There must be few in the Tasmanian fly fishing fraternity who have not heard of Max Bertram and who cannot but be saddened by his passing on Friday, 7th October, 2005. Max joined the Fly Fishers’ Club of Tasmania in 1963, and became a legend in his own right. The effort and energy which he gave to the Club and its projects made him the ultimate arbiter on Club matters and this was recognised by his having held every position in the Club, honoured as a Life Member and ultimately elevated to Patron. Whenever members and particularly the older members meet and the convivial glass is raised, the name of Max Bertram is spoken with reverence and affection. Long may this continue. Personally, I owe much to Max as it was he who introduced me to Penstock. When the first working bee was held at Koongara in the early ’70’s, he anointed me, almost regally, as “Laird of Penstock” and the name stuck. I truly cherish Penstock, the nick-name and Max’s influence. In these early days, I was initiated into making tea á la Max. This was quite a ritual which involved fresh, cold water from the Little Pine tank, (no lake water please), a cast iron kettle (must be emptied and inverted when leaving the shack—see Shack Rules), and a teapot which had to be meticulously preheated with boiling water. A teaspoon of Bushells per person (not poofter, Earl Grey tea) and boiling water, but not over-boiled, added. After masking for three minutes ~ not more, not less ~ the teapot was revolved clockwise three times. The tea was then declared ready but only in bone china cups ~ no beakers of course. His escapades were legendary. His bellow on Little Pine “Ask George how many he’s got!” ~ the answer was a foregone conclusion at that moment in time ~ but Max’s jubilation was premature as George had bested him by the end of the day. And George didn’t let him forget it! Club members know how he unintentionally but nearly burned down the shack by trying to fill a hot Shellite lamp close to the fire in the dark. Throughout the ensuing chaos, Max’s other very special fishing mate, Snowy Widdowson, showed supreme stoicism and remained in his bunk until all the shouting was over. Fishing in the same boat was exciting, as any fish within (or without) his range was fair game to Max. Stand fire may be courageous but duck well down was much safer! For the fussy fish at the Pine, he developed a striking system which certainly suited him. As a fish took his red tag, he would solemnly intone “God bless the Queen!” and then strike ~ vigorously. Amazingly successful this was. One particular day, Max returned to the ramp with George’s red tag firmly embedded in the lobe of his ear. Max, as usual, was telling the world, in the most uncomplimentary and intemperate language, what he thought of George, his antecedents and his casting - not necessarily in that order. Charles Peck started off, at the trot, to the shack for a pair of pliers to remove the bend of the hook and the fly. George objected as he didn’t want his red tag damaged but Cliff sized up the situation, stepped smartly forward and released the red tag undamaged with the ‘loop of line’ technique. During the whole operation Max never stopped berating George but was stunned into silence only when the tag was painlessly presented to him. The “Case of the Disappearing Whisky” has entered Club lore too. Allan and I arrived at the Pine to find Max’s food box on the table and resting invitingly on the top was a small ginger ale bottle of whisky. The same idea entered our heads immediately and Max’s bottle was quickly removed and substituted with a similar bottle of cold tea, the colour of which was adjusted to suit. Ask not whose hanky through which the tea was strained. We went off and fished but later in the day, we met up with Max and George and were invited for a beer. Max, knowing my ethnic preferences, poured a generous “whisky” from the substitute bottle. I immediately told Max that he was trying to poison me and an instantaneous investigation of the spurious contents was instituted. Washing-up liquid? No! It wouldn’t foam. Taste test ~ cold tea? Ridiculous! Even hair shampoo (extremely unlikely) was considered. And so it went on. Recriminations flew between Max and George and even when Allan and I admitted the swap and the original bottle was produced, we were not believed! Another of Max’s foibles which still is enshrined in Shack Rules. Fill the kindling box before you leave! An empty or semi denuded kindling box raised the worst in Max and he couldn’t do anything ~ including making the tea ~ until the box was at a satisfactory level. And his proverbial hatred of bureaucrats! How he loved to bait them and confound them with their own correspondence ~ sometimes many years old. The Jetty to Nowhere at the Pine was a heaven sent opportunity for Max and how he enjoyed it and his picture in the paper was just gilt on the gingerbread. When the weather is foul and the fishing impossible, the log book at Noonamena is a hilarious source of Max’s thoughts and opinions. It’s well worth a read though I don’t know if he ever paid any member who provided him with the secret means of catching “those damn tailers on the Cricket Pitch Shore”. Members of the Fly Fishers’ Club express their sincere sympathy to his family and hope, as we do, that their very joyful memories of Max and his very full life remain in their minds for ever.       Jim Ferrier   Max in his natural environment ~ Noonamena and the Pine. Above is one of the last photos of Max at Arthur’s Lake. These are only some of my happy recollections of MFB. Long may they last and with the years may the exaggerations increase while his memory never fades.