With winds gusting to 30 knots we figured we were pushing the proverbial droppings uphill, but what the heck, we had nothing else planned this weekend, and a night in a tent was always going to be an attractive proposition when you have a 2 year old waking you up most nights back home.

So we headed off, northward-bound, with boat in tow.

The weather improved as we threaded our way north. The winds now gusted to only 29 knots and my old Toyota even managed to get into fifth gear a few times on the Freeway. We soon left the suburbs of Singleton behind and it wasn’t long before the windy shores of Lake St Clair appeared as we wound our way along the shoreline.

Ken had already found his way to the camp ground half way up the eastern side of the lake. He was huddled in his Landcruiser, the pressure of the wind on the vehicle door keeping him a virtual prisoner in his own car. We soon liberated him from the cab, and as we watched a dozen or so tents collapse on the top of the hill we decided a camp site in the lee of the hill was a logical choice for the evening.

With tents pitched and cleansing ale consumed it was decided an evening fish was in order. We had already banned Ken from fishing with his spin gear, and threats of sticking it in places that would have him walking funny for weeks seemed to keep it enforced. The manager of the camp ground had given instructions of where to fish – “over the hill and near the rocky outcrop – a bloke caught some good fish there last night”. It’s always last night, or yesterday, or last week, or tomorrow. Never today. And that’s the way it stayed. We cast fly after fly. Ken even tried to knock himself out, but to no avail. Whether there were fish there or not is still unknown. If they were, they didn’t like us, or our flies.

Back at camp we rewarded ourselves with a hearty BBQ dinner and a few drinks. By 8.30 Ken and Daniel had had enough and headed for their beds. Eight thirty. Not even my daughter goes to bed at eight thirty. Oh well, a bit of light reading (I managed to find my insurance policy and a caravan park guide in my glovebox) and I was soon ready for a good night’s sleep.

Before even the sparrows had risen and relieved themselves of unwanted gas, we were up and packed. To our undying amazement Big Bob passed our camp on his way to the boat ramp, and we soon joined him and Dave at the boat ramp. Bob had conned Anne into coming along while Dave was joined by Wilbur and they had bought Matty along to act as decky for Ken.

The wind had dropped a little from yesterday. At least there were no white caps on the lake. So we headed off in search of sheltered waters and lots of bass. Bob had the same idea (either that or he was following us) and we both ended up in a small cove filled with plenty of drowned trees. Perfect bass country we thought to ourselves. It’s just a shame that the bass didn’t agree.

After an hour or so we decided we’d try up the river. A few spin fishers has gone up that way before us but we tried a few weed beds and likely looking deep water. Again our results were less than impressive. Not even a hit. No sign of any fish. Didn’t even see the spin guys hook up.

Time for a change of scenery. We headed back downstream towards the lake, and having spotted Bob and Anne (who, hunched over in the middle of Bob’s boat looking between Bob’s legs, looked like they were up to no good) decided to pay them a visit. And were we glad we did. With a small gas stove carefully positioned between Bob’s legs, a breakfast of singed bread and hot coffee was had, and rejuvinated, we were ready to get into those wiley bass.

Continuing our journey back down the lake, we headed up another arm to try again. Cast after cast around dead timber and along deep drop-offs produced nil results. But an interesting pattern was appearing where ever we went. At most places over which we drifted the sounder showed fish holding at five metres. There must have been a thermocline at that depth and the fish were sitting on it. Not that it helped much. We threw bass vampires, clousers, charlies, bunnies, things that had no name, and a new 56-legged fly I had found in a recent Fly Tyer magazine (gauranteed to catch bass). All were useless. We even toyed with the idea of explosives, except we had none.

By 11:30 we decided we’d done our bit for the day. There wasn’t a fly in the box we hadn’t tried. And that BBQ lunch was looking awfully good. So we headed back to the ramp. By now the wind was up again and a few white caps had appeared, but the trip back was relatively dry. Ken was already there with stories of Matty’s two fish, and we were all soon back on dry land ready for a hearty lunch. Unfortunately though, the caterers were missing. Apparently Bob, upon hearing that Matt had caught two fish (one on his first cast), had gone berserk and vowed not to return without a fish. He was last seen huddled over at the bow of his boat, electric motor control under foot, a wild look in his eye, casting furiously at anything and everything.

We packed up and sat back, enjoying the sunshine and not enjoying the wind. Eventually a tiny flat-bottomed punt appeared in the distance. It was Bob, returning jubilant like a conquerer back from a crusade, a tiny bass his trophy. Finally we could have lunch.

With a hearty sausage sandwich or three under our belts and stories of our successes or lack thereof, we were soon on our way back to civilisation. By mid afternoon I had delivered Daniel to his waiting wife-to-be and I was back home looking forward to another sleepless night.

And apparently the fishing was sensational the next day. We should have been there.