Drifting the High Water - Pt 2
"SWAMPY PLAIN RIVER" | May 2026
I keep finding myself pulled back to the Swampy Plain River in the Geehi area, there’s something sublime about a clear flowing river, dropping straight off the western side of the Kosciuszko main range. With dreamy runs and easy access to a wide range of water in country that feels untouched, it’s a fly fishing paradise, but it is a river that magnifies lapses in concentration and punishes poor execution, well at least in my experience. The water is often so clear it almost feels unreal, and that clarity demands precision and I haven’t always delivered it.
I was hoping this trip would be a little different, the learning continues whilst drifting the high water.
HOPING FOR CLARITY
Leaving the Nariel Valley felt wrong in the early morning of day two. Part of me wanted to stay and keep exploring, but the river was still high and dirty, and I felt a strong need to find clearer water. I took a bit of a gamble that the Swampy levels might have dropped enough to be comfortable to fish. I’d seen it clear quickly after heavy rain before.
I drove through thick fog most of the way, anticipation building. Another rain system was due to hit the mountains that night, colder than anything in recent weeks, so I knew I had to make the most of this day. When I finally rolled into the Geehi Valley and crossed the main bridge, relief washed over me - the river was running clear, even if still high.
I headed straight to Behrs Flat.
CONTRAST & PROMISE
I set up camp right beside the river, and the water looked good — possibly better than usual, given the high and cloudy flows I’d seen in all the waterways I’d come across in the days leading up to this point. I rigged my gear, re‑tied my leader and tippet for a fresh start, and headed downstream with a full day of fishing ahead in this classic location.
I walked a couple of kilometers before putting in my first cast, noting the reasonable numbers of really late‑season hoppers still around and a few mayflies hatching. By then the fog had burned off and it was a brilliant, sunny, calm day. Along the way I passed a couple of campers who were well settled; they immediately mentioned how much rain the area had seen in recent days, maybe 60mm one of them estimated, and how dramatically it had affected the river. According to them, the water had risen for several days to reasonably high levels but dropped nearly half a meter overnight and cleared fast. I was thankful to hear it. There was still good flow, but nothing like what they described.
I moved on and began blind‑casting up a small, enclosed branch of the river that looked promising. The river looked great, I thought I’d struck it a little lucky with my timing. I tied on a dry‑dropper rig to start the day, wondering whether the higher water might push the trout into nymphing rather than to looking up. I wasn’t certain, so I figured I’d cover both bases. I tied on a medium‑sized Stimulator X dry fly to cover the hopper option, with a lengthy dropper to a weighted Bead Head Flashback Pheasant Tail nymph to cover the mayfly option.
On only my third cast, a dark shape shot up from the bottom and parked itself under my hopper — a smaller brown. Its nose couldn’t have been more than a few centimeters below the fly as it sat suspended in the current, just looking, but it wouldn’t eat. The fish turned quickly just before the run ended, slipping back into the depths of the pool.
I stepped away to rest the water and changed flies, removing the nymph and switching to a larger mayfly dry in the hope that a different look, and a little time, might mean I would see this fish again. I cast a number of different dries through the same run, but never saw that fish again. You get one chance with most trout, I said to myself. It was time to move onto a new piece of water.
UPSTREAM WITH CLOSE ENCOUNTERS
I felt like I could see the river dropping a little through the day, and after a few hours of casting it seemed to be as clear as I’d ever seen it. I worked the plethora of likely runs before me, but for the next few hours I didn’t see a sign of any fish. I moved back to the dry‑dropper approach to cover the bases, yet after that first small brown things became very quiet. I stopped for lunch, thinking about the area I was sitting in and how incredibly good it is in general — a quintessential high‑country valley.
After lunch, things changed. I found a nice confluence in the river that I couldn’t cast to without risking my drift due to the challenging currents, so I retreated and crossed downstream to get better access. In the middle of the confluence was a calm pocket of water — one of those spots where I say to myself, there has to be a trout sitting in there. I really thought about my approach and set myself up just below the pocket so I could high‑stick a drift through the run. It seemed like the only way to achieve a drag‑free drift.
I placed my cast about three metres above the pocket, and as my dry floated down with no drag, I watched a beautiful brown rise from the bottom and sit under my fly, exactly the same behaviour as the first smaller fish. This was a bigger fish though, and I was certain it was going to eat. The fish was so slow and graceful I could see its gills and wide‑open mouth, and the spots on its blue‑coloured cheeks. I was ready to watch that mouth close on my fly, but it just hovered there, suspended, and then slipped back into the depths of the run. I was happy to have seen it, but couldn’t understand why it wouldn’t eat. Wrong presentation again I suspect.
By this stage I’d given away the hopper patterns; as the day moved on, bigger mayflies were hatching in reasonable numbers. Of course I changed flies a few times to try and raise that fish again, but I’d had my one chance, and it was gone. I crossed back over the river, at least I was seeing a few fish, I thought. I did spot two other smaller browns; they showed a bit of interest, but they weren’t committed either. I ended up calling it a day around 6pm as it started to get dark, returning to camp to unpack the day’s events and settle in for a warm sleep, ready for what the next day might bring. As I settled into bed, I remember looking outside to see it had become quite overcast, I couldn't see any stars. That next cooler system was soon to arrive I thought.
CLOUDS AND A RETURN TO HIGH WATER
At about 3am I woke to heavy rain, and it continued well into mid‑morning. At times it turned to hail and even light, wet snow. It was much cooler, and I knew this would probably mean a slow day. The river was up again and flowing hard, though still clear. I guessed we’d had another 25mm or so overnight. Regardless, I was here to fly‑fish, so I prepared my gear and started walking upstream to see what I could find, and to simply be out in this amazing place.
It was necessary to find calmer water out of the main runs, similar to what I’d been doing at Nariel Creek a few days earlier. The flows were simply too strong in many areas to hold fish, I felt. I fished hard, but it was a tough day with driving rain and swirling winds. This was a morning for nymphs only, and it gave me some opportunities to run deep nymphs through classic‑looking water under an indicator. It didn’t yield any trout, but it was good practice nonetheless.
Later in the day the rain stopped and things settled to some degree. Visibility improved and it was a bit more comfortable. I was fishing some beautiful looking runs, this river is just magic.
I switched back to a dry‑dropper setup, fishing an Elk Hair Caddis as my dry with a red‑tagged nymph underneath. In retrospect I’m not sure why I reached for the Elk Hair Caddis, nothing was really hatching, but it was buoyant and easy to see. I spotted a likely piece of calm water off to the right of a nice run and managed to catch a smaller brown. Of course it hit the Elk Hair Caddis, and didn’t muck around with it smashing the surface as soon as it drifted into the lower zone of the run. What a contrast to the day before. I’m not sure it means anything other than this trout was being opportunistic and acting on instinct.
As the day drew later, it started to rain once again and the temperature started to drop, so I called it. I still had to drive three or so hours home and I needed to get back and pack up a wet camp. After about an hour of driving, I crossed the main range near Thredbo, surrounded by a fresh layer of early season snow.
TAKEAWAYS FROM A GREAT TRIP
I’ll never shake the urge to fish the Swampy Plain River. Even when the fishing is tough, it’s such a sublime place to cast a fly - clear water, long runs, and that unmistakable high‑country feel. It’s a river that keeps drawing me back.
Nariel Creek, too, left its mark. The experience there has me wanting to return as soon as I can, especially when the water is calmer and clearer, with afternoon hatches and rising fish.
