Scouting, learning....

As I sit at my office desk I can't help but observe the flags on the harbour bridge drooping flaccidly.  Its calm and oppressively hot. Its the day after the holiday weekend. I'd spent Sunday morning on the land's largest harbour - and oh how different the weather had been then. The tides on neither coast had been ideal for me, so I'd chosen this mission as the preferable of 2 options. It hadn't started all that well with both batteries canning out before I'd left the river (despite meticulously charging them. Seems they both reached their life expectancy simultaneously), and continued to be less than ideal. Running this harbour with extensive flats and banks without a nav system (there are no channel markers) is ok on high water but it was halfway through a waning tidal flow so when I saw a ruffle ahead I realised that I was heading into a bank at ~20 kts. I had to lift the motor to float over the lip into the channel. I'd rounded the small headland at the river mouth to encounter a fresh Westerly right on the nose. This wasn't a 3 kt zephyr predicted; it was a fresh 15 kts at least. And... clouds obscured the sun from time to time.

Still, I got to the flat and rigged. I'd changed out the SA Sonar tip line which I find pretty dumpy for the Rio Flats Pro (overall a nice enough line but I find he running line to be diabolical to manage) int tip. A few practice shots showed it as quick to pick up and shoot on the Salt HD. Cool. The breeze continued. Over the next couple hours I scanned, ate my sandwiches, applied sun screen, scanned, drank water copiously, scanned... to no avail. Occasionally a mullet would broach. A group of dipping, screaming terns worked  deeper channel. I moved the boat over but the birds dispersed. A few casts. Not with much confidence. When the line shot through my fingers I missed the set. The fish was gone. Needing respite from the constant breeze I anchored in a few inches of water and lay on the deck listening to waves slapping the hull.

The logical option now was to follow the flooding tide up the harbour. In the distance I spied a jet black object - black ray surely? Bearing down with line laid out and fly ready the black object revealed itself as a mussel or oyster buoy. Stand down. At least I was now bothering the occasional eagle ray. Why aren't the big black kingi holding rays in this harbour?

But still. It would be churlish to complain; time on the water is infinitely preferable to being stuck indoors. And I took away some affirmations:

• Refresh the battery supply at least once every 2 years (one of those batteries had given 10 years service)
• Any wind with West in it sucks on this harbour; vis is effectively killed
• No forecasting service is 100% trustworthy

Not sure if I'll be back on the local flats this season. With an impending GT/bonefish trip and then debilitating surgery following that, I may be done for this season.

2 coasts, precious resources & the matter of discretion

Imagine that you're an avid shallow water angler and for most of your life you've persisted to learn the habits of your prey. You work hard, you suss it out. You treat the area and fish with respect. Then one day, a social media post lifts the lid on your spot. Overnight, its inundated with anglers local and foreign, some wanting to make a name, some with commercial interests, most just taking advantage of NZ's free access to resources... and your spot is standing room only. Freedom campers dot the landscape. The idea of solitude is just that, an idea. The fishery is hammered. That's the power of social media.

This has happened. Recently my mate Jase was in our local fly sore when some Australians walked in and bemoaned the sheer hectic and frantic nature of the Collingwood fishery. There're 2 sides to the  arguments here, one is covered above - what was a hard discovered kingfish phenomenon was made very public and overnight everything changed forever, much to the chagrin of the locals who worked had to figure the fish out. The other argument is that it has improved the economy of a sleepy South Island town, and that economic betterment of rural NZ is a good thing. I don't buy that. I'd bet that most of the anglers who get in there live in old vans and survive on a can of beans a day, and that's hardly putting anything back into the economy. I could go on about value propositions and pricing for value, licenses etc but that's not really my concern. It would be fair to say that I've seen and heard enough to know that place isn't for me.

Personally I'd rather put in the hard yards, chase down leads, pore over Google Earth, talk to locals and figure out angles. Success is so much sweeter that way. And that's why I'll crop the hell out of photos to obfuscate backdrops where I think its necessary. Despite living in a city of 1.6 M people with ~150,000 registered boats of which a huge number are dedicated to fishing pursuits, there are still spots that are simply mind blowing. They probably wont stay that way in the long term, but I'm not willing to accelerate degradation via social media.

Rant over, cropped photos to come...

A couple of weeks ago, we had the opportunity to go on a voyage of discovery. I'd hunted pheasants and deer on the heads of this harbour and studied the flats and banks that I could see from high ground.... the place oozed potential. Google Earth showed some of the largest flats that you could hope to find and I am willing to bet that very few fly fishermen had spent much time here. I'd been thinking about this place for a long time and with both settled weather and a morning building tide, the time felt right. The trip north is always nice, before the crowds rise and block the roads. At the ramp only one other boat trailer was in residence. The tide was at its lowest ebb which is a really good way to get the feel of new waters, because banks and channels are obvious on low water. We ran out to near the harbour entrance, where the tide would flood onto exposed banks bringing in prey and predators alike... it felt fishy from the get go. What became obvious early was the extreme current, best described as a torrent. The Minn Kota quietly thrummed and we traversed a large flat between 2 banks... it looked an obvious place for a patrolling kingi.

As it happened we saw 3 fish over the next couple of hours, but none in casting range; they seemed to be motoring across the flat as opposed to cruising for food. As the banks flooded we were able to cruise vast flats which we did, getting right among the mangrove fringe.

Eventually a splash and massive wake alerted us to a nearby skirmish, which after a stalk revealed a nice king smashing a mullet. The mullet was stunned and the kingi circled, allowing us a few fly shots to no avail, as the beast was set on his dinner which he swallowed and cruised off, leaving a sizable wake. Soon after, we called it a day. I'll be back - there's still too much to discover in this spot.

The weekend gone, the boys all had plans. Tim was going out on Rene Vaz's new boat , Karl was heading out on a West Coast harbour and Jase was off after big browns. I had no real plans except at some stage to get out on the boat. Jase eventually changed his mind so would join me on a flats mission.

I picked him up at 05.30 from the ramp where Tim and Rene were launching and we headed off on our different courses. First stop for us would be a marker to get some 'blood letting' out of our systems... just a term for getting runs on the board before the more intense flats fishing that would follow. Its no secret around here that small kings hang around channel markers and consequently they receive their fair share of attention from stick baiters, jiggers, fly fishos and even divers. Even as we pulled in under electric motor power, another boat approached the marker. We quickly dealt to 3 fish before moving on, the other boat taking our place. I doubted they'd get much attention on their stick baits, rumbling around with outboard on puts kingis down pretty quickly. I headed to another marker where I'd seen a large fish last time around, but nothing was doing. The pole was decorated with a double gang hook and a desiccated piper ... a sure sign of a kingi haunt.

Leaving that spot we arrived at the outer rim of the flat we wanted to hunt, and set up. It was a good while before he first wake was spotted, and set a course to intercept the cruising fish. My first shot was met with a chase and eat, but I... trout struck. Bluddy hell, after all this time I still do it now and again.

Kingi wake

Jase made no mistake with his first cast to a cruiser which inhaled his piper fly. The fight was torrid in the shallows, culminating with the fish sitting tight under the boat. After a few minutes of to and fro I got the net under a fine specimen.

Over the next quarter tide we chased wakes made casts, had multiple refusals and all in all had a ball.

As the tide receded, the fish began to leave, and soon there was no sign of activity.

I retrieved the boat at the lowest of the tide's ebb, creating the need to wade through mud for the final few metres. The sun blazed overhead. I wandered along to the car park, town was drowsily busy, in a relaxed sort of way, and I wondered if back when the Florida quays were being discovered as fisheries if the ports had the same sleepy feel? Coming down after the intensity of flats concentration is a nice feeling, and fully relaxed I pulled the boat and headed home.

Back on the flats

Adam chugged by early; for me a sign that I'd made at least partially a good call to explore the flats for a cruising kingi. He's a kingi bloodhound and I liked the idea that he'd chosen the same area as I had. We had plenty of space without messing each other's chances up.

I'd had some good days and sessions on trout of late, but the weather had been against my plans to get out after the yellow-tailed beasts. The king tide had come and gone, the incessant winds not allowing any chance to take advantage of the higher tides.

Today I'd launched at dawn and set off on flat seas, thinking about the trips undertaken of late...

The previous trip had been a meat hunt, the family wanting smoked kahawai for Xmas and whilst I had taken the early option of hitting some convenient rocks looking for snapper and blooding the new Sage Salt HD #9 paired with an Abel Super 9, by mid morning I still had an order to fill. I don't really like the idea of fishing to order as it puts undue pressure on what to me is a calming pass time. I'd spent a short time looking for Mr Kingi and in the process had been lucky enough to see (twice!) juvenile snapper hitting small flounder swimming in the surface film. I had to double take.. I could clearly see the snapper but needed to get close to see the tiny flounder no larger than 4cm swimming just under the surface. Amazing. Leaving the estuary (no kings seen) my kahawai prayers were answered when a massive work up appeared, terns and mutton ducks dipping and swimming amongst the splashes created by kahawai slashing through white bait on the surface. A left over Crazy Charlie stripped fast just under the surface came up trumps and the #8 bent over as the line zinged out to he backing knot. Amazing fish - translated from Maori Kaha ("strong") wai ("water") the fish's more than apt name being "strong in the water" - the perfect fly rod fish. They hunt, they hit hard, they take line relentlessly, fight doggedly- perfect. And they are beautiful eating fish when bled, brined and smoked.

***

I was rigged, line stripped with rod in hand and exploring a point when Adam passed by, heading for he far side of the flat. His Wave Walk kayak is set up with a small outboard and makes pretty good headway. I chose a path around the near edge of the flat. The SW squalls and cloud weren't ideal. Far less than. My vis window was narrow, but I began to disturb rays which to me is a positive. It took over an hour to traverse the flat, by which time 6 people had began to wade out - given that 3 were dressed in day glow orange they sure weren't anglers. It took some time to figure that they were retrieving not just one but 2 large set nets, both unmarked and therefore illegal.  I was drawing closer to Adam who upped sticks and moved and soon after I spotted a pressure wave. With Minn Kota in hare mode I headed towards where I'd seen it then hit the spot lock, scanning, scanning, scanning. Finally I managed to get my crease fly on an intercept course and the fish engulfed it, running strongly. It was not a large kingi but none the less was he first for the year from the flats.

Photographed and quickly returned, the fish powered away. I still had time up me sleeve so decided on a new course of action to explore some new spots. The first, a lone marker pole looked a good target to throw to. I did and a large kingfish followed the fly without eating. Next cast hooked the pole and in the process of getting my fly back I spooked the whole area.

Next stop was an old haunt and it faithfully threw me a small fish on the piper fly.

Then it was time to chart a course home. Roll on better weather.

Damsels & mountains

Day one and the fish were behaving like little bastards. Big bastards actually. Tim had jumped off the boat and headed towards Greig. I'd asked Pesty if he minded me tagging along to learn from him. Heck, I even hassled him for flies and he'd handed me 3 of his beautifully crafted damsel nymphs. Our shore had a wee current flowing, the lake is part f the central north Island hydro scheme so more or less constantly, water is shipping.  In front of us, brownies worked. And so did we, focusing hard for the next few hours. I'd mimicked Karl's (Pesty) rig and tied on  double of his lovely damsels. I'd cast out into a wide bowl that had a couple cm's more depth and left he flies on the bottom. A cruising brown sucked in one of the flies and I broke him on the strike losing both flies... and that was he sum total of fish for morning. Karl landed a nice 'bow, but we agreed that it had been hard going. With Tim and Greig teamed up we were free to explore.

A riffle on the lake spoke to nymphing the weed beds under an indicator - "plonking" as its known around here. Karl had a pre-rigged rod at the ready. I rigged up a "plonking" outfit and tied on the garish snail imitation that Karl gave me - he assured me that with the thin veil of cloud overhead, the fish would pick up the snail fast. My first fish took 5 minutes to hook. The indicator slid under. Fish on. Our drift as relatively productive, culminating in an absurdly ft 6lb fish for me, and a stunning 9lb hen for Karl. The boy can play.

We pulled  few more 'bows over the next hour or so.

We stalked he edges in the afternoon but neither of us could get an eat. A catch up with Tim and Greig (the lake-master) on the lake edge. They'd struggled. Greig had taken a brown early, but that was it. Rob cruised over and joined us. He's another fish magnet. He'd nailed a good number of fish.

We decided to draw a line under the day and head back to base.

That evening's proposed trip to the Tongariro delta saw us all (me, Rob, Karl, Tim & Greig) in Karl's boat Full Mongrel, heading out. The SW wind blew an ugly chop and we all agreed to abandon the mission in favour of safety, returning to land dripping wet. Rather we fished the evening rise on the Tongariro.

Sunday dawned fine and still. We'd convoyed again, Rob towing his boat, and Karl dragging Full Mongrel. Greig was already on he water. We dropped Tim off with Greig. Pest and I decided to strip damsels over the weed beds, having sen a number of large fish in a spot as we arrived. On shore, Greig hooked and battled a large brownie; from the bow of the boat I had a stadium view of the fish which took him well into the backing. Finally he had it under control, only for the hook to pull when finally he had it in netting range.

The lake was eerily calm. Karl motored us to a quiet shoreline, and here we struck gold. First Karl took  fat brown that ate with flyline well inside the rod tip. With his fish netted, a golden bown approached and I managed an eat. This fish was as fat as a labrador with donuts. A little later and further along the shoreline,  I presented the fly multiple times to  fish hat refused to take. When he finally did, the slabby old jack rolled around on the surface before coming to the net. With a an abscessed eye, the reason for not taking was revealed... he simply couldn't see the fly.

The afternoon rolled and we called it at about mid afternoon. With 2 wonderful days of damsels and mountains behind us and the first of the summer weather, life felt pretty good.

4 rivers, one day

The hike in revealed the sort of water we'd been looking for. We'd all been here before, but I'd only explored upstream. Tim had come here years ago in exploratory mode. Jase and I had dropped in a couple of years ago after a hair raising climb down a bank. On the way South we'd hatched the plan - get into the watershed and head to the confluence of the three streams, below which the river takes on a new name. That should put us in water that was relatively untouched this season, most day-trippers probably only walking down a few pools. Its rugged in here. The river looked skinny, low in flow. We passed gorges early before the valley opened, allowing us to exit the river bed and travel through the adjacent beech forest. Deer sign littered the sandy beaches and blue ducks abounded.

Whio

We estimated we had 2 hours of travel before reaching our goal. With light rain forecast from late morning, we were keen to be fishing while we had some light for spotting, although uniform cloud against high banks gave us more than acceptable visual conditions. Despite some turns that took us through thigh deep bog we made good time and arrived at our destination. What a spot! A return trip to camp out was promised. Ahead of us we spooked a spiker and hind, our noisy approach covered by the sound of running water allowed us quite a close approach, and shortly a Canada goose took to the air. Tim was first to be set up and took the first glide. First cast and he was on, landing a fat fresh 'bow. The theme for the day turned out to be plentiful rainbows, unusual according to the lads who mentioned that low fish numbers had been experienced in the past.

Photo credits: Tim Angeli & NickF

In one turquoise pool, wide and deep, slashed and gouged from papa rock, a procession of fish lined up nose to tail or in pods. Jase hooked and landed 4, Tim hooked and landed 2 and I hooked a couple and banked one before they all took to sulking on the bottom.

We'd tried to keep to a schedule to ensure we exited the valley before nightfall but even so, managed to fall behind such was the engrossment in the fishing. Arriving at the truck wet and cold, we stripped off damp layers and donned spare clothes. Once on the road in the warm truck we pulled off to buy beer and snacks. At the hut the potbelly stove raged as we ate venison steak with fresh bread and salad, washed down with Pilsner.

Kick'n with Pete

A couple weeks ago while on Kirimati I'd got a message from a well known fly angler that he'd be in Turangi for roughly a week and would have the new Sage X5120 along if I wanted to catch up for a swing?

I booked a trip in as soon as I got back. But I'd sort of screwed up and booked to arrive the day he was leaving. That's how I roll.

But I kept that booking at the motel, and let the proprietor know I'd be down late, with dog in tow. I rolled into town pretty late, got set up in my unit (I'd be on the water before anyone else! Haha!), tucked Layla into her blankets in the back of the truck and then tried to get to sleep. Unfamiliar bed, main highway noise, trucks rattling the windows... ahhh shit here we go.  The alarm blared at 04.30. I drank coffee, ate, fed her royal blackness, pulled on waders and boots, loaded the truck and got going. We were second car in the car park - 3 guys were readying themselves in the dark to assault Reed's pool, an easy piece of water suitable for geriatrics. Just sayin'. I let them know where I'd be and Layla and I set off down the track. We needed to make 3 crossings to our spot. In the dark I readied my wading staff and stepped into the first and most gentle crossing. I fell over halfway across.... water sloshed around under my raincoat and made its way down my legs. It was mild out luckily, or I'd have been heading back for a change of clothes. We made it into position without further mishap and sat on the bank waiting for a glimmer of light. It was still dark when I made my first cast, setting the anchor by feel and swinging barely more than the head and tip - I retrieved the fly through some slack behind a log jam WHAM a fish hit with purpose and rocketed downstream before the hook pulled. NOT COOL.

As the sun rose I moved through the pool, covering the water carefully. 2 more hits came, one fish shaking loose after a good minutes of head shaking runs and the other a bump as the fly moved through the prime water. In this pool its better to fish through once then rest the water for an hour or more. On the way downstream I dropped Pete a line. He would be walking Kaiser so told me he'd come down the track on the opposite bank. The water here is enticing, emerald green depths hard against the far willow lined bank, shallowing my side over rounded stones and pebbles. The deal is to cast hard into the far bank, throw a mend to help the fly sink and swing deep to shallow. Its nice water. In my minds eye I'm in Alaska or NW USA casting for a fresh from the sea steelie. The takes here can be subtle but this one isn't as the fish hits with a thump-thump - lift and I'm on.  Immediately the fish takes to the air, leaping, leaping all the time boring upstream and I cant get him on the reel. Stripping yards of running line in is no way to get control and with slack in the system the fish jumps one more time above me, gives me a finny salute and shakes the hook. Pete shows up and we yell greetings across the river. Layla sees Kaiser and wants to join him. She's a brave little thing, swimming over to the faster water but the bank's not climbable there so she paddles around before returning. Pete observes that her activity can't be great for the fishing - I on the other hand have a notion that fish aren't really put down by dog activities, having on numerous occasions taken fish immediately or soon after Layla's invaded a pool or run. Pete says he'll be free for a fish later on so we arrange to catch up. I decide to head upstream and see how Miles is getting on with his client. They're in the braids, fishing a small run with a couple of other guys on each side of them. Reminds me of shags on a pier.  I don't want any part of that in my fishing. But they're catching, and as a guide his primary role is to catch. His dog Paddy and Layla catch up and play in the long grass beside the river. We natter for a while, watching client Warren cast, his budgie indicator drifting back down. Across the river, one of the shags briefly hooks up, then the fish is gone. We agree to catch up later for a tour of the upper river pools.

I part ways with Milo and head down to the pool I started in. No one's in there. Cool. My wet feet are starting to chill a bit so this will be the last run before heading back for a change and clean up. I've barely set foot in the run when not one, but three budgie casters descend on the run from the far bank. This water holds a maximum of one Spey guy or 2 nymphers (one operating per bank) and when they enter the water with no by-your-leave my stress levels rise a bit. The Tongariro is, unfortunately, notorious for a lack of courtesy. Some call it etiquette. I try not to lose my shit, instead I'm dropping my fly at the foot of the most upstream guy - he's trying to achieve the impossible anyway. With a high rocky bank behind him and a double nymph rig there's no way he can switch the direction of his cast to cover the lie. I throw an off-shoulder cast slightly upstream and overcook it a bit - I'm snagged in the fast water. F*CK!!! I haul back, and the rod takes on a bend that it wasn't designed for - then the snag takes line ... I don't kill many trout (1 in 5 years) but this gleaming fat hen is a fine candidate for the smoker so I take a rock and kill her. Layla, basking in the sun, watches over the fish where I lay her in the shallow water edging the pool. I make my way back into position. Nympher #1 has moved up to the next pool. Nympher #2 is tangled in the scrub atop the rock bank. Nympher #3 is snagged on the notorious snag in the tail. I figure these guys aren't from around here. No one in the know  would risk rig after rig on that underwater eater of flies. In the fast water a fish hits and goes. A good fighter this one, solidly refusing to be subdued. He's a fine fresh silver jack and will make a great smoking partner to the earlier hen. Nymphers 2 & 3 move on. Nympher #1 returns and begins casting very near the snag when the inevitable happens. Time for me to move anyway. Layla and I cross the tail where I call to #1 fluff chucker that the snag he'd hit probably has $ thousands of flies adorning it.

For the smoker

At the motel I clean my fish and into the refrigerator they go. A change of clothes. Off we go to Miles's digs. We kick back in the sun, grab a smoke and coffee and catch up. Client Warren's a really nice guy. We head upstream, Miles has intel that the Fence Pool is full of fish. I hate that pool, deep and swirly with an ugly upstream eddy on the near bank. Not swinging water. Evil nymphing water, but anyway I leave them to it and head down to the Whitikau. Wet prints on the bank show that some one's left the water recently. I need to hit the far bank where the fish hold, and get a couple of feet of drag free drift. I struggle. Guys like Jase and Greig can do this with regularity. I get started and Pete appears on the bank, armed with his #4 trout spey. He casts beautifully and is in the groove immediately. I get it right occasionally and get an elusive hit; but the fish bites and is gone. Pete and I natter about what I can't remember. We head downstream and drop over the bank to the Reef Pool. That pool has changed a lot. The deep heavy flow beneath the reef on which one stands is interrupted by a large rock so the heavy near bank chute at the tail is gone, replaced by a more sedate tail out. Pete sends me to the head and begins to probe the tail. His hit comes early as he swings under the bank, a natural holding lie.  But its gone. My take is positive and the fish rips line. Shortly Pete nets a fine silver fish.

Reef Pool

There are a lot of guys around, an indication that the runs have finally arrived upriver.

Next stop is Blue Pool. Pete takes the upper half of the tail and I go in below the big rock. Its such sweet swinging water. We know its been hammered today but by now all the holding water will have been fished. So hitting the far bank and combing the water where fish will have retreated to is important. Its late afternoon by the time we're done. I'd had 2 hits and Pete one, for no hook ups. We really don't know why our hit to hookup conversion rate is so low. I mean we've debated it extensively, theorised that hook up configurations are less effective than hook down, and vice versa... but we just don't know for sure. Pete who's observed a million billion zillion fish eats in his many years as a guide doesn't subscribe to 'short takes' and 'tail nips'. He knows that fish hit streamers amid-ship which is why when fishing articulated double hook flies he removes the rear hook to make the fly compliant with local regulations and not the forward hook. We agree to meet at his 06.30 the following morning for breakfast, giving me time for a pre-dawn assault. Heading back to town with a 19.00 dinner date with the boys to meet, I realise that despite having already gone hard for 12 hours I'm still keen. We jump out at the Island Pool and head across the bouldered rockscape. Layla likes it here, lots of grass holds quail and she's lit up. 2 guys are nymphing the head of the run and I slide in below them - literally - the bottom here is uniform smooth round small rocks coated with algae. Wading staff mandatory as each step is a slippery lottery. Layla visits the upstream anglers and barks at them. I call her back. I need to be out of the water by 6. Under the waterfall a fish takes and stays on, flashing dark red in the late afternoon sunlight.  I'm in shin deep fast water and without a net (curse my damn short memory!) I need to move downstream and bring the fish into the lee of the near bank where the current swings wide. He's well hooked and is well disgruntled. He gives me a tail spray as he swims away. I slip-slide my way back up. This is nice water but I'm yet to hit a fresh fish in here. The line tightens and I'm in again. Another dark fish, a recovering hen. The tail out is lovely looking water but I come up with nothing. Back at the truck I realise I'm stuffed.

04.45 and the alarm goes. Its cooler this morning. Layla is awake in the truck and wolfs down her food before toileting. Coffee and weetbix on board and we're away. We're the first car in the park this morning. I figure I'll get through one run and choose the "Lodge Run' which gave us so much fun last year. Jase had told ,me that the floods had altered the run somewhat. Layla and I stumble to the head of the run. Again I start fishing in relative darkness. But I stuff up and over cast, hitting the far bank. Breaking the fly off I know I'll have to wait for a bit of light to tie a new fly on. Upstream a car drives to the edge of the Lower Bridge pool. The original troll hole. With enough light available, a new fly is bent on. Conscious of time I fish faster than I might normally and its only near the tail that goods are produced. A small fat jack eats in the heavy water, and takes quite some subduing before going back.

Pete and I eat eggs, bacon and fried spuds on his front porch. Life takes some interesting twists and meeting honest genuine nice people like Pete and Sherrie is such a bonus. Layla's staying for a day date with Kaiser and Sherrie. Pete and I head out. We'll start up at Mill Race. Amazingly only one other car's in there. We're almost set when Sean Andrews (Cat 3 Fly Co.) and his mate pull in. Same plan but with limited water he agrees to head elsewhere. A call from Andy and he's looking for water too. Pete and I get to Mill Race. The head's occupied. There, 2 nymphers work the juicy seam. We jump in the tail. I find this water very hit and miss but usually good for a fish. Not today. Andy, Sean and his mate are in Carty's Run. We regroup and decide to head upriver. Talking to Sean, its fishing double handers that brought him back to this river. That's a common theme amongst the spey guys, the challenge of swinging flies for the thrill of the take is the summit, the very apex of fishing this river. Andy and Sean's mate (sorry I am so bad with names) fish the Whitikau while Pete, Sean and I talk. The river is busy, a couple of canoeists carry their white water boats upstream. Saying good bye to Sean, Pete and I head downstream. We soon bump into Greig, the speymesiter. We have a chit chat and drop into Reef. Its already been thrashed from the far bak so hopes are not high, Greig leaves shortly and we need a new plan. With limited time we make the call to head to the lower river. And its a good call, only a couple of cars are in the park, Pete draws the Stump and I head up to the Lodge Run. A  couple of nymphers are in there on the far bank. I could easily jump in but I'm not given to bad angling manners. It shits me, so why do it to someone else? Rather I head down to the messy water above Pete. Jase says its "no good". The rush of the river heads down the True left under an undercut bank before the flow charges headlong into a thicket of stumps of old trees. Floods have driven this river path, having destroyed some fine old pools in the process. I'd hit fish from the far bank before, where the heavy water slackened under the cut of the bank. So fish definitely held... but with the main rush of water closer to the far bank I'd struggle to drift a fly through the holding lie. Technical water keeps a lot of guys away. In the fastest of fast water the fly came up tight and I was connected to a fish that took line at an alarming rate before turning away from the snags at the very last second. In no way would she come out of the main flow though and it took quite a lot of side pressure to draw her forth, each time though he charged back in the shelter of the torrent. Finally the fish gave in, and unhooked charged home.

And it was time for me to head home as well. Layla had had a fine morning with her mate. So had I. Always good kick'n with Pete.

Into Spring

Looking back a year and its remarkable both the parallels and differences on a week-to-week prior corresponding period basis. This time last year the North Island was wet, the trout were running hard and we'd been snowed on. This year, the South Island has had the snow event. Farmers have reported Major lamb losses due to the wet. The big difference seems to be that the trout runs in the Tongariro have seemed very sporadic. Rather than hitting chrome fresh minted fish regularly, those specimens have been harder to come by.

We've fished some different water this year, no doubt about that but the explorations have often been fruitless or the rewards minimal. As a rule, the fishing above the township's main bridge has been difficult whilst in the uglier waters below the bridge, fish have been regularly found. For sanity's sake, a good amount of time has to be spent in the peaceful beauty of the upper river once the need to hook a fish has been sated. The hope that the runs will appear in force keep driving us on, but last weekend a change was needed.  We wanted to swing up some resident fish that equally wanted to smash passing bullies and leeches. We needed a change of location. A plan was hatched.

We'd left at the gentlemanly hour of 5.15am, a little later than I'd normally set off. The weather was stunning, a still day lay ahead of us and fog blanketed the land. As such the drive was a little slower but we still made good time and on arrival fell into our routine for setting up. I had along the Sage One 4116 Trout Spey and Jase had packed his #3 Spey - whilst other methods draw more fish we both prefer to swing up our trout. The hits are super addictive. The river looked in smashing condition as Jase and I walked up to our chosen water. In the backwaters we spied browns cruising - they could wait until we returned armed with single handers later in the season. Layla frolicked around until suddenly from behind a bank a lamb charged at, and hit her. I'd never seen the like! My first chosen water comprised shallow shingle rapids with individual inflows contributing to a stronger current under the far bank that flowed into a gut before shallowing into a really nice tail. The confused currents made a simple swing impossible so I chose a cast and jerky retrieve approach. Soon enough, the fly stopped with a thump. Lifted into a largish fish that fought dourly, rolling in the current. When extracted he proved to be a very old fish with large teeth, past his prime but still ready to chomp on a passing bully.

Dinotrout

After that I struggled a bit. Nothing moved at the fish imitation. Plan b needed - off with the skagit head, on with the scandi, a med sink tip and a team of small wet flies. Having not really done much of this type of fishing I needed to hit fish to get some confidence. And the first hit wasn't long in coming. The fish throbbed under water and the fight was protracted, so I was quite surprised at the long skinny fish that I landed. At that stage I noticed 3 anglers walking upstream.... our plan for solitude was scuppered. I wandered down to meet Jase and he said the other guys had fished up, so any water from here down had been covered. It was now pretty hot - Jase was having a nap on the bank and Layla was stretched out on the sun. The run I probed was long and had always coughed a fish, Jase told me that the 3 guys had extracted half a dozen fish already, so I wasn't all that confident. When the fish hit, I was bringing the wee wets back with a jerky retrieve. The small brown fought gamely and when brought to hand had taken the darker wet (name unknown) loaded with a small bead for weight. 

Jase woke up and moved downstream while I swung the tail out hoping for a larger brownie.  Overhead the sun beat down. Layla chased a pheasant out of the undergrowth and got excited by quail scent as we moved down to find Jase. Rounding a corner we came upon 2 other anglers working upstream - maybe the beautiful day forecast had brought a rush of other anglers to the river? 

While Jase worked downstream I covered a favoured run but the lack of action told me that the other blokes had already been through. Layla and I lay on the bank, she flicking at flies with her tail while I caught some shut eye. Then it was time to go.

Island time

Island Time has a quaint homesy aura, and CXI runs on Island Time. For this, our third trip, we were greeted by Shimano at Cassidy International. Progress is being made and the tin roofed shed is being replaced by a modern looking terminal facility. I predict that the quaintness factor will go by the wayside faster than ever now. This was reflected by the attitude of some of the guides who, after a long season were frank in their admissions that Australasian anglers are given second rate treatment behind the higher tipping US based anglers. Shame that. By now they should realise that we work as hard or maybe harder for a buck, so they should either step up, or step aside in the case of some of the older guys leading the young fellas astray.

The frustrations of guides not showing up for work, or in our case on the final morning the boatman not arriving, topped off the the feedback above given were on the whole evened out by several experiences.

Lunch 

Day 4 and I was on the "Long Walk" with my guide "T". I had 1500mls of water on board and my lunch... T had nothing and refused water when offered. We'd been dropped off the boat and wouldn't see it again until late in the afternoon. The pancake coral amongst the back country lagoons is a very special environment and we'd done well on the bones and were hunting a GT. Several shots were taken but the fish were very cagey and turned away at the last second. Come lunchtime and T asked if I liked eating fish? Sure I do! We set off for a small island and once there I was tasked with collecting salt brush and grass for firewood and tinder respectively. T in the meantime had my fly line in hand and was jigging the fly over the rocky outcrop, soon throwing fish after fish over his shoulder. When he deemed that we had enough we set about starting the fire - my role was mainly to lie in front of the pile of grass and tinder to block the incessant wind. Once lit and embers formed, the fish (snapper) were raked into the coals and cooked whole. Once skinned and with the head removed (taking the guts with it) the flesh was sweet and juicy - amongst the very best fish meals I've ever eaten.

'

The formidable drag

Post our GT trip earlier in the year where our gear was simply smashed, an excessive amount of research had gone into reels with responsive, powerful drags. Jase and I had both settled on Hardy Fortuna XDS 10000's - one drag knob turn and you've gone from zero to 32lb of fish breaking drag.

Until that is, you meet fishzilla. One minute the pink bill fish fly was idyllically swimming through the cobalt water, next minute the ocean opened and a fridge sized yellowfin mashed the fly. Within seconds the 65lb backing was disappearing at an alarming rate and the fish was unerring in direction or pace, quite simply it was flat out for the horizon. 

Over my shoulder, Dion, the driest Aussie you'll meet drawled "turn the drag up, he'll spool you...". I sunset the drag knob. Less than 10 seconds later, the fish was gone. At first, I'd thought that my rigging had failed but as I wound in I realised that the backing had parted. Why???? It wasn't until I tried to back off the drag that I discovered it had seized solid. The formidable drag.... good on paper I suppose.

Later, Dion fought a tuna to a standstill but lost it at the boat as the hook pulled. Mike boated a junior fish soon after. I call that an ass whooping :) - I'll probably never attach to a larger fish on fly gear and I'm ok with that!

Yup, it was good to be back in Kiribati.

Home runs

With the Kiribati trip looming, the end of my pheasant season had arrived. I would be able to squeeze one final day in. I decided to make it a big one if need be, and packed lunch and snack bars, along with a meal for Layla. After several days of rain, I was hoping the fine day that was forecast would get the birds out and active. I wanted to get to a few places that I hadn't visited this season, and quietly hoped that the other guys who hunt the property hadn't got to. I needn't have set the alarm. I was awake at 04.30 and with gear ready all I had to do was make coffee for the road, grab my lunch from the fridge, feed the dog and then get going. The drive was quiet and I arrived 45 minutes earlier than I'd thought I would. I called in to see Craig but he'd left for the day. On with gumboots, vest, camera slung, GPS switched on, gun readied and we set off. I'd gone several km before realising that I'd left my water bottle at the truck... that would be a problem later in the day. My plan saw me quickly covering the river bank while getting to the old bridge where we crossed - and Layla got hot. She got out a bit and pushed a bird, up with gun - hen... we carried on around to the area I really wanted to get into. I'd taken a ridge line route. In the gully below a hen took to the air. Over the rise and into the first spot I'd wanted to cover. Layla was going full noise but we didn't push any birds at all... strange. Maybe the other guys had been through recently? Up and over arise and onto the peninsula. Always holds birds. Always? Not today, although fresh footprints were visible. Ok, out and back down the river. The bend by the hut is usually a good spot to prospect. I sent Layla out and across the river. She pushed straight into the thicket. I  moved quickly to close off the predicted escape route. A clatter of wings and a bird came out - cock bird - he was away, my first shot was wide but he fell at the second. Another clatter and cackle and a rooster came out... I wasn't able to reload in time so he was safe. Layla swam back to me, then hit the rooster's scent, he'd run from where he fell but had only gone 10m before dying. The pup delivered him to me. I drank from the small clear stream on my way back, the sun was up and whilst not scorching I was sweating as I'd tackled a few hills and had ahead of me a steep climb. The next ridge was smothered in gorse. Layla worked it hard while I puffed my way up. At the top I took a breather and grabbed a few photos of the surrounds. Beautiful country on a beautiful day. Hard to beat.

South East

West

I knew there was a track down through the next valley, but there was no obvious path to it from where I was, so I entered a cattle tunnel through the gorse. Track found, and Layla got really birdy. She charged up into some thick native bush and pushed a bird out, out of view. There was never a chance of a shot so I was ok with her getting out of range. Moving down the track, I sent the dog into the scrub on my left which looked more likely to hold birds. She hit a scent then stopped and stared into the scrub. The cock bird launched straight up. A shot I'd taken a hundred times. Maybe I was too casual. Maybe my head wasn't down. I swung up onto the bird and fired. When he didn't drop I pulled ahead and hit him again.... in my dreams - I hadn't touched a feather! On a hot still day the last thing you need is to miss easy chances. I gave myself a mental uppercut. Out of the bush, and back to the stream for a drink. I didn't really think about it, but that was the last substantial water I'd take on board for the next few hours. And the next few hours involved plenty of hills. I shared an energy bar with the dog. I decided to track through the most heavily hunted area on the property, but moved with as much haste as my legs could muster. Up and over then back down and through some rocky outcrops. Layla busted a hen right in front of us. I was hot, hot and sweaty. A quick detour into the bush gave a reprieve from the sun. Back now, to the end of the farm. Past a swamp that had in the past given me birds. Nothing. The next part was all uphill. In the sun. Heart beating. I was making heavy weather of it. At the top, over a gate and into a bush track, pocked with cattle ruts. Down into the old clearing. Craig had once told me that a Maori village had been sited there. A herd of wild goats grazed the clearing. We got pretty close to them and I sent Layla in to give chase. Not her thing, those stinkys. We worked the meadow and Layla got interested in a scent but nothing jumped.

The next part of the traverse is truly interesting. A cavern is entered, where water has bored at the rock beneath a saddle. Here I took a handful of water on board. Having been underground for several thousand years I figured it to be pure enough. Icy and refreshing. Ahead of me lay a large bowl, stretching up a steep gorse and t tree covered incline. I'd always seen birds here. My legs were complaining. I knew I should have taken a route to the right of the bowl. Instead, I went up the middle. Layla's head turned rapidly and she bolted as she spotted the rooster, I got a rapid and futile shot away as he put bush between us. Mental uppercut #2. Halfway up the incline I sat for a rest. The GPS showed 12.5km covered. Phew. At the top of the valley, a small mob of goats with kid in tow, made a getaway. I made it up, a puffing mess of sweat and red in the face I'm sure. Layla hit a patch of scrub hard and a hen paradise duck emerged - I call the dog in as the shelduck would be nesting in there. Over the gate, downhill, thank god. Along the bush edge shady relief. The face 150m away was covered in young head high gorse. I wasn't sure how to work it, I was sure that it would hold though. Layla, still looking fit and fresh, worked in. 50m away, a fat cock took to the air. Layla clearly was on a scent and with a whir, a hen took air in front of us. If only hens were cocks...

We moved down to work around the swamp. Once our release site, these days it seems slightly barren. Against the high rocky banks, moss grew. I grabbed handfuls and squeezed the water out, a few drips per handful but welcome none the less. The final climb lay ahead. Energy bar shared with dog. Ok, up we go. Arriving at the head of the valley I had in mind, I pushed the dog in. She hit a scent and ran - I blew a stop whistle and she pulled up... as a cock jumped and flew ahead. I couldn't have shot but damn, another chance blown! Ok, settle down. I pulled the dog back and pushed her into the gorse below me on the left. She breezed through and then BOOM, nose down. I got behind her and closed the gap as she charged a gorse clump - CACCKKKLEE!! Snapshot, bird plummeted, break gun, holy shit another rooster's running, close gun as he takes to the air, remember second trigger, pull through as he begins to gain speed, pull trigger and he folds. Double rise! DOUBLE RISE!! From mental uppercut to top of the world! Home run with bases loaded! A six off the last ball of the match to win it! I tracked back to pick the second, Layla would be onto the first one. Soon she appeared with the gleaming bird in her mouth. Photo time. Pain in legs gone! Success, the sweet taste of success. This is why I hunt, hard work paying dividends. Pheasant hunting drives me like no other type of field sport. Spey casting is about perseverance, a mental challenge. Pheasants are hard physical work, covering ground, outwitting the cunning rooster.

Gun over shoulder. Birds in vest. The final push, back to the house. My mind was on water. By now the skin on my fingers was beginning to shrivel, a sure sign of dehydration. Head down, I focused on the final km back to the house when I heard a call -  Mike was asking how I'd got on. I detoured across to see him and thank him for use of the property. We nattered for a while and I checked my GPS - 17km covered. Saying a farewell, the dog and I carried on. Finally we arrived at the truck. 1.5 Litres of water gone in seconds. A large can of V followed.  I fed and watered the dog and put her in the back of the truck; despite being young and fit she'd hurt tonight. I'd covered 18.2km, so I'd say she would've done that plus a quarter, call it 22km of running and swimming.

The cramps came halfway home. By then I was one milkshake and 2 bottles of Coke Zero down (yup, a diuretic, I know..). Inner thighs were cramping and a couple of times I had to stop the truck and stretch the abductors. Lesson learned - NEVER, EVER forget the water bottle. If it had been a summer's day, I'd have been in trouble.

With the season over, I can now reflect on how good its been. A freezer full of pheasant tells me all I need to know.