* THE OUTER EDGE *

Legendary angler S~u Jfpte shares his many worldwide exploits.

By Stu Apte
Fishing Editor

wild Koala River. Entcastle, a sugarcane farmer,

outfitter Jack Erskine and renowned Australian
writer John Mondora joined me. I've met men
all over the world, but I knew these Aussies to be
a macho lot who never showed fear and loved a
good dare.
We brought supplies for two weeks via a four-
wheel lorry through bush country on animal
trails, past roving herds of wallaby and wild pig.
Although pitch black at night, we set up camp on
a ranch near a lagoon. After stuffing down beans
and mutton, I wanted to wash off the grime in the
lagoon before going to bed. I swung the lantern
around. Not too much brush, just muddy lagoon
banks and peculiar slick areas about three feet
wide leading right into the water. I stripped down,
poured a bucket of water over my head, and again
started to heave the bucket to rinse off.
"No, no, not there," shouted Erskine. "Go down
SO paces!"
I asked why. "It's the crocs," he said. "Big, salty
ones, some up to 20 feet long. The first time you dip
the bucket, they locate you. Next time, they're wait-
ing to drag you in:'
A chill raced up my spine as I realized the mud-
slides were in fact croc trails. I didn't sleep well that
fu'st night. I'm not a fearful type - far from it - but I
don't like threatening reptiles of any size.
As the days went by, we fished many beautiful
areas and caught dozens of barramundi - tough
fighters in the 10- to 3D-pound range that re-
semble snook and taste fantastic on the grill. One
night after fishing we began the walk to camp
when our last flashlight suddenly went out. We
moved along in the dim moonlight, following the
faintly outlined head of the man in front. A sud-
den crash between Erskine and I made us both
jump straight into the air. Not a crocodile, thank-
fully, but instead a small herd of wild pigs.
As the pigs ran off, Entcastle laughed and reassur-

Night Creatures ingly put his hand on my shoulder. "It's awright

'twas only a pig." At that point I believed he wouldn't
lad,

D01Nn Under admit to being scared even if his hair was standing
straight up. I truly envied him.
A few nights later I awakened suddenly in the

I t was the first time in 10 days I'd seen John En-

tcastle pull on his boots. Usually he went com-
pletely barefoot because he insisted it's a better way
black snakes;

for stomping
they're
we fish today. Venomous.
all about,

'em, awright'"
Deadly.
you know, where
The boots are
pitch black as something

floor. My pulse pounding,

large and heavy thumped
onto my chest. I threw oil the cover and it hit the
the flashlight beam found
to move through trees, gravel and river mud. I won- Our target involved barramundi on light tackle, my attacker. lhere crawled the biggest rhinoceros
dered aloud what made him boot up just now. and we bored through the trackless wilderness beetle in creation -- big as a flat-iron. I've seen them
"It's the geechies," Entcastle said. "These little northwest of Cairns, Australia, on Queensland's in the Guyana and Costa Rica jungles, but this mon-
 got resettled. But like a recurring nightmare, min-
utes later the beetle climbed atop my chest again.
I thrashed hard and flung it away. The creature
careened off the tent wall and landed squarely
on Entcastle's neck. From a sound sleep he came
straight up off the bunk, yelling, "Get it off. Get it
the hell off me."
I slapped down the beetle and nudged it out the
tent flap - which thjs time I zipped completely shut.
1 turned to John. 'TIle veins in his neck were pumping
like an oil derrick.
Stifling a smile while resting my hand on his
ster measured at least eight inches long with a pincer shoulder, I said, ''It's okay lad, 'twas only a bug." John
that could take on a five-pound lobster. Entcastle was, after all, only human. We all laughed
It scuttled away from the light and out of sight. ourselves Silly. And for ilie first time in 10 days, I
Thankful I hadn't awakened the others, I finally slept like a log. it
FLy-FISHING
TRIPS
PAT FORD; FOREWORD BY STU APTE

C(jhe @!4est

FLY-FISHING
TRipS
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