Every Lure Tells a Story

There’s something special about handcrafted timber lures.

Unlike mass-produced lures that can stay looking new for years, timber lures wear every adventure they go on. Every mark, every scratch and every missing patch of paint becomes part of their history.

Some scars tell the story of a fish landed. Others remind you of the one that threw the hooks at the side of the boat. A few even tell the tale of a cast that found a rock instead of the water.

That’s one of the things I love most about building and fishing timber lures. They aren’t meant to stay perfect. Every battle leaves its mark, and every mark becomes another chapter in the lure’s story.

This particular lure tells one I’ll never forget.

It recently accounted for my personal best Mulloway, making every late night in the workshop, every failed prototype, every design change and every moment of second-guessing worthwhile. Whenever I pick this lure up, I’m instantly taken back to that fish and everything that led to that moment.

The scars it carries aren’t flaws. They’re memories.

But here’s the funny thing.

Even after a lure proves itself on the water, even after it catches the fish you dreamed of catching, the lure maker in me still isn’t completely satisfied.

I reckon that’s the curse of being a lure builder.

This slim lure is doing exactly what it was designed to do. It’s catching fish. The fish have already given it their approval.

Yet every time I look at it, my mind goes somewhere else.

What if it could cast just that little bit further?

What if a small adjustment to the ballast, a different timber combination or moving the internal weight a few millimetres could squeeze out another one percent?

That’s the challenge that keeps me coming back to the workshop.

Designing a lure is never really finished. Every prototype teaches you something. Every fishing trip reveals another detail. Every success gives you confidence, but every success also raises another question.

How can it be better?

So while this lure has already earned a permanent place in my collection and will forever remind me of my personal best Mulloway, the journey hasn’t ended.

There are still prototypes on the bench.

There are still ballast systems being adjusted.

There are still ideas waiting to be tested.

Because that’s what lure making is all about.

You’re always learning. Always refining. Always chasing that next improvement.

At the end of the day, a lure isn’t judged by how pristine it looks when it leaves the workshop. It’s judged by the stories it earns on the water and the memories it creates for the angler holding the rod.

Every lure tells a story.

The next one might just tell an even better one.

Big baits big bites

This might come as a shock, but for the first time, I headed out with one goal in mind, throwing big lures in search of a big Murray cod at my local. 

For the past five years I’ve spent a few hours on one of Australia’s premier Murray cod fisheries. But I’ve always downsized, specifically targeting smaller cod and yellowbelly. This trip was different. The plan was simple, cast big lures and commit to the bite.

Over the last few months I’ve been watching plenty of the guys using scopes (forward-facing sonar). Whether you’re for it or against it, there’s no denying how much you can learn by simply observing. Not just fish behaviour, but where anglers consistently position their boats and why.

So with this information and applied it from the bank.

The interesting part? The bank I chose was one I would’ve walked straight past a few months ago. It looked almost featureless, but the pattern of where boats repeatedly stopped told a different story.

The first morning delivered two encounters. One fish followed right to my feet, and the second committed. Success, on the 300mm wakebait.

The following morning gave me something I’ll be thinking about for years.

A boat with a scope had just drifted through the area, and I figured my chances were gone. A few casts later, everything changed.

It only lasted about two seconds, but what a two seconds.

The explosion, the hole it left in the surface, and that sound, I’ll be hearing it in my head for a long time.

I never really came up tight, and there wasn’t a single tooth mark left on the lure. But what it managed to do to a 2/0 hook in those couple of seconds shouldn’t have been possible.

Sometimes you don’t need to land the fish to know you’re onto something.

Safe to say, I’ll be spending a lot more time casting the bigger lures from the bank.