dunamis's Journal

Apr 2010
3:25 AM WST

Four Springs Miracle

Seven year old Oscar and I were the hapless victims of two fishless trips in the kayak to Curries River Dam and Brushies Lagoon chasing big trout. The disappointment of it all had the poor little fella praying to God at night that he would catch a big-un before the season closed in just a few weeks.

Unsure that God was up to doing anything about it, I felt the pressure to do something to turn things around. The days were getting shorter and with a desperate eye on the synoptic chart I looked for the break in weather that would allow for under 20km/hr winds that make for relatively comfortable fishing out of a kayak.

When it looked like a high pressure system would hover over our state on Thursday, I decided to pull the lad out of school and we'd go chasing Mr Speckles. We would go to Four Springs Lake, a relatively shallow trophy fishery one hour south of our coastal home. Stats told me that "Foursey" as its known by its devotees, produced on average one fish per angler day, which isn't much except that the typical fish is a big one.

Armed with our soft plastics and graphite rods, we left home at 8am to fish "gentleman's hours" getting on the water with the 'yak all rigged up and rolling away from the reedy calm waters at the boat ramp at 9:30. The warm autumn sun steadily climbed the blue skies bouncing off the calm mirror water that covered the lake.

After spending a couple of fruitless hours flicking soft plastics around in seven to nine feet of water without any interest from our elusive quarry a boat cruised past trolling lures out the back waving to us. We waved back as the skipper enquired about our luck. We'd had none. Had he? He'd boated five already. Strewth! What was he using? Lofty's number 71 was the reply. I had no idea what the 71 pattern was, but after further enquiry it turns out it was a yellow and black frog pattern. I dived into the forward hatch, pulling my tray of hard body lures out and selected a yellow, black and red spotted wobbler, the closest thing I had to what the guru had on. I quickly tied it onto my 8lb fluorocarbon leader, and hit the patented Mirage drive pedals trolling it out behind us.

We travelled another 500 metres still with no touches when a large fish rocketed out of the water at two o'clock, belly flopping back into the aqua with a crash 50 yards away. I thumbed the Hobie's rudder control and quickly wheeled starboard and headed straight for the spot that I had kept my eye on.

Upon reaching it I drifted the kayak and tossed the cobra out letting it sink for a few heartbeats and began to retrieve. Something told me I was winding too fast. The adrenaline in my bloodstream had hijacked my movements, but I had to slow it down. I concentrated, slowed the retrieve to a crawl so the lure would work it's magic and bang, it was hit with the ferocity only an angry buck in peak condition before spawning could.

As the fish turned and tore off, it left me with little to do except hang on. "Wind in your rod mate!" I urged the little fella, who quickly pulled in his soft plastic. I jammed the reel's drag momentarily with my thum and leaned back on the graphite to force the barbed hook deep into the fishes jaw and handed him the rod.

Brown's aren't fond of fast aerial acrobatics like their rainbow cousins, but fight harder and deeper, for longer. This one was no exception. He went deep and had to be urged toward our craft slowly and carefully with the Pflueger Medallist 1000 cranking on the yellow 6lb braid. We could see him now. Golden sunlight came flashing off his thick brown-spotted amber flanks deep in the dark stained 10 feet of water as he twisted and rolled in an attempt to leverage the hook out of his mouth.

He breeched near the boat and headed under it, the line going slack with the inexperienced fisher not keeping a keen eye on the tension. "Don't give him any slack mate!" My voice was raised. I was amped. Any slack and the fish could prise barb out of his hooked jaw with one savage head shake.

The runs were getting shorter and the fish was breeching near the kayak, but I knew he wasn't done. The boy kept winding in line getting the rod tip closer to the fish which was worrying me. I knew the fish was still green and with only a short piece of line out, one brutal charge could see everything turn to muck. We could� easily lose our quarry.

I decided I'd try for the net. I dipped it slowly into the water as the fish approached again. But spotting the net, it panicked and bolted. The drag sizzled as it peeled line off. But this is what we wanted. It's easier to fight the fish long and deep. Close quarters comobat was fraught with danger.

Again it came in as Oscar turned him and began to claw back some line. I dipped the net again, but the fish would have none of it. This was a to and fro tussle that was going too long for me. My heart was in my mouth. Would this be the answer to a little boy's prayer, or another heart breaker?

There was no more time to catch another fish if we lost this one. I had to net it. Eventually the fish began to tire and drew close once more but this time before it could turn its head I had dipped the net deep and raised it enfolding him safely. I dragged it over the side of the kayak breathing a huge sigh of relief and a whoop that echoed across the water. Oscar had made no comment during the fight, but now made it clear he was overjoyed. We despatched the fighter and with smiles all over the junior anglers face, photographed our trophy.

Time was running out. Rummaging around in the hatches, no fishing bag could be found. Damn. Oscar had no idea what was going on when I stripped off, dragging my T-shirt over my head and dunking it into the water. The autumn sun on my skin felt good. I basked in the glow of UV and waning adrenaline. The fish was wrapped in the wet T-shirt to keep it cool and stowed. I bashed the coordinates into the GPS and threw the lure back in hoping to double our luck.

Two cast later and the lure was crunched, this time by a fish that behaved very differently. A fast and mad dash was made peeling line off the reel and then a silver torpedo with a pink stripe the length of his body rocketed up out of the water, free wheeling in a crazy dance before gravity dragged it back down and out of sight.

A rainbow. Another wild run, and I was able to hand the rod to Oscar. He began to crank on the reel handle, but never did get the fish under control. One of it's body twisting desperate headshakes saw it spit the lure and was gone. We weren't disappointed though. We'd landed a four pound miracle and together gave thanks to its Maker.

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Username: dunamis

Gender / Age: Male, 54

Location: Australia