Back at the big river

3.45 am. Alarm... yikes. Coffee and muesli, dog fed. Coffee for the road. Bye to Marcia, dog in truck, here we go. Winter 2018 campaign underway. Karl and Jase had had a hit out or 2 and had reported patchy fishing, but both had hit good fish. The drive down was clean with no hold ups. I'd phoned Tim and Pete on Friday to figure their plans - we'd catch up during the day.

First stop - Mill Race. Lovely swinging water. I'd walked the track with a spring in my step. First in the car park after a 4 hour drive - virgin water! Tim phoned - he and Greig were up at the Blue Pool car park, so I agreed to catch up with them a bit later. At the car park I'd rigged up the Sage One 5116 with a Rio Skagit Short head and light MOW tip, 10 feet of T-8. Wooly Bugger on 1m of 10lb Maxima.

It's been a while between casts. Focus on foot placement. No shortcuts with the lift - anchor placement critical. OMG the cast booms out - did I do that straight off the bat? Its going to be a good casting day! I use 2 casts here. At the head a quartering Snap T that drops the fly into the fast shallow water past midstream then swings slowly into the deep seam. The other cast, used when abreast of the big rock is a double Spey across the current, landing the fly at the far bank and achieving a faster swing as the current takes the fly down. By using this combo I can show a fish the fly with 2 different drift profiles.

It was the quartering cast that brought the first take, just in the lee of the big rock. The fish hit and took line and despite being slightly coloured and a bit  on the skinny side, gave a good account of herself. I beached her, removed the hook, let her go and prepared to swing the deep seam. I've seen a nymph guy take fish after fish in this seam, its perfect holding water. Cast after cast raked the seam. Maybe I wasn't getting depth (uh-oh. Not this thought. Resist the urge to change tips...  R-E-S-I-S-T damn it!).

I changed tips. 10 'of T - something heavy. Stupido. Fool. Idiot. My casting went straight to crap. Must be not "T something" but T-14. IDIOT. Off with that, and on with 10' of T-10. In all, 10-15 minutes of fishing time lost with not a damn thing achieved. Ok, the T-10 while not as elegant as the T-8, was certainly not killing the cast. I swung the seam, only hitting one further fish where the tail out began, and that was only a brief tug and a few feet of line ripping off the reel... but the fish was gone.

2 other guys arrived and began to fish down above me. Layla told them this was her pool. I told her to play nice. Grumpy little cow. Nothing else came to the fly. I'd spent 2 hours on the pool, so was due for a walk to warm my legs.

At the Blue Pool carpark I called Tim. He and Greig had covered the upper pools; Greig was in the tail of the Blue and Tim came up to meet me. Just back from Montana, he was sporting a tan - jealous much! Greig joined us and we ate some of Tim's excellent veni Kranski sausages and had a coffee while catching up. Layla played nice and got some saussie for her troubles.

The boys headed downstream. I wanted to fish the tail of the Blue, but with the human vacuum cleaner Greig having gone through I didn't hold out much hope of hooking anything. I gave it a red hot go, covered the water as best as I could, but drew no strikes. Pete phoned me and he'd finished his home duties, so said he'd come up for a fish. I crossed the tail of the blue and headed down to the Boulder. I LOVE this pool. As mentioned elsewhere, it's the scene of my first ever hook up with a Spey rod. I got into my work. The throat of the pool is heavy heavy water - worth swinging the inside seam but the mid to tail out is where its at for swinging. I was still banging out casts ok. Pete sms'd me that he'd jump into the Blue for a swing - I let him know I'd be an hour at least. The first hit was a goodie and the fat little jack that ate gave a good account of himself.

Back in the pool I lost my fly to a snag as I took a phone call and let it sit too long so tied on a fresh one. I sent a cast across to the stump where a large proud Pinus Radiata used to stand pre-logging activity and the swing stopped dead. The fish felt solid but was just a big skinny old slab that I dragged shore.

Several casts later the line was ripped from my fingers as the fish dashed off. Another fat jack that fought like a demented creature.

At the bottom of the pool I turned and headed upstream. Layla's got this crossing sorted now and made it across no problem. She beat me up to Pete's pozzie and jumped all over him. We walked upsteam talking smack and at the cars made a plan to swing the run below Admiral's. Its often overlooked. Pete went in half way down to swing his red rabbit and I started above the head of the pool. Layla chased rabbits and quail in the scrub. She likes it here. Pete soon had a hit. Watching him effortlessly roll out casts is a pleasure. My hit when it came was in the slower water mid pool. Pete netted the fat little hen for me. And with that we drew a line under the day.

Unlocking the lake

I'm not really a still water angler. I mean, I've caught plenty of lake fish on lakes from boat or shore but I can't say I've built up a knowledge base of deep dark secrets. I can hold my own in river mouths that tip into lakes and in fact, when I think of 'lake fishing' I sort of mentally conjure up images of casting across or along a rip where a stream or river enters a lake and where fish arrive either on a mission to spawn, to seek shelter in the invariably cooler water of the stream, or to hunt prey where the current focuses food.

Where I'm not so good is the winter shoreline stuff in Rotorua, when fish return to their original release point to spawn. I've spent an inordinate amount of time casting into the darkness, retrieving slowly or sometimes incredibly s-l-o-w-l-y as prescribed by Milo, a master of the sport. One form of this sport involves casting out a "heave and leave" floating glo bug on a 20cm short leader following a DI7 shooting head. When in Rome.

A gathering

In 1996, The All Blacks won their first ever series over South Africa, in South Africa. Brian, Andre, Al, Milo and I watched that match in a small bach on the shoreline of Lake Rotoiti. We'd fished hard and I remember that (true to form) Milo had caught 2 large fish, one at Rotoiti and the other from the shoreline of Lake Okataina. I'd got nothing. As usual. We'd hired the house and I only remember vague bits and pieces of the weekened.

Time travel forward to 2018. 22 years, a lot of waistline pounds, much international living and heaps of grey hair later, we'd managed to conjure up a weekend where we all could shake off family duties and reconvene. We'd made various iterations of the trip before but all of us in one place? Not for 22 WHOLE YEARS.

As it happened, I couldn't get down on the Friday night. I was tired and had too much going on at work. I love driving but felt it wasn't worth the risk of getting there to be on the road as late as I would be. I left @ 06.30 on Saturday and by 10.20 was at the hut. Andre and Milo were in residence. Dre looked wretched; he was unwell and needed sleep. Milo filled me on on happenings. He, Brian (2) and guest Stu had all taken a fish the night before.

BJ

Milo had another early in the morning. I unpacked, and went to grab my #8.... in the tube was my 11 weight! I'd made an error at some stage. A Bad one too. Milo had a spare #8 so eventually I got my crap together and went down to the pipe where Al was set up. I got sorted out and settled in for a day's fishing. 5 hours went by and I thoroughly enjoyed the social aspect of the spot with lots of coming and going, even if nary a fish showed itself. Al and I stayed in place while anglers came and went. I felt like a change of pace so went back to the hut to rig up a floating line for the evening session. The guys all had plans. I went along for the ride; hardly as if I knew what I was doing.

With a Super New Moon, wind and showers I expected a good evening. We fished mostly together a tiny stream mouth and I fished with confidence over the change of light. Then back to the hut for a meal and a recharge, I left my last push until 9pm then went out. The guys mostly retired before 11.30 but I stuck at it. Nothing.

When I left at 05.30 the next morning, everyone else was comatose. I was home as a huge weather front proceeded to flood the Coromandel region. Al, who stayed late to fish (and was rewarded) too an agonising 6 hours to get home. I was done in just over 3....

Al scores

Thanks lads. Good times.

Mist, not rain

By Thursday, I'd called a pheasant hunt. Heading to our group's Facebook Page, I'd asked if anyone else was interested and only Mick had shown an inkling of desire - subject to the weather. Based on the forecast I called "a 100% chance of rain" ..."but only after lunchtime". I spoke to Craig's brother Mike (Craig's away with his family in Germany) and told him I'd be down Saturday morning.

Not sure if I've said as much (actually I am, and I have), but this season I've struggled a wee bit to put roosters in front of me. Hens? No problem. No-no birds. A bit like only seeing teal when you're ducking.

As we drove South, I wasn't worried about the slow traffic I encountered. It was misty and I hoped that the cloud would burn off for a couple of reasons, first so the pheasants would get out and be active and second, so that scenting conditions would be better than if the air were cool and heavy. Exiting the forest at the farm end of the valley revealed sunshine, sure some cloud wafted around on the steady Northeast light breeze, but I coulen't have asked for a better start weather wise.

At the cowshed I popped in and saw Mike to ask if there were any areas he didn't want me in "nah , mate, help yourself" was the reply. I let Layla out of the truck for a rest stop while I got ready and was fiddling with stuff when out of the corner of my eye I saw her go hot. The slight breeze was playing over the scrub belt to our left and coming in. I had to whistle a loud stop command to halt her - she wanted in there badly. Jacket on, camera over shoulder, gun out of bag and loaded. I slipped under the hot wire and with Layla at heel, sort of, we headed up. I motioned her in to the gorse while I looped around the top, thinking any pheasant that broke would head over and downwind. The dog muscled in and worked the scrub hard before heading to the far end where I met her. Nose down she headed up to the right to the brow ahead of us and the with a clatter of wings hen pheasants, a group of 10 or 11, burst out. The only cock that flew did so from a good 50m away. The birds without exception headed for the next large patch of gorse 250m away.

I turned us around. One hundred and eighty degrees. If we were lucky later in the day, we may just cross paths with Mr Rooster where the group had flown to, but I had another plan in mind, to cover some areas not as heavily hunted. We moved on, covering a couple of likely spots. Several weeks ago, Layla had moved a rooster in a nice gorse patch that neither Craig nor I could draw a bead on because the black dog was in close pursuit of the bird. So when she got hot near the same gorse patch I moved uphill to cover any exit routes. Layla moved around the gorse and drove in and the cock burst out trying for speed and height. A comfortable shot. Layla brought a weighty brightly burnished bird to hand. Good start, 15 minutes in, bird in the bag.

Look Left! Look Right! How 'bout looking at the camera, dog?

A light drizzle came in, more Barely a veil of moisture rather than rain. None the less I put my rain jacket on, hoping to not get drenched while also hoping to not get too hot in it.

We covered the rest of the brush in the gully and the dog showed real interest from time to time, maybe birds here earlier had moved on at the shot? I was still in the zone that gets a bit of attention from the crew so moved with pace while we covered likely spots. Up and over the hill, into the next valley. Ok, here we could slow down. In the past I'd moved birds here. We worked the basin and surrounds hard and again Layla heated up, circling some low brush hard - the hare that burst out was lucky. I wasn't hunting ground game today. Up the hill. Steep. Puff puff. Rain stopped. Off with jacket. Wet anyway. Sweat build up. At the brow and under some totara trees, Laya's nose hit the ground. We'd stayed quiet but the bird had moved on. I lifted Layla over a fence and motioned her to sit. We were at the head of a gully that last time had held a veritable covey of birds, mostly hens with one wily rooster. Wind in face. I stayed uphill of the belt of gorse and sent Layla in. She was birdy as hell and hit a big scent. The rooster when he went gave me only a glimpse at the top of his trajectory and my snap shot took him. I heard his body fall into the scrub well downhill and so did Layla who appeared to have marked it well. She was gone long enough for me to decide to follow her and I'd barely travelled 20m when she rounded the corner with a gleaming and quite dead rooster in her mouth. Photos taken, he went into the back of the game vest. Wicked.

This valley is a good 750m long and heavily gorsed. Layla was in her element. She was on a scent and it weaved this way and that. We moved along, she at a good clip and me trying to keep up. My GPS would later show a max speed of 10kph, a half jog speed. The dog exited the scrub and headed to a fence... she's not good with fences so she stopped. I crossed and gave her a boost over. Now on a bank over a track above a steep wooded valley stretching left and right, I was weighing up my options... Layla, ears back charged down the bank, across the track, and plunged into the thicket below. With a huge cackle the pheasant launched out and over the valley at tree height, my snap shot catching him flush... the sound of him hitting below took several seconds in coming. Layla charged down but I thought I'd need to go to the head of the valley, enter and then backtrack to below my shooting point. I marked an obvious tree as a landmark on the other side of the gully and was about to head off when I heard the dog returning.... with bird in mouth! Super work, that was a tough mark for even an experienced dog!

Stopped time 1 hr? I don't remember stopping... :)

90 minutes of hunting. 3 cocks flushed, 3 duly taken. A limit, loving it. I had brought along some sandwiches in anticipation of a long day, so we sat and shared a bite before having a photo shoot. I surveyed our situation. The fastest way out was by taking my intended route anyway. With gun slung over my shoulder, I wandered into a sheltered ti tree belt. The sign in here was incredible so it was not at all surprising that a cock bird cackled away out of sight.

On the road as we exited the hill country, the day brightened markedly. Pity Mick hadn't come out for a hunt, it had been mist, not rain, anyhow.

Retracing

Yesterday I reminisced. Maybe 30 years ago, over my yellow dog Rex I'd taken a rooster from a clearing in the swamp, a big classic warm spot fringed with willows and dotted with cabbage trees. He'd landed in a puddle at the shot so looked bedraggled, not at all helped when I'd stuffed him in the front of my shirt which is how I carried birds back then. I had taken 2 pheasants that day, the one and only time I managed that feat in this area. Yesterday I took a walk that I used to do often back then, before the swamp became 'developed' with ponds and literally a road was put through the block. The swamp felt like mine then, a big personal playground. Seeing another human face on a weekday was a rarity, and many fewer hunters worked the area than today.

Yesterday, I'd approached the clearing as I would have back then. Layla worked the fringes, casting for scent. The knee high grasses were wet and with no morning breeze I was looking for shorter shrubbery where a pheasant would hold. I'd first come here as a boy with dad, looking for pheasants. I remember the little SKB side by side that I used then and how weighty it seemed despite in reality being a light gun. We'd found a pile of feathers that dad's lab Bessie snuffled around - someone had beaten us to the bird and made a kill by the looks. A pheasant back then was a bird of mystique, a prize above all others. It would be some time after that walk with dad until I managed one.

Yesterday the black dog and I didn't complete the circuit around the clearing, rather cutting the corner as it were and continuing to move to the east, down the treeline and down the river. Early on we'd seen a distant rooster take to the air, and had possibly bumped another. More than possibly, I knew it had been a cock bird who had heard us, the lack of wind playing against us doubly by not spreading scent and also providing no cover for our noise. The water in the swamp these days is much higher than in the past, so the hunting corridor is narrower. We walked to the end of my planned area then turned back. When we got near the clearing we approached from the side we'd not covered. Layla lit up, a bird had been here. The scent trail was erratic. I moved to where I thought a bird would jump, but I got it wrong and when he did with a series of mini cackles more like clucks, he made good his escape at tree canopy height, earning his freedom by using trees as cover from me. Layla had done well. I hadn't.

A bit later in the day and again reminiscing over hunts so many years in the past and in the company of the big dog long gone over the rainbow bridge, Layla and I covered territory that I knew held pheasants. Warm, sunny, with scrub cover and close to food, its a no brainer to find pheasants here. It always has been. Layla bumped one towards me almost immediately, a tawny hen that flew over me with that brrrr wing sound. Soon she heated up again and the pheasant that jumped at my toes was well covered - again a hen bird. Later on and in the prime zone she moved another hen from in front of our feet. The rooster that went did so out of sight with a big cackle. It was lunchtime. I'd seen what I came to see. Home time.

8 birds seen in 150 minutes of hunting. 4 cocks, 4 hens. I don't remember numbers like those back in the day. Yesterday was as a good day as one could wish for. I'll take that walk again and I wont wait 20 years to do it.