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I'd been eagerly anticipating the ABT/Hobie Bemm River Bream comp for quite a while. So it was with much relief to finally get on the road. I left on the Friday as I’d planned to have a few extra days camping, mainly to relax and pre-fish an area I’d never frequented. Fortunately for my Wife, the little person and myself, we’d received an invitation from Paffoh and Claire to join them at their annual family camping trip, so accommodation wasn’t going to pose a problem.
After a very pleasant 3 and half hour journey , we pulled up at the Bemm river Caravan park to see Claire waving her hands in the air and stomping her feet as if she was in some kind of trouble. My initial thoughts were gastric cramps or she just eaten Bhut Jolokia Bruschetta. It was neither; it was purely an insight in to how 3 sisters act when they come together. I was concerned…..very concerned. Concerned of cults and sects, scared of indoctrination into the unknown and scared that I wouldn’t fish the comp. I also knew that I was now in Banjo country, It was unlikely that I could walk away sight unseen......body untouched. Paff was fishing the Basin ABT comp so he wouldn’t be down until the Sunday and I was on my own. To be honest, I wasn't really on my own, there were other males within the cult that were residing in the same commune, and Ollie and Jay made me feel more than welcome, maybe too welcome….(I still had concerns at this stage as Id just found chicken bones and the maggoty carcas of a fruit bat in an old fireplace)
The first night was a doozy, at roughly 0300, the wind started to pick and tickle our toes as it drifted through the campsite. 20 mins later, it was ripping our tendons from the kneecaps. My new marquis (an offering to the cult) was flailing about like a inebriated promotional 40ft man (the ones you find at the front of a caryard on the weekend). The carefully pegged (and guide roped) secured structure was no more. True to their behaviour so far, the cult members were up and about straight away and assisting where needed, very helpful and done with a smile. The fire we had doused 4 hours earlier was now a raging inferno and was only 50 meters and minutes away from upsetting other cults within the park.
Having survived the night and keeping my family safe from the infernal winds, I arose to more of the same, but more of a whisper than a shout. The wind continued to play havoc with my plans for fishing and I didn’t manage to get out all on the Friday, Saturday or Sunday morning. I did mange to have a quick late night jaunt to the pier with Ollie, Jay and the now arrived Nick (with a quick stop to serenade the string plucking pair of Dad and Dave who were making moves on the blue rinse brigade in caravan 16). The plan was to prawn and prawn we did, only real success eluded us that night with a meagre dozen gracing our kiddies pail. As we trudged back past D & D, it didn’t go unnoticed they were still on the strings and looking as if their night would be more fruitful than ours. Hail Viagra!!
Sunday saw the arrival of Paff , armed with grand stories on the success of Squidder, Craig and himself in the St Georges comp. (Not to mention the other yakkers in the comp, props to you all). There was a glint in his eye that of a man who had weighed fish, weighing fish makes your testicles increase size by an average of 68%.
We teed up a small session up the river to see if it looked like holding fish for the comp on Tuesday. Quick recons to find a launching spot lead us to the bridge crossing the river. Beneath it was the greatest population of big Bream that I have ever seen. There were literally hundreds, if not thousands stretching for hundreds of meters up the river. Only a camera would do it justice, an amazing sight.
Being good cult members, no member was left without a yak, Ollie and Jay in the outfitter, Chris in the Quest, Paff in the PA (senior cult member, standing, 68% increases, biggest Yak) and me in the Tub-o-Paddle Kingfisher. (Not yet indoctrinated into the cult, no hobie, I'll have one soon). It was a fairly quiet session with Paff locating a few bream along the stretches and Chris and I both picking up 30cm specimens in amongst the sticks. A nice little session only interrupted by the moronic lowing of the cows, whether or not it was cult initiated, I know not.
Monday morning saw Paff and I head out into the lake area for a knowledge gathering exercise. I’d picked up some 3” Minnows in peppered prawn from a hood-wearing gentleman in Orbost and decide to work with those first. It was a fairly innocuous spot but was producing fish from the minute I first tucked my paddle by my side. To be catching good size bream, 30-35cm, in a structure-less sandy bottomed area, was an absolute joy. Massaging a thumping bream into your yak from 40cm of water after watching him peel line of at warp speed, is an enthralling experience and one that’s hard to replicate in any situation. The shallow water fishing was astounding for both Paff and I, as both of us managed to land good, solid, fat fish regularly during the session.
The afternoon session was no different, fish after fish greeted us as we peppered the water with small hardbodies. Me, a chubby in Ghost ayu, Paff with an SX-48, this was fishing at its most entertaining, maybe too entertaining. As each fish swam away from the yak, there was there was the nagging doubt in the back of our mind that they may not be there on game day. It didn't matter; Victoria was putting on a show.
With our tails up and chests enlarged, we made our way back to the commune and regaled stories of silver slabs of fury, testing our knotted muscles and stretching the taught fibre of our nets due to sheer weight of these saurian type beasts, we even presented scars of our line-burnt fingers to reinforce the tale. Needless to say, we were told to shut up and help with dinner, as we duly did.
That's what you do in the commune...
