Arthur himself used to wander down through the grassy river flat paddock to a spot he used to call ‘Biddulf's corner'. He said you could nearly always catch a yellowbelly and sometimes maybe two or three. This was also in a time he described as "a while ago".

He took me once, we crunched over dry milk thistles and the grasshoppers would flee for their lives as we followed the fence line to the river. Try as we might, nothing was caught that day, but I did love hearing about fish and years gone by.

I can still remember his old hand lines rolled up around a bit of cork, a homemade spoon sinker, the hook stuck in one end. A bucket of dirt and milk worms with four springers just about summed up the gear.

With the setting sun our day ended. As we packed up a couple of wood ducks glided down, splashed in and settled for the night. We walked back up along the fence line as the cool air crawled over the river flat. I can still see his white hair, grey trousers and shirt, rolled up sleeves crossed by a pair of braces and that cane fishing basket!

Fine Times

I remember those cold winter mornings riding down Finns Lane to the swinging bridge. The fog used to be so thick it would dampen your face and coat. The silhouette of a person would suddenly appear and say "Good morning", then when you turned to look they would be vanishing into the grey blanket again. How long is it since you've seen that?

You would warm your hands under the armpits of your jumper or if you were lucky someone would have a fire going and fingers could be thawed before rigging up a celta or Baltic minnow.

A juicy bunch of worms tumbling down the rapids was also a great way to entice an early morning rainbow.

The little stream ran clear and cool being shaded by oaks and the dreaded willow. Even in the coloured water of a ‘fresh' you could still back yourself to snare a catch for the plate. Rainbows were abundant and would rise on dusk most afternoons. For those who can remember times were fine in 1972 and 1973. We just took it for granted. This would never end, but everything would soon change forever.

The Change

Early one morning in December 1974 I was fishing about 60 metres upstream of the swinging bridge. I'd just cast an old No.2 celta that my grandfather had under the overhanging willow branches and hooked a fish straight away. After a short battle a 1 ¼ to 1 ½ pound rainbow was flipping on the river sand. I was cleaning the fish when I heard a whistle from upstream. I man whom I only knew as ‘Scotty from Telecom' was frantically waving for me to join him. I shoved the fish in my bag and went to see what the fuss was about.

I made my way up the slippery bank and upon my approach I was amazed to see a large rainbow in his landing net! The fish was about 3 1/3 or 4 pounds taken on a small blue celta. He kept pointing into the water saying "There, look in there!" I could see nothing, then the sun peeped around a morning cloud and all was revealed. A large school of trout had bunched and were all heading upstream. A few anglers had been following their progress and would pick off a couple of fish at a time. Once they got past cherry tree falls I never saw them again.

The End

The HJ Holden was a new car, East's beat St George in the grand final and I was leaving school. The council had just removed all the willows from the swinging bridge area. Once day after school we went for a fish before dark, you could see a few good rainbows and some redfin swimming around. There was even an orange goldfish present. A mate landed a good rainbow on a small blue celta and a few days later I spun up a pair just a bit further upstream but no one knew the end was near.

February of 1975 was stifling hot. We had day after day of clear skies and high temps. The river ran lower and lower. Everyone was splashing about or using the rope swing to try to cool off! No rain came. It got hotter, the cicadas were singing and we watched trout after trout die and float downstream in the deoxygenated water. It never recovered from that and has remained almost void of trout ever since.

A short time later another breed of fish became evident and has remained ever since. They turn clear water turbid, sit in all the good holes and are even present in the ‘runs' of our once beautiful river. The combination of a few things had just about spelled the end of the salmonoids in our section of the river.

The Early Bird

It was our annual winter fishing trip to Lake Eucumbene and I had woken early. I glanced at the clock radio and the numbers said 5.45am. I wasn't exactly keen to leave the warm sleeping bag. I hastily got dressed and the starter motor of the old Ford protested at being jolted to life at this ungodly hour. The rough track to the lake was slowly negotiated and I was careful to keep the bright headlights off the water.

I slipped on a pair of frozen stiff waders, beanie and head torch. In the darkness I pulled out the rod with favourite night fly attached. There was no sound, the water was still. I cast the fly out into the inky predawn darkness, void of all light. Not even a yellow moon's last quarter. I kept out of the water, didn't make a ripple. After 7 or 8 casts the rods runners began to ice but then the reality of having the fly smashed work me from y early morning daydream! The reel sang and I felt the power of the fish as it accelerated from the shore. The battle continued and I finally landed the fish as first light arrived. The fly rod was totally useless now with all the runners completely iced. I reached for the spinning rod in case more yabby feeders were in the vicinity. A few long casts later found me with another fish on. The rod had a good bend with the fish striving to reach the snags, I had to tighten up the drag and soon a good pair of browns were laying on the wet sandy bank.

The camera shutter closed and I bagged the two fish and headed up the hill for breakfast. It's a hard life they say but sometimes, just sometimes the early bird does catch the worm!