Something Fishy

by Derek Hansen

  ‘Has to be,’ said Dave. ‘It must be some kind of mutant triploid.’

  Mutant triploid? The brothers thought his GM trout was a mutant triploid. That was fine by him but it still didn’t solve his problem. If the monster trout ate all the food in the lake and all the surviving browns and triploids, there’d be nothing in the lake when the world’s press arrived. So much for his promises of world records! The future swam before his eyes and he didn’t like the look of it one bit. No fish. No fame and glory. No guests for his hotel. Just public ridicule and, worse, a financial catastrophe.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ he said.

  ‘We’re going to have to catch it,’ said Dan.‘And catch it now.’

  ‘Maybe we can catch it and release it again the day before the media arrive,’ said Gregan hopefully.

  ‘If we catch that mutant the best thing we can do is put a bullet in it,’ said Dave.

  ‘Two bullets,’ said Dan.

  ‘But can we catch it?’ said Gregan.

  ‘I took the precaution of bringing a fifty-pound game rod. It’s back at the lodge,’ said Dave.‘Mind if I go get it?’

  ‘Fifty-pound?’ said Gregan.

  ‘We’re not catching this fish for sport,’ said Dan.

  ‘I know that,’ said Gregan. ‘But are you sure fifty pounds will be strong enough?’

  As Dave set off for the rod Gregan turned to watch the brown trout among the dead branches. He noticed a couple of rainbow triploids also hiding in the shallows.

  ‘It’s a pity we’re not holding the opening now,’ said Gregan. ‘That mutant triploid would keep the entire trout world talking about us for years.’

  ‘No one would ever break that record, that’s for sure,’ said Dan.

  ‘Any idea where we’re going to find it?’

  ‘It’s hungry,’ said Dan.‘Reckon it’ll find us.’

  When Dave returned, they moved on from the fallen tree and away from any known snags.

  ‘This is one of my saltwater poppers,’ said Dave. He tied the shocking pink lure onto his line with a perfection loop. ‘It’s got a very aggressive action. Probably scare the daylights out of every fish in the lake except the one we’re after.’ He pulled his game belt out of his bag and offered it to Gregan.

  ‘It’s all yours,’ said Gregan. He didn’t want to let on that he’d never so much as touched any rod that wasn’t a fly rod. He noticed that Dave had also brought a heavy-duty game gaff with him. The boys weren’t taking any chances.

  ‘Here goes,’ said Dave. He cast long out into the lake and retrieved as fast as he could wind.

  ‘Are you sure you’re not overdoing it?’ asked Gregan. The lure skipped and darted and dived and kicked up a rooster tail.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Dan.

  They watched as Dave sent the lure flying a second time. Halfway in, the fish struck.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ said Dan in awe.

  Dave held on as the giant trout rose from the water and tail-walked away from them for twenty metres before crashing back beneath the surface. Then Dave’s problems really began. It took off for the far side of the lake.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ said Dave as he watched the line fizz off his Penn International. One hundred metres went, then two without the fish showing any sign of slowing.

  ‘You’re going to have to increase the drag,’ said Dan.

  ‘It’s up to twenty now,’ said Dave.‘Can’t risk any more.’

  The line continued to fizz off. Then, without warning, it slowed.

  ‘Gotcha!’ said Dave. He began the hard work of regaining his line, short stroking like he did when he was fighting bluefin. The trout set off in an arc, turning sideways to the line, making Dave fight for every centimetre.

  ‘My God,’ said Gregan breathlessly. ‘Why couldn’t it have waited for the opening?’

  ‘There’d be no fish left in the lake by the opening,’ said Dan. ‘And once it had eaten everything there was to eat, it would probably die itself.’

  ‘I’m going to have it mounted,’ said Gregan suddenly. ‘I’ll hang it over the reception desk. I might put a hidden camera there, too, to catch the look on those editors’ faces when they check in. Show the tape on the night of the farewell dinner.’

  ‘Maybe that’s not such a great idea,’ said Dan.‘After all, you did promise one of them would catch the world record. There’s no fish going to beat this one.’

  ‘We can say we found it floating belly up one day,’ said Gregan. ‘Say we kept it as an example of the size of fish this lake has to offer.’

  ‘You’re the boss,’ said Dan.

  ‘Damn right,’ said Gregan.‘Just catch that fish.’

  They turned their attention back to Dave. His forehead was beaded in sweat and the muscles in his arms were as pumped as a weightlifter’s. He still had a hundred metres of line to get back. Every time he gained a couple of winds the fish took it back.

  ‘Bloody thing’s turned sideways on me,’ grunted Dave.‘I’m not getting anywhere with it.’

  ‘I’ll take over,’ said Dan. He took the game belt off Dave and fitted it around his waist. When he was satisfied, he took the rod and pushed the drag up a couple of notches.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ said Dave.

  But Dan ignored him. He started short stroking and winding, short stroking and winding, until he’d turned the fish’s head. The fight resumed in earnest. The fish darted one way and then another, ducked, dived and threw itself recklessly out of the water.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ said Dan.

  ‘We should have fished heavier,’ said Gregan. ‘For Christ’s sake, don’t let it break the line.’

  Dan continued to put pressure on the fish, aided by the extra drag. Slowly, bit by bit, he regained line. In desperation the fish resorted to its earlier tactics and turned side-on. It was a manoeuvre that wore down the fisherman while giving the fish time to recover. But Dan was determined not to allow the fish to get away with the tactic a second time.

  He pumped the rod hard, methodically and resolutely, and once again managed to turn the fish’s head. This time the monster was slow to react and Dan grabbed back valuable metres. They could now see it in the shallow water just thirty metres away, shaking its head from side to side, trying to turn away but unable to gain the necessary line.

  ‘It’s spent,’ said Dave.‘Ease off the drag.’

  ‘No way,’ said Dan.‘It could be foxing.’

  As if on cue, the giant fish suddenly kicked into life and swam hard at them.

  ‘Wind!’ screamed Dave.

  Dan wound. He didn’t need telling. Any slack in the line when the trout changed direction would bring an abrupt end to the tussle.

  ‘Lighten the drag!’ screamed Dave.

  Instead Dan wound more furiously and backed away from the water’s edge in short skipping steps. The fish turned. The rod dipped as though someone was deliberately trying to snap off the tip. But the line held. Dan wound his way to the water’s edge. The fish was now just fifteen metres away and beginning to wallow.

  ‘Get the gaff,’ said Dan.

  ‘Ease off the drag,’ said Dave.

  ‘Already done that,’ said Dan.

  ‘And I’ve got the gaff,’ said Dave. The fish glided towards them like an in-bound space shuttle, out of fuel and engines shut down.

  Dan held the rod tip high and eased the fish towards shore.

  ‘Shoulder,’ said Dan.

  ‘No worries,’ said Dave.

  ‘Hurry up!’ said Gregan. He could have learned a lot by watching the two professionals in action but he only had eyes for the giant fish. It was a monster. Its back and tail were already out of the water yet it was still out of range of the gaff.

  ‘Easy,’ said Dave.

  ‘No worries,’ said Dan.

  ‘Easy . . .’

  Dave buried the tuna gaff deep into the trout’s massive shoulder and with Gregan’s help dragged the struggling fish up onto the bank.


  ‘Got ’im!’ screamed Gregan.‘We’re back in business!’

  The fish — his fish! — was magnificent. This was no Frankenstein fish but a superb XXOS example of a rainbow trout, perfectly proportioned and perfectly coloured. If he’d had a camera he would have taken a photo to show to Everton Sweet, if the scientist was still alive. Who wouldn’t be proud of such a fish?

  ‘What a freak,’ said Dave. He made no effort to remove the gaff even though the trout had ceased to struggle.

  ‘What a brute,’ said Dan.

  ‘What a shame,’ said Gregan. Now that they’d caught his fish and saved the launch of the lodge he could begin to think of happier scenarios.‘Just imagine if one of the editors had caught it. Would Big Trout Lake be on the world map or what?’

  ‘Just be glad we got the bastard,’ said Dave. ‘What do you reckon, Dan? Thirty-five kilos?’

  ‘And some,’ said Dan. ‘Trout have no right growing this big. I can’t begin to imagine the damage this fish has done. All the food it must have eaten. All the galaxia, scud, frogs and hundreds of trout. I guess those browns and the normal triploids can come out of hiding now and get on with the business of fattening up.’

  A duck landed on the lake as though sensing it was now safe to do so.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Dave. He’d taken a few steps towards the fallen gum to check on the status of the browns hiding among its branches.‘So far they haven’t moved.’

  ‘Give them time,’ said Dan.‘And give me a hand with this.’

  Dan took off his jacket and rolled the monster fish in it, making sure the fins were pressed flat against the fish’s body.

  ‘The taxidermist will love me for this,’ he said. ‘However, my wife may take an opposing view.’

  Gregan laughed. He could already imagine the sensation the giant trout would cause mounted behind the reception desk. His partner Richo had scoffed at the suggestion of a giant fibreglass trout. Now he had something infinitely better. He turned to watch the sun clear the eucalypts and alight on a lake untroubled except by the silent paddling of the lone duck.

  ‘The beginning of another successful day,’ he said.

  The duck rose on its haunches, flapping its wings as though desperate to take flight. The water around it exploded. It was snapped up as if it was no more than a well-presented nymph.

  ‘God help us!’ said Dan.‘There’s another one!’

  Gregan watched the ever-widening ripples in horror. He went weak at the knees and had to grab hold of a tree branch for support. How many giant fish were there still in the lake? His whole project was headed down the gurgler and he was powerless to do anything about it.

  Gregan and the two brothers discussed the problem over breakfast.

  ‘We’re going to have to catch it,’ said Dan. ‘As soon as we finish eating.’

  ‘How do we know there’s not a third or a fourth?’ said Dave.‘Or a fifth or a sixth?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter how many of those mutants there are,’ said Dan grimly.‘We’ve just got to keep fishing until there are no more left.’

  ‘How can we be sure we’ve caught them all?’ said Dave.‘If one’s just dined on a couple of those big browns it might not eat again for days.’

  ‘Well, what do you suggest?’ said Dan. ‘The whole future of this lake depends on us catching those mutants and catching them quickly.’

  The brothers fell silent as they chewed on their toast and searched their minds for solutions. None beckoned.

  ‘What do you think, boss?’ said Dave.

  ‘I think we’re tackling this problem the wrong way,’ said Gregan eventually.‘Tell me, you boys ever wear white shoes?’

  Gregan looked a little out of place in his white linen suit and white shoes as he made the farewell address at the farewell dinner of what had been the most amazing event the magazine editors had ever attended. In truth, it didn’t matter what Gregan wore. He could have dressed in a clown suit or a full-length ball gown and it wouldn’t have changed a thing. Gregan had delivered on his promise. The editors had all caught their biggest trout and one of them had set the new world record. They were ecstatic, overwhelmed and eager to splash their stories all over their magazines. Television coverage had already ensured that Big Trout Lake would become the most famous trout-fishing lake in the world.

  ‘Don’t forget to tell your readers Big Trout Lodge opens for business in three weeks,’ said Gregan. ‘And tell them to come prepared.’

  He sat down as happy as he’d been when he’d bought two magnificent Queenslanders in a cul-de-sac at the southern end of Surfers and replaced them with a thirty-two-storey block of apartments. At certain times in the afternoon, the shadow stretched more than three hundred metres down the beach. He thought back to the day when the first editors had arrived and how they’d openly ridiculed the enormous XXOS trout mounted on the wall behind the reception desk, how they’d laughed at it and called it a fake. Well, they were all believers now, disciples even, anxious to go forth and spread the word.

  He looked across the room to where his bankers sat, their faces flushed with wine and their association with yet another success. He saw Dan and Dave propped up by their wives and enjoying more fame and attention than they’d entertained in their most febrile dreams. And there was his young wife, dazzlingly beautiful as always, being videoed with the editor of American Trout and Stream. Brilliant explosions lit the night sky beyond the windows and he rose to look over his lake, where the fireworks were reflected in all their splendour, and where the last of his trout, his wonderful, magnificent, world-famous, world-record trout, were dying.

  He couldn’t help smiling.

  Gregan let his thoughts slide back to the despairing breakfast with Dan and Dave three weeks earlier. He remembered their conversation word for word.

  ‘You know what?’ he said to the brothers. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t try to catch these mutant fish.’

  ‘What?’ said Dan.

  ‘The problem is not that they want to eat everything in the lake, but that we’re not giving them any option.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Dave.

  ‘Maybe we should feed them instead.’

  ‘Feed them?’ said Dan.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Gregan. ‘Then they won’t eat the other trout. Tell me, what do they feed the salmon in the salmon farms down on the Derwent?’

  ‘Pellets,’ said Dave.

  ‘I want two truckloads. How soon can you get them here?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning,’ said Dan. ‘We’ve got a cousin who works for the supplier.’

  The following day they loaded the largest of their boats with sacks of pellets and motored out into the middle of the lake.

  ‘Okay,’ said Gregan.‘Start shovelling.’

  Within minutes the surface began to boil with giant trout homing in on the handout. They bumped the boat so hard in their eagerness to feed that the boys had to sit down to prevent it from tipping over.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ said Dan.

  ‘How many do you think there are?’ asked Gregan.

  ‘At least a dozen,’ said Dave.

  ‘At least twenty,’ said Dan.

  ‘Keep shovelling,’ said Gregan.

  He kept them shovelling until the trouts’ bellies could hold no more and the giant fish lost interest.

  ‘Okay,’ said Gregan. ‘That’s half the job done. Now we’ve got to go in and feed the browns and triploids hiding among the snags.’

  Over the following three weeks, Dan and Dave became skilled at assessing how much to feed the giant trout so that they had no need to snack on the browns and triploids, and how much to feed the browns and triploids so that they didn’t grow too fat and lazy. Three days before the editors arrived, they stopped feeding the browns and triploids.

  ‘I want them hungry and eager when the first fly hits the water,’ said Gregan.‘I want them venturing out for food.’

  ‘What about the mutants?’ said Dan.

  ‘Feed them right up to
the eve of the launch,’ said Gregan. ‘And feed them well. I need three days to give everyone a chance to catch a big brown or a triploid before the mutants start feeling hungry again. On the fourth and fifth day, I want them smashing every bit of tackle in the lake. Okay?’

  For three days the magazine editors caught huge browns that regularly topped seven kilos and triploids that topped five. A lucky few caught browns over twelve kilos and the editor of International Fly Fisher took the world record with a brown that weighed in at seventeen point five kilos. While obviously delighted with their catches, they still derided the monstrous trout mounted on the wall behind the reception desk. Then, on the fourth day, they caught fish heads as Gregan’s monsters woke up hungry and discovered there were no more free handouts. No one ridiculed the trout behind reception after that.

  Everyone lost fish to Gregan’s monsters and everyone succeeded in hooking up on them. Not surprisingly, none of the editors managed to land one on their flimsy gear. Gregan had promised they’d catch their biggest trout but hadn’t guaranteed that they’d land them. Nevertheless, everyone had a monster story to tell, which was exactly what Gregan wanted.

  ‘What now?’

  Gregan turned away from the fireworks and his reverie to find that his partner, Richo, had ghosted up alongside him.

  ‘We enjoy our success,’ said Gregan.

  ‘However short-lived,’ said Richo. ‘We both know there’ll be no trout left alive in the lake by this time tomorrow.’

  ‘With any luck,’ said Gregan.

  ‘But how can we run a successful trout-fishing resort if there are no trout in the lake?’

  ‘There’ll be trout in the lake.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Remember I told you there were two lakes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I put a deposit on the other one three weeks ago. The banks are falling over themselves to finance the rest. It’s full of nice big browns and triploids. In a week’s time, when I’m certain that all the trout here are dead, I’m going to start transferring them over. In the meantime, I’ve found someone who can begin restocking the lake with galaxia, scud and tadpoles.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ said Richo.‘But what about world records? The trout in our lake will be no bigger than anyone else’s.’