South

The boys were heading south. Well south. I was not able to commit. Work. I am lucky enough to work in an industry that while impacted by the effect of Covid is not completely kneecapped. And it has been busy, my observation is that the shift to out of office working has brought the not so charming side effect of taking away borders that an office working day imparts. I can’t remember working a 40 hour week but what I do know is that I trade my 6am start for a 5pm finish with the rest of the evening being mine under normal circumstances, but ‘normal’ doesn’t have a meaning now and the working day bleeds into the evening. 

I spoke with SWMBO. I had 5 days of ‘Special Leave’ banked. I spoke with the fellas. Karl and Jas had 2 weeks up their sleeves. Tim had a week. And so, did I. Flights booked. Dehy food organised. PLB bought. Bags packed, tackle sorted, this was getting real.

Once again, the boys met up in the Koru Lounge. We were off! Landing in Christchurch, we met up with Jas’s brother who was dropping off one car, then off to the vehicle hire place to grab the 4wd, a Ford Ranger ute. Off we set, we had decided to head West to Reefton straight away, rather than stick with our original plan to base ourselves more centrally in Hanmer Springs. We arrived in Reefton in the late afternoon and found that it was the busiest Friday in months, being the Canterbury Anniversary weekend. But Karl tracked down lodgings in a backpackers and Tim and I made our way there, dropped our gear and then headed off to look at a local stream. OMG, we were stunned at the beauty and quality of the river and it went straight on the ‘must do’ list. We arrived back in town (and ph range) to find the other lads at the Fish and Chip shop so grabbed a meal and then headed back for a planning session. We had split into pairs, Jase and I would go one way, Tim and Karl the other. And with that we got our packs sorted and hit to rad first thing in the am. Jase and I headed to a notable river and leaving packs in the car headed downstream to cover some sweet looking water. This river was renowned as a river requiring a good level of fitness (ooops) and as being not for the faint hearted (uh-oh). 

We covered several kms of water for nothing seen before heading back to the car, donning our packs and setting off upriver. It took a while for us to figure that we should have looked for the upstream access, esp when after several hours we were yet to see a fish, despite covering some seriously sexy water. Then it changed. I hooked a spirited fish in an obvious lie behind a current breaking rock and it soon dislodged the fly after screaming off downstream. Slightly upstream the performance was repeated when I hooked and broke off a spirited fish in an obvious lie. That I hooked another first cast after replacing the fly spoke volumes and I soon landed my first fish of the trip. We hadn’t gone too much further when Jas discovered a rod tube on a rock cairn and we knew that we’d been jumped; or more to the point had reached the upstream access where another angler had entered the water. Fishing went hard again. Overhead conditions were tough, but this is not renowned spotting water due to its heavy rocky nature, so we were not expecting to see much. At about 4pm and about to enter the rugged bush area above farmland, we met the owner of the rod tube. He reported this as his first visit to the river and he had caught a lovely fish. We pushed on, arriving in the late afternoon at a spot that looked good to set up camp on. 

A bit of bush clearing was required at the site, then we pitched our tents. The sandflies were ferocious – there’s an art to getting your tent setup while keeping the little buggers out. Both of our tents combine an sealed inner sanctum with an outer cover and can be pitched without needing to expose the core. Fire set. Jetboil blasting out a zillion joules – boiling water required for our Backcountry meal packs. Given we were further West than home, the days lasted longer too. I used that time to fish the attractive run opposite our camp, and soon had a feisty brown on which was released quickly. I couldn’t help but think how neat it would be to lave Layla along, she’d love it here sniffing out Weka and ducks. I didn’t sleep all that well, not so much from lack of comfort (my Thermarest mattress is very comfortable), more likely the river’s noise which blends into the background during the day is amplified at night.  I spent the time thinking tactics. 

We were fishing water not overly amenable to spotting, and conditions overhead had been tough. A simple one nymph rig under a very small indicator made sense no matter which way we cut it. The nymphal life under the rocks indicated that tiny brown mayfly imitations were present in high numbers with the occasional larger green stonefly interspersed. I’d stick with my black bead head PTN. If I’d had any in #18 that’d be my choice, but my smallest were 16’s. Jas and I took a side each and worked up the river. The bed was craggy broken rock with fierce angles and edges and in places damnably smooth and slippery. We fished hard but really didn’t turn up numbers until we reached above where yesterday’s guy had apparently got to. After which the fish went from technically difficult to decidedly easier to catch. Each of us landed a specimen in the 7-8lb range plus a number of smaller fish. My fish of the day was the third I took from a neat run, above a crag lined lie where Jas worked his magic on its dweller. The first fish was rising steadily but still was amenable to the little PTN as it tumbled past. The second was a dour old thing that shook its head while not expending excess energy. The final fish took in a seam alongside a faster run and went ballistic. I was quite lucky when presented with a go left or go right option around a big sunken boulder to take the right option (which was left) as the fish seconds later sizzled upstream and across the river to the left. Played out and netted she was a superb specimen of just under 8. 

Later looking at Google Earth I was astounded at how little physical distance we’d covered in 7 hours of forging upstream. Our walk out was going to be decent (11km said Uncle Google later), so back at camp we struck the tents, made sure the fire was fully fully fully extinguished and hit the trail. The sub beat down and once out of the bush we carved a path that took us across farmland and away from the shelter of the trees. In a straight line the distance is 10km, add in twists and turns and its more than that. At the car we made the call to head straight to the pub when we hit town. Beer never tasted so good. Nor the steak and chips that followed. Karl and Tim came in later, reporting that they’d had an epic trip accounting for fewer but much larger fish, each having landed specimens close to or over the magic 10lb mark.

At the backpackers we got cleaned up and made plans for the next few days. In that time we covered waters from the iconic to the vaguely innocuous, saw fish ranging from huge to tiny, flighty to plain easy and covered some mind blowing territory. We made mistakes, took wrong turns, found deer, scared weka, made friends and hitched a lift with the local ranger and in general lived like we’d love to more or less permanently if it were not for the commitments we are enslaved by.

As the week drew to a close we’d part ways, Tim and I needing to head home while Jas and Karl extended their journey for another week. Their itinerary was enviable – as was ours. All Tim and I lacked was time, time to change plans as weather dictated. In the hired 4x4 Tim and I set off. We’d stocked up on snacks and purchased DOC hut passes earlier, and headed for waters known for large fish. A rough track lay ahead, followed by a decent walk and we had fingers crossed that no other anglers would be present. At the carpark we were delighted to find no other car, but ominously, the bar gate keeping vehicles out had been trashed so we had no idea as to whether we’d find people, vehicles or what else in the zone we were heading to. It’s a nice walk in, mostly flat, several hours along farm tracks to the bush and another 30 minutes to the hut. We arrived to find the hut vacant so set about getting our gear ready for an evening fish – broadly, the plan was to take the jetboil, our dinner and rods set up with streamers to see if we could annoy residents in a big pool into eating a fly. We ate beside a big pool, having crossed the river by way of a swing bridge. Coffee, then into it. Tim worked the lower half of the pool while I started at the top. A medium sized eel slid up into the shallows. Darkness fell and soon it became inky, with only a quarter moon behind clouds providing illumination. Turned out that the eel was the only fish encountered, and with several flies lost on structure I felt that the river was more in a taking than giving mood. We put on our headlights and setoff back to the hut. I was barely on the swingbridge when my headlight emitted the dreaded morse code flash indicating low battery life. Crossing that bridge with no light was not a prospect I savoured and then it all got worse as my landing net proceeded to hang up on every wire join. Fair to say I uttered a few choice words and switched the light to dim mode when I got to the other side. Tim crossed and I followed his footsteps closely on the walk back to the hut, which took almost 40 minutes. I slept well that night. With 3 hut mattresses between me and the sleeping platform, I was pretty darn comfy. At dawn I emerged and began to prepare coffee and the obligatory ‘cooked breakfast’, a mix of egg, hash brown, meaty bits (here’s how the packet describes it: “A hearty combo of dried smoky beef, tomato, egg and a hash brown potato mix”) that quickly becomes passe. It is nothing, if not very filling. Tim got his breakfast assembled, then it was on with boots, rods grabbed and we set off. We had a 5km trot downstream ahead of us to give us  ample water for our day ahead. It didn’t start so well – when we arrived at the the river edge I realised that a belt loop had popped open and that my Gerber Gator and wading staff holster lay back along our path. 

Rather than go search, I told Tim that I’d nip back at the end of the day and pick them up. Next, the overhead conditions were appalling, white/grey cloud blanketed the whole sky; glare rebounded from the water. All anglers know that these are the worst of worst spotting conditions, which in conjunction with our relative lack of familiarity with the water, put us on the back foot. I drew the worst straw as I had the ‘sun in my eyes’. I couldn’t see shit ahead of me, anything that I could get in a visibility window would be adjacent and well spooked by the time I saw it. Tim had a slightly better gig and soon was attached to a fish that had him scrambling . I was on the opposite bank with a 20 foot drop and an undercut meaning I had to run about 50m back downstream to get in a position to help and just as I got the net in hand the fish threw the hook….

I crossed over to Tim’s side of the river where at least we had some vis. Soon we came across another fish. At my cast he lifted and took.. but I broke the leader on the strike… we seriously couldn’t afford this muppetry with the conditions tacked the way they were. Tim hand the next shot to an unresponsive fish and I had the same on the next. The only time the fish showed any movement was a conditioned move towards a slowly drifted worm which he then rejected. As we moved up and the river braided we split for an hour or so until meting where the strands rejoined. I threw a streamer to a large fish that grabbed it but the hooks missed… and after several fruitless hours where the wind increased steadily increased (downstream of course) and the overhead conditions worsened we called it. I dropped my gear off at the hut and set off on a march to find my missing stuff. I’d retraced almost our whole downstream journey from the morning before I found both items by a gate. The round trip took 90 minutes and I’d barely arrived back at the hut when another bloke strode out from the trees. He related that he’d walked 43km that day, having decided that having reached his goal by midday that he’d decided to extend his sights so had marched on. Near dark we heard a rifle shot across and up the valley. A deer or pig had been harvested.

The next morning Tim and I got away early. We had another watershed in mind, involving a hairy traverse in the truck. Downstream of the swing bridge we saw fresh tyre marks where a truck had forded the river, clearly the hunting party were mobile and had vehicle access. We made good pace back to car park, on the way passing a stand of Macrocarpa where a deer carcass hung in the shade. As we packed the vehicle the hunters arrived in their truck and asked us whether the vandalised gate had been in that state when we arrived - whoever had done it had gone on to vandalise and steal from the private hut belonging to the station. There are sh1theads everywhere it seems. At the junction track we began the tortuous journey into the destination valley. God it was beautiful. And, god Ford Rangers simply lack clearance. We crunched and bumped our way through ruts, over rocks, around twists and turns, the whole time the vehicle’s sensors causing proximity alarms to sound – what a pain in the arse and how much did I wish that I had my 80 series there. We parked under blue skies but knew they were temporary as cloud was building over the ranges and sure enough we’d no sooner reached the bottom of our beat when the cloud banks blotted the sun. The wind began to gather. We gritted our teeth and got to work. The water was of a size that made the fish damn near invisible but we began to spot the occasional flicker of movement, twitch of tail or change of shadow that betrayed a target.  Despite its relative remoteness, recent footprints littered the softer banks, and boy didn’t the fish know about pressure….. even so we’d occasionally find one on the feed and lay an appropriate trap. Tim had one take his indicator from the surface. I had one chase and absolutely smash a 5” streamer but miss the hooks. We hooked and lost fish. Finally I got one to stick and we netted a fine old jack in the 8lb range. The wind began to absolutely rage. Tim fished to a large brown but simply couldn’t get the fly across the river. By late afternoon we’d covered plenty of water, seen plenty of fish and decided to not fight the elements further. We drove further up the valley and found a spot to pitch the tents. Once done we set up the cookers and boiled water for the dehy meals. The wind pounded us but the truck gave some shelter. As we ate I gazed up and saw a spiker exit the bush and begin to feed, not 100m from us. We drank beers, a luxury afforded by being able to drive in to such a cool place. 

Despite the wind, the sandflies were heinous! A good number had got into my tent so I had to spend a bit of time clearing them out. Our last day on the water had certainly been a challenge. I stayed awake late into the night to try and capture some shots of the desolate beauty of the landscape bathed in evening light…. I rose early. Our final day. The Cooked Breakfast tasted bland. The coffee was a welcomed treat. I managed to capture some shots of the eerie wind blasted landscape. And the wind itself simply howled – no way could a fly be cast. It reminded me somewhat of the Patagonian landscape, especially that wind. I felt a bit gutted that we had to leave early, but soon our camp was struck and the truck loaded. The wind was savage, blowing dust but providing ample opportunities to spy deer out sheltering and feeding in the lee side of the valley. Returning to civilisation on our minds, we exited the valley and arrived at a small loch. Wind swept curtains of spray from the white caps under grey skies. In we went, washing the accumulated grime of several days away between screams of “sheeeeeeet!!”, “farkkmydays!!” – almost immediately I lost feeling in my extremities. God it was like plunging into an ice bath, and the feeling of cleansing went deeper than the accumulated bodily grime. Soul refreshed.

The changeover

Springtime. Warm days, cool days, cold days, rain, shine and snow. Settled weather, unsettled weather.  A discernible change, more daylight hours. Budding trees, flowers, grass growth. If asked to describe springtime in a word and I'd say "Green". Shades of green abound. The changeover from constant cold winter (to be fair, we'd had a pretty mild version this year) to fairer days and nights.

Its a great time to go trouting. Things are happening in the river. Eggs are hatching, early hatched alevins are growing and transforming to fry. Bugs are moving with more regularity and this in itself shapes the feeding habits of the fish. Winter runners if fresh from the lake will snap up swung streamers, hitting the fly with energy that translates to running line being ripped, and if you happen to use a click 'n pawl reel, a decent shriek that will wake you from your swinging slumber. 

The wind induced cold sores on my lips are a reminder of my penchant to stick my tongue out when focusing. Add in sun and constant, steady, unrelenting wind and for me its a recipe for inducing the sleepy virus into making itself known. I never learn. I should just chew gum. I'd arrived in town on Friday evening. Jase was already ensconced at AB's, along with southern guests Kieran and Mark. I met the lads at the tapas bar and Jase told me we had a plan for the following day. We'd hitch a lift with Greig in his tub and avoid the crowded pools by fishing downstream. I was seriously amped as it had been many years since I'd boated those parts. Later Miles rolled in, followed by Brian and Aaron. Great to catch up, really great. The southern contingent were in fine form, and at some stage I'd talked to Keiran about the Canterbury NW wind, the curse of the fly angler. He'd described the agony not of casting, but straps tangling and the never ending noise, chewing into your psyche, driving insanity closer and closer to reality. And that discussion would come back to me...

Jas was up and about early. I'd struggled (the struggle is real, I assure you..) to get to sleep. I was billeted in a room with Keiran and dossed down in an unfamiliar bed. I grabbed my gear and exited without waking up my roomie.  We grabbed a cuppa, and headed off in different directions. I drove downstream, parked, and walked. Jase headed over to Greig's place to help him load the boat and get launched. We'd meet on the river. I'd have the benefit of covering some water before we linked up and so I had a good spring in my step. First stop, 'the Kill Hole'. Its actually a shitty pool aesthetically, with a deep back eddy that varies in terms of its ability to take away direct contact with a swung fly and so, its a fairly technical piece of water. A downstream quartering cast (avoiding the darn snag that ate my head and tip...) with a mend and then lift the running line over the eddy.... and there in the window between downstream flow and upstream eddy lies the magic spot. Your fly feels weightless but its working. The swing across the bottom of the eddy. The sudden tightening if things go well. And then, the cast and step downstream, using the bank created by the eddy to access the tail out. And fish lie across the tail out where the river widens across a sandy bar. (Always fish the tail outs to their greatest extent, they are areas of high potential). The river was low and clear. And the KH only coughed one fish.. uh-oh, this could be a tough day. A breeze sprang up as I traversed to the next stretch, where later I'd meet the lads. 

Its beautiful swinging water. Lovely laminar flow, deeper water river left into a right hand bend, over a shelf into a deepening gut. The shelf, a gravel bar has created a sand bar further down where the pool broadens and deepens. There are several distinct holding spots throughout the run, but fish can more or less sit anywhere until disturbed so its of great benefit to be first through. I changed out the fly, digging through my box for the smallest sculpin I could dig up. I think it was the first cast when the fly was seized. Spray flew as the fish raced downstream, clearly a freshie. 

The little Trout Spey HD is such a fun rod to fight (appropriately sized) fish on and the fish simply wasn't about to be subdued. run after run. Toing and froing. Finally I lid her ashore, a perfect maiden hen fresh from the lake. Back into the run. I'd reached the wee bucket beside the gravel bar so wasn't surprised when a solid take thudded through the line. Again a protracted fight, and again a fat maiden hen was slid into the shallows to be released.

The breeze was growing now, into a stiff wind. For now, it was off my left shoulder. I hadn't reached the final holding water before a boat rounded the corner several hundred metres downstream; the lads had arrived earlier than expected. Greig beached the craft upstream and I waded up to greet the boys. The air was now chilled, the wind coming from colder climes. We drank tea and had a snack from Greig's thermos; he's good like that. Jase then headed up to cover the untouched water while I dropped in between him and where Greig took up position fishing int the deeper stuff. Last time we'd fished together here he'd taken a beautiful big fresh hen. Greig's Meiser fired his head and tip out rifle straight and soon he was hooked into a fish that he netted and released. And that was it. I'd expected more.

The wind now howled. It was cold. Cold and sunny. A howling SWW, straight off the snowy peaks. The orientation of the next stretch, so long, so inviting, maybe a km of beautiful swinging water, was East-West. And so, our casts which ideally would be angled down and across, were being blown back upstream. Direct contact on the fly was almost impossible. I hung up on trees on the far bank more than once, more than twice (I lost count). I was glad of my woolly hat and puffer jacket. The noise was relentless. Cast-step-cast-step. Throw a mend when possible. As we fished each stretch out we'd take turns taking the lead for the next, and importantly, despite the frigid conditions we were catching. When I looked upstream from time to time, either Greig or Jase would be bent into a fish, and occasionally a 'bow would thud my fly.

I'd fished a drop off to the extent of my ability to wade (the current as almost lifting me off my feet) and turned upstream to struggle back to the top if the run where the boat was anchored. Greig moved down while I kicked back, hiding from the wind. Inevitably he hooked up. He's a bit of a legend like that. Total legend actually. Between the lads they orchestrated the landing of the fish, a great brownie. 

A great bonus of traversing the river by boat was that as we found pods of fish on the downstream run we'd motor back up and fish down. Did I mention the wind? My face had begun to sting, frizzled by the wind and sun. I had my parka hood up. It felt like snow was in the air. Time crept by. Cast-swing-step. Downstream we marched, lost in thoughts. Too noisy to communicate. Inexorably we closed in on a dogleg in the river. Tall trees grew on the far bank - the near bank was high. It was like entering a quiet haven as the wind raged on and the trees bent. In the calm I realised I'd been spearing my casts with too much top hand, undoubtedly a defence mechanism against the wind. And now I was able to cover the water, landing the fly on a tight line. And 3 fish responded in the next 10 minutes. Having had the flurry and then lost the fly deep in the bowels of the pool on an unseen snag, I retreated and the other guys fished down and through, picking up a fish each. 

Magically, the wind began to ease. And it had to or we were in for a slow trip back upstream to drop me off; crossing the lake 3 up in the small craft would have been suicide in that wind, and I'd told the fellas I'd be happy to jump out and walk back up to the truck. We arrived at a final bend and took up possies. I went down around the bend and found a run completely studded with snags; a fallen tree centre river had created a nice downstream lie if I could get the fly through the mess. As it turned out the seam on my side of the tree was pretty clear and I could get a nice swing and shortly a nicely coloured jack ate, and was landed.

I was now officially stuffed. I wandered back upstream, passing Jas who reported the loss of one fish and when I reached Greig we took our rods down and launched the boat. The lake crossing past the delta was stress free, if a little damp from waves on the beam. By the time we unloaded and cleaned the boat and got going, Jas was looking jaded, he'd really felt the cold through his waders from our constant immersion, the high banks not allowing an easy exit from the water. Back at base we got warmed up, grabbed an evening meal and hit the hay early. 

Sunday

Jase looked fully recovered. It was 6am in AB's kitchen and I felt rocked. My roomie had come in later, hit the hay and started snoring with great resonance. It was a while before I remembered that my Bose noise cancelling phones were in my work bag - so I grabbed them, and after a while drifted back off. None the less I was feeling a tad shabby. We drank tea, formed a plan. I wanted to fish the Boulder Pool, having not visited all year. Scene of my first hookup on a Spey rod, it will always hold a special place in my heart. Plus, Rob had reported over dinner that he and Johnny had fished it with great success while making a clip about their upcoming clinics. 

I dropped Jase at the Blue Pool car park and drove down to the wee bypass above the Boulder. Above me in the lower Blue, an angler wielded a spey rod. I waded the rock garden above the Boulder and arrived with great expectations. An hour later I'd fished what I consider the most beautiful pool on the river for one jaded and skinny slab. Yet fish were moving; splashing at emergers. Mayflies lifted from the surface.  And me.... well did I have a single wee wet on hand? Nup. I was like the proverbial fish out of water. As I made my final few casts, the angler who'd fished the Blue arrived at the head. I reeled in and moved up to meet Atu, a guy I'd seen on social media. He mentioned that we was struggling, hooking the bottom with his T-14 tip and weighted fly. That took me back a few years. It had taken me a few seasons and plenty of conversations with experienced guys to get through my head that 10' of T-8 is plenty enough tip in the Tongariro. Exceptions I guess are when the flows reach 40 or more cumecs, when I'll step up to T-11 and perhaps an intermediate head to slow the swing through holding water. Which reminds me... I was listening to Trevor Covich on the Wet Fly Swing (you should really take time to listen, do yourself a favour) podcast and he mentioned something that resonated later... when the steelhead water is high, he's focusing on swinging out the quieter edges in shallower water because that's where the fish will be. As the level drops, he's forced into fishing heavier because the fish will retreat into deeper water. Think about that. The inclination to try and hit the buckets at the expense of taking on the riffles is real. The struggle is real. My catch rate has improved (but that's also experience, better fly presentation etc) and importantly I'm not losing half a box of flies on the bottom of the river every day.

I wandered upstream, arriving in time to get a bird's eye view of Jase hooking a great fish in the Pig Pen, from the tall bank I stood on the view was epic and the fish flashed downstream in he blink of an eye, before simply blowing him away. Pesty called and we rolled out to meet him at the Trout Centre. I pretty much figured that with a time in mind to get away, that I'd focus on one run and fish it thoroughly. we call it the OTHP (Over The Hill Pool) which actually isn't a pool, its a nice run that fish hold in. Its changed a lot since I fished swung a fly through 5 years ago, the true left of the run having filled in so that the run is able to be crossed easily if you wanted to. Fish can hold anywhere in the run, and they do. And, by the time I'd finished, seven fish had hit and 5 had seen the bottom of my net. Another had thrown the hook on a magnificent jump. The other had harassed the fly but avoided the hook. One of the fish landed was a really large jack, probably in the >6lb range, wearing colours that suggested he'd been waiting for just the right hen to arrive.

He splashed me as he swam away. 

WAB! (Welcome Aboard Bat); recreating the past

There are those who argue that the Taupo fishery contains too many trout, that they have eaten the ecosystem out of house and home , and that as a result the remaining fish are small and skinny. I just don't know enough to comment, but the fish size seems to change year to year. (In 2017, we broke out the 5 & 6 weight Spey rods and still got dealt to by enough fish to keep it interesting). What I do know is that since 2015 until the weekend just passed, I have killed a sum total of 5 trout (all fat silver spawners) and have smoked every one of them. All that was about to change... for quite some time the lads had discussed recreating one of those old time black and white 'kill shots', the type where stern faced, hat wearing mustached types stand behind or holding their fishy kill. Kind of anti catch 'n release, kind of grotesque and way the hell out of step with the modern mentality. When killing fish, we refer to it as 'WABing', where WAB stands for the Welcome Aboard Bat (or priest) - the mini club used to kill the fish with a blow to the head.

So we were on a mission. A kill mission. Hell, I'd packed a fluffy indicator rod. And egg patterns. And split shot. My first fish of the weekend was 'scratched up' as we call it. But I'd quickly grown bored of using an outfit mismatched for the task at hand and after a while traded it in for my #s Trout Spey HD, and began to swing the run below the hole we'd been 'nymphing' (egging with split shot) while Jase went on to beach and kill 5. We were on  mission. Later, Jas, Tim, Layla and I headed to the TT, a smaller river. We expected that with a bit of rain and some colour in the water that we'd do alright. We left our jackets in the truck and set off in bright sunlight. As we'd begun to fish, rain bearing clouds closed in and soon a torrential downpour was upon us. I was glad of my merino layers. We swung flies on the light Spey rods and all caught fish. Tim landed a beauty which went in the kill stats. It was a nice change of scenery. The weekend conditions were akin to combat fishing. Anglers occupied every pool. I'd walked a long way to get to my chosen water and fished it as carefully as I could for 3 plucks and one (great) fish landed. I'd planned to walk up to the next pool which had treated me well of later, fish that, then come back down. But once up there I found a guy waist deep and left him to it. At the truck it was decision time.. where to go to find more fish? Upstream the gates were locked and no one was parked so with lab in tow I set off on the brisk 200 min walk to my chosen water. Not an angler in sight. Nothing like a walk to separate men from boys. My waders were leaking (again) but the sun was out, and despite the gusts I was able to pin good casts out. The pluck on the fly turned into a good set and the fish on the end burned line out. A good fight came to an end with fish in net and he became a stat soon after. Downriver, the town pools we frequent were surprisingly free of anglers (its challenging water) and on 2 trips down the pool I took 2 more fish, a sweet fat hen and a dark silver jack. I fished on, only finding one other fish worth adding to the pile. At base I cleaned mine and the other guys' fish and added them to the chiller. Then I set the fire and dried out my waders and wet trousers, dried the dog, showered and grabbed a beer. We'd agreed to be ready at 3.30, dressed to kill in op shop clothing. The boys rolled in and we set off. We arrived at the same time as a DOC ranger - photographer found! At first he was taken slightly aback before joining in the spirit of the occasion. He first wanted some shots for his Dept's website and then took shots of us in full garb, and made a great job of it.

The results are quite outstanding really. A job well done.

Crowds - heralds of good fishing

Back in the '80s when I was a 'young fella', I remember seeing the pools of the Tongariro bristling with anglers and it was common to see most hooked up at once when the fish were running. Of recent times the river has undergone a sort of renaissance in that fish size and quality is returning on a more consistent basis and as a result there are more people fishing. And judging by some of the 'casting' on display, it looks as though a fair number of beginners are getting into it. This sort of pressure leads to some interesting behaviour and the old 'upstream vs downstream' arguments arise from time to time. There are well published etiquette rules so I'll leave that alone, needless to say if I want to fish a pool already occupied, I always ask first just to get the other angler's intentions sorted. And anyway, its not really 'combat fishing' of the sort you see photos of from overseas, where you might have anglers shoulder to shoulder flailing at any particular stretch. That would be worse than awful.

A couple of rules still hold true - if you want to fish clean water, get your ass out of bed early, rug up, brave the frost and be first on the pool of your choice. Not always easy when the other early birds share those habits. I'm lucky enough to have a labrador who has breakfast around 5am 5 days a week, and she happily reminds me of the time on those other 2 days. A paw in the face is better than any array of ringtones that the crew use as wake up alarms on trout and duck adventures. The faithful piranha clocked me in the chops around 5am. The crew arose. By sunup I sat aside the run I wanted to fish, fumbling in the low light to tie on a fly. Doh. I swung the first bucket with high anticipation, the little Trout Spey HD #3 sending the payload again and again. Such a great little rod, firing a 270gr head, 10' of T-8 (SA TC Tip) and a 4.6mm tungsten bead fly with ease. I kinda showed off to myself by rolling out (after a fashion) single spey casts - very efficient but not really recommended with Skagit gear. You wouldn't be doing that with 12' of T-14 on a #6 anytime soon. Layla told me another angler was approaching, just as I'd finished the top bucket. Not even a hit. 

I made the short walk to the next section as another 2 anglers came in above . One peeled off and approached, he carried a single hander and told me he'd hooked and lost a couple of fish here the day before. It's heavy water, so if the fish makes a break for the lower rapid you're in trouble. The other guy moved downstream as I began my journey through the pool. The first hit jogged trough the line but didn't secure a hookup. A few casts later and midstream the fly was intercepted. The fish behaved by swimming up the swift current rather than dragging me downstream. I bent the rod into him - the fly was tied on a Kamasan B175 - that hook will not bend under any pressure a fly rod can exert. Netted and with the fly twisted out, the coloured up jack darted out into the current.

Round about then, a guy approached on the far bank and waded in.... right where I was landing my fly. Even better, he waved to his 3 compadres  in alongside him. One carried a very dark dead fish, and that combined with their inability to cast revealed the truth - newbs. Even though my blood pressure was elevated, that revelation made me re-evaluate my initial instinct to tear them a new one. My fly landed between 2 of them when the line came tight in the shallows at their feet. Damn snag. I pulled hard. It felt more like I was dragging a log... I'd been here before... fish on! A cast perpendicular to the current if taken early by a fish, is subject to bellying in the system so it may not feel like a fish per a more direct downstream contact. The earlier chap was walking back upstream when the fish woke up and bolted to the heavy tailout above the rapid. I leaned hard on what felt like a hefty specimen, and the fish came upstream before turning and lighting the afterburner. Over the rapid. The hook pulled. I vacated the run to give the other guy a shot. 200m downsteam I jumped into a run that we have named a terrible unmentionable word... originally named before this run had reshaped into a very decent holding lie, its now first class water. I'd barely started when the 4 amigios tromped downstream and entered the water opposite... walking straight into fish holding water. I soon hooked up, netted and released another dark jack. Enough. Anglers were everywhere. Time to move.

A drive. Cars parked everywhere. A 20 minute walk. Fresh footprints. Layla bumped a hen pheasant. A cool breeze blew off the mountains. I was glad for my woolly hat, gloves and puffer jacket. Even the brisk walked wasn't causing undue overheating. I arrived at the run and it looked good, a right hand crescent with deeper water on the TLB, a broad shingle bar, and most importantly, peace and quiet. In deep contemplation I began to swing the run. What a beautiful day. A skein of Canada geese passed overhead. A slight downstream breeze dictated that the cast would be a double Spey. Sometimes I struggle with this cast due to blowing the anchor so that gave me a focal point. At the point where normally a fish crops up the line came tight and a tail boiled on the surface. The #3 bent like a noodle as the fish porpoised throwing spray. A cool little fight ensued and I'd barely netted the fish when Layla sparked up - walking upstream came Greig! He'd already fished the run through, taking fish on a more or less regular basis. Damn. Fishing behind the master is akin to following a Labrador Retriever while looking for tidbits of food. He'd seen my fish splash on the surface so had come to investigate. We swapped stories for a while, snacked on duck beirstick and then he was off. I continued to cast and swing, cast and swing and by the end of the run had hooked and landed no less than 5 fish.

It was nearing lunchtime and the water deepened - by the time I was hip deep I knew I had a leak in my waders - it was cold! My left leg and foot were saturated. Walking back upstream I poked my head into a pool that looks simply uninviting. A huge back eddy deflects a swung line and if you lack confidence the inclination would to be to strip back and cast again. Here's the thing; that very same back eddy moves the fly backwards and forward through the lie and you can be fooled into thinking nothings going on when BOOM the fly is hit. I should mention that the far bank is covered in fly eating overhanging bush, and that the head of the lie is protected by a gnarly snag. I made a long cast, drooping the fly in 45 degrees downstream and right on the far bank. The head swung across the current and had only merged with the back eddy when line simply tore from the reel. the first run was a 50m sprint ending well down the slack tail out with a launch and splashy return. I struggled mightily to bring that fish upstream.. through the tailout, through the back eddy and into the pool proper where she flashed in the sun as again and again she darted over the gravel lip into the depths of the pool. Landed, she shone in the sun, a fat egg bearing hen, a truly stunning fish. A few casts later and I hung up on the snag. Disaster struck... rather than pinging the leader, the spey swivel between running line and head broke, taking with it ~ $150 of gear. That's the third time I've broken a head off on a snag but only the first time I've not been able to retrieve the gear. Luckily I'd thrown a 270g SA intermediate head in and always carry a range of tips so I was back in the game shortly after.

I messed around a bit longer, then called Jase to see how he was going. I wandered back to the truck and brewed a coffee in the jetboil then headed up to find him. At the car park Pete's car was parked right by Jase's so I was surprised to not see Pete standing on the bank. Jase boomed out casts on his Sage One 3110 with ease. I sat on the bank, watching before we decided to grab a coffee at the coffee cart and head up to the Mill Race. We'd barely parked up when Greig rolled in. We rigged up and headed off down to the run. A nympher worked the very middle of the run, intersecting the juicy lie at the top, and the sometimes productive tail out. He invited us to get in, so I headed to the tail and began to swing it. The sun dipped towards the hills and the air temp dropped. I needed to marinate the fallow venison back at base so soon after pulled out and headed home. Fire lit, waders and wet gear hung to dry, hot shower. Mike rolled in soon after. I got the meat into a mix of soy, brown sugar, garlic, salt, pepper and chilli flake. We downed a beer or 2 each then I headed to the shop for wader repair glue, which Pete had waiting. A bit of smack talk. I remember: a great meal (veni, kumara chips, fresh salad), a few beers, a bottle of red, turning in relatively early, a pit stop pre midnite (splitting headache) and next thing, a paw in the mush. 

At least she'd waited until 05.45. Waders - dry. Porridge eaten. 4110 Sage One set up. Been a while between drinks for this rod. Karl and I teamed up to hit a run we affectionately call the Pest Pit. Its sweet swinging water. I was parked in by Jase so Karl took off which turned out to be a good thing, as another local guy (guide) was waiting beside the river. Karl and I linked up, crossed, and he let me go first. Guide and partner soon crossed and headed downstream, foiling our plan for later in the morning. I swung the juiciest water and after 2 dozen casts was questioning whether any fish were home when the line came tight. A good tustle ensued. 

The differences between the Trout Spey HD and older One are pretty obvious. The One requires much better timing and line control, its grip is larger in hand and you can haul tree trunks with it. The Trout Spey HD is much nicer in hand, much tippier and a joy to cast. Fights are longer as the rod bends further through the blank. Both are cool. Karl wanted fish for the smoker so the silver jack was smacked on the head, or WABd (Welcome Aboard Bat) as we call it. Karl swung out the rest of the pool and then we headed back to the cars. At the next park there were already 2 cards in residence, Greig and Simon's. A relative crowd... I decided to walk on up but Karl chose a plan B and we parted ways. I called Greig to ask if Simon and Meinrad were near him and he said no, so I scooted along and entered the water at the top of the run.  I saw a couple of guys in the distance and figured it was Simon and Meinrad; soon they popped up on the bank and Layla fired up. They started at the top. I was halfway through when Greig's old Hardy shrieked and he called over his shoulder "Big fish!". I waded ashore and pounded down to him. Hie Meiser had a healthy bend in it and from the depths, silver flashed. I tailed the fish and what a specimen it was! Fat, deep, stunning. 

Back upstream, I continued. Greig finished the run and left for the next spot. I changed my head out for a 330g Int SA Spey Lite - I needed to change something, anything, to get an eat. But that didn't work and I left the run scratching my head as I went. I thought about my next move, but on a whim decided to drop into the hole that I'd lost my head and tip in yesterday. Putting on 10' of T-10 for extra depth, I wondered if the bright, still conditions were more than half the problem. Getting the cast in below the (damned!) snag with enough length to swing the current into the back eddy. Hit. No hookup. I muffed the next cast and was rapidly stripping the fly through the eddy when the water literally exploded and the line was ripped from my grasp. And that first run was at least 80m. The backing knot flew through the guides. I put side strain hurt on and gained line. Finally the fish came to hand, a mind blowing fat little hen, deep and round. 

The next cast barely had time to straighten and swing slowly into the seam when the fly was smashed and a repeat performance unfolded. This time though, the fish was larger and deeper still, a gem of a hen stuffed full of eggs. I pinched myself. 

Wading further down the run I'd made a good cast, the line now clearing the back eddy on its swing when it came tight again, and again I watched the running line shoot through the guides into backing... I struggled back against the current pulling the fish with me. Into the pool proper the fight became more protracted, each time I pulled her to the lip she'd shake, roll and charge into the depths. Finally beached, at least 5lb of chrome lay in the shallows at my feet. Looking at my watch I realised that I'd almost used my allotment of time, maybe another 10 minutes? Wading to my plimsoll line I put in a long cast. The fly swung through the holding water. Below the eddy. Into the slow slow stuff on my bank. The line came tight. I thought it was a snag until the hook bit and the fish flashed across the river. Despite being smaller the fish gave a great account of itself and a beautifully coloured rose cheeked pre-spawner came ashore. What a way to finish.

The walk back to the truck was more like riding a magic carpet. As I passed over the main road bridge, the pool held 7 rods that I could count. They're there for a reason.