National News & Information > Features June 2008

At the end are the rainbows by Hugh Creasy

To get to the river I had to push my way through a bed of rank ranunculus and cocksfoot, ankle deep in mud  interlaced with old fencing wire – a nasty trap for my expensive waders, and sure enough, I felt a shaft of wire pierce the fabric by my ankle and scrape skin from my shin. The sun was low in the west, ground mist laced the willows and my mood darkened as water soaked my socks. It was not clean river water, but foul-smelling, rubbish and effluent-infested gloop, and I could feel the bacteria feasting and multiplying in my veins.

It started out as an evening stroll with a spinning rod and weighted soft lures to see if I could tempt a fish to take. Winter fishing is difficult, and I had not seen a rise in this reach for weeks. After dark there were still caddis coming off the water, but a venture or two with a fly rod did not result in any fish on the bank.

I made it to the bank under a darkening sky, with ripped waders and a chill in the air that suited my mood. When you pay close to $1000 for waders and wading boots, they should be treated with respect, and the annoying thing was, I did not need to be wearing them. I could cast to most of the pool from the bank, and the river was running low enough to cross at the tail if I needed to, at ankle depth. Ordinary boots would have done.

The rod was already rigged, so I pulled the bail arm over, trapped the line with my index finger and flicked the lure upstream at an acute angle, intending to widen the angle of casting to cover all the lower reaches of the pool. The lure landed, I turned the handle and the bail arm jammed.  A combination of ill-temper, strength and stupidity had me slapping at the handle to try and budge it, only to see one end of the bail arm fly from its slot and hang out at a right angle to the reel. 
Light was low and by the time I fished out an LED headlight from the back of my fishing vest, it was near dark. With swiftly chilling fingers I reassembled the reel, being careful to make sure the line was on the right side of the bail arm. I lifted the rod tip to retrieve line, only to find the hook on the lure was lodged firmly into some object on the river bottom.

By now the stars were out , frost was forming on the willows and a mist hung low on the water. It was freezing.  I have always been cautious with money and the thought of breaking my line to let the lure go at a cost of $4 or so was too much to contemplate, so I wound in line as far as possible and ventured into the water. My boot filled immediately, knee deep. I reached out to free the lure and before I touched it, it popped free.

 Back on the bank, I made sure everything was in working order and began casting. From then on everything worked well, apart from the treble hook regularly tangling in the body of the lure. My breathable waders were comfortable enough on the dry side, but on the wet side they offered no protection from the cold. Hypothermia was slowing me down and every action became awkward. It was time to go home. One last cast. The lure sailed out to the centre of the pool, the retrieve was perfect and the trout took it a few metres from the bank. I set the hook, the line snapped and the fish took off across the pool with my $4 lure firmly attached to its jaw.

I trudged back to the car, through the bog, now the Slough Of Despond become reality, but luckily doing no more damage to my waders.

I reached the car and doffed my boots and waders. With teeth chattering, I took off my trousers, and used the dry leg of them to wipe down my wet side.  Another car swung into the riverside car park, and  pulled up in front of me. It was Ted, dressed already in neoprene waders. He greeted me heartily, looked me up and down in my Y-fronts, then spotted the spinning rod and reel in the boot.
“Ha,” he said, “been taking the easy way out, have you?”

He didn’t wait for an answer but, with fly rod in hand, swaggered confidently off to the pool where, no doubt, the trout were rising, and where he caught fish after fish until sated and warm he made his way home to a loving wife and family. There he would flourish a fat trout to much acclamation and would sleep the dreamless sleep of deepest satisfaction.

I drove home in my underpants with the heater going flat out to thaw my frozen leg. I staggered through the door at home, smelly trousers, which I now saw to be bloodstained from my punctured leg, in my arms, only to be shooed off to the laundry to get cleaned up.

I tried to sleep but my mind kept drifting to torn, mud-filled waders, perhaps not repairable, and the throbbing cut on my leg. Perhaps I should get a tetanus booster shot. More expense. Lost lure. More expense.

In the early hours blackness overtook these nightmarish imaginings and, at last, I slept. 

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