BACK TO NATURE - Below the Surface

by Jamie Walker

If, like me, you migrate in your seniority to south-east Queensland, you will not need any great social awareness skills to realise that fishing (i.e. sea fishing) is a primary leisure interest. Yet fishing in salt water is something I have never done.

In my younger days, in the UK, I was an angler who stalked small rivers and brooks, with light tackle. My targets were trout and others with names like chub, roach and pike. But it wasn’t just fish that attracted me. I wasn’t concerned about catching the most or the biggest; the draw to the streamside was the way this quiet, careful pursuit brought me close to nature, as I sat or stood, unobtrusive, and became part of the scenery.

I remember how, in these conditions, a mink swam past my float, a dusk-emerging deer sniffed my elbow (frightening us both) and a Common Kingfisher perched on the stem of my rod.

Now I say creek instead of brook, but am still attracted to the waterside in the same way – minus the fishing  equipment – and  the kingfishers I look at are Sacred, Forest and

Azure (what a gem!). And if I no longer catch fish, I am still fascinated by any glimpses I have of them and their cryptic, watery lives.

If you sit still by the water, patience can be a reward. (And polaroid sunglasses and close focus binoculars can be a big help). Most of our creeks carry a diverse fish population. 

In the shallows, close to the stream’s bed, you may spot small species like Crimson-spotted Rainbowfish, Hardyheads, the introduced Swordtail and what I think are Smelts, with semi-transparent bodies. 

In deeper water, where shafts of sunlight illuminate spaces between weeds and sunken branches, shoals of Spangled Perch move at mid-level. Beneath overhanging banks,

Striped Gudgeon station themselves and wait to seize food particles passing in the current. Occasionally, a couple will dash out in a chase that looks like a fight for prime position.

At  different places along the Obi Obi Creek, I have seen large fishes that might be Mary River Cod, but they vanish too smartly for identification to be certain. What are far easier to observe are smooth looking, sinuous Eel-tailed Catfish.

Averaging 40-50 cms in length, adult Eel-tails possess defensive, venomous spines in their pectoral and dorsal fins. (People who have handled them and been stung, complain of pain lasting several days). This may explain their apparent confidence as they move leisurely, using their “cat’s whiskers” to detect food items. They feed  mainly on crustaceans (like small yabbies) insect larvae, worms and other small fish.

Catfish lifestyle is fascinating. Males take possession of a territory where the water flows gently over a stony bed. By swimming in a tight circle, the fish’s tail creates a dished “nest” of stones”. Passing females are attracted to lay their eggs in the nest. These are fertilised by the male who then guards them until they hatch. 

Afterwards, juveniles are apparently hard to find, but they have been observed in small side channels – some little larger than ditches. Perhaps in those places, they are safer in their infant state.

When, after heavy or prolonged rain, you stand on a bridge and watch a swollen creek’s thundering brown water power through (and often outside) the confines of its channel, you might wonder how anything could survive such dynamic force. 

Yet when the spate is over, and calm, clear water returns, all things – fish, birds, damselflies and others – remain like before; essentially sustained by nature, both above and below the surface.