by Jon Novoselac
A while ago, Amanda gave me a lovely logbook in which I record the results of my fishing adventures. Every trip gets an entry. Successful trips, and not so successful trips.
I’m still very much a beginner fly fisherman – I’ve only been flicking flies for a couple of years. So the log gives me an opportunity to diarise the places I’ve fished, the luck I’ve had and the many skunks I’ve endured.
I’ll post photos of a few pages below. Calm down there, dear reader; there won’t be any groundbreaking secrets revealed here. Primarily because I don’t have any. The places I fish are pretty well-known, so there’s nothing confidential about my entries.
Moffat Falls Cottage, on the left, and Jerrabattgulla Creek on the right.
Gloucester Tops Caravan Park and last weekend’s trip to Cox’s River.
All in all, things are looking a bit sad at the moment.
Not because I haven’t been able to go fishing. On the contrary, I’ve been fortunate enough to go on seven trips since the beginning of this year. On one of those trips, I was lucky enough to wet a line six or so times.
Things are looking sad because I haven’t caught a fish since my first trip this year. Blah.
I try to learn something new on every trip. The value of a spotting partner, as discovered on the Tuolumne River in California. The firm, yet forgiving touch required to land larger fish, as learned on the Tongariro.
Maybe the lesson I’m supposed to take away from my recent failed attempts is “patience”. Maybe it’s all a bit Zen. Perhaps I should “let the fish come to me”. Enjoy the simple pleasures of being outside on the water.
Patience. Yep, that’s it. Patience.
I can’t wait ’til I’m more patient.