The famous, low-rainfall, basalt rock segment, however, does not cover all this area. The basalt, or treeless plain as it is known, is roughly confined to the country contained by a meandering line joining Cooma, Nimmitabel, Bombala, Dalgety, Frying Pan and the Murrumbidgee River at its southern most point, although there are pockets of basalt outside this and gaps within. It is also significant that a great deal of the the southern part of the basalt lies in a rain shadow (less than 24 inches annually) between the coastal and the Kosciusko sections of the Great Dividing Range. 

All these geographical phenomena, created just after the Ice Age, are particularly important to trout fisherman (whether they are aware of it or not), because the native and natural food sources in this are are capable of maintaining a sporting, acclimatised brown-trout fishery which I consider to be one of the best in the Southern Hemisphere and which, if it is managed properly, could remain one of the best in the world. 

Understandably, this is an area of delicate fishing for very wary, large brown trout. Indeed, fly fisherman, and particularly those who write about the sport, often preach a philosophy in which there are three stages in a fisherman's life. Stage One, when he tries to hook the greatest number of fish; Stage Two, when he pursues the biggest possible fish; and Stage Three, when fooling only the most educated and difficult fish will satisfy him. Southeastern Monaro, and particularly the basal segment, is undoubtedly an area for Stage Three fisherman, while, at the same time, the entire area is home to some very large creatures - a recipe for wonderful fly-fishing. 

I arrived at Nimmitabel around lunchtime on the day prior to the opening of the 1991/'92 trout season. From there, it was only a 15 minute drive to Rockybah, the delightful grazing property of Howie and Annie Charles whom I first met in 1983 when our daughters attended school together. From that first introduction, Howie made it plain that he wanted me to visit them, try the fishing over their six kilometre frontage on the MacLaughlin River, and (although it was left unsaid at the time) begin to understand that part of Australia. Very stupidly, it took me eight years to accomplish this. 

Howie was in the middle of his monthly computerised accounting for the property when I arrived but broke for lunch and, afterwards, very kindly gave me a guided recce of the fishing spots supporting this with a mudmap (which will remain exclusively mine). The MacLaughlin (or Mac) at Rockybah flows through steep, rocky country, 30 minutes by four-wheel drive from the homestead, with commanding views, on the track in, of the Snowy Mountains as far as Mount Delegate, some 70 kilometres to the southwest in the state of Victoria. 

That short statement, however, nowhere in describing this most unusual place. It is old; very old. The geographysical battles over past millennia have evolved a humped and tired moonscape which is so steeped in delicate colour that it defies any acceptable perception of light while haunting the artist with a vision that very, very few have been able to express. The treelessness somehow avoids harshness, except perhaps under the midday sun. But it is not untill one breasts the top of the rise to gaze over this small part of Australia that one begins to understand the true size of the country. When one realises that this is also trout country in a remote class of its own, then it's time to rig up. 

The weather was exceptionally warm and balmy as I arrived on the Mac that afternoon (as it was on the previous year only to be followed by a most unwelcome change with rain at midnight on "opening"). And, because there were nine hours or so before opening, I carried no rod, only a camera and polaroids. In the absence of the excitement and pressure which I knew would surely follow on the morrow, I examined all the pools in a relaxed and careful manner. Thus I spotted over 30 trout (between two and four pounds), one eel, one fox and one huge eastern grey kangeroo. 

All the pools appeared to be in good condition, Ti-tree, Toopeller, Floodgate, Cliff and Commissioners; but I noticed that, until mid afternoon, the trout seemed to like the faster water at the head, keeping deep and feeding on nymphs. After 4.00pm., with plenty of chironomids and mayflies in the air, they moved to quieter water and began feeding off the top. 

I knew I would be too excited to fish skilfully the next day and was sorely tempted. Nevertheless, I awarded myself a halo by managing to keep Satan astern of me that afternoon. 

Next morning at daybreak, Howie and I made out first casts in those prehistoric conditions. 

But I was too excited! I spooked the first two fish as the sun rose into our eyes, blinding us with its intensity as we cast upstream to the east, scattering fish with reflections from sunglasses and untreated rods, something I should have forseen on my recce the previous day. These lessons come hard but, what the hell, I wouldn't miss any of those exciting opening moments for anything in this world. 

Luncheon that day was barbeque in the enjoyable company of the Kydra-Kybean branch of the Monaro Acclimarisation Society on the banks of the Kybean River. Afterwards, in the late afternoon, we returned to the Mac in a much more relaxed frame of mind. 

I chose Ti-tree Pool, a very fine tippet (three pound) and a small Brown Nymph. On the third cast I was well connected to a three pound brown trout which I landed a few moments later, thereby announcing to myself a very satisfactory opening to the 1991/'92 trout season. Before returning to the homestead for dinner, I hooked two more good browns a of roughly the same size but one threw the hook and the other swam under a log and broke me off. 

The next morning I arose with the sun and worked happily at writing and painting watercolours until well after lunchtime. At this stage, Annie's parents arrived to fish and to stay for dinner. Her father, Mark, a most likeable and capable fisherman, her son, Andrew, and I piled into my pickup and headed fo the river. But all good things must come to an end: ugly, black cu-nimbs were piling up in the west and steadily marching towards us; a front and a change after some remarkably warm spring weather. We should have moved earlier to catch the often-fantastic fishing ahead of the front, but what one should do and what one does in the world of trout fishing are often not the same thing.