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.