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.