Kiwi Adventures
I was fortunate enough to live in New Zealand for five months in early 1997, which gave me the opportunity to explore that fabulous land at some length. You can learn more about my adventures down below.
Headwaters of the Mohaka
My first North Island adventure came on a three day tramp into the back country around the drainage of the upper Mohaka. This was a reasonable easy hike, or it would have been if I was fit, of roughly eight miles over fairly level terrain. Still, it took me about four hours to accomplish, and I was more than a little tired at the end.
I started fishing about 9 am the next morning. Water was cold when I first got in, no waders, but you get used to it. Fifteen minutes after I started, and five minutes after I first spotted a fish that turned into a rock on closer inspection, I spotted a real live trout. A big one. But, after one or two casts, he felt queasy and slid by me on his way to the holding spot I had just worked so carefully. Moral: be sure it's a trout before you work the fish, and get in the correct position before you cast.
On I go. Then, I spot a fish that must be nearly 28 inches, a true live monster. I only get one cast here, which sad to say drops next to the fish. He doesn't spook; rather, he turns and hunts my fly. But as he follows it down river, he sees me and heads for Nebraska, or wherever huge trout go when they spook. Moral here: after you so carefully get in correct position, make that first cast count. Be accurate.
A bit farther upstream, I get things right. Careful stalk, spot fish well before it sees me, get in correct position, down on my knees, good cast. I'm using a two fly rig, dry fly and nymph on point. No interest in cast. Off goes the nymph, a hare and copper, on goes a hare's ear. He takes it like it was meant for him alone. I know he will take when I see him slide over; the dry going down is icing on the cake. Or is it? Because the dry is between me and him, I never really see that moment he takes, I set up when the dry goes down, and the timing is off by a split second. There is a major splash at the surface, and the fish sprints for cover, but no hookup. Even so, I am thrilled to have had a real chance, and now feel like I could actually catch one of these guys. (Before this moment, I wasn't so sure I would get any fish in all the time I will be here.)
Upstream I spot two fish in a tail-out of a lovely hole. The bottom one slides over into the perfect feeding lie -- no, I didn't spook it -- and starts feeding. Well. Including, on the surface. So I put on a coch-y-bondu, a popular fly down here, sneak over into position, crawl up to casting position, and put the cast out. He takes a look and ... no sale. Off goes the cochy, on goes a LaFontaine Mohawk. (Yes, they really do work). The fish takes it on my first good cast. This is a nice fish, probably well over 6 pounds. I wait what seems an eternity and set up. Explosion, no hook up. Believe it or not, I set up too soon. Moral here: be REALLY patient on the strike.
Up a bit farther, the gods take pity. I spot the fish from way back. I stalk into position. Down on one knee. Ouch, the rocks are sharp. Out goes the Mohawk. Not quite close enough, or was it just wrong? Either way, the fish starts towards the fly and rejects. While this is going on, I hear 'whup whup whup' ... the sound of approaching chopper. Helicopter access to fishing in New Zealand is becoming increasingly popular, as it affords the angler relatively quick (though not cheap!) access to remote waters. It's also a major pain to those on the ground, especially when they have shed sweat to get there. This particular chopper flies straight down the river course, passing by about fifty feet over my head. I absolutely expected the trout to spook, and I was none too thrilled at the intrusion. But to my great happiness, the fish is oblivious to the mechanical monster overhead. After the chopper passes, I take off the Mohawk and tie the coch-y-bondu back on. Next cast, fish takes. I am saying one two three to myself like a mantra while I cast, but now that it really counts I can only react. Happy days, I wait until the fish turns, though I can't say that was conscious. FISH ON! Short run, I turn the fish, he's in the shallows, I force him onto the rocks. Just like that I am no longer fishless in New Zealand. 22 inch brown, probably five pounds.
That is the catching high point, but the best fishing part is yet to come. In the next hole I see a good fish at the tail-out. He is off the main flow just slightly, the current pinches into the next riffle about twenty feet below. A tough stalk, which I get by with, and a tougher cast. I blow it, inadvertently executing a perfect curve cast. But I didn't want a curve cast here. The problem is the fly comes down too close to the fish, and starts to drag soon thereafter. Off he goes. Cursing myself, I cross back over and stalk the pool. Almost immediately I spot a fish. While I'm think about the best way to approach him, he slides back to the tail-out and takes up feeding station again. It's the same trout! I slip quietly up the bank, get forty feet away from the water, duck-walk down below him, carefully wade over, back in position. Now, I work this guy for thirty minutes at least. He doesn't know I'm there, I hang one fly in the overhanging shrub along the way, get a false rise at one point, a handful of o.k. drifts, and change flies several times. Ultimately I deduce that a floating nymph looks like my best shot. But I am too jazzed. I can't put this one cast in place, and he eventually gets leery and slips back upstream. Though I muffed this trout, it was a fabulous fishing experience, full of excitement and challenge.
The next day I put in a few hours before hiking out. The water seems colder, and I don't hook anything, but I did stalk a few good fish. Two events occurred that I think are worth mentioning. I spotted a very nice fish just below a logjam, in a pocket of quiet water. He's moving about feeding rather actively. The day before I had dropped a beadhead Hare 'n Copper near him, to which he came running - and then left in a hurry. It seems these fish have learned that gold flash equals bad outcome, and now are prone to spooking from overbearing flies. Today I was not going to blow my shot with a garish fly. What I failed to consider was the (likely) event that I would blow my shot with a bad cast. While I hung the fly in a flax plant, I don't think this was the real cause of the fish's departure. I sacrificed the fly to the bush and was in the process of tying on a new pattern when I looked up and realized the fish had melted away. Maybe a flash from my reel seat scared him; maybe he just decided to try elsewhere; maybe he saw me put on my glasses; maybe pulling the flax plant waved unnaturally when I pulled the line from it. Anyway you slice it, he was gone and I was left wondering what to do.
The final fish of my first tramping trip was holding near a bush when I spotted him. I was thinking about slipping behind him when he slid down-river and took up feeding more or less directly opposite me. I was stuck. I knew he'd see me if I tried to move, but the cover I had so carefully placed between us when he was upstream no longer offered me a place to hunker down. I was right out there for him to see. I held still for a few minutes, and when he started feeding I thought the time was right. There was no question about casting -- he'd see the rod for sure -- so instead I sent out a roll cast. Or should I say, a pathetic roll cast. It hit the stream immediately opposite me, five feet down from where I wanted it, and five feet too close to my bank. I let it float on by and then tried again. Splat. Again short and too close to me; apparently too close to him as well. Off he went. I draw two morals from this experience. First, it pays to get behind these trout. They don't see nearly as well straight down river (behind them) as they do in any other direction. Second, practice those roll casts; they come in mighty handy in cramped quarters, of which there are many on kiwi streams.
The hike out went much faster than the hike in, perhaps because I was now closer to fit. Or perhaps because my spirits were so much higher after breaking the ice. My wife says I came back a much nicer person to be around. Perhaps that means I can go back to New Zealand with the family's blessing, and soon?
My first North Island adventure came on a three day tramp into the back country around the drainage of the upper Mohaka. This was a reasonable easy hike, or it would have been if I was fit, of roughly eight miles over fairly level terrain. Still, it took me about four hours to accomplish, and I was more than a little tired at the end.
I started fishing about 9 am the next morning. Water was cold when I first got in, no waders, but you get used to it. Fifteen minutes after I started, and five minutes after I first spotted a fish that turned into a rock on closer inspection, I spotted a real live trout. A big one. But, after one or two casts, he felt queasy and slid by me on his way to the holding spot I had just worked so carefully. Moral: be sure it's a trout before you work the fish, and get in the correct position before you cast.
On I go. Then, I spot a fish that must be nearly 28 inches, a true live monster. I only get one cast here, which sad to say drops next to the fish. He doesn't spook; rather, he turns and hunts my fly. But as he follows it down river, he sees me and heads for Nebraska, or wherever huge trout go when they spook. Moral here: after you so carefully get in correct position, make that first cast count. Be accurate.
A bit farther upstream, I get things right. Careful stalk, spot fish well before it sees me, get in correct position, down on my knees, good cast. I'm using a two fly rig, dry fly and nymph on point. No interest in cast. Off goes the nymph, a hare and copper, on goes a hare's ear. He takes it like it was meant for him alone. I know he will take when I see him slide over; the dry going down is icing on the cake. Or is it? Because the dry is between me and him, I never really see that moment he takes, I set up when the dry goes down, and the timing is off by a split second. There is a major splash at the surface, and the fish sprints for cover, but no hookup. Even so, I am thrilled to have had a real chance, and now feel like I could actually catch one of these guys. (Before this moment, I wasn't so sure I would get any fish in all the time I will be here.)
Upstream I spot two fish in a tail-out of a lovely hole. The bottom one slides over into the perfect feeding lie -- no, I didn't spook it -- and starts feeding. Well. Including, on the surface. So I put on a coch-y-bondu, a popular fly down here, sneak over into position, crawl up to casting position, and put the cast out. He takes a look and ... no sale. Off goes the cochy, on goes a LaFontaine Mohawk. (Yes, they really do work). The fish takes it on my first good cast. This is a nice fish, probably well over 6 pounds. I wait what seems an eternity and set up. Explosion, no hook up. Believe it or not, I set up too soon. Moral here: be REALLY patient on the strike.
Up a bit farther, the gods take pity. I spot the fish from way back. I stalk into position. Down on one knee. Ouch, the rocks are sharp. Out goes the Mohawk. Not quite close enough, or was it just wrong? Either way, the fish starts towards the fly and rejects. While this is going on, I hear 'whup whup whup' ... the sound of approaching chopper. Helicopter access to fishing in New Zealand is becoming increasingly popular, as it affords the angler relatively quick (though not cheap!) access to remote waters. It's also a major pain to those on the ground, especially when they have shed sweat to get there. This particular chopper flies straight down the river course, passing by about fifty feet over my head. I absolutely expected the trout to spook, and I was none too thrilled at the intrusion. But to my great happiness, the fish is oblivious to the mechanical monster overhead. After the chopper passes, I take off the Mohawk and tie the coch-y-bondu back on. Next cast, fish takes. I am saying one two three to myself like a mantra while I cast, but now that it really counts I can only react. Happy days, I wait until the fish turns, though I can't say that was conscious. FISH ON! Short run, I turn the fish, he's in the shallows, I force him onto the rocks. Just like that I am no longer fishless in New Zealand. 22 inch brown, probably five pounds.
That is the catching high point, but the best fishing part is yet to come. In the next hole I see a good fish at the tail-out. He is off the main flow just slightly, the current pinches into the next riffle about twenty feet below. A tough stalk, which I get by with, and a tougher cast. I blow it, inadvertently executing a perfect curve cast. But I didn't want a curve cast here. The problem is the fly comes down too close to the fish, and starts to drag soon thereafter. Off he goes. Cursing myself, I cross back over and stalk the pool. Almost immediately I spot a fish. While I'm think about the best way to approach him, he slides back to the tail-out and takes up feeding station again. It's the same trout! I slip quietly up the bank, get forty feet away from the water, duck-walk down below him, carefully wade over, back in position. Now, I work this guy for thirty minutes at least. He doesn't know I'm there, I hang one fly in the overhanging shrub along the way, get a false rise at one point, a handful of o.k. drifts, and change flies several times. Ultimately I deduce that a floating nymph looks like my best shot. But I am too jazzed. I can't put this one cast in place, and he eventually gets leery and slips back upstream. Though I muffed this trout, it was a fabulous fishing experience, full of excitement and challenge.
The next day I put in a few hours before hiking out. The water seems colder, and I don't hook anything, but I did stalk a few good fish. Two events occurred that I think are worth mentioning. I spotted a very nice fish just below a logjam, in a pocket of quiet water. He's moving about feeding rather actively. The day before I had dropped a beadhead Hare 'n Copper near him, to which he came running - and then left in a hurry. It seems these fish have learned that gold flash equals bad outcome, and now are prone to spooking from overbearing flies. Today I was not going to blow my shot with a garish fly. What I failed to consider was the (likely) event that I would blow my shot with a bad cast. While I hung the fly in a flax plant, I don't think this was the real cause of the fish's departure. I sacrificed the fly to the bush and was in the process of tying on a new pattern when I looked up and realized the fish had melted away. Maybe a flash from my reel seat scared him; maybe he just decided to try elsewhere; maybe he saw me put on my glasses; maybe pulling the flax plant waved unnaturally when I pulled the line from it. Anyway you slice it, he was gone and I was left wondering what to do.
The final fish of my first tramping trip was holding near a bush when I spotted him. I was thinking about slipping behind him when he slid down-river and took up feeding more or less directly opposite me. I was stuck. I knew he'd see me if I tried to move, but the cover I had so carefully placed between us when he was upstream no longer offered me a place to hunker down. I was right out there for him to see. I held still for a few minutes, and when he started feeding I thought the time was right. There was no question about casting -- he'd see the rod for sure -- so instead I sent out a roll cast. Or should I say, a pathetic roll cast. It hit the stream immediately opposite me, five feet down from where I wanted it, and five feet too close to my bank. I let it float on by and then tried again. Splat. Again short and too close to me; apparently too close to him as well. Off he went. I draw two morals from this experience. First, it pays to get behind these trout. They don't see nearly as well straight down river (behind them) as they do in any other direction. Second, practice those roll casts; they come in mighty handy in cramped quarters, of which there are many on kiwi streams.
The hike out went much faster than the hike in, perhaps because I was now closer to fit. Or perhaps because my spirits were so much higher after breaking the ice. My wife says I came back a much nicer person to be around. Perhaps that means I can go back to New Zealand with the family's blessing, and soon?
The Travers/Sabine circuit
My first trip to the south island yesterday was a physically demanding tramp (the kiwi term for backpacking) on the Traver/Sabine circuit. This is an absolutely beautiful hike through widely varying terrain. One starts at Lake Rotoiti, at an elevation of perhaps 500 meters. The circuit starts off up the Travers river -- the major source for the lake. This takes you to a basin immediately below Travers saddle, which you climb over. The elevation here is around 2,000 metres. The route then descends to the valley of the Sabine river, dropping well over 1,000 metres along the way. One then walks down the Sabine to Lake Rotorua, and then traverses a long ridge back to Lake Rotoiti. A solid five day walk, more than likely of about 60 miles, with a good part of it lacking a well-defined trail.
I started my tramp on February 19th, taking a water taxi from St. Arnaud to the head of Rotoiti. That evening I fished some in Coldwater creek, devoting a solid twenty minutes to pursuing one mighty nice cruiser in a large bend pool. Alas, all in vain. I could never get a clean drift over him, and when I leaned farther out into the stream to improve my chances he spotted me, and that was that. I did get a solid 18 inch brown at the inlet to the Lake near on to dusk. He was roaming around in what looked like an old defunct beaver pond, snatching up goodies along the way. I put a size 16 LaFontaine sparkle caddis pupa out there, and he sucked it right in. I hadn't really expected much of size in this little backwater, so this was a pleasant surprise.
The next day I moved up the river, spending a bit of time fishing along the way. Here and there I spotted fish, but I couldn't get many to take. However, I did have one BIG brown inhale my dry, and pulled the fly from him in a fit of excitement. I spotted him from the bank, just in front of a midstream rock; snuck into position (immediately behind him!), put a decent cast out (ok, so it took me a few tries to make a good cast). He came to the fly -- a size ten red humpy - like a baby to the bottle, like a dog to the bone, like...you get the idea. And what did I do? Why, I pulled the fly right out of his mouth. He didn't quite spook, but he moved up, or at least I think he did. I waded out, stalked the other side, spotted a fish towards the head of the rifle, and returned to position. A bit later he slid down while feeding; I ducked so low my shorts and shirt both got wet. I had a real good look at him when he turned back up, and he was way over twenty inches. But I didn't get another chance.
As the sun was sinking low in the sky, I had to move on. I had perhaps two hours walk yet to the John Tait hut, my destination for that night. These huts are a remarkable part of backcountry travel in New Zealand. Although the sandflies can be thick, and the rain pouring down, you can be safe and warm, free from insect annoyance, in these solid wooden shelters erected by the NZ Department of Conservation. This evening, I had the entire hut to myself -- and it would sleep at least 24. All for $8 NZ, roughly $5 U.S.
My first trip to the south island yesterday was a physically demanding tramp (the kiwi term for backpacking) on the Traver/Sabine circuit. This is an absolutely beautiful hike through widely varying terrain. One starts at Lake Rotoiti, at an elevation of perhaps 500 meters. The circuit starts off up the Travers river -- the major source for the lake. This takes you to a basin immediately below Travers saddle, which you climb over. The elevation here is around 2,000 metres. The route then descends to the valley of the Sabine river, dropping well over 1,000 metres along the way. One then walks down the Sabine to Lake Rotorua, and then traverses a long ridge back to Lake Rotoiti. A solid five day walk, more than likely of about 60 miles, with a good part of it lacking a well-defined trail.
I started my tramp on February 19th, taking a water taxi from St. Arnaud to the head of Rotoiti. That evening I fished some in Coldwater creek, devoting a solid twenty minutes to pursuing one mighty nice cruiser in a large bend pool. Alas, all in vain. I could never get a clean drift over him, and when I leaned farther out into the stream to improve my chances he spotted me, and that was that. I did get a solid 18 inch brown at the inlet to the Lake near on to dusk. He was roaming around in what looked like an old defunct beaver pond, snatching up goodies along the way. I put a size 16 LaFontaine sparkle caddis pupa out there, and he sucked it right in. I hadn't really expected much of size in this little backwater, so this was a pleasant surprise.
The next day I moved up the river, spending a bit of time fishing along the way. Here and there I spotted fish, but I couldn't get many to take. However, I did have one BIG brown inhale my dry, and pulled the fly from him in a fit of excitement. I spotted him from the bank, just in front of a midstream rock; snuck into position (immediately behind him!), put a decent cast out (ok, so it took me a few tries to make a good cast). He came to the fly -- a size ten red humpy - like a baby to the bottle, like a dog to the bone, like...you get the idea. And what did I do? Why, I pulled the fly right out of his mouth. He didn't quite spook, but he moved up, or at least I think he did. I waded out, stalked the other side, spotted a fish towards the head of the rifle, and returned to position. A bit later he slid down while feeding; I ducked so low my shorts and shirt both got wet. I had a real good look at him when he turned back up, and he was way over twenty inches. But I didn't get another chance.
As the sun was sinking low in the sky, I had to move on. I had perhaps two hours walk yet to the John Tait hut, my destination for that night. These huts are a remarkable part of backcountry travel in New Zealand. Although the sandflies can be thick, and the rain pouring down, you can be safe and warm, free from insect annoyance, in these solid wooden shelters erected by the NZ Department of Conservation. This evening, I had the entire hut to myself -- and it would sleep at least 24. All for $8 NZ, roughly $5 U.S.
The next day I walked back down the river, perhaps four miles, and started fishing up. Almost immediately I spotted a nice fish, feeding in shallow riffles near the edge of the stream. I stalked him, put the cast out (again the red humpy), and he ate it. Just like that. While I was congratulating myself on getting better at this Kiwi fishing, I noticed that my knees were shaking like jello. Fun, yes, but more than that. The adrenalin is flowing, your heart is pounding. There must be something almost primeval about this -- hunting for fish, seeing one, sneaking up, making your arms deliver this bit of feather and fur to an alert, savvy creature that is almost close enough to reach out and touch. This particular critter was a brown trout of at least 20 inches. I played him for about three or four minutes, and then the fly pulled out. Just like that, the adrenaline balloon burst. The fishing here isn't easy but it is very entertaining.
I fished without much to show for the next three hours. Then, just before I had to quit so I could make it to the next hut that evening I spotted a fish nymphing in a small slot in reasonably deep water, where the stream had become fairly narrow. I put on a hare & copper, but it wouldn't get down. So I added one piece of shot. I apparently tried to hook an overhanging branch, but when that failed I put a decent cast out in front of the fish. Up she rose, about six or ten inches, down she slid. I set up, and ... fish on! Good fight, dancing around some boulders, but eventually I brought her to shore. An absolutely beautiful 20 inch hen brownie, powerfully muscled across the back. I would think she weighed between four and five pounds. On shore, she seemed much larger than in the water.
As much fun as this was, I needed to head on. The day's hike was only about three hours, but it included a solid 1500 foot climb up to the basin below Travers saddle. Plus, I had perhaps an hour's hike just to get back to the hut where I'd left my pack. Sadly, then, I bade goodbye to the Travers River.
The hike next day was a major physical challenge. The first part, climbing to the saddle, was no easy task, but then it wasn't that hard. The trail glides along over the saddle for perhaps a mile, dropping gently. Going down the other side was another matter. Not only does the route drop well over 3,000 feet, but the first pitch is very steep, and there is no trail (you just follow the rock cairns, ski poles, and other markers). By the time I made the next hut, I was exhausted. Sandflies or no, cold water or warm, I dropped into the Sabine river for a refreshing bath.
The following day was surely the easiest. A nice, gradual, five hour walk down the Sabine to Lake Rotorua. En route, near the lake, one crosses a bridge about fifty feet above the river. From here you can look down on some of the largest trout on the face of the earth. Of course, they see you too, so they are nearly impossible to catch. But looking can still be fun.
The last day was a 9.5 hour hike over three ridges, surely 15 miles or more. In many places the "trail" is a mass of tree roots. At one spot, where the trail hasn't really been cut yet, a huge tree had fallen over the track, and it took ten minutes to come to the realization that the track didn't go either down or up, so it must go straight into this tree. I climbed the hill around the tree and sure enough, there was a marker (orange metal tags nailed to the trees are often the only indication of the route to follow). Mighty scary! But I got out ok, and felt like I had really accomplished something. The bad news was: while I had all day Tuesday to fish the waters near my start, it poured buckets of rain through mid afternoon. I was just about to quit (it gets cold wet wading when it rains that much) when the rain stopped and the sun showed up. Even so, the river was a bit too crowded for my taste, so I worked the lake near the outlet. Saw a few fish, had one look at my fly (a poor choice -- a mayfly imitation called "Dad's Favourite", which is a standard Catskill style and ill-suited to lake fishing I would think), but didn't have any action. Went down to the lake at dusk, had a wonderful view, stalked a fish working the super shallows (less that one foot from shore), got into range, and six Kiwis jumped in the lake about 50 yards away. Goodbye fish. But even so, the fishing was quite good overall; the catching was ok at times too.
I fished without much to show for the next three hours. Then, just before I had to quit so I could make it to the next hut that evening I spotted a fish nymphing in a small slot in reasonably deep water, where the stream had become fairly narrow. I put on a hare & copper, but it wouldn't get down. So I added one piece of shot. I apparently tried to hook an overhanging branch, but when that failed I put a decent cast out in front of the fish. Up she rose, about six or ten inches, down she slid. I set up, and ... fish on! Good fight, dancing around some boulders, but eventually I brought her to shore. An absolutely beautiful 20 inch hen brownie, powerfully muscled across the back. I would think she weighed between four and five pounds. On shore, she seemed much larger than in the water.
As much fun as this was, I needed to head on. The day's hike was only about three hours, but it included a solid 1500 foot climb up to the basin below Travers saddle. Plus, I had perhaps an hour's hike just to get back to the hut where I'd left my pack. Sadly, then, I bade goodbye to the Travers River.
The hike next day was a major physical challenge. The first part, climbing to the saddle, was no easy task, but then it wasn't that hard. The trail glides along over the saddle for perhaps a mile, dropping gently. Going down the other side was another matter. Not only does the route drop well over 3,000 feet, but the first pitch is very steep, and there is no trail (you just follow the rock cairns, ski poles, and other markers). By the time I made the next hut, I was exhausted. Sandflies or no, cold water or warm, I dropped into the Sabine river for a refreshing bath.
The following day was surely the easiest. A nice, gradual, five hour walk down the Sabine to Lake Rotorua. En route, near the lake, one crosses a bridge about fifty feet above the river. From here you can look down on some of the largest trout on the face of the earth. Of course, they see you too, so they are nearly impossible to catch. But looking can still be fun.
The last day was a 9.5 hour hike over three ridges, surely 15 miles or more. In many places the "trail" is a mass of tree roots. At one spot, where the trail hasn't really been cut yet, a huge tree had fallen over the track, and it took ten minutes to come to the realization that the track didn't go either down or up, so it must go straight into this tree. I climbed the hill around the tree and sure enough, there was a marker (orange metal tags nailed to the trees are often the only indication of the route to follow). Mighty scary! But I got out ok, and felt like I had really accomplished something. The bad news was: while I had all day Tuesday to fish the waters near my start, it poured buckets of rain through mid afternoon. I was just about to quit (it gets cold wet wading when it rains that much) when the rain stopped and the sun showed up. Even so, the river was a bit too crowded for my taste, so I worked the lake near the outlet. Saw a few fish, had one look at my fly (a poor choice -- a mayfly imitation called "Dad's Favourite", which is a standard Catskill style and ill-suited to lake fishing I would think), but didn't have any action. Went down to the lake at dusk, had a wonderful view, stalked a fish working the super shallows (less that one foot from shore), got into range, and six Kiwis jumped in the lake about 50 yards away. Goodbye fish. But even so, the fishing was quite good overall; the catching was ok at times too.
The Delightful Kaniwhaniwha
It had been raining quite a bit during the preceding week, but this morning was bright and sunny. I thought it would be a great day for spotting trout, and so I packed up my stuff. Also, my Dad had just been through for a visit so I hadn't fished for about a week. He had brought my small stream rod with him, a 7.5 foot Granger Special, and I was keen to have a go with it on the Kaniwhaniwha, a lovely small stream near my home in Hamilton.
When I got to the parking lot, I was disappointed to see a car ahead of me. Because this is small water I had low expectations, but as I said I was chomping at the bit, so off I went. I strolled up to the first hole, and lo and behold, there was a decent trout in the tail feeding - quite actively. I was hunkered down behind a blackberry bush, almost dead even with him, and I could see him very clearly. He moved back and forth, and then tilted up and took something from the surface. Aha! says I, this is one for a dry fly. I tied on a coch-y-bondu, and snuck down stream thirty feet below the bush. Then I eased into the water, moved out to midstream, and slowly moved up. I had marked his position by a rock on the bank, and when I looked at what I thought was the position I couldn't see him. I was about to curse my bad luck when I saw movement just a bit farther up. Dummy! The angle from downstream isn't the same as the angle from across stream. He was in fact in exactly the same place, just as happy as a clam. As I watched he grabbed one or two more items from the surface, and I hunkered down and moved up out of the tail-out, into the slow flow at the rear of the flat. I stripped off what I thought was enough line, false cast a bit, and shot out my try. It wasn't very good, landing three feet to the fish's left, but he swam right over and ate it. Just like that. I waited a bit for him to turn down, and set up. FISH ON! He jumped twice, quite spectacularly for the size of the water, and made some hard runs, towards the edge, towards a submerged rock shelf, towards the head of the hole. I had a hard time reining him in, but eventually I did bring him to net. About 15", surely 2 pounds, a decent fish most anywhere but a real prize in this little water.
In the next good hole, which had a solid, choppy run through its heart, I put in a few casts down the main line with no effect. Then I landed a cast just out of the main flow, and it sunk straightaway. In the relatively calmer water I saw a fish head materialize and then turn back. I set up, and FISH ON again. Good fish. Really good fish. Probably 18 to 20 inches, more like 4 pounds than 2. It jumped, ran up, ran over, did all it could to tear away. I turned it without thinking about the next step, and he swam down by me. Had I been lightning fast I could have netted him, but he passed by. It was then I realized I was standing right across from a willow tree whose branches were just into the current flow. Guess where he went. I tried hard to hold him but it was too close to prevent, and he was in against the branch, smelling his freedom. That – together with the short line and awkward angle – were too much strain for the tippet. Pop! But I was happy to have had a big one on, and moved ahead.
A bit farther, after hooking a few smaller ones, I came to a delicious looking hole that I have never seen a fish in. I tried to work it, but nothing doing. Just then I passed the two chaps who were parked at the lot; they were on their way out. We exchanged stories -- they had a few small ones -- and I moved ahead. Within twenty feet of that delicious looking hole I dropped my fly, now a size 14 Royal Wulff, since I was sans coch-y-bondu, onto the end of a rather small pocket behind a nice looking choppy run. It disappeared without any sign of fish presence, and the lie was in the shadows so I couldn't see well, but I set up out of instinct. A nice fish, which turned out to be my first brown trout there, set off down stream. I corralled him just above the nice hole, a plump 15" brownie. I was thinking that life doesn't get much better than this. I was wrong. A bit farther up I was what looked like decent water, with an overhanging willow (see any common features here?) that blocked my view of the top. I crossed the stream and flipped a cast towards the top of the riffle. It sunk straightaway, and again I saw a hint of fish appear from the depths. This guy also made for willows, and in fact got in under them, but I dropped the rod and pulled him out. He turned into a 17 or 18 inch brown, quite probably 3 pounds, the best fish of the day.
Here's where the day took a weird turn. I was thinking I'd walk the other bank up to the next hole, and was looking at this farmer's fence wondering if it would be ok for me to just duck it. There were no barbs, so I thought it wouldn't be too tough. Thinking it might be electric, I held my hand against it. Nothing. Getting cocky, I lay my hand on it for a second or two. Big mistake. The electric fences here operate on a pulse system -- they lie idle for a second or so, then send a shot of electricity along. Current here is nearly the same strength as dryers in the US, about 220 volts. The shock knocked me to my knees, and I rolled down the bank into the stream. I was stunned, but I also felt this pain in my back for a few minutes, and decided I wouldn't do anything like that again soon. Well, after I recovered I made my way up to what might be the best hole on the stream. On my first visit, courtesy of a local I had befriended at a monthly angling club meeting, I spotted a good-sized brown there. But no fish this time. Disappointed, I worked the smallish riffle just above the hole, with no luck. (Though I should say that the next time I fished this spot I hooked a 16 " rainbow.) Up another twenty feet, the water tumbled over a shallow run next to a good-sized boulder. I put the Royal Wulff up by the rock and a fish took. I hooked him, but probably too quickly, and he threw the hook on the jump. I reckoned it was about an 18" brown. I'm nearly out of time for this trip, but not before I pick up one last memento. On a rocky run that has no business holding a good fish I make a rather careless cast across current. A good-sized fish materializes from the head of the run and slashes at the fly, which I have lifted off the water. He doesn't spook, though, and I watch him as he takes up a position closer to the tail of the run. As he is in sight it's not too hard to fashion a cast to his precise location, and to hold the line in such a way that the fly doesn't drag. He takes, and I play him down to the next hole, where I beach him. A fine fish, 16 " brown, and a fitting way to end.
On my way back to the car I was smiling, thinking how much fun this fishing business can be on those lucky days when things go your way, when I passed a couple heading up with rods in hand. They asked about my day, and after hearing that I'd caught a few they asked if I took the fish on a hare and copper (a popular local nymph). The shock in their faces when I showed them the dry fly was well worth the price of admission. There is a moral here, I think. If you fish water that is heavily trod, seek out spots that get ignored, and use a fly or technique that most others don't think of. And don't neglect small streams, which can often be the most fun of all.
A Big Boy on the Whirinaki
One day, just before school started at the University of Waikato, I went over to the Whirinaki River (pronounced fear-uh-knack-ee). It's a good long drive from any population center, and thirty to forty minutes down a metal (kiwi for gravel) road, so I was deeply disappointed when I found a guy fishing at the spot I pulled over to check out the water. But he was a decent bloke, and suggested a nice piece of water upstream. While I watched, he rose a small fish, perhaps 12 inches, didn't pay attention, and had it swim under an undercut bank. He tried to yank it out, which of course lead him to part 5X company with the trout. I went upstream to the appointed location, and made my way out into the water. It was in fact delightful -- an absolutely majestic native bush, a podocarp forest, which came right down to the water on one side. It would be murder to crash through, but I could get around on the other side or wade across when need be. However, despite the fact that the stream looked quite like a Rocky Mountain freestone, and the fly I used was a very productive pattern, both here and in the Rockies -- a humpy -- I had no takes. I spotted a good rainbow in deep water immediately behind a large tree that lay across the river, and put on a heavily weighted hare and copper nymph. But I just couldn't get the fly down to him, so I moved on. A bit up the river I saw a decent rainbow rise up and take something just below the surface at the head of a run, but I couldn't locate him in the heavy water. After a bit I left, having only risen a few smallish browns. I retraced my steps to the spot I'd visited earlier, but thought better of fishing it. The guy I'd visited with, and perhaps his mate, had worked it fairly thoroughly, and I suspected it was too disturbed to provide good fishing. So I drove down a bit, almost to the town of Minginui, and pulled over at a sign indicating water supply. (The obvious supply, I reasoned, was the river.) Here I found a nice bit of water, which I intended to work over for about ninety minutes prior to heading home. I walked across the water and came to a nice little pool, from which I spooked a good brown before I could draw breath. Oops!
So I went up a bit, fishing the run immediately above my car. It was a fairly heavy, choppy piece of water, so I clinched on a larger dry, perhaps a size 10 Royal Wulff. A few casts later I sent it up and to the left of the remnants of a large tree that had washed down during flood, and then deposited mid stream. A mighty head sliced up, engulfed the fly, and went down. I set up without thinking (in New Zealand one often needs to count to 3 to hook up on dries, but here I set up as I would in the states) -- and had him on. I knew it was a good fish, but then he jumped. Twice. Clear out of the water, with plenty to spare. I got a real good look at him. If this fish was less than two feet I would be shocked; perhaps he was more like 26 ". And probably 6 or 7 pounds. After the jumps, he ran up the river hard. I didn't want him in that snag, so I put the brakes on, and leaned on my trusty Granger Victory (an old cane rod) trying to turn him. In vain. For a minute or so we had a stalemate, and then I thought I felt him giving way. I leaned harder, but he didn't budge anymore. And then after another minute or so the line just parted.
It took five minutes for me to calm down. Sure I was disappointed to have not landed the fish, but in retrospect the strategy was all I could do. (I returned to the scene of the crime about a month later, and found a virtual forest of roots above where I'd broken off. Had I let him move up farther, it would have been over just as surely.) And besides, I played this magnificent brown for the better part of five minutes, which supplied me with several weeks worth of adrenaline.
So, after this experience I cut back and changed the tippet from 4X to 3X. Up at the flat below a deep hole just upstream I cast my lone remaining size 10 Royal Wulff behind a willow that overhangs the stream. Out of the corner of my eye I saw it vanish, and set up. Remember the bit about waiting for a few seconds after a take? It seems this can easily be accomplished by day dreaming. The fish was on, and put up a spirited fight. It turned out to be about 3 pounds, and 18 inches, of firm fit kiwi brown trout. In comparison to the one that got away, however, it seemed like a minnow. No kidding. Would I lie to you?
One day, just before school started at the University of Waikato, I went over to the Whirinaki River (pronounced fear-uh-knack-ee). It's a good long drive from any population center, and thirty to forty minutes down a metal (kiwi for gravel) road, so I was deeply disappointed when I found a guy fishing at the spot I pulled over to check out the water. But he was a decent bloke, and suggested a nice piece of water upstream. While I watched, he rose a small fish, perhaps 12 inches, didn't pay attention, and had it swim under an undercut bank. He tried to yank it out, which of course lead him to part 5X company with the trout. I went upstream to the appointed location, and made my way out into the water. It was in fact delightful -- an absolutely majestic native bush, a podocarp forest, which came right down to the water on one side. It would be murder to crash through, but I could get around on the other side or wade across when need be. However, despite the fact that the stream looked quite like a Rocky Mountain freestone, and the fly I used was a very productive pattern, both here and in the Rockies -- a humpy -- I had no takes. I spotted a good rainbow in deep water immediately behind a large tree that lay across the river, and put on a heavily weighted hare and copper nymph. But I just couldn't get the fly down to him, so I moved on. A bit up the river I saw a decent rainbow rise up and take something just below the surface at the head of a run, but I couldn't locate him in the heavy water. After a bit I left, having only risen a few smallish browns. I retraced my steps to the spot I'd visited earlier, but thought better of fishing it. The guy I'd visited with, and perhaps his mate, had worked it fairly thoroughly, and I suspected it was too disturbed to provide good fishing. So I drove down a bit, almost to the town of Minginui, and pulled over at a sign indicating water supply. (The obvious supply, I reasoned, was the river.) Here I found a nice bit of water, which I intended to work over for about ninety minutes prior to heading home. I walked across the water and came to a nice little pool, from which I spooked a good brown before I could draw breath. Oops!
So I went up a bit, fishing the run immediately above my car. It was a fairly heavy, choppy piece of water, so I clinched on a larger dry, perhaps a size 10 Royal Wulff. A few casts later I sent it up and to the left of the remnants of a large tree that had washed down during flood, and then deposited mid stream. A mighty head sliced up, engulfed the fly, and went down. I set up without thinking (in New Zealand one often needs to count to 3 to hook up on dries, but here I set up as I would in the states) -- and had him on. I knew it was a good fish, but then he jumped. Twice. Clear out of the water, with plenty to spare. I got a real good look at him. If this fish was less than two feet I would be shocked; perhaps he was more like 26 ". And probably 6 or 7 pounds. After the jumps, he ran up the river hard. I didn't want him in that snag, so I put the brakes on, and leaned on my trusty Granger Victory (an old cane rod) trying to turn him. In vain. For a minute or so we had a stalemate, and then I thought I felt him giving way. I leaned harder, but he didn't budge anymore. And then after another minute or so the line just parted.
It took five minutes for me to calm down. Sure I was disappointed to have not landed the fish, but in retrospect the strategy was all I could do. (I returned to the scene of the crime about a month later, and found a virtual forest of roots above where I'd broken off. Had I let him move up farther, it would have been over just as surely.) And besides, I played this magnificent brown for the better part of five minutes, which supplied me with several weeks worth of adrenaline.
So, after this experience I cut back and changed the tippet from 4X to 3X. Up at the flat below a deep hole just upstream I cast my lone remaining size 10 Royal Wulff behind a willow that overhangs the stream. Out of the corner of my eye I saw it vanish, and set up. Remember the bit about waiting for a few seconds after a take? It seems this can easily be accomplished by day dreaming. The fish was on, and put up a spirited fight. It turned out to be about 3 pounds, and 18 inches, of firm fit kiwi brown trout. In comparison to the one that got away, however, it seemed like a minnow. No kidding. Would I lie to you?
Magic on the Makuri
I have a friend in Palmerston North, actually an ex-colleague, and my family was staying with my friend's house for a few days. Conrad (a.k.a. "the barbarian") picked me up at 7am, more in line with my normal habits than the 5 am pickup for the other trip. We drove over to the other side of the Ruahine mountains, a pleasant enough trip up the one and only river that starts on the east side of the mountains and ends on the west side, and made our way towards the Makuri. This is a small river, but it has some pretty deep holes, lots of cover, and gazillions of nice browns. The concern was that recent rains may have turned the river to mud -- the day before we left Hamilton, it rained all night, and it rained harder than I have ever seen anywhere, anytime. Upon arrival we hopped a barbed wire fence and made our way to the stream. It wasn't that dirty but then it wasn't very clear either. Conrad had hoped we would spot bunches of fish, and we did see a few, but they were tough to pick out and we spooked the ones we saw. Deciding this wasn't the place we pulled out, and drove on upstream. At the next spot the stream was crystal clear, a bit narrower, and seemed more intimate. The valley was narrower, and we were above the last bridge so there was no road noise. Almost immediately we tripped over a fish. Ok, we'll find more. Up a bit, with Conrad on true right bank and me on true left bank, I see a good one working at the back end of a deep hole. I motion to Conrad to watch out, sneak up, and put out the cast. Dry fly with a hare & copper dropper. After a few casts the fish is gone. Oops! Maybe I spooked him by casting, maybe I should have gone straight to a nymph -- he was feeding subsurface. Maybe he got big by being wise. Oh well, there will be more. Up ahead, we're both on my side now, we kick up a fish in the tail of a moderately long hole. But then Conrad spies a fish at the back side of the belly of the hole. And then another. I sneak in behind, no longer using a dry/nymph rig, and have a go. There seems to be little interest -- did I not get deep enough? Were the fish tired of ducking hare & coppers?, so I shift to a hare's ear, tied below a bugeye hare & copper. The latter is tied with a piece of weight that looks like a miniature dumbbell right behind the eye of the hook. It's meant to serve as weight, but to offer the fish something interesting. Sort of an analogy to using a dry in place of a strike detector. Anyway, I run a cast through the main run of the hole, and when I lift to make the next cast a significantly larger brown appears from the depths. Despite this interest, he never returned. But what a treat to have him take a look! A little bit farther we realize we've made it to the true headwaters. The Makuri is a spring creek, and we have found a series of small creeks that come from small springs. Time to head back. So, we drive downstream to location number three. The water is clear here too, and we start off in good spirits. The stream is overgrown with willows, so it takes a while to find one. Conrad takes a try at the first one we find, but to no avail. Up a bit I spy one just behind a willow, in what turns out to be waist deep water. (This water is so clear, I think he is (i) not too large, and (ii) only about one foot below the surface. Ha!) I can't get a good cast in, I'm either behind him or not deep enough, and I finally hook the brush. While trying top break off I move the bush and the fish takes off downriver, and I don't mean leisurely. He's no longer "not too big". Then I wade over to free my fly, and the hole is no longer "not that deep". Live and learn. On ahead I mess up a modest size fish and am about to cut out when Conrad comes back to get me.
He's found one, and generously lets me have first crack. We sneak up, peer around a tree, and there it is. A very nice fish, lying in calm and shallow water, right in the middle of the stream. Utterly unapproachable from our position. And there are willows everywhere, so he looks like a hard fish to land anyway. How to do this? Well, I walk back the track fifty yards, beat my way through the bush to the stream, and wade up the middle until I see Conrad (he stayed in the viewing spot, about thirty feet below the fish). Then I go to the other side, behind one of those willows surrounding the fish's hole until I get even with Conrad. Then, using the tree as cover, I peer around and up the stream. Yep, he's still there, and feeding happily. My hare and copper is way to bulky and heavy for such quiet water, so I replace it with a size 14 hare's ear. I strip off line, false cast over the bank between Conrad and the fish, and put out the cast. Plip! about a yard above him. It drifts back at a moderate pace, while I hold my breath. Over he glides, up he tilts, then he goes back down. I never saw his mouth open, but I tighten anyway and FISH ON! He makes two amazing jumps, a couple of spirited attempts to reach the willows, and generally thrashes about. But I hold fast -- no using the reel here, it's time to grasp that line tight -- and turn him towards the bank. He's still a bit hot when I net him, and Conrad (remember, he's the barbarian) raps it over the head, promising to smoke it for my friend.
I could quit a happy man now, but wait -- there's more! We spot lots of fish, spooking most but getting in a few shots at some, and up a ways the river pinches through some limestone, making a deep run. It's quite like a Rocky Mountain plunge pool, so I blind nymph it (still with that hare's ear). The first run next to a big rock the line tweaks, I set up, and another hot fish is on. More silvery than the first, he's just as lively. He also jumps twice, and since there are no willows here I play him from the reel. It takes a while but ultimately he's in the net too. He has earned his freedom, so off I gently release him, after measuring him against the rod. Like the first one, he's a healthy brown, somewhere in the 18 to 20 inch range, easily over three pounds.
The catching is now done, but not the best fishing. We head back down to the truck, and drive to spot number 4 for an hour's fishing. It's not as aesthetically pleasing, located near a golf course, but the river is still gorgeous, and we head off upriver. Conrad has found a fish to play with, and I'm moving up, when I see a fish run towards some willows. Damn, I think, that was careless. But he moves out, and takes up a spot just above a rock. Then another comes nearby, and the two of them slide up into the pool above, which is just below an overhanging willow. As Conrad joins me I hold up two fingers, and we silently watch. They start feeding, and then things get eaten from the surface. I duckwalk down a bit, put in well below them, and quietly wade up the middle of the stream, stopping about thirty feet below where I think they are. I cannot see a thing, so I have to rely on Conrad's tips. Conrad stays hidden in the grass, and calls out the action. One has left, probably moved up into the willows, but the other is still happily chowing down. And moving around, a lot. Up, down, left, right. Conrad calls it all out. I try to time the cast, placing it where I think the fish is holding, with Conrad kibbitzing. At one point I nearly hit him on the head with the hare's ear -- he rose just as the cast dropped -- and Conrad says "that was yours!" So I set up. Nothing. Fearing the fish is on edge, I change files. Mayfly, caddis, floating nymph, coch-y-bondu. Nothing works. Ultimately I settle on a LaFontaine diving caddis, more because it's the only smallish soft hackle fly I have than anything else, but the fish has faded away. I cast anyway, to no avail, and then snag the brush. When I go over to free the fly I kick the fish up. Not a bad trout, probably not the equal of the other two but certainly over 2 pounds. I couldn't fool him, but the time I spent trying -- the better part of an hour -- was thoroughly entertaining. My biggest regret was keeping Conrad from fishing that long, especially since we have to leave pretty soon, but he says he really enjoyed it too. As they say around here, it's not all in the catching.