillageguiding.com.au.

As published in FlyLife magazine #119, Winter 2025.

Tight lines! 🎣
Marcus

A Day on Arthurs

“A few seasons had passed since my last trip to Arthurs Lake, and I was excited to visit the ‘Cowpaddock’ for a pre-Christmas mission …”

My day begins at 4.00am, blissfully dreaming about trout engulfing mayflies, when I am rudely awoken by my Labrador slurping my nostrils in need of the front lawn. The alarm was set for 5.00, but there is no chance of snoozing now, with a racing brain and a dog snoring like a drunken sailor at the foot of the bed. Oh well, time to get up, put on a pot of coffee and piece together my fishing swag.

In recent weeks the weather bureau forecasts had been somewhat schizophrenic, with predicted thunderstorms turning into T-shirt weather and gale-force winds wreaking havoc on calm days. This made guiding challenging, too. A few seasons had passed since my last trip to Arthurs Lake, and I was excited to visit the ‘Cowpaddock’ for a pre-Christmas mission with my mate Sam.

Drifting across Sevenpound Bay on Arthurs Lake.

Arthurs, as it is affectionately called, is one of Tassie’s best known and at one time most-visited lakes. Renowned for its unusual structure and scenery, there are giant electrical towers reaching to the sky, large islands dotted with long-dead silvery trees and shallow grassy bays that are wonderful to walk and wade. It’s a lake that offers fantastic fishing for boat and shore-based anglers alike.

Arthurs is home to an impressive number of wild brown trout. The tiny rills and creeks fringing the shoreline provide perfect spawning conditions to maintain a self-sustaining population. Their diet is rich with mayflies, midges, gum beetles and native galaxiid fish. Recent reports had been somewhat unfavourable, with rumours suggesting cormorants had cleaned out all the fish. However, I remained optimistic!

I’ve always found Arthurs to be equally fascinating and frustrating. It doesn’t always give up fish easily. All those reports of supreme mayfly fishing have eluded me over the years; I continually present, full of optimism, only to have another bad day — but I keep coming back!

Fast forward a few hours, and the boat slides off Sam’s trailer into Jonah Bay. The wind is whipping the water into soft pavlova-like peaks under the towering power lines that stretch across the lake’s northern end. Our hopes of a warm summer day flicking dries to greedy rising trout are quickly shattered. Mother Nature has a funny way of crushing your fishing expectations — especially in Tassie!

“Mother Nature has a funny way of crushing your fishing expectations — especially in Tassie!”

As we start out, the north-westerly is pushing 40 km/h and constantly changing its mind on which direction to blow. Patches of sporadic clouds are peppered with bright sun — the conditions are not favourable, but we’re up for the challenge.

I chuck the drogue overboard as the boat rollicks across the turbid water, setting up the first drift across Sevenpound Bay. A flock of forty-odd cormorants in the distance, begging to be turned into feather dusters, eye us off as enemies. Sam wrestles the outboard as we steady ourselves, ready for a day pulling wets on a famous mayfly lake — in summer!

The 9-foot 5-weights are quickly re-homed in their protective tubes as we both rig up 10-foot 6-weights with intermediate sinking lines. I tie on a size 10 Humungous (my go-to wet fly) on the point and a size 12 Shrek on the dropper with six feet between the flies. This dynamic fly duo has been unsurpassed in the past few seasons, dispensing many toothaches to unsuspecting trout. It’s too damn windy for me to attempt three flies, loch-style. On the other hand, Sam begins slinging three wets before I’ve finished attaching the first. Oh, to have good eyesight again!

1.6m of water was the sweet spot!

As we reach the middle of the bay, a quick check on the sounder reveals the water depth to be 1.6 metres. The tinny moves quickly in the wind, even with the drogue firmly taking hold. I throw out a few quick casts to get into the rhythm, with fast strips to test the water. Generally, I like to strip fast in strong winds and reduce the speed as it recedes — a reliable approach that consistently rewards.

Moving closer to shore, the water level drops to 1.2 metres, and we are both delighted with solid takes on fast retrieves, simultaneously welcoming two golden speckled Arthurs brownies to the boat and confirming that fish are present and hungry! Sam manages to snap a photo and captain the boat as the wind pushes us dangerously close to the rocky eastern shore of the bay. With a big smile on his face, he says, ‘Let’s do that again’!

In windy weather, I get a bit lazy and tend to stick to the same line and flies. Changing rigs with wayward tippets and lines zinging around my head drives me crazy. On the other hand, Sam loves to change his lines and flies continually. He has a set of spools pre-prepared to switch out easily. This sets up an interesting experiment: my aversion to fumbling in the wind and Sam’s curiosity for mixing it up.

The next hour or so rolls on with a welcoming, repetitive rhythm. We motor back to the middle of the lake, curse the wind, drown the drogue and wait until the boat drifts back into 1.2 metres of water. This depth was the absolute sweet spot, with the trout aggressively responding to a fast stripped wet fly.

Sam changes over to a type 5 sinking line and a team of bead-headed Woolly Buggers. This is usually when his catch rate goes through the roof, and my numbers remain unchanged. Surprisingly, the trout keep hitting my flies, with very little interest shown in his deeper offering. At this point we decide to move further north into Cowpaddock Bay. Another fly change for Sam, as my thoughts drift off, happily watching a ‘wedgie’ hang in the wind above us. A couple of shore-based anglers are battling with the wind in their faces, having no choice but to cast into it from their position.

A beautifully conditioned Arthurs brownie.

Interestingly, the Cowpaddock trout are initially hungry in 1.4 metres of water, a little deeper than their friends down the way. A few decent taps fool us into thinking this is the trout highway, but the action quickly disappears. With a couple more runs over the same spot without any luck, a seam of well-defined wind lanes forms to our right, enticing us closer to the tree-lined shore.

After another check of the sounder, the boat is back in 1.2 metres of water. Here we go, I’m thinking, as my confidence rises again. I uncharacteristically complete a fly change in the lulling wind, swapping my point fly for an orange bead-headed Magoo along with the Humungous. I’m glad I did, as I am quickly rewarded with a fish to the net as Sam enquires about my fly choice. ‘Nice work,’ he says. His type 5 line is beginning to snag on the submerged rocks, so he switches back to a type 3 line and a Humungous/Magoo combo to mirror my setup.

As the boat pushes further towards the rocky shore the action ramps up again, with both of us receiving equal interest in our fly offerings. I begin slowing the retrieve in the receding wind, with longer pauses between strips and an even slower ‘hang’.
A solid trout smashes the Magoo, just 50cm from the boat’s bow, scaring me half to death in the process. The fish puts up a proper fight, stripping more than its fair share of line from the spool, and I’m delighted to welcome a little extra weight in the net this time. Ah, the good old hang!

Windswept after a good session with plenty of fish boated and more taps than I can count, we retreat to the boat ramp. Sam laughs at how we’ve had the most success with two lairy, bright, wet flies on a Tasmanian mayfly lake in mid-December.

“Sam laughs at how we’ve had the most success with two lairy, bright, wet flies on a Tasmanian mayfly lake in mid-December …”

In the past, I have been guilty of cursing the weather; getting cranky when the conditions don’t match my expectations and available fishing time. Nowadays, I love the challenge of fishing in any conditions — rain, hail or shine. It wasn’t mayfly fishing, but boy, was it fun! As Sam says, they’re always there; you just have to figure out what they want. It’s super satisfying to catch fish on days when you may not have ventured out, but changing your approach is critical to success.

As published in FlyLife magazine #118, Autumn 2025.

Tight lines! 🎣
Marcus

Drifting the Derwent

“After years of contemplation, I finally drifted southern Tasmania’s River Derwent. The journey was challenging, from catching trout in pristine waters to battling unrelenting rapids. Despite the drift boat copping a flogging, the adventure was unforgettable!”

Ten years have passed since building a drift boat with my mate Paul in his backyard. For three months, we spent every weekend crafting the boat from Huon pine and marine plywood, meticulously following the plans in Roger Fletcher’s Drift Boats and River Dories.

Boat building has a romantic charm that seemingly appeals to all, and drift boats are no exception. My boat, The Black Spinner, was the second boat we’d built together, and this time around, the process was more familiar. Friends and neighbours gathered in the yard as we showered ourselves in sawdust, slowly forming the puzzle pieces.

“The Derwent is a mighty river, punctuated with dams and power stations …”

Drift Boats on the McKenzie River, Oregon, USA.

Legendary American boat-builder Woodie Hindman designed the McKenzie River Drift Boat around 1946, and they quickly became a favourite of American fly fishing guides. I love owning a drift boat; every boat ramp attracts a friendly chat from an eager angler keen to know where it’s from and how it was made — every one of them surprised by my answer, ‘I made it myself.’

In 2017, on a road trip in the USA, I spent a day drifting the McKenzie River in Oregon — the birthplace of wooden drift boats. The river is broad and boulder-laden, with plenty of fast water, spilling into the sea through the city of Eugene, not too dissimilar to the Derwent. I’d daydreamed of re-creating the experience at home ever since. Most Tasmanian rivers are a little more sedate. The Macquarie and South Esk are picturesque, meandering through northern midlands farmland with no rapids to contend with and plenty of trout on offer — but I wanted something more challenging.

THE DERWENT

The Derwent is a mighty river, punctuated with dams and power stations as it stretches 283km from Lake St Clair, emptying into the sea at the foot of Mt Wellington in Hobart. The hydroelectricity it generates powers the TVs and gadgets of every Hobartian’s home — it’s the city’s lifeblood. The lower stretches offer fantastic bream and seasonal sea-runner fishing, only a few minutes’ drive from home — pretty impressive for a capital city!

Most mornings, I begin with a coffee, staring out to the river. ‘The river looks good for fishing today, Honey,’ I often exclaim to my wife. Our five-year-old son has picked up the habit, too, much to her amusement.

With two little people in residence now and a fly fishing magazine to design, fishing trips are a little less frequent, and the boat has waited patiently in the shed, gathering dust. My enthusiasm to drift the Derwent had only grown stronger over time, with constant calls to my mate Sam, obsessing about how desperate I was to try it. Sam’s a professional photographer; when he’s not shooting images, he’s fishing. He spends more time on the water than anyone I know and was up for it — we just needed to find the time.

“My enthusiasm to drift the Derwent had only grown stronger over time …”

Finally, a plan was hatched to fish downstream of Meadowbank Dam, the last obstruction to the natural flow of the Derwent. It took a while for us to find a suitable campsite as a pull-out point around Bushy Park, but after stumbling on hipcamp.com, we found a small private vineyard with river-frontage, where I was joined by Leighton Adem, the third member of our crew. Derek, the landowner, was more than happy to host us for a couple of nights for only a few bob and provide us with some of his delightful pinot to quench our excitement to explore new water.

I had researched the section of the Derwent in the preceding weeks, gleaning information from friends, guides and other anglers. There were a few good stories of nocturnal spin fishermen pulling out the odd trophy above New Norfolk, but the consensus was that the upper Derwent doesn’t hold a lot of fish, so why bother?

ON THE WATER

You gotta love the early morning light in Tassie.

Sam rolled into camp as the sun cracked the horizon, just in time for a fresh, bubbling pot of espresso on the fire. A short time later, we put The Black Spinner on the water at Sam’s mate’s family farm, about 15 river kilometres upstream, and would spend the day drifting downstream back to camp.

Surrounded by a paddock full of curious sheep, we loaded the boat with dry-dropper, streamer and nymphing rigs, covering all potential options. The Yeti was loaded with lunch and ice-cold beer. The early morning air was crisp, with a lingering mist disguising a few small rising fish, leaping sporadically at caddis.

The river was eerily quiet as we pushed off into the inky depths below a towering escarpment. Surreal, as we were only 50-odd kilometres from the city centre. Nothing but the sound of the oars breaking the surface and a few bleating sheep. The river was high, for now. The weather gods smiled upon us with an overcast start to the day and very little wind. We chatted away excitedly, taking in the scenery and cursing the overpopulation of cormorants.

Sam began to send out prospecting casts from the bow as I ushered the boat into the current to find its groove. You don’t really steer a drift boat; you need to encourage it gently. The rower faces forward, to spot fish for the anglers up front.

After a while, I spotted a subtle rise downstream and called, ‘Rising fish at 2 o’clock, 30 feet out.’ Sam had his 10-footer rigged with a pair of streamers, a Gold Humungous and a Shrek at the ready, and had no trouble landing the flies in the zone. Moments later, after a couple of sharp strips, the line ripped tight, and we eventually boated our first Derwent brown, a monster by no means but great to be on the board early and proof that the river holds trout!

“The line ripped tight, and we eventually boated our first Derwent brown …”

Sam Shelley lands the first fish of the day, much to our relief.

The first hour or so rolled on in a comforting, repetitive rhythm. The fish were spread across the river, intermittently rising to midge and the odd dancing caddis. The rowing was easy. Not much effort was required to crisscross the river — targeting the enormous submerged rock shelves to the east and quickly darting back to the willows on the western bank when needed.

The speed of the water only allowed one presentation per fish, so false casts were kept to a minimum. On the dry/dropper, a drag-free drift that worked so successfully on the McKenzie years ago, was undoing a few more fat little brownies. The Gold Humungous stood as a fish magnet, though, just as the whispers of Christopher Bassano’s previous attempts to tame the Derwent residents had informed us in our research.

Downriver, the epically long runs led us to the confluence of the Tyenna River, one of my all-time favourite Tassie trout streams. I’d always wanted to see where it met the Derwent, and it was surprisingly underwhelming, with its inconspicuous junction looking more like a small creek than the Tyenna I know from Westerway and surrounds. On the adjacent bank, below the next shoot, a golden sandbank lay welcoming below a craggy blackwood. I rowed hard and managed to beach the boat before the current got hold of us.

The plan had been to stop and fish structure along the way, between the long featureless glide sections. Surveying the scene on foot for the first time, the river presented us with some pockets of manageable water despite the heavy flow. The slower edges looked likely, with a faster run and tailout further out — ideal for nymphing. The high water hindered progress as we worked our way along the bank. I tried my luck swinging streamers down-and-across closer to shore, but to no avail.

REDUCED FLOW

The rapidly receding water level beached the Drift Boat in no time.

We’d been exploring for a good half hour when Sam called above the river noise, ‘Does that flow look like it’s slowing a little?’

‘Hmmm, maybe’, but turning to look at the sandy bank, there was a visible high waterline marking where the water had been not long ago, and the river level rapidly dropped around 90cm in the next 30 minutes, fully beaching the drift boat.

The river’s structure became more defined and wadable. Moving out into the middle, it wasn’t long before a solid fish was hooked and then promptly busted off, nymphing the main run dropping off into the pool below. I guess 6X wasn’t gonna cut it.

We had only planned to fish for 15 minutes or so, grab a snack and move on. However, the plummeting water level granted access to two-thirds of the run, which only minutes prior was inaccessible. The Hydro Tasmania website later revealed the river is up and down like a yoyo daily, after the peak power period has abated in the homes downriver. We landed a small brown further towards the middle as Sam tried his luck with a soft hackle wet and nymph combo midstream. An hour or so went by with no more action.

“Moving out into the middle, it wasn’t long before a solid fish was hooked …”

Continuing downstream, the river gave way to long stretches of willow-lined broadwater concealing hop fields, the midday sun heating the air. I manoeuvered the boat into a sideways drift to target the bank with the now preferred team of a pair of Humungous — experimenting with fly placement, fishing the seams, bubble lines and the slow water pockets. We soon discovered speed was the key. A fast retrieve into the slower pockets produced feisty browns in hot pursuit. The faster the retrieves, the harder they chased.

With another decent fish safely in the net, I pulled us under the trees, the dappled light filtering through the willows ideal for a photo. While shuffling around to get the best light, the current took hold, spinning the boat 180 degrees and thrusting our numerous rods, hanging out the stern, firmly into the overhanging branches. As we held our breath, an almighty SNAP cracked through the air, the three of us wincing and fearing the worst. To our surprise, not a single rod had broken. The sound was a leader that had snapped off at the tippet!

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In my experience, Sea Eagles are always a good omen.

Relieved, we set off again with rods intact and the monkey off our backs with a steadily rising fish count. The anxiety and uncertainty of the trip began to melt away, and the boys decided it was my turn to fish. I eagerly took my place up front. Numerous ‘rising’ platypus got my heart racing as I surveyed the edges and eddies for signs of fish. My concentration was interrupted momentarily by a magnificent sea eagle perched above a deepwater bend in the river. My ‘spider sense’ tingled with the prospect of a good fish holding below. The eagle didn’t budge as we drifted beneath him, taking no notice of a boatload of trout bums.

The hunch paid off as my team of streamers slid into the water a metre off the edge. I paused for a second or two, allowing the flies to sink. Two fast strips and bang, I was on. I could immediately tell it was a good fish as she peeled off the line, descending into the depths, my heart pumping as I attempted to draw her back up without applying too much pressure. She didn’t want a bar of it and spent her second, third and fourth runs edging closer to the bottom. After a gallant battle, we finally slipped the net underneath her, and a grin extended across my face.

INTO THE RAPIDS

The sub-surface boulder garden quickly took hold of the boat.

We were about eight hours in now, and my arms ached. I do love throwing the drift boat into the rapids, it gets the blood pumping. But I had never experienced what the next few kilometres of river had in store for us.

Guiding the boat into the first run, I was confident she’d find the chute that would carry us through a rapidly approaching boulder garden. Alas, self-doubt kicked in at the wrong moment, and I over-corrected, sending us slightly off course. The current smashed us against a massive boulder, shattering the ‘chine log’. For a few moments, we were immovable as the water raged, threatening to upturn the boat. Admittedly, some foul words were uttered as I planted the left oar, spinning the boat back around, correcting our course — bloody hell!

For the next hour, we battled the rapids and pinballed from boulder to boulder as the dramatically reduced river level revealed the teeth of the river rocks below. Until now, there was enough water underneath — a drift boat only draws a couple of inches. Not surprisingly, the rods remained stowed at the back of the Spinner throughout this section as the boat took pounding after pounding, chipping her shiny black paintwork and splintering timber. The long stretches ahead presented repeated obstacles with long, shallow riffles and rocky shelves.

“For the next hour, we battled the rapids and pinballed from boulder to boulder …”

The boat stopped abruptly on the one run, leaving me rowing furiously in mid-air, much to the amusement of the crew, who leapt out to lighten the load. The boys dragged the boat over the drop-off, jumping back in at the last minute as the Spinner slid into deeper water. We repeated this comical process multiple times until, at one point, we ran out of water, resolving to send me on down solo. The boat was light enough to scrape over the tessellated rocky shelves, bumping and grinding its way downstream.

I often joke that my boat falls just behind my children in the hierarchy of life’s importance. All made by my own hand, so to speak. I couldn’t help but wonder how much of a beating she’d taken. Most drift boats in the Pacific Northwest are made from aluminium for good reason. Yankee ‘tinnies’ are built to handle big rivers like the McKenzie, Rogue and Yellowstone. In hindsight, the Derwent was unrelenting and more challenging than I had ever imagined.

Finally, on the home stretch, our camp was in sight, my giant bell ‘glamping’ tent signalling home. The boat was a little broken, but our spirits were high. We dragged her up the bank, cracked open a cold beer and slumped back in our riverside chairs, exhausted and happy.

As published in FlyLife magazine #114, Autumn 2024.

Tight lines! 🎣
Marcus

Drifting …

“That gentle morning light seems to push back all those fears that hound our minds at 3 am …”

Paul, pausing for a moment of contemplation before setting off downstream.

Glancing sideways out of the ute window, I see vague outlines race by as the human world slowly comes into focus; the radio is silent, and only the occasional rattle of the trailer reminds me that the boat is in tow. Early mornings belong to no one. Fishermen seem to love them more than most, the enveloping quiet, indifference from most wildlife and only the occasional raspy bird call. The put-in at Cressy is quiet, not another soul, as you watch the sun creeping closer until, finally, that ribbon of fire burns across the landscape. The boat slides gently from the cradle, the teflon doing its job as the boat quickly tuggs on the rope. Sometimes, it feels a little strange, like a dog pulling on the leash, then final checks and a gentle push, and your other life is left behind. The first dip of the oar, as you correct, then find your line, followed by the inevitable arse shifting as the rope seat softens and you push to find your sacred position. You swing the bow into the current, one more quick check, and finally, it feels right.

Despite the graft, everything is as it should be, and a little on-the-spot research confirms that these boats were designed for hard labour. I’ve never considered myself an oarsman, but when I sit in a boat shaped by my own hands, a different kind of connection seems to exist. It may sound a little fauxmantic, yet it is possibly like any other love in that it helps make us whole. The slow start is comforting, low volume on the chatter as eyes search, those extra few minutes in the seat settle you quickly as mental adjustments are made and reading the water takes on its true meaning, searching casts arc out toward the bank as perception and reality clash. Thankfully, rhythm takes hold as cast after cast seems to be hitting the zone, the first slashy take drags us back as the mad scramble ensues, and all that initial organisation goes to shit as the net gets dragged out from under what appears to be a floating fishing store and takeaway food shop. Gently, you ease back on the oars as the struggle quickly fades, and the net is dipped beneath a pretty little hen with spots that make you take a second look. It feels good to be on the board early, and after easing her gently back, some quick reorganising shuffles the positions, and it’s my turn to cast. 

The day rolls with the pace of the river. Continual mends are thrown as you attempt to use the current to your advantage. Still, no hatch yet, there is enough fish sitting just off the edge that the nymph dropper can still bring some activity. The air temperature has climbed enough that we can now strip down to waders and a tee. We need no reminders of how cold and long winter is, and any chance to lighten up is taken. Along with the warmth come the hatches. All of a sudden the back eddies are filling with lilting mayflies, they lift and fall under the now patchy sky, leaders are lightened and size 16 black spinners are tied on and ginked. We float along until a fish shows, and the oarsman does his best to slow us in the current.

“You don’t hit all of them, but when all those sweet little things fall your way, they open a part of your soul and allow you to tip a little back into the sometimes empty cup …”

We come to the bridge near Woolmers. The old homestead dominates the skyline, and for better or worse, we get a glimpse into our colonial past. Fish love this section, and I’m calling off the clock face sometimes, much to the annoyance of the guy up front, as fish selection gets a little ragged. I can’t keep the smile from my face as a couple of sippers are missed, and observations about my poor boat handling are thrown backwards, which only makes me happier. We swing into the tighter section, dodging overhanging branches and working hard on the oars to hold our good line. The jitters from the bridge section have faded, and a solid cast forward sees a good fish suck down the little black spinner; he heads straight for the boat as Marcus works furiously to gain control. The leader disappears under us as I quickly try to pivot us upstream, and suddenly, the rod springs upwards, and all goes quiet. He starts winding in—the bend in the rod and the fish have gone.

“I can’t keep the smile from my face as a couple of sitters are missed, and observations about my poor boat handling are thrown backward …”

We ease the boat into the bank and unload a far too elaborate lunch. It’s always been this way only because we can; it feels so luxurious to lay back and pick through the esky for an icy cold beer and half a chicken. Talk has amped up as the reality of the day sinks in, and we revel in the fleeting ease of our lives. Most of the talk is about access; Tasmania, like most other places, is struggling with increasing numbers of landowners who are taking a pretty dim view of people blundering around their property. But, the boat allows you unhindered movement and can take you to places that see very few people. 

We quietly reload and push back out into the river. It never ceases to amaze me what freedom I feel when we fish like this. There is no order or need to think; it is just the river taking us along, oars gently dipping as the landscape unfolds like an old-school panorama. The heat of the day has slowed things a little, and we seem to settle a little more as lunch and the warmth of the sun work their magic. Casting is laid back as memory works hard to keep the backcast high, and when a fish gives itself up, the softness of the day makes for a quick release and gentle return.

We drift on. Numbers no longer matter as we move through familiar country. Most sections now open pasture beyond the river with fences of Hawthorn bush and grazing sheep. At every turn, you spot a different hawk or kestrel, most riding the light winds as they hunt over the open paddocks while others sit on fence posts and watch with a slight turn of the head. Sound carries clearly over the water, giving us the chance to put a dry on feeding fish, and takes are no longer a surprise as striking becomes as natural as walking. We watch fish dance across the river, spray showering upwards, the tiny fly holding as you battle all the while with the guy on the oars pushing and pulling, keeping you in touch with the thing you so desire.

Fishing sometimes offers these special moments, as the river, the fish, and the landscape allow you to grasp all that is and all that can be. Maudlin thoughts abate, and for those few thankful moments, you are free. 

“Fishing sometimes offers these special moments, as the river, the fish, and the landscape allow you to grasp all that is and all that can be. Maudlin thoughts abate, and for those few thankful moments, you are free …”

We have timed this pretty well as we move through the timbered section and then on to some longer pools. The sun is quietly retiring, and coolness has moved in; almost immediately, another hatch is on. The fish seem to have lost some of their usual paranoia and seem happy to attack any fly they find. We are both now standing and casting, the boat swinging on the current and us risking a swim to get a fish. We look up and see something that we both take a moment to recognise; street lights in the distance tell us that we are coming up to the takeout and our day is drawing to an end. We are both quiet for a moment, and then I reach into my flybox and drag out a big Goddard caddis; we may be nearly done, but the fish don’t know that. We take turns all the way back, talking and laughing, taking the piss out of each other until the very end. The boat ramp at Longford looms up and, we quickly tie off. Marcus heads up to grab the car as I start breaking down rods and tidying gear. This bit rolls the same as always, you know your tasks, get them done. We drag the boat out and tie everything down. The pub at the end of the street is open, and we stop for a pint. There’s not much to be said, just the life of a couple of fishermen. 

A beautiful piece of writing by my best mate, Paul.

Tight lines! 🎣
Marcus