When you don’t catch any fish, and not for wont of trying, you’ve got to take something good away from the experience. After all, you’ve most likely travelled some good minutes or hours to reach the spot or spots you tried, and it’s a shame to let it all seem like it was a waste of all that time. Trout season commenced where I live on September 1st, and the fly fishing club I belonged to was holding its annual opening day fishing competition. I couldn’t commence fishing with the other members at midmorning, so I started just before dawn and left at 9:30 AM. I caught nothing. I didn’t miss a take. I didn’t even detect any prospective takes or touches. I didn’t spook any fish. Nothing. Nothing at all, and after having endured three months of no fishing during the closed season. Three months of nothing and then three hours of hard work for nought doubled my disappointment at my results. I began to lament a seemingly colossal waste of time. What good can I take away from this? I wondered. What was the point? I pondered this for three days. It took looking at some photos I took from that morning to start to realise what good I’d gained. As I slid into my waders and geared up, there had been a few kookaburras sitting right over my car, chuckling raucously. Wild “kookas” always keep their distance from humans, so that was fairly special. Hearing their cries
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAA
and seeing them so close always reminds you you’re in Australia. Wading along the creek, I heard a multitude of bird calls and calls from different species. Having recently returned from three weeks overseas where only one type of bird still remains (and its call is not pleasant), this was welcome. I was hoping to see the male fairy wren with his bright blue hood, who stands out so prominently but only saw a couple of the drab-coloured females. Perhaps he was minding the children…? Everything looked green and fresh, courtesy of the recent showers. We’re having a drought here, but at least the grass and leaves seemed to glow spring green along the creek and its surrounds. A freshwater crayfish was migrating up the creek as I fished. A big chunky one with white spikes and claws, a colouration variant I’ve not seen before. He wasn’t scared of me and trundled along against the current. I got some splendid photos of it as it passed by. It was soothing to hear the water as it tumbled over rock ledges, brushed past a fallen tree and burbled as it ran over riffles. That was what I took away. I was out in nature. My manufactured life with its manufactured concerns were temporarily forgotten. And that’s sometimes worth more than therapies that manufactured money can buy.
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