as I recall I had visited the site on the first day of our trip. I had never been to this truly wonderful place before and after some searching for a likely place to hunt some bass I found a beautiful undisturbed cove. Peaceful and covered in a light-green carpet, it whispered to me to affix a Jackall frog and cast to the logs at it's rear-most edge. On my first cast into the cove I caught my second-prize winning bass. It was almost too easy, as if something were teasing, enticing me, BEGGING ME to stay a while longer. Subsequent casts into the seemingly innocent patch of undisturbed green drew the attention of more fish but it seemed their rises were more designed to frustrate me, as if they knew my frog were made of rubber not amphibian flesh. Knowing the fish to have a short term-memory akin to a bogan with a hydroponic garden, I thought my best option would be to leave for a while and return some time later.
I fished in the surrounding bay for some 30 minutes until the chill started to come over the dark side of the lake. It was time to head back to my cove and fool another bass.
Upon my return the sun was starting to set and a strange mood had settled upon my little green inlet. A few casts and a few more rises but there seemed to be a tension not previously noted. It was then that I saw, no- glanced, the beast. I was retying my frog, making sure that I would retain posession of the rubbery treat. At this instant it showed me it's side for a second. I only saw it from the corner of my right eye, a flash of yellow-silver flesh, the colour of satan's spleen. More noticable was the lack of noise in the surrounding bush. It seemed for a moment that every beast had drawn a breath at the same time in anticipation of a possibly tragic event, like a crowd at a bullfight when the matador mistakenly trips in front of the enraged bull. Nervously I watched the patch of water for it to show itself again. Twas then that the beast showed a hint of it's enormity. A flank appeared and rolled close to my craft. It seemed to go on forever, rolling it's hideous length through the rays of a dying afternoon sun. My anus tightened and the loosened so quickly I thought it was possible I may soil the bright yellow plastic of my craft; That same bright yellow that had suddenly become all too conspicous and visible to the as yet unidentified creature.

I hastily beat a retreat from my once beautiful but now evil little cove and headed back to the relative safety of the camp and my fellow travellers. With the fear of the cove behind me I settled for the somewhat convenient explanations of "Eel" and "Lungfish". Some food and liquor eased my nerves and indeed returned some strength to my sphincter. However, it was later in the evening, alone in my tent with only the company of my mute companion "Woofy" that my mind turned back to the cove. It was then, amongst the snoring and farting of the campsite asleep around me, that I resolved to return in the morning to tackle with the beast. I knew in my heart that twas no Eel, no Lungfish; It was the Maroon Barratoga!!
I had heard of this mythical beast in my youth as young boy in the neighbouring valley of the Lockyer (Queensland's Salad Bowl). My father and his friends had spoken of it at gatherings, when the women had left for the evening, back to their cleaning and gossip of things less relevant. At least I'm sure that was what they were speaking of when they talked of "the one that would do anybody with a rod". Such a beast would certainly be a trophy!

So, in the cold morning light I arose with my intentions clear in my mind. Today, I would hunt and tame the Barratoga! Only my trusty companion Jeprox had an inkling of my intent, but I fooled even him by not being too eager. We fished the opposite banks of the lake for some time, drifting in the wind which had arisen from nowhere, as if aware of my mission. The Barratoga could feel me coming and it was using it's well-honed power over the elements to discourage me. The wind carried my lure to the tree branches on several occasions, as if without the lures I would have nothing to tackle the beast with. But I had planned for this evil and threw only the cheapest Taiwanese and Chinese lures to the ensnaring branches. The Barratoga was not to know that I had a wealth of experience in tree-fishing and could not be scared by something so trivial.
The yakker formally known as Hi-Yo (TYFKAHY) joined us soon after. He was not aware of my mission but I knew the strength that resided in his shoulders may come in useful. TYFKAHY had paddled one of the heaviest viking watercraft in the universe for some years and the deformative effect on his upper torso was almost freakish. His strength would certainly be an asset in battle.

Anyways, as we closed in on the bay a number of temptations were thrust at us. Indeed my faithful sidekick Jeprox battled with a massive under-water beast, obviously a changling of some kind for it had re-morphed back into a very small bass once he wrestled it to the surface. But we forged onwards, ever onwards until the lair of the Barratoga was there in front of us, once again looking like the peaceful little bay of green that we knew to be a farce.
My companions sensed this was a battle I had to walk into by myself. They moved aside, content to fish the gentler water outside of the cove, all the while amassing the strength of numbers. As if they had sensed my need, some more of our loyal party had arrived. Macfish and PDO joined Jeprox and TYFKAHY in the bay and also indulged in the fine art of deception, lines in the water but all the while being very careful not to attach themselves to any fish that may hold them from my side in my time of need.

I cast towards the back of the cove. My frog landed on the weeds silently but I could tell it had the impact of a fat schoolboy bombing into a wading pool beneath the murky surface. Twice, Thrice, Four times I threw my frog to the green carpet, each time more accurate than before but to no avail. It was then I heard the noise. The telltale bloop of a fish to my right and slightly behind.
I wheeled around, casting my Samauri 004 baitcaster like it's namesake blade of ancient Japan. The frog flew as if on wings, carried straight to the epicentre of the expanding rings in the water, the only hint of where the beast had surfaced. The frog had not settled, nay barely touched the water before the surface ERUPTED as if some long dormant volcano had suddenly awoken, angry at those trespassing it's inner core.
Connected to the beast, I knew I would only have this one chance. The opportunity to elevate myself from the rank of VAF (very average fisherman) to Club Champion was here and now. Records would tumble, and my home town would now know me as a hero instead of the fat kid with the square head.
The beast was firmly attached to my shaft by a length of flourocarbon that I had thoughtfully upgraded earlier that day. Would my leader knots hold, was my tackle of size? I was confident, and as the beast thrashed and turned me in increasingly quicker circles I knew it's plan was to wrest the tackle from my hands and perhaps, if possible, to dislodge me from my craft, never to be seen again as it dragged me to it's lair and throw me to the gargantuan Red-claw also fabled to live in these annexes of hell.
But I fought on. I had prepared myself for this moment and I knew it was time to issue the secret call to my faithful soldiers. "I'm On" I cried, not in the way of a man hooked up to a dead flat-head, but with the conviction of a warrior calling his fellow troops to take part in the spoils of victory.

Twas then the beast pulled it's nasty trick. I should have seen it coming. I should have turned the demon fish earlier and headed for deeper water but I was caught in the heady adrenalin-soaked high of ego. It dove to the bottom of the cove; through the depths, past where the rays of purifying sunlight penetrate, straight to the bottom of the bay where it could seek refuge amongst the skeletons of trees that once stood on these banks. NOOOOOOooooooooooo!!! I cried, how dirty, how sinister. But I kept contact with the beast. My leader maintaned the strength of steel cables, my rod like a 4WD recovery-strap; stretching but never breaking. The Macfish came to my side with his long shaft presented at the ready. He poked through the depths to try to loosen my line from the grip of the tree-skeleton. His war cries shattered the now-freezing air and echoed around the bay. The Barratoga, stunned momentarily, gave some line back which was hastily retrieved to the spool of my Alphas. It's integrity had been tested to the fullest and it was still glowing at the ends where it's upgraded Carbontex drag had been melted to a fine black dust.
Macfish prodded again. By such time I was weary, my strength had been sapped by the fight, and my mental state was still somewhat clouded by the sedatives I had inadvertently ingested the night before in an effort to drive the fear from my mind. It was at this moment the Barratoga gave one more run, stripping the line from my winch like underwear from a teenager at a co-ed school camp. Others had come to witness this battle, Their encouragement rang in my ears. TYFKAHY mounted the bank and began to disrobe, prepared to risk his life and dive to the snare which had entagled my line, and indeed, I believe he would have fought the evil below had I asked him; such is the staunch soldier that he is.
The Baratoga was not interested in a clean fight which it knew it could not win, instead it wove my line in and out, in and out of the tree skeletons until eventually, my body spent, my mind insane with rage, I was forced to cut the line from my Samauri and save myself.

Without doubt there are those who will doubt my tale, and in time, the witnesses will move on or pass away and the Baratoga will once again disappear into folklore. But rest assured, I will return again one day; fit and aware, ready to once again fight the Maroon Barratoga.

Regards, Gra.