There comes a time when you simply have to accept, that the holiday is over. No longer will you be side-casting under the overhang of a myrtle tree, as the deafening sound of the cicada echoes through the eucalypts above. Gone is the sweet tempo of the headwater creek, gently tumbling its way off the hills to feed the valley below. There will be no more ad-hoc sessions, where a quick getaway is decided upon at a whim, based on suitable conditions. You won’t get to witness the flowering spectacle of Tasmania’s endemic alpine plants, covering the landscape in bursts of colour, contrasting their normal monochromatic hues. No longer will you peer around the next bend to see the bigger fish in the river out and about, happily sipping natural insects off the surface, shaking as you prepare yourself to enter the game. You can forget about the epic hatches of mayfly, so thick that black spinners are not only getting in the way of your vision, but they settle in the back of your throat. Somewhat thankfully, you won’t get to experience the instant fear as your hasty footsteps are interrupted by the hiss and subsequent bark of a pissed-off tiger snake. Despite this, the memories are etched into the mind. Even those that aren’t so easily recalled are captured by the lens, never to be forgotten. A quick glance will bring it all back again instantly, allowing you to be content in the knowledge that you will return at the next oppor-chancity, to do it all over again.