WE remember the good days whilst the bad ones somehow sink into the mist of oblivion without a murmur. The trophy days need little to no prompting to come to mind whereas the shocker days need serious focus to recall.
Make no mistake, if you go fishing often enough you’ll have more than one thing to forget. The bung-free launch, the broken throttle cable escape, the cliff track slip, lost in the bush and of course the many bad weather fishing holidays, are mine.
I’ve been lucky during the last decade though, and it wasn’t until recently that I was able to add a further “disaster” to the list. As they say, perspective is everything, and the perspective of this one focuses on two very frustrated mangrove jack anglers… some crackers on bait, but NONE on a lure!
So, it was decided that a trip into the Jack-rich territory of Cane Todia was essential for mental health and when the whisper of the secret creek being confirmed by pin on Google Maps, it was all systems go for a few days in paradise.
The plan was to Leave home after work on the Thursday, drive all night and be on the water early Friday morning. All was going to plan until a stick severed a wheel sensor cable on Jordan’s 4WD, meaning no 4WD for the ‘bush ramp’ at the creek. He wasn’t worried however, as he knew how to fix it, although it was a rush given the part took time to arrive. We were a little late to leave, but a hard reset was all that we thought we needed in order to clear the error codes that were stopping all four wheels driving again.
The drive was easy with coffee stops and sleeps in the passenger seat, and we arrived shortly after sun up … with a groan, as we saw the state of the ramp. This was a serious 4WD event, and the hard reset did not reset the codes. Not to worry, we had snatch straps and muscle; so we reversed (slid) the trailer back as far as we dared, before detaching it from the vehicle and pushing it into the water as far as the smelly black mud allowed.
The creek looked perfect. Submerged snags every 20m or so, deep corners and small stands of mangroves, with their buttressed roots provided predator-friendly ambush stations below each trunk. That said, we were an hour in before the first fish hit the deck, which was becoming a concern!
We were still casting like machines when a kayak rounded the corner, coming our way. Turns out that the angler was a local guide and that we were in a creek that is his honey hole, that he keeps to himself. He was surprised to see us on the water and then proceeded to tell us that we had come up on the worst week of the month because the jack fishing was totally tide dependent. He’d only landed two fish himself and informed us that he was here for peace and quiet and not for the fish. Oh bugger!
Being quite a distance from its mouth, it took a big high tide to get fresh salt water into these upper reaches and with the tides came the bait… “you should have been her last week.”
We set up camp behind the ramp and with a clear forecast, decided to forego the tarp that we use to cover tents and swags in the event of rain.
After a quick nap in the humid heat, we were back on the water and Jordan managed one more fish. As both were on a soft plastic, I changed from a hardbody and whilst I had a few taps and a “squarming” of jacks within sight, I remained fishless. On the return trip Jordan clipped a log which left the transducer mount hanging on by a thread, but luckily not broken.
That night it poured. Jordan’s swag filled up with water soaking his sleeping bag, pillow and clothes. My tent leaked as well, with a big puddle right where my clothes were.
We fished again that morning but only managed to hook tiny barra that all jumped off.
By lunchtime, thunderstorm clouds started to build and so we decided to pull the pin.
Retrieving the boat was far from straightforward and by the time we’d snatched the trailer out of the mud and up onto the dirt road, we realised it was resting on the mudguard. We couldn’t bounce it over by ourselves, but with help from the crew of a passing 4WD, managed the job.
It was still raining when we hit the Goldie, so we stayed in a motel, cleaned ourselves up and enjoyed a nice meal before heading home the next day.
Gone Thursday night and back Sunday morning; 25hrs driving, mud, sweat and mossies for zero fish.
That, dear readers, is a “Crash and Burn” trip!
