The giant Casuarina trees stood bathed with crimson light, the air was still and the water mirrored the world upside down. It was just the kind of afternoon one would expect the bass to look upward and examine the menu above to see what tasty morsels might be had for tea.
Peter and I made our way quietly along the lower section of the huge pool, probing the overhangs and protruding structure in search of bass. The bass were there, tell tale swirls and boils in all the likely lies but they were only half hearted, not in the aggressive mood we found them in on our last venture to this stretch.
As the western horizon drew the sun down, the bass became a little more game in their taunting of the little surface lures, a few rats took it too far and found themselves hooked. These little bronzed tusslers were not the size of fish we wanted but we were content to be on the water and anything was better than the skunking we'd had the previous evening on one of our secret waters.
As darkness neared, my bevy prop was slammed by a good weighty fish, without pause it ran hard and fast, the song from my Stradic ended abruptly as the bass buryed me into a fallen wattle branch and earnt its freedom before I had time gain any hand.
Not five minutes later Peter let out his catch cry "Go you good thing!” His little Packraft was doing donuts in the middle of the pool, he chuckled like a school boy, the quite hour before had been forgotten.
A few shots of the lovely bronzed 37 and it was on its way home none the worse for an encounter with a Bubble Pop.
I had barely paddled back to the snag I was on when a loud "Go you good thing" drew my attention back to Peter, the louder chuckles and increased number of circles indicated a better fish. A fat healthy 40cm, Peter was stoked.
Another half hour passed without enquiry so we paddled quietly back down the pool with only a sliver of moon, the stars and a passing satellite to light our way. The quite of the night leaves us with a peace that clears the head and soul, perhaps that's why the giant Casuarina trees live so long.
Peter and I made our way quietly along the lower section of the huge pool, probing the overhangs and protruding structure in search of bass. The bass were there, tell tale swirls and boils in all the likely lies but they were only half hearted, not in the aggressive mood we found them in on our last venture to this stretch.
As the western horizon drew the sun down, the bass became a little more game in their taunting of the little surface lures, a few rats took it too far and found themselves hooked. These little bronzed tusslers were not the size of fish we wanted but we were content to be on the water and anything was better than the skunking we'd had the previous evening on one of our secret waters.
As darkness neared, my bevy prop was slammed by a good weighty fish, without pause it ran hard and fast, the song from my Stradic ended abruptly as the bass buryed me into a fallen wattle branch and earnt its freedom before I had time gain any hand.
Not five minutes later Peter let out his catch cry "Go you good thing!” His little Packraft was doing donuts in the middle of the pool, he chuckled like a school boy, the quite hour before had been forgotten.
A few shots of the lovely bronzed 37 and it was on its way home none the worse for an encounter with a Bubble Pop.
I had barely paddled back to the snag I was on when a loud "Go you good thing" drew my attention back to Peter, the louder chuckles and increased number of circles indicated a better fish. A fat healthy 40cm, Peter was stoked.
Another half hour passed without enquiry so we paddled quietly back down the pool with only a sliver of moon, the stars and a passing satellite to light our way. The quite of the night leaves us with a peace that clears the head and soul, perhaps that's why the giant Casuarina trees live so long.
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