Rohan Anderson's Blog, page 13

walk it off brother

There are times when you need to don the boots, fill the pack and simply walk away… “walk away brother”… that’s what I tell myself. It’s not so much about walking away from reality or your problems, it’s more about walking towards what is real, what will remind us that the world that rules us all is the one that is natural. The cars, houses, buildings and mega markets are all meaningless when we put ourselves back into the rawness of the bush. A reminder that is more important than ever in our world of technology, which don’t get me wrong, I embrace technology, I just like to see evidence that the real world still exists.

Years ago when I worked like a dog in the city I rarely saw the bush. I admit, I was more interested in the lure of city living. I went out a lot, for dinner, drinks and general socialising. But there was always something odd, something out of place. As it turns out it was me. I didn’t belong in that city life. I never understood the people I was in regular contact with. I didn’t really understand what they were talking about, why they aspired, what they aspired, which was more often than not… wealth of materials.

Sometimes when the pressure of city living would build to boiling point, I’d pack up my car and head bush. At times there would be a sense of insecurity, even fear, of the bush. Even though I grew up there, I would still be intimated. Why? Because I’d become a synthetic human. I’d spent far too much time at a desk under dull lights staring at a computer. I’d eat in the tea room, or the cafeteria with the other robots, and I’d spend hours between 8am – 5pm working on databases and spreadsheets and numerous other useless tasks. So when it came to the breaking point, I’d pack the camping gear in the car and head bush, I ended up both intimidated and impressed by the bush, as it had become foreign to a certain extent.

That was then. Now that I’ve been back for well over 12 years I don’t feel nearly as intimidated, in fact not at all. I embrace those moments in the bush, out in the fields whilst hunting, fishing or just hiking. I guess I take it for granted now, that my morning walk is out past fields and paddocks filled with rabbit, fox and kangaroo. I walk bush with snakes and lizards, wallabies and echidna. I’m comforted by the sounds of the bush, the wind through the eucalyptus, the birds that I’m familiar with and the odd noises of the Australian bush like the male grunting koala and the morbid sounds of barking owls and the screech of birds of prey like the black shouldered kite.

Thankfully I can share this with my buddy Kate. She seems to feel the same way about the bush, even though she’s a born and bred city girl. She leaves me for dead in regards to fitness, but I get there in the end, although I may arrive up the mountain 10 minutes later than her. No matter. I’m just so stoked I have someone to share this beautiful natural world with. We all have the opportunity to get out amongst it. To get away from the synthetic and back to what is in fact the only real thing on this planet. Nature.

So this weekend we packed the Jeep and headed west for a hike. It was steep, hard work but extremely rewarding. I fed us a meal of poached chicken (from one of our girls I dispatched a few weeks ago), some eggplant grilled with a little olive oil love and a sprinkle of toasted sesame seeds.

WLL Community Food shop

A while back I sat on a small stage, next to me was a man that made me feel both incrediably nervous and tremendously inspred at the same time. Joel Salatin is for some the high priest of sustainable farming and preaches about the benefits the world would gain if we were more considerate consumers and smarter farmers.

Before I started to interview him we chewed the fat, speaking mostly of our ideas and concerns of the current food system. I guess it’s no surprise that we have similar beliefs and ideals on the subject! One thing Joel told me, that has stuck in my mind ever since, was a story about a bloke back in the states, that sourced food grown in the country and delivered it straight to the consumers (all of us) in the city.

This guy was basically doing what used to happen years ago, when the producers would take the raw food items into the city and sell them to the people that didn’t have veg gardens or lack the capability to raise back yard animals for meat. It’s such a brilliant idea, so simple. It leaves the supermarkets for dead. It means you get to eat seasonally, you get to eat food that’s grown on the outskirts of the city, therefore reducing your food miles and best of all, your eating fresh organic produce with not a chemical in sight.

 

Since that night with Joel, I’ve had a few people approach me and ask to either promote their version or ask me to partner in a similar set up. As much as I agree with the idea I’ve just been run off my feet and unable to consider it. That is until I was at a mate’s winery and bumped into his veg growing brother, who just happened to tell me that he’s loaded with organic veg right now. I left without giving it a thought, that is until 2am that following night. That’s when the crazy ideas start, the witching hour. So often I get asked by city dwellers “I like your ideas on eating backyard grown, organic, and minimising food miles but I live in the city with no space to grow my own veg… what can I do?”… with that in mind I asked myself if there would be people that like to get their hands on this beautiful veg, as it’s a real box ticker. It’s certified organic, it’s grown just outside Melbourne, and best of all it’s picked the day before you get your hands on it, making it the freshest you can get (not like the long shelf life veg of the supermarket variety).

 

Now heres the rub. To keep the food miles low, I will be dropping the veg boxes to two central locations, one northside and one south side. Details of drop off points can be found on the shop site.

 

Organic Seasonal Veg Box $48

So whats in the box? Lots of veg!!!! It’s amazing value. When I got the first box I was blown away! In fact I felt like my backyard veg growing was rather insignificant, seeing that I could get a weeks worth of veg for such a good price. The veg is whats available within your current season, and being summer its mega veg. This first box has:

 

Tomato, Potato, Carrots, Beetroot, Lettuce, Daikon, Turnip, Zucchini, Cauliflower, Black Kale, Blue Kale, Broccoli and even Apples. In a few weeks time there’ll be more tomatoes and even better…..we’ll have corn!

 

Daylesford Organics Eggs $10

And to complement the veg we’ve got eggs for sale from our mates down the road at Daylesford Organics. (They’re true free range chooks, the way chooks should be kept, out in the paddock under the fruit trees rummaging through the long grass… and the eggs are delish)

 

How does it work? Simply click here to go to the new Whole Larder Love Food Community Shop and place your order.

We’re planning on the first drop off to Melbourne on Saturday 9th February.

Our drop off points will be:

9:00am SOUTHSIDE: St Kilda Primary School

10:15am NORTHSIDE: Merri Creek Primary School

11:30am WESTSIDE: Footscary Primary School

All orders need be received by COB Wednesday for that weekend’s drop off.

Seasons differ

Lately I’ve been concerned for the lack of progress in my veg patch. I should be eating tomato bruschetta for breakfast every morning but I’m yet to see a ripe tomato on the vine. I tend to gauge the progress of a season by when a certain veg comes into play and feeds us in seemingly never-ending supply.

Just to check on myself I decided to go back over my blog as it’s basically a record of what I’ve been cooking each year. By February last year I was already podding dried borlitti beans! This year I haven’t even got a green bean in a pod.

So what’s the difference I ask? Why is this year different to last year’s bounty? The obvious comes to mind, weather, then aspect, then soil type…everything is different because this time last year I was gardening in the cottage in town, and I had the thermal mass of a country city helping my veg along. But out here I have the elements to deal with…well, I don’t, my veg does.

I’m concerned because our food supply is mostly supposed to be backyard produce. Lucky for us we have the freezer stocked with goodies, and we have the staples of potato, onion and eggs. But I’m down to the last two bottles of passata and my jamon is almost gone.

 

Thankfully the constant nurturing of some veg is about to pay us back with food. The squash, zucchini and beetroot are starting their harvesting season, and capsicum and eggplant won’t be too far off. But my pumpkin and beans, the food that we rely on to get us through winter is doing poorly.

I have to remind myself that there is still all of February and March and even a little bit of April for the veg to mature. We seem to be having a later summer every year. In any case, my food production is at the mercy of the weather, the seasons are all out of my hands. I just have to accept what nature dishes out. A far cry from my old life in the city, where it was the opening hours of the supermarket that dictated my food supply. But what if there was no back up food supply from the supermarket? We’ve got ourselves into a pickle here. We no longer know how to look after ourselves individually or in small groups as we are a collective.

Since we downed the hunting weapons and picked up the farm tools we committed to the system of many people doing their selected task in life to make the collective operational. It’s not a bad system. Think about the old days when a town would have a cobbler, butcher, green grocer, tailor etc. Each person had a task in life to do and that in turn kept the community going. Now the system is still operational it’s just far more complex. For instance, I used to work a job where all I’d do all day was update spreadsheets of ‘important’ numbers. It served a purpose to someone I guess, but it was pretty meaningless to me. I was intimidated once by moving back to the country and living a basic life. But now what I do makes more sense, even if it’s a bad season of veg. At least I know why I work in the vegetable patch. To make food. Now there’s purpose.

PS. THANKS for the mega response for the workshops. We’re looking at possible venues over the next few weeks and will set up a website for booking etc. I can’t wait to meet so many people that are even interested in this lifestyle. I didn’t think I’d get such a positive response. I don’t have the words to express how stoked I am.

some old things are worth saving

We walk many a mile in our lives, our shoes are almost part of us. Our choice of footwear is a representation of our personalities, they are us. I used to have quite the shoe collection, mostly dominated by worn out cowboy boots, my favourite choice for many years. But they’re a bit showy and impractical in my line of work, so they’ve all gone bar one pair. What I wear now is all about hard-wearing practicality. Handmade. Leather.

Years ago, I chose to live a life with less stuff, but still with stuff…just useful stuff. Like I mentioned, I like stuff that will last because it’s hard wearing and practical. Not stuff that’s necessarily in fashion, but more so I like the ‘won’t let me down’ kind stuff. Hence my love for leather boots, in particular these old boots. I’ve been a bit slack in caring for them of late. Just too distracted with the daily jobs of life. But my lack of care withstanding, they’ve served me well. They keep me feet dry walking in long grass on a hunt. They comfort me on the coldest days of winter, and they’re often the barrier between me and mud. They give and give, and I’ve been a bad host. Leather is like a relationship, it needs love. Each time I tie those laces I tell myself I should treat them soon, but I get occupied with planting new veg, cooking, or just being busy being a dad.

The way I’ve treated my old worn out boots, is similar to how we tend to treat nature. We take and take and really give little in return. I know I go on about this but it’s the undeniable reality. It’s something visible to even the untrained eye. Our houses are filled with stuff, all made with natural resources as the base. This computer I’m typing on used natural resources. The clothes I wear, natural resources. So that makes all these things all the more precious. Instead of discarding items when they seem less useful, appropriate or out of fashion, is it not better for us to retain them, to wear them out completely before replacing them? This is what I ask myself. This is what I end up thinking about when I’m rubbing bee’s wax leather treatment over my worn out boots. I wish I didn’t think so much about this stuff, just shut up and polish the damn boots Rohan.

Over the last few months, we’ve been either selling or giving away many of the items in our house that are not necessary to us. Other people can get some use out of them, as long as they’re not discarded to trash. One thing that can’t be discarded is these old boots. With a little love they’ll serve me many a year. And as I age so too will my boots. They will scar as I do, they will tell stories as I will and eventually like me, they will outlive their purpose and be returned to nothing but mere particles in a world that is forever changing and recycling itself, towards the inevitable. But for now these old boys are now ready to face the new day.

some old things just have to go

Each afternoon there is a chore that someone in the house must do without fail. It normally happens late in the day, dusk in fact. An old metal colander is plucked off the wall and, with high hopes, the individual, (often one of the older girls) walks out to the chook pen to check the eggs. There’s a sense of excitement, hope and anticipation, a full bounty of eggs is the prize. Some days it’s a good score and others it’s fairly lame. Of late the older hens haven’t been as productive as they once were, a fact that’s been on my mind. It’s that time of year when old hens must be replaced by the young hens (pullets) which have been maturing over summer and are now at the stage of laying.

We eat eggs, truth be told we eat a lot of eggs. Be it in baking, for breakfast or in traditional staples like tortilla espanola. So when the productivity wanes we need to make the call. The old girls have to go. It very much hinges on balance of feed cost versus egg return, simple back-yarder economics really. I can’t afford to keep the non laying chooks in the pen, it costs too much for the supplementary feed of grain. This weekend was the time to act. We telephoned a few places, but I think most people that live the lifestyle we do, have had the same idea of late and most of the pullets across the region had been sold. With a little perseverance we came across a lovely Hungarian couple who had loads of chooks for sale. I think they variety was ‘Gingerhams’… I don’t really care for breeds, as long as they lay eggs for us, for as long as possible, hopefully all the way up to the coldest depths of winter. That’s all I’m really interested in, it’s all about getting food to the table.

As we pulled into the driveway back home I knew the inevitable activity would take place that afternoon. Years ago in my previous existence I never once questioned the process involved to get that chicken meat available for my consumption. Now when I cut that jugular and break the neck of a bird, I not only concentrate on the task at hand but I can’t help but think more about where we are as a culture. How far removed from the reality of food production most of us are.

For most people in the western world, the reality is that every single piece of food that is eaten has been touched, in some way, by another human being. There is no escape from that reality. From the coffee you sip of a morning, the banana you eat at work, the pasta you cook of an evening. Everything. When it comes to meat I reckon we ought to have a very real connection with the processes necessary to get a living animal transformed into butchered meat for our kitchens. Hundreds if not thousands of chickens have been raised and killed for my consumption over the last 36 years, I ought to have cared more about how that was made possible.

How has this been achieved? What techniques were used to kill the animal? What were the birds living conditions? What were they fed? What treatment has the meat had? These questions need to be asked. Unfortunately I can’t answer these questions, I doubt anyone other than the insiders to the industry could. Like many, most facets of the food industry, it wasn’t always like this. In days of old, and not too far back (as recent enough for my parents to remember in fact) chicken was a treat. Now it’s almost an everyday food for some people. That demand for chicken meat requires a lot of chooks to be raised in an efficient manner of large scale and intensive production. To keep up with demand the birds need to be ready for processing with a fast turnaround time, (30 – 60 days I believe). That’s phenomenal. That’s scary. I’d rather apply the approach of the old days and eat chicken less frequently. Sometimes I eat it when I’m on the road, when there isn’t much choice, but the reality is that it’s not often on our menu. I’m talking about a whole chook cooked so rarely that we can recall the moments we’ve cooked it during the year on our fingertips.

As a result of choosing a reduced chicken menu, we have to kill the birds ourselves. It’s never an easy task, but it’s something that just has to be done. The chickens we eat are usually a breed that’s selected for egg production, not meat development, so the birds are very different in physiology to a commercial meat bird. They taste significantly different too, but it’s unmistakably chicken and it’s delicious.

Warm blood hits my boots, the wall, the cone. The bird will wriggle. The last bit of living electricity exiting the body then falls limp. It’s a kill, there is no bullshit about it. Some TV shows talk about the humanity of the dispatch but the reality is, you’re killing another animal in order to balance your omnivorous diet. I don’t deny that.

It’s just the same as me catching a fish, shooting a rabbit or quail on the run. It’s us animals killing another animal to get that essential protein that our bodies have evolved to expect. The sad fact is that process of a kill is nowhere advertised or communicated to the billions of people that eat a chicken subway, Macca’s burger or a million processed chicken nuggets consumed every day. That pisses me off. I lament that we have lost that connection with how meat is produced. So much so that when I show someone how to kill a chicken they predictably cry. Tears will slide down cheeks as they hold the neck of the bird, blood starts to flow and the animal dies by their hand. It’s bloody and gory and it’s something every meat eater should know or they should stop eating meat. Opinionated? Bloody right I am.

You imagine for a minute if there wasn’t that John Smith working on the killing floor at the factory that kills your animals for you. Would you still eat meat? I asked myself that question years ago and find myself here. Taking care of the dirty work myself. It doens’t make me a better person. It just means I’m a true omnivore.

 

Workshop, Whole Larder Love Style

Over the years I’ve been asked how I do this and that…mostly  what’s the best technique for a certain processes that will result in a meal or some other process that is a regular part of my way of life. Sometimes it’s impossible to answer these questions in a couple of sentences because the task in question is complex. So we’ve looked at some possible venues and crunched some numbers and we now want to see if there is any real interest in holding some workshops to share these skills with you.

Imagine a weekend (Friday night to Sunday arvo) in sweet accommodation in Daylesford (pics to come) where I’ll teach you whatever it is that your interested in learning. We have a massive kitchen for cooking demos, a pizza oven for dinner cooking and the accommodation is so cool, I want to move in permanently!

 

Here is a range of things I often get asked about, I’d like to get an idea of which areas people would like to cover:

Rabbits – skinning, gutting, butchering and cooking (you have to do one yourself though)
Trout – smoking (hot), butterfly filleting
Wild Mushroom foraging – whats safe, cooking demo
Backyard dispatch – whats the best way to dispatch a bird and how to butcher it…(you have to do one yourself though)
Gardening – seasonal info
Firearms –  safety, maintenance, cleaning care
Curing meat – how to make jamon, chorizo, bacon, pancetta etc
Larder – passata/jam/relish making
Flour – bread/pasta/pizza base making

The workshop sessions would be in small intimate numbers so I can get around to everyone and answer individual needs.

Things I can’t cover, because I’m not really sure how I do them myself, are photography and writing. They just happen. I can’t teach that.

Our number crunching is based on 12 people per workshop weekend, and would include:

2 nights accommodation in Daylesford
a hamper of local goodies on arrival
all meals
cooking demos
how tos
tips and tricks

approx $475pp

I’d love to get some feedback and even see if there is enough viable interest to book a one off event.

 

 

 

 

Jack’s Night

The afternoon had been spent making the first batch of hot N’ spicy zucchini relish for the summer. It had been a warm day, thankfully not one of those devastatingly draining hot days where you could just strip off everything and stand under a cold shower. Instead it was a kinda, just right, not too hot, summer day. For me though, working the kitchen, with the sun setting in the western window, it was a different story. I was now hot. It had got to that time when you need to take a break, sit under a fan with a cool drink and chill. But, I had vegetables to chop and a tortilla cooking on the stove. Vegetables don’t cook themselves you know … Pesky little buggers.

It’s a little early in the season to be cooking a glut of zucchini, I mean the zucchini in my garden is growing and I’ll admit they’re rather small, not even a feeds worth. But here I am sweating over a hot stove … it’s all Jack’s fault. He’s gone veg growing mad this year (he officially has veg fever). Months ago he built a poly tunnel. Not one that comes as a kit that you merely assemble … oh no that’s not good enough for Mr. Jack! He used this clever (and cheap) method using poly tubes, timber and plastic, and the result is the bee’s knees. Why? Because it puts him months in advance with veg productivity (not that we’re at all competitive about growing veg). It’s a cool climate up here in the central highlands, as a result we have a short summer growing season. The beauty of a poly tunnel is that it harnesses whatever sunlight there is, and multiplies it tenfold making those sensitive summer veg happy little beasts. As a result he gets mega veg, and it’s all ready well and truly before my veg, which is at the mercy of the elements. Hence the esky full of zucchini left on my door step a day earlier … by Jack. And when the zucchini is in glut, I make relish (which just happens to be one of Jack’s favourites). We have a deal, he gives me excess zucchini and I give him jars of relish in return. But enough about relish, this story is about hunting.

I’d already taken the rifle out in the morning and bagged a rabbit. I have a quota of 50 rabbits to shoot for an event I’m cooking for, on Australia Day. One rabbit a day won’t cut it. There’s no time to muck around here, I need more productivity, more bunnies in the freezer. And even though it was hot, I knew I needed to go out in the evening and bolster the numbers up. These rabbits won’t shoot, skin and gut themselves.

I messaged Jack, who’s much more handy with the rifle, and we tee’d up a 7pm rendezvous. “I’ll try not to be too late” I said to Kate in passing as I left the sweet lady on the sofa. With a parting kiss I was gone. Short hunts are rarely the case. Honestly, I have the intention of making a hunt a quick process, however the reality is, once I’m out in the fields I get lost in the moment, the fields of gold, the wind in the eucalyptus, the scurry of enticing rabbits and the chorus of birds singing their goodnight dusk ballads. It’s not the bloodlust of being on the kill, it’s more about being out of the physical house, instead I’m out in the true house where I feel at home.

This night though, I was clumsy. Not in regards to gun safety, more so that it just wasn’t my night, I just felt clumsy. You know those days when things just don’t work out? You pour out of date milk onto your cereal, get a parking fine, spill a coffee and then miss an important appointment. This was my evening. (ps. I don’t eat cereal) I even noticed how annoying I walked over the rough ground beneath me, my footsteps were clumsy, this annoys me to no end. I just wasn’t feeling 100%. I blame my diminished focus on the disturbed sleep I’ve been having of late. I wake up worrying about where we’ll live in the future, how we’ll secure a home for our family of girls and how will we afford this bill or that rent.

I liked being out there, but it was Jack who did all the work. He was calm and focused. He’s a man of efficiency. He installed a bi-pod mounted on the stock of his rifle that gives 80% accuracy. When he wants a rabbit shot cleanly in the head, he normally gets it. Me on the other hand, I’m determined to keep shooting without the aid of a bi-pod, as I figure I may not always have one, or I may be using someone else’s rifle and I want to still be able to nail the shot. So on this night my clumsy stubbornness resulted in 2 rabbits while Jack easily shot 10 or so.

As the light diminished and the sun had sunk completely, we called it a day. The colour of the setting sky and the golden glow on the cured fields of grain warmed my heart. It’s such a beautiful place at times. And even though I’d been lacklustre in my ability I was happy for Jack. It was his night tonight.

staples

I often worry the I haven’t planted enough, or I’m not caring enough for the veg that I am growing. I get despondent when I visit other people’s gardens and when they appear like a veritable food jungle in comparison to my patch. As a result I often leave feeling deflated.

It’s part and parcel of relying on yourself to supplement much of your food supply by being a veg grower. You stop worrying so much about money and start worrying more about your vegetables (for the record I still worry about money, more so the lack of).

It’s like clockwork at this time, in the middle of summer, when I start complaining to myself that I should have mulched earlier, or that I planted the wrong variety, or that I haven’t watered enough. It’s all very much useless energy I spend in worrying. I can’t change anything about it my annual habit of mid-summer glumness. It is what it is. I’ll always be hard on myself. For example, in this yard I have planted so many onion only to see them fail as a crop. Many small onions, and many just weren’t even worth harvesting. I torture myself thinking that it was something I did wrong. But the truth is, it’s been too cold and wet this past spring and not ideal conditions for a productive onion crop. It’s just something I have to accept. On the flip side though, pea and broccoli did really well. Spuds have been a challenge here, and it’s mainly because of position. I think if we had the entire vegetable garden located elsewhere we’d have better yield but it’s the place I’m growing in at the moment, so it is what it is.

Onions didn’t do as well as I’d like but shallots did! Go figure.

One positive side to renting is that you tend to grow a lot of food in pots. It’s an insurance policy, just on the off chance you’re landlord tells you they might want to move back, our sell the place. Plants like chilli respond well to this arrangement as they like the heat of residing in pots, it’s a micro climate, and they also like the soil to be well drained. We have one chilli plant that is fruiting like mad at the moment but the rest are just at budding stage. I had to make a batch of salsa picante for an event I’m cooking at on Australia Day for The School of Life. I committed to making both my salsa picante and my hot zucchini relish to marry with rabbit burgers and the famous Farmers Larder Pork Sausages. The salsa is at its best when it has a few weeks to brew in bottles, it seems to bring out the ‘slap in the face’ flavour, and adds a little more complexity to the salsa. I mixed my chilli with some (cough!) store bought chilli, and the end result is there….BANG! CHILLI!!

For us chilli is like potato and onion. It’s something we eat everyday. Be it fresh in summer and autumn, or dried in winter. Be it a salsa made in summer and enjoyed in winter or maybe as a garnish on fresh caught ocean fish. It’s one of our staple ingredients. And for that reason I grow lots of it now. It makes sense to me to grow lots of the things that we consume a lot of. Thats my approach to veg growing.

I have to three main objectives in veg growing.

1. Grow lots of things that you need a lot of

2. Grow veg that you need a little of here and there in the kitchen like celery, herbs, carrots etc

3. Grow heaps in summer that you can store and eat in winter

And because I can’t grow everything I take what I can get from other growers when I can get it. These blackcurrants I scored form my longtime mate and ex-boss the mad Polish Pete. This guy has a love, a passion for growing fruit that I’ve not seen in any other human. He truly believes that the dude upstairs invented fruit and veg for us guys downstairs and to celebrate that eden he’s set up a 100-variety fruit orchard that’s always made me drool when I make a summer visit. He has so many blackcurrants this year he doesn’t have a use for them, so we picked some (and a bucket of plums, limes, lemons and peaches) in return for some of our elderflower cordial and a copy of my book. A fair deal, as we don’t have the selection of fruit trees as he does! Clever kitchen Kate made a knockout spicy plum and current jam and a smashing blackcurrant cordial (goes terribly well with vodka and ice).

Our garden is now still in transition. It got knocked about by three days of hot dry wind and almost 40C days, but it’s survived. We had a grass fire on our road, but thankfully the CFA got to it before it took hold, we could have lost everything I suppose. But the staples garden is still there, growing us beans, tomatoes, pumpkin, broccoli, potatoes, carrots, beetroot, beans, lettuce, pumpkin, and more beans and pumpkin. Staples. They feed us over winter.

the river that swallowed my soul

The old Jeep engine whined as he struggled to get up the steep ascent, one tight corner after another. The bush was dominated by snow gums, well remnants of them anyway. The dead eucalyptus rose above the ground cover like ghosts, a reminder of the fierce bushfire that only a few years ago devastated the region. The corners just led to more corners, unending and frustrating but a necessary passage back home. It did however present more time for me to think, the monotony of the road often gives way to deep thought and I had plenty to ponder, it had been a hell of a week.

Almost a week earlier I left the old school house and started an epic journey to my favourite river in New South Wales, high up in the alps of the Australian high country, up around 1500 metres above sea level. It’s where the dingo howl at the night, the weather will dangerously change within minutes, the land is cruel and very unforgiving. The days had been extreme to say the least, with the UV intense and the heat physically draining. The nights where at times freezing, I was thankful my roof top tent provided me with some basic comforts.

Jeff was my fishing parter again this year, it was the river he introduced me to after all and it’s the one thing that conects us, a love of fishing the Eucumbene River. We had such success last summer, the fishing was good, so much so that I recall we ate trout most nights, ending our successful days of fishing. This year was to prove much more different. The contrast was evident, the river was down at least 30cm, maybe more. This meant the fishing was harder, fish spooked like timid butterflies out in the grassy valley. Day one and not a cracker, not even a rise, a strike or a sniff. After a morning session then a patch of downstream fishing, we came back to camp scratching our heads and eating potatoes for dinner. As fly fishermen seem to do, we contemplated all the reasons why we failed. Was it the water level? The UV? The heat? The barometric pressure? Where had the fish gone? We figured a smart fish would be down stream, in the cooler deeper water, most likely hanging out in the shady gorge country just upstream of the lake itself. We broke camp the following morning, the heat was not kind, sweat beading on my forehead, the air dry and hot in my lungs, the march flies relentless, laying plenty of their sharp blood sucking bites.

There is nothing comfortable about this country, it will literally eat you for breakfast. The old boy was packed up and I started the steep drive up the goat track, getting momentarily stuck on a deep drop in the track, the same spot I came a cropper last year. The gravel gave no quarter, and the tyres slid in brake as I hit the rise, down the hill a few metres and then back for another try, this time I gave him a good squeeze and the motor returned with traction to the rubber and a big old bounce and over we went. Rocky, steep and mostly inaccessible camp spots are harder work to get to but worth it for the plain fact that they are less abused by poorly behaved bush bashers. We hit the tarmac right at the top of the hill and headed for the river downstream, we had hope in our hearts. Both of us had had a massive, challenging year of 2012 and this trip was, for us, our annual saviour, our recharger.

Our fingers tightly crossed in hope to secure the good camp site which was right at tracks end. We had spotted it last year but unfortunately it was occupied at the time so we had the second best site instead. A decent camp site would soften the blow of the poor fishing so far. As we approached the site, Jeff made full use of his tall frame, and spotted the good site as vacant. Things were looking up. After a bit of camp layout talk, we set up camp with the intention of leaving some time to wet a line. I tramped up a rocky precipice that gave a fine view of the river and there directly below me, in the clear mountain water, was a party of trout. Some of the smaller fish moved in a small school, and larger (and tastier) looking trout were visible lurking in the shadows. Thats what I came here for, food. And this food is the best food nature can provide. It’s raised in mountain water so pure you drink it, straight from the river, and without a second thought to pollution. Excited by the prospect of landing one of these juicy beasts I grabbed my fly rod, rolled up my jeans, clambered over the rocks and waded out for a good position. Sitting quietly and waiting for a rise, studying the water, reading the feeding lane, then…..a rise! Followed by another! This is when the hunter enzyme is released and my heart rate rises, my senses go into overdrive and I have to hold myself back. I remind myself to slow down and figure my cast, the voice of calm in my head…”don’t rush it boy…take your time. You may only have one shot, so make it count” A few casts above the rise, direct on the feeding lane the fish was dining on, then i worked the fly further up the water. You’d think in this water, with that clean ‘present’ of fly that a strike was imminent. But not a cracker.

Jeff and I fished a session that evening, it was still so hot, and heading back to camp empty handed our little fishermen souls were somewhat deflated. We sat again pondering and discussing possible explanations for the poor fishing. Jeff has been fishing this river for seven years and never not caught anything. As the stars filled the sky I bathed vodka on ice and Jeff likewise, but with his ice sat whiskey. A sky of 7 billion stars entertained us with satellites, shooting stars, constellations and the 10:45pm from Sydney.

That night we ate ‘the no fish camp stew’.

The morning came, and two well rested souls geared up for a day on the water. A good camp feed of my home cured bacon, some backyard eggs, my new chilli salsa picante, and new season avocado between some toasted english muffin. Jeff and I were now fuelled up for a big day on the river. You need energy on this river, you concentrate so much on the actual fishing that you ignore the physical effort you make during a session. There is the clambering over boulders, managing the slimy wet rocks and the tramping on river banks through dense cover of acacia, hakea and tea-tree (the latter of which was in stunning summer flower). Within the first pool I had a strike of a good size rainbow trout, finally a feed for tonights dinner! The fish jumped and put on the display, as a rainbow trout so often do. I brought the beast closer in towards me, within finger reach. Then the fly line tanlged under my boots, the tippet went instantly taught, the line snapped, the fish ran, I almost cried. Well thats an exaggeration. I did hurt inside….. A LOT!

Its an unspoken rule between fly fisherman to not give advice when disaster has struck like this, so I’ll just go ahead and remind any fly fishermen out there that it’s at this point that comments on how to land a fish are unwanted. Allow me to wallow in my failure and to be disgusted at myself, that is enough pain for now. Nah it’s not that bad really, but dinner slipped through my fingers. I continued upstream, determined than ever. Jeff and I took it in turns to fish the runs, and within the hour, strike! Another great size trout. It fought well so I kept the line up high and tight. I worked the fish closer in, but he had plans for me. He pulled the oldest trout escapist trick in the book. Run down stream. Through the boulders and white bubbles, out into the fast water it disappeared. Snap! The fly broke off. Fish gone. Devastation. Futility. These words and feelings filled my mind.

A little later I caught a small fish, too small to eat. So back it went, hopefully it will fatten up for a session of spring fishing later in the year.

Perseverance or pig headedness, you decide. But this is a trait that is engrained in my approach to life, and at the half way mark of the day, Jeff called it quits. I think he said something along the lines of flogging a dead horse. I on the other hand, could not hold back and expressed that I would continue upstream. It is a once a year river trip after all, it’s a long way to come here and I wanted to make the trip count. “You want to do it solo? Are you sure? Take it slow … very slow”. That was the last I heard from Jeff for many hours. I continued upstream alone in gorge country, deep in the valley. Around each bend in the river was more beauty, everything around me making me feel both inspired and intimidated. If anything happened I’d be a goner. I think the biggest risk was slipping on the rocks and cracking the old noggin open, more so than a run in with a snake. Although this trip I spotted five snakes, two of which swam across the river in front of me, either Red Bellied Blacks or Tiger Snakes. Enough to keep you on your toes. Like I said earlier, either snakes, insects, wild dogs or dingos, there’s is always something out to get you. Fishing this beautiful river is worth it. I fished for hours, losing myself in the water, landing another small rainbow trout, returning it to the water to continue to grow. Upstream I spotting a massive brown trout, I mean massive! I unsuccessfully tried to entice it with a dry fly, no reaction at all. I tried everything I could, I even added a dropper nymph…but nothing. This big fish wasn’t even intimidated by my presence! This was his water and he knew I couldn’t catch him, he just wouldn’t allow it. Dirty old brown trout. He basically stuck his finger up at me (a figurative finger, as fish don’t actually have fingers). I gave up on cranky old brown and instead allowed my curiosity to take me around each new bend of the river, over the next run, in search of that perfect stretch of water that might just produce a nice feed.

Looking up I kept a watchful eye on the sun, it was still high enough but was on the drop down, and before long I’d be losing light, as the river sat deep in a valley and evening darkness sneaks in early. To safely return to camp that day (with enough light to manage the rocks) I had to move now. Either that or I would have to sleep on rocks, which after a long day I wasn’t keen on. Apart from the shirt on my back, my knife, a fishing bag and rod I was not geared up for an overnight camp in the bush.

I set off on the downstream tramp with limited energy. It took me hours of tramping, a mixture of exhaustion and boredom set in. I was covering the same ground that had been futile (in regards to fishing) which was like rubbing a little salt into the wound. But I had to get back to camp, I knew Jeff would be concerned. Each natural landmark, a fallen tree, a large boulder, even a bend in the river, all were welcome sights, as they signalled my location. Eventually I reached the open dry grass near camp, with one last river crossing, a little sorry and sore, I entered camp greeted by Jeff…..”you bloody mad Spaniard!”

We fished the following day, another small trout, possibly a record for the smallest trout I’ve ever caught. Again futile fishing, we headed back to camp to rest ourselves for the late afternoon rise. I climbed up into the rooftop tent, shaded by the heavy canvas protected from the suns intensity. All windows where open and what little breeze there was was very much welcome. It entered through the fly screen softly caressing my now half naked body which was stripped down to keep out the heat. Tired, I closed my eyes, and attempted to single out each sound. Like a song made of different tracks recorded in a studio, I singled out each track, the wind flapping canvas, the grass, the many different insects, endless birds of the high country and the relentless sound of the water flowing in the river (that had consumed my fisherman’s soul). It had taken my energy and given very little in return. It did give me beauty, as it did last year and it did teach me a lesson. A very important lesson. Nothing goes to plan, no matter how much of yourself you give, you are a nothing but flesh and bone, it’s nature that rules us. I had been licked, put back in my place. This years trip instead of recharging me had instead said, no loudly yelled at me…..”Rohan you ought to know better, brother! Don’t think you know me, you are the child of my creation, I WILL DICTATE THE SUCCESS YOU HAVE IN MY WORLD”.

On the final day, even though I knew I was beaten, I set about fishing just as the new sun peaked over the eastern range. Not even a rise. I painfully called it a day, I thanked the river and left her behind until next time. When she will no doubt teach me more about her ways, and no doubt I will learn more about myself.

the school of life

The School of Life is a new enterprise offering good ideas for everyday life

Thats the idea behind The School of Life. It’s pretty simple. They’re people trying to help people in a kinda cool way. They’ve asked me to take part in hosting an Australia Day feast with a twist. I’ve set the menu of food that I like to eat for a summer BBQ. And you guessed it, its not the norm. No burnt Lamb chops, no beef steaks, no cheap produced sausages, but real food, pork sausages sourced directly from the pig farmer, rabbit, and plenty of local grown veg in delicious formats.

If you’ve missed other events I’ve been involved in and you’re in Melbourne come along and we shall feast like kings of old. Tickets are pretty cheap, but the food will be rich and full of life. Tickets here.