Day one –The trip in.
We descended through lumpy rain laden clouds that sent droplets screaming across the window on my left. It’s never a good feeling when you are going fishing anywhere to be greeted by crap weather. The engines screamed into reverse and the pilot dropped us neatly onto the sodden runway.
3.05pm and customs was easy. Outside it’s still wet. We spotted Bruce the limo driver from last year and hitched a ride to the van place. Van paper work done and we toss our bags in and crank what is now our new home into life.
3.05pm and customs was easy. Outside it’s still wet. We spotted Bruce the limo driver from last year and hitched a ride to the van place. Van paper work done and we toss our bags in and crank what is now our new home into life.
By the time we finished shopping for food and deliberate over 9 bottles of local red it is 6.30 pm. Butt into gear time.
We drove through constant rain and that god awful sideways wind you always get near the coast until we hit our overnight stop over at the practice lake. Along the way I tried to tune into NZ National to get a weather forecast but Bob Maori and the Wailers had me tickled.
Dusk was falling quickly as we drove down a laneway towards the lake. This was a new place to us, pretty much unknown. We caught sight of some signs in the headlights and initially I glimpsed what I thought read ‘No Camping’. I looked at Tony and told him I was both blind and illiterate. Shit.Turns out it pays to read the fine print but fine print is hard to see when it’s pissing down rain on your maiden evening in New Zealand. No camping alright, but only over Christmas and New Years. We were cool.
Dinner that night was soup and stew indoors. It was cold and still bloody wet outside but our friend Robyn back at Britz had tossed an extra doona each and even a couple of hot water bottles just in case. She is a saint. It’s good in the van. Lights. Stove. Fridge. Beds. Tents can go to hell.
We cracked a Timara Shiraz 2007 out of Auckland as the rain beat down and the wind gently rocked us on the vans suspension. The wine was a dog initially but mellowed from very coarse to slightly coarse by the second glass. The usual berry flavours just managed to surface under the robustness of this wine. It was better with food but no way a refined drop. Average. Rating: TJ – 2.5 stars. BF – 2.5 stars
We drove through constant rain and that god awful sideways wind you always get near the coast until we hit our overnight stop over at the practice lake. Along the way I tried to tune into NZ National to get a weather forecast but Bob Maori and the Wailers had me tickled.
Dusk was falling quickly as we drove down a laneway towards the lake. This was a new place to us, pretty much unknown. We caught sight of some signs in the headlights and initially I glimpsed what I thought read ‘No Camping’. I looked at Tony and told him I was both blind and illiterate. Shit.Turns out it pays to read the fine print but fine print is hard to see when it’s pissing down rain on your maiden evening in New Zealand. No camping alright, but only over Christmas and New Years. We were cool.
Dinner that night was soup and stew indoors. It was cold and still bloody wet outside but our friend Robyn back at Britz had tossed an extra doona each and even a couple of hot water bottles just in case. She is a saint. It’s good in the van. Lights. Stove. Fridge. Beds. Tents can go to hell.
We cracked a Timara Shiraz 2007 out of Auckland as the rain beat down and the wind gently rocked us on the vans suspension. The wine was a dog initially but mellowed from very coarse to slightly coarse by the second glass. The usual berry flavours just managed to surface under the robustness of this wine. It was better with food but no way a refined drop. Average. Rating: TJ – 2.5 stars. BF – 2.5 stars
Day two – The practice lake.
We awoke at 7am to dead calm. No, not the Kidman movie – that would have been too bizarre – but to a still, sunny, cool and blue freaking skied day! Oh yes, thank you oh great trout gods! Thank you!
I climbed down from my penthouse accommodation and ventured outside into the sun. Whilst shaking hands with the unemployed, I took in my first glimpse of the water. The lake was swathed in a heavy mist that gently rose in fiery swirls and curled away only to settle as the newly risen sun’s rays warmed the lake surface.
There are worse sights to wake up to.
Breakfast was the usual light affair. Eggs, bacon, beans, bread, butter and coffee. You basic heart attack on a plate but tasty in an outdoorsy way, damn filling and puts plenty of fuel in the bod for a big day on the water.
We started fishing directly in front of the van about 9ish. Already there were fish leaping. Some fish swirling and boiling, others porpoising. As the mist cleared, the activity became more evident. The water was covered in huge midge husks. Nothing in my box looked anything like them. Then again, I had several hundred tungsten bead head nymphs and about four plain Jane unweighted ones I tossed in as a second thought. Caddis were in the air as was the odd dun.
We wandered along the shore, revelling in the morning sun. As we turned across a point, the wind fell to our backs a little and I spotted a fish. Then another. And another! There were heaps of fish from 2lb to 4 lb just cruising and feeding, occasionally boiling under the surface mopping up the hatching midge! Oh man, never, ever, will I leave another fly box at home!
I rigged up a Sneaky Pete unweighted nymph – my only Sneaky Pete – under a DHE and made the cast ahead of a busy brown. The dry dipped and the first fish of the trip was on the bank! Just shy of 3lb and the first of many for the day.
We continued to work the shoreline finding areas that held fish. Drains that released tannin stained storm water from the surrounding sodden meadows were particularly good. The harder you looked the more fish you saw. And when you didn’t look, they saw you and rushed away in a bow wave of panic.
They were not that keen on the dries but took the nymphs readily enough.
We did see some lunkers but lunkers get to be lunkers by being hard to catch. I tried to guide Tones onto one who was patrolling and area I called the bathtub. A sandy clearing among the weed. We had a crack but missed. He was a seriously big fish as was his buddy who liked to patrol a high cliff base. It was great to watch from high up as this beast slunk effortlessly and determinedly from point to point along his beat.
We found a bit of a drain or channel. The water was a bit murky and it was silty with lots of weed. Not really the sort of water you fly the ditch for. But there were fish in there just to prove the belief that there are fish in puddles in New Zealand. I did extract a lil one of close to two pounds and spooked a bunch of others. Unreal.
We found this amazing sand spit that on one side extended onto shallow flats and on the other fell into an abyss. Wading the spit, I looked ahead to see a slowly finning fish some 40 feet ahead. I made the cast and the flies landed a couple feet ahead of the fish. The brown reacted to the sound of the landed flies and sped towards the nymph. It seemed to execute a classic hand brake turn, sliding sideways like some lunatic car thief whilst taking the nymph. The take shuddered the dry and then the fish, and I swear this is true, mouthed the dry as I struck the nymph home. It was both awesome and funny to watch.
We polaroided more lake margins until 3pm and headed back to the van. We’d taken all our fish so far either polaroiding them or covering rises. Simply, the best lake fishing I’ve ever experienced full stop. Champagne fishing and a totally cool start to the trip.
Dinner at six. I sat down in the shade of the van, penning a few notes as we watched fish rise, leap and porpoise. We geared up for the evening rise – you kidding? They hadn’t stopped all day! Our spirits were high although it had been a big day. So many fish moving, it was awesome. The really entertaining part of the rise was how high some of these fish would leap after bugs. We saw some fish launch at least a metre, if not more! Some were huge. Maybe they were chasing dragon flies on the wing, I could not tell you but it was fun to watch. The swallows began to really swarm above the water’s surface, urging us to get busy.
Tony picked up another good fish on a nymph and dropped one on a stimmi. I missed many chances to cover rises and missed a savage take on a cdc caddis emerger.
We fished happily until 10pm and had the Matua Road Pinot Noir breathing by 10.15. Accented by a lovely flowery-berry aroma with a pleasant berry-citrus undertone over the palate. Very drinkable. Rating: TJ – 3.75 stars. Tony – 3.5 stars.
I climbed down from my penthouse accommodation and ventured outside into the sun. Whilst shaking hands with the unemployed, I took in my first glimpse of the water. The lake was swathed in a heavy mist that gently rose in fiery swirls and curled away only to settle as the newly risen sun’s rays warmed the lake surface.
There are worse sights to wake up to.
Breakfast was the usual light affair. Eggs, bacon, beans, bread, butter and coffee. You basic heart attack on a plate but tasty in an outdoorsy way, damn filling and puts plenty of fuel in the bod for a big day on the water.
We started fishing directly in front of the van about 9ish. Already there were fish leaping. Some fish swirling and boiling, others porpoising. As the mist cleared, the activity became more evident. The water was covered in huge midge husks. Nothing in my box looked anything like them. Then again, I had several hundred tungsten bead head nymphs and about four plain Jane unweighted ones I tossed in as a second thought. Caddis were in the air as was the odd dun.
We wandered along the shore, revelling in the morning sun. As we turned across a point, the wind fell to our backs a little and I spotted a fish. Then another. And another! There were heaps of fish from 2lb to 4 lb just cruising and feeding, occasionally boiling under the surface mopping up the hatching midge! Oh man, never, ever, will I leave another fly box at home!
I rigged up a Sneaky Pete unweighted nymph – my only Sneaky Pete – under a DHE and made the cast ahead of a busy brown. The dry dipped and the first fish of the trip was on the bank! Just shy of 3lb and the first of many for the day.
We continued to work the shoreline finding areas that held fish. Drains that released tannin stained storm water from the surrounding sodden meadows were particularly good. The harder you looked the more fish you saw. And when you didn’t look, they saw you and rushed away in a bow wave of panic.
They were not that keen on the dries but took the nymphs readily enough.
We did see some lunkers but lunkers get to be lunkers by being hard to catch. I tried to guide Tones onto one who was patrolling and area I called the bathtub. A sandy clearing among the weed. We had a crack but missed. He was a seriously big fish as was his buddy who liked to patrol a high cliff base. It was great to watch from high up as this beast slunk effortlessly and determinedly from point to point along his beat.
We found a bit of a drain or channel. The water was a bit murky and it was silty with lots of weed. Not really the sort of water you fly the ditch for. But there were fish in there just to prove the belief that there are fish in puddles in New Zealand. I did extract a lil one of close to two pounds and spooked a bunch of others. Unreal.
We found this amazing sand spit that on one side extended onto shallow flats and on the other fell into an abyss. Wading the spit, I looked ahead to see a slowly finning fish some 40 feet ahead. I made the cast and the flies landed a couple feet ahead of the fish. The brown reacted to the sound of the landed flies and sped towards the nymph. It seemed to execute a classic hand brake turn, sliding sideways like some lunatic car thief whilst taking the nymph. The take shuddered the dry and then the fish, and I swear this is true, mouthed the dry as I struck the nymph home. It was both awesome and funny to watch.
We polaroided more lake margins until 3pm and headed back to the van. We’d taken all our fish so far either polaroiding them or covering rises. Simply, the best lake fishing I’ve ever experienced full stop. Champagne fishing and a totally cool start to the trip.
Dinner at six. I sat down in the shade of the van, penning a few notes as we watched fish rise, leap and porpoise. We geared up for the evening rise – you kidding? They hadn’t stopped all day! Our spirits were high although it had been a big day. So many fish moving, it was awesome. The really entertaining part of the rise was how high some of these fish would leap after bugs. We saw some fish launch at least a metre, if not more! Some were huge. Maybe they were chasing dragon flies on the wing, I could not tell you but it was fun to watch. The swallows began to really swarm above the water’s surface, urging us to get busy.
Tony picked up another good fish on a nymph and dropped one on a stimmi. I missed many chances to cover rises and missed a savage take on a cdc caddis emerger.
We fished happily until 10pm and had the Matua Road Pinot Noir breathing by 10.15. Accented by a lovely flowery-berry aroma with a pleasant berry-citrus undertone over the palate. Very drinkable. Rating: TJ – 3.75 stars. Tony – 3.5 stars.
Day Three – Path less tread: Gorgeous feeder stream: Guns, Beer & Armed Women
6. 00 Am. Another perfect day dawns. Breakfast is sausage, egg, bacon, bread and coffee.
8.15am depart and drive through Fairlie. Stop to dump some rubbish. Tony stopped to just dump. The public loo there is the most excellent, magnificent, palatial public convenience ever encountered. Clean. Nice smelling even. General ambiance was exquisite, highlighted with colourful blooming planter boxes in the front. It was the highlight of Tony’s day so far. Whereas I, due to the urgency of bodily demands, marched into the long wet grass back of camp, armed with poo tickets and shovel.
We headed south towards the hills, with the road tracking through low land meadow, rolling green hills back dropped by grey granite ranges in the distance. We wanted to check out a feeder stream that looked promising as well as being well out of the way.
Squashed possums, hedgehogs and rabbits are the main road kill. (This is important to know.)
We reached a hydro dam and were treated to countless millions of tonnes of water being released over the spillway, shooting down and creating enormous pressure waves at the base.
The map showed us a road. We saw a rough bastard of a track. It was slow, rough going through arid and barren stone strewn prairie country.
We reached a river crossing and stopped at the metal construction that passed for a bridge. Narrow and no side rails. We crossed and like all good HCE boys, ooh’d and ah’d at the river instead of being worried about falling off the bridge.
Exiting off the bridge, we hit a deep pit of loose tennis ball sized stones. The van sank up to the bloody axles. Looking at the situation it looked bad until I realised all we had to do was move the rocks and use the torque of the diesel to climb out. The tactic worked and we were free in a matter of minutes.
The next hour was spent covering the 10 clicks to our feeder stream. Not an ideal track for the van to negotiate. I was happy it was not wet as I am sure we would have been in a bit bother if it was. Any water over the track was checked for depth and hidden rocks or deep ruts.
A couple of blokes on quad bikes pulled up alongside, asking if we knew where we were going. We told them our intentions. The guy who was doing all the talking looked at the van and just sort of told us we might be okay. His mate just shook his head before they sped away.
The feeder stream cut the track and we stopped there, finding a nice clear space just off the track to camp. After lunch, we kitted up, topping up the bladders in our backpacks and began to fish.
Immediately after the shallow run that was the stream crossing, we saw that the first pool held a fish. Or two. Or four. Or twelve! And all good fish too. Very wary and would not give you a second crack.
Tony had one chase his cicada for a couple of meters. The problem was there were so many fish that as one spooked, it would set of a domino effect, next fish spooking the next! I’d never seen anything like it.
Soon though, a fly change saw Tony hooked up to a good brown that liked the look of his para dun.
I tried a heap of terrestrials without success. It turned out that I’d wasted my shots by not having a para dun on earlier. As soon as I changed fly, the next cast over a rising fish resulted in a 3lb brown. Then Tony covered a good riser that turned out to be bigger again.
It was the take of the day. I saw from my vantage spot on the bank, the brown spot the fly, ease up off the bottom, chase the fly down and take the fly beautifully. It was awesome to watch. I could see the fish light up into agro mode as soon as it spotted the para dun. Its demeanour totally changed. If it was a dog, it would have pricked up its ears and raised its hackles along its spine.
The fish leapt high and took some time to subdue. It was a wonderful fish. We returned to camp in the early evening for a rest and a snack before looking at a pool or two in the hope of an evening rise.
Certainly, as the day grew darker and the dry grass on the hills began to radiate the golden light of the setting sun, a fish or two rose. Nothing special. We were sure they would get active but them’s the breaks.
Dinner, wine followed by some fruit tea and conversation. Whilst discussing the remoteness and the good fishing, headlights emerged faintly in the distance. Ten minutes later, a spotlight panned the hills. Sometime later, a 4wd pulled up. Two blokes and a semi auto shotgun up front and a chick cradling a silenced rifle and a can of Speights sat in the back.
The first thing they asked was if we were okay. Apparently they’ve never seen a camper van in this part of the world before! We chatted about the shooting, the fishing. Shooter chick told us the big bloke up front was a guide and scrawled his details on a piece of beer carton. Regretfully, I can’t read Spiegtenese, but they were nice people and we had a good chat, bit of a sledge and more than a few laughs.
Shooter chick offered us a Speights and killed the moment. (Not our drop, as some may remember from last year’s blog...) We wished them well; they especially wished us well and took off.
Saturday night must be a biggy around there. You take your mates, a 4wd, a few guns and an esky full of Speights and have yourself some fun driving around hills in darkness shooting rabbits. Choice, eh?
Bed at midnight.
8.15am depart and drive through Fairlie. Stop to dump some rubbish. Tony stopped to just dump. The public loo there is the most excellent, magnificent, palatial public convenience ever encountered. Clean. Nice smelling even. General ambiance was exquisite, highlighted with colourful blooming planter boxes in the front. It was the highlight of Tony’s day so far. Whereas I, due to the urgency of bodily demands, marched into the long wet grass back of camp, armed with poo tickets and shovel.
We headed south towards the hills, with the road tracking through low land meadow, rolling green hills back dropped by grey granite ranges in the distance. We wanted to check out a feeder stream that looked promising as well as being well out of the way.
Squashed possums, hedgehogs and rabbits are the main road kill. (This is important to know.)
We reached a hydro dam and were treated to countless millions of tonnes of water being released over the spillway, shooting down and creating enormous pressure waves at the base.
The map showed us a road. We saw a rough bastard of a track. It was slow, rough going through arid and barren stone strewn prairie country.
We reached a river crossing and stopped at the metal construction that passed for a bridge. Narrow and no side rails. We crossed and like all good HCE boys, ooh’d and ah’d at the river instead of being worried about falling off the bridge.
Exiting off the bridge, we hit a deep pit of loose tennis ball sized stones. The van sank up to the bloody axles. Looking at the situation it looked bad until I realised all we had to do was move the rocks and use the torque of the diesel to climb out. The tactic worked and we were free in a matter of minutes.
The next hour was spent covering the 10 clicks to our feeder stream. Not an ideal track for the van to negotiate. I was happy it was not wet as I am sure we would have been in a bit bother if it was. Any water over the track was checked for depth and hidden rocks or deep ruts.
A couple of blokes on quad bikes pulled up alongside, asking if we knew where we were going. We told them our intentions. The guy who was doing all the talking looked at the van and just sort of told us we might be okay. His mate just shook his head before they sped away.
The feeder stream cut the track and we stopped there, finding a nice clear space just off the track to camp. After lunch, we kitted up, topping up the bladders in our backpacks and began to fish.
Immediately after the shallow run that was the stream crossing, we saw that the first pool held a fish. Or two. Or four. Or twelve! And all good fish too. Very wary and would not give you a second crack.
Tony had one chase his cicada for a couple of meters. The problem was there were so many fish that as one spooked, it would set of a domino effect, next fish spooking the next! I’d never seen anything like it.
Soon though, a fly change saw Tony hooked up to a good brown that liked the look of his para dun.
I tried a heap of terrestrials without success. It turned out that I’d wasted my shots by not having a para dun on earlier. As soon as I changed fly, the next cast over a rising fish resulted in a 3lb brown. Then Tony covered a good riser that turned out to be bigger again.
It was the take of the day. I saw from my vantage spot on the bank, the brown spot the fly, ease up off the bottom, chase the fly down and take the fly beautifully. It was awesome to watch. I could see the fish light up into agro mode as soon as it spotted the para dun. Its demeanour totally changed. If it was a dog, it would have pricked up its ears and raised its hackles along its spine.
The fish leapt high and took some time to subdue. It was a wonderful fish. We returned to camp in the early evening for a rest and a snack before looking at a pool or two in the hope of an evening rise.
Certainly, as the day grew darker and the dry grass on the hills began to radiate the golden light of the setting sun, a fish or two rose. Nothing special. We were sure they would get active but them’s the breaks.
Dinner, wine followed by some fruit tea and conversation. Whilst discussing the remoteness and the good fishing, headlights emerged faintly in the distance. Ten minutes later, a spotlight panned the hills. Sometime later, a 4wd pulled up. Two blokes and a semi auto shotgun up front and a chick cradling a silenced rifle and a can of Speights sat in the back.
The first thing they asked was if we were okay. Apparently they’ve never seen a camper van in this part of the world before! We chatted about the shooting, the fishing. Shooter chick told us the big bloke up front was a guide and scrawled his details on a piece of beer carton. Regretfully, I can’t read Spiegtenese, but they were nice people and we had a good chat, bit of a sledge and more than a few laughs.
Shooter chick offered us a Speights and killed the moment. (Not our drop, as some may remember from last year’s blog...) We wished them well; they especially wished us well and took off.
Saturday night must be a biggy around there. You take your mates, a 4wd, a few guns and an esky full of Speights and have yourself some fun driving around hills in darkness shooting rabbits. Choice, eh?
Bed at midnight.
Day Four – The Windiest Place on Earth: Empty River at the Farm Camp
We awoke at 9am. Must have been pretty tired after the big day the day before. French toast, beans and coffee for breakfast.
A couple of old blokes showed up in their AWD, guns up front and fly rod in the back. They too were concerned for our well being and pretty surprised to see us. We chatted for a bit and satisfied we were okay, they went off on their way to use their key to the pad locked gates. Why is it that when you get gate keys, you have to wave them in front of others? That’s just cruel. Old bastards.
We made the decision to leave. The main river did not sound so good according to the old blokes but anyway, we were low on fuel and had run out of bread.
We drove back down the track from hell. Tony was doing his best Colin McRae impersonation, hurtling the van recklessly along at up to 20 kph at times. It was scary man. Actually, I think he just got confident from the previous days driving experience. But really, secretly, I think he just shared my secret desire to high tail out it of there and get on a decent bit of road.
We soon caught up to a rabbit. It gingerly bounded ahead of us. Up the left of us, was a very effective rabbit proof fence. As we got closer, this rabbit went mental. It tried to escape us by ramming the chicken wire at full tilt! It would knock itself over, roll, see the van and take off again along the fence. Then it would suddenly turn back into the fence! We are sure it lost its eyelids and nose as it fully smacked its face into that fence about eight hundred times. It wasn’t till we passed the poor silly rabbit that I realised Tones had been steadily pushing down on the go fast pedal... Mind you fresh rabbit would have been okay with that night’s dinner... It was however, just a little disconcerting to catch a momentary, manic glint in Tony’s eye. You really have to watch the quiet ones.
Well, if we thought the rabbit was insane, then the next critter was a total freak out. We’d spooked a feral cat along the fence. This time, idiot moggie was on the other side, the safe side, of the fence. Instead of pelting into the paddock away from us, it tried to cut in front of us! Of course, luckily, the fence prevented this feral cat from causing any damage to the van with its repeated attempts to ram us rhino style and no doubt saved us from bodily harm or worse, mortal peril! Bloody stupid thing must have hit that fence twenty seven times and gone arse over twenty six, only to get up and keep pelting forwards at full steam!
Soon enough we came to a turn off, and as we did not want to take the same track again, took it. We both had a minor heart attack when we saw the track flooded. Jumping out we found it to be shallow and quite firm and issue for the van. We crossed it easily and then hit smooth road. Ah, good old smooth road. Hooray for smooth roads! Luxury!
We found access from this new road to another feeder stream. One of those Nunya’s we can’t tell you about suffice to say, it was a little gem.
We hit town, got our fuel and iso-drinks. These are important for our electrolyte replenishment being the athletic, elite, hard core fly fishing dudes we are. But just to be serious for a tic, they did hit the spot after a long sweaty day and I feel they helped me to recover quicker. Anyway, I found a bakery that did not bake bread – true! And found bread at a servo that apparently did. Or had it delivered. Hit the dump station and dumped our dirty water and topped up on clean water.
We checked the breeze as we drove and before we headed into the hills, it was light. Very light. However, once we hit those hills, it turned into that horrible tree snapping Nor-wester. If you have not heard of the dreaded NZ nor’ wester, allow me to free you from under that rock of darkness and enlighten you. It is wind. It is gale force, blustery, frustrating bastard, makes waves on rivers so you can’t polaroid, kicks up dust storms on braided plains, always in your face and won’t let you cast wind.
Quote from the journal that day...”Fished upstream from 2pm. Wind atrocious. Vicious. Blowing its arse off. Fish sighted but hard. Water ripped by wind. Casting 7wt an adventure. Hard as, bro. Dries being blown back. 6pm give up. Disheartened, pissed off bad. Blue skies but too much wind.”
Got the picture?
We headed out to the next water. A place that bought joy initially with its promising looks but later came to known as the ‘empty river’.
As we drove, Tony’s penchant for terrorising wildlife took a turn for the more sinister. As we passed a roadside tree, a flock of finches, intent on a Jonestown style mass suicide, picked our van to collide with. I could confirm two buying the farm on the windshield and from the thunks on the high top, a few more at least. Really, when one is given the ability to fly, one should take that ability seriously and not endanger the lives of unsuspecting tourists.
We traced the rivers winding path through meadow and field of cattle with a side road that offered little access until finally a turn off yielded a gate with a sign that offered access if permission was granted.
We drove up the road to be greeted by the farmer’s wife. We politely asked for permission to camp and fish and it was granted. She seemed a little hesitant at first however my witty charms and my devastating handsome and windswept looks must have swayed her. Or the desperate pleading and begging.
Once the gate was safety closed behinds us, we drove down to the river. Our camp was on a raised level section that looked down onto the river some thirty or forty feet down. Behind us, a granite hill supporting some raggedy thistles and shrubs enclosed the camp spot. In front of us a gorgeous stream flowed beneath a towering and sheer cliff of granite that was weathered in the wildest forms. Below, some willows shaded the dark water.
We strode down to look at the water, fully expectant to spot fish. Although we walked carefully, we did not see any nor come across any rises.
It seemed a strange thing for water that knew to be fly only in the normally accessible areas. More confusing was the lack of access along the way.
We sat down to dinner at dusk and delighted in a fiery display in the western heavens. Dark red smears across the thinning clouds turned the dead dry tree branch silhouettes into sinister fingers that grappled at the sky.
By 9pm we had judged the Haymaker Gisborne Merlot. Rating: TJ – 3 stars, Tony – 3 stars. It was called a night at 11.30pm
A couple of old blokes showed up in their AWD, guns up front and fly rod in the back. They too were concerned for our well being and pretty surprised to see us. We chatted for a bit and satisfied we were okay, they went off on their way to use their key to the pad locked gates. Why is it that when you get gate keys, you have to wave them in front of others? That’s just cruel. Old bastards.
We made the decision to leave. The main river did not sound so good according to the old blokes but anyway, we were low on fuel and had run out of bread.
We drove back down the track from hell. Tony was doing his best Colin McRae impersonation, hurtling the van recklessly along at up to 20 kph at times. It was scary man. Actually, I think he just got confident from the previous days driving experience. But really, secretly, I think he just shared my secret desire to high tail out it of there and get on a decent bit of road.
We soon caught up to a rabbit. It gingerly bounded ahead of us. Up the left of us, was a very effective rabbit proof fence. As we got closer, this rabbit went mental. It tried to escape us by ramming the chicken wire at full tilt! It would knock itself over, roll, see the van and take off again along the fence. Then it would suddenly turn back into the fence! We are sure it lost its eyelids and nose as it fully smacked its face into that fence about eight hundred times. It wasn’t till we passed the poor silly rabbit that I realised Tones had been steadily pushing down on the go fast pedal... Mind you fresh rabbit would have been okay with that night’s dinner... It was however, just a little disconcerting to catch a momentary, manic glint in Tony’s eye. You really have to watch the quiet ones.
Well, if we thought the rabbit was insane, then the next critter was a total freak out. We’d spooked a feral cat along the fence. This time, idiot moggie was on the other side, the safe side, of the fence. Instead of pelting into the paddock away from us, it tried to cut in front of us! Of course, luckily, the fence prevented this feral cat from causing any damage to the van with its repeated attempts to ram us rhino style and no doubt saved us from bodily harm or worse, mortal peril! Bloody stupid thing must have hit that fence twenty seven times and gone arse over twenty six, only to get up and keep pelting forwards at full steam!
Soon enough we came to a turn off, and as we did not want to take the same track again, took it. We both had a minor heart attack when we saw the track flooded. Jumping out we found it to be shallow and quite firm and issue for the van. We crossed it easily and then hit smooth road. Ah, good old smooth road. Hooray for smooth roads! Luxury!
We found access from this new road to another feeder stream. One of those Nunya’s we can’t tell you about suffice to say, it was a little gem.
We hit town, got our fuel and iso-drinks. These are important for our electrolyte replenishment being the athletic, elite, hard core fly fishing dudes we are. But just to be serious for a tic, they did hit the spot after a long sweaty day and I feel they helped me to recover quicker. Anyway, I found a bakery that did not bake bread – true! And found bread at a servo that apparently did. Or had it delivered. Hit the dump station and dumped our dirty water and topped up on clean water.
We checked the breeze as we drove and before we headed into the hills, it was light. Very light. However, once we hit those hills, it turned into that horrible tree snapping Nor-wester. If you have not heard of the dreaded NZ nor’ wester, allow me to free you from under that rock of darkness and enlighten you. It is wind. It is gale force, blustery, frustrating bastard, makes waves on rivers so you can’t polaroid, kicks up dust storms on braided plains, always in your face and won’t let you cast wind.
Quote from the journal that day...”Fished upstream from 2pm. Wind atrocious. Vicious. Blowing its arse off. Fish sighted but hard. Water ripped by wind. Casting 7wt an adventure. Hard as, bro. Dries being blown back. 6pm give up. Disheartened, pissed off bad. Blue skies but too much wind.”
Got the picture?
We headed out to the next water. A place that bought joy initially with its promising looks but later came to known as the ‘empty river’.
As we drove, Tony’s penchant for terrorising wildlife took a turn for the more sinister. As we passed a roadside tree, a flock of finches, intent on a Jonestown style mass suicide, picked our van to collide with. I could confirm two buying the farm on the windshield and from the thunks on the high top, a few more at least. Really, when one is given the ability to fly, one should take that ability seriously and not endanger the lives of unsuspecting tourists.
We traced the rivers winding path through meadow and field of cattle with a side road that offered little access until finally a turn off yielded a gate with a sign that offered access if permission was granted.
We drove up the road to be greeted by the farmer’s wife. We politely asked for permission to camp and fish and it was granted. She seemed a little hesitant at first however my witty charms and my devastating handsome and windswept looks must have swayed her. Or the desperate pleading and begging.
Once the gate was safety closed behinds us, we drove down to the river. Our camp was on a raised level section that looked down onto the river some thirty or forty feet down. Behind us, a granite hill supporting some raggedy thistles and shrubs enclosed the camp spot. In front of us a gorgeous stream flowed beneath a towering and sheer cliff of granite that was weathered in the wildest forms. Below, some willows shaded the dark water.
We strode down to look at the water, fully expectant to spot fish. Although we walked carefully, we did not see any nor come across any rises.
It seemed a strange thing for water that knew to be fly only in the normally accessible areas. More confusing was the lack of access along the way.
We sat down to dinner at dusk and delighted in a fiery display in the western heavens. Dark red smears across the thinning clouds turned the dead dry tree branch silhouettes into sinister fingers that grappled at the sky.
By 9pm we had judged the Haymaker Gisborne Merlot. Rating: TJ – 3 stars, Tony – 3 stars. It was called a night at 11.30pm
Day Five – Disappointment: Trout abductions: Taking a punt: Elation at the Delta
Up late at 9am. Needed the sleep. The weather was looking good. I decided that the 4 weight needed a run on this water. We made coffee then set to explore the stream. Man we were pumped. The water looked great and was really reminiscent of the trout streams back home for the most part. There were lots of pools, long shallow glides and runs of gorgeous clear water. After a few hundred yards, we began to question if there were any fish in this water. After a couple of clicks I was convinced that aliens had abducted all the trout and were conducting heinous experiments somewhere out there in space. No fish. Nothing spooked. Nothing seen. Nada. Not a skerrick. Nary a scale. Nil.
Somewhere between pissed off and bewildered, we decided to can this place and go searching closer to where the stream hit the big river it fed. We drove downstream, jumping in here and there, searching for fish closer and closer to the junction. Same deal, absolute crap. Time to look at the map...
We decided on taking a chance and hitting a lake delta fed by a big stream. We found an access point, drove past it, did a U-Turn and drove down to the lake. The wind had picked up and the Nor-Wester was doing its usual best to annoy us.
Walking down to the lake edge, we took a peek at some flooded backwaters. Through some gaps in the willows where there was some respite from the wind, we polaroided cruising fish. Browns and Bows, big and small were gliding the shallow inlets. We threw a few flies at them where we could. A leggy cicada got some bows a bit fired up but they’d just turn away after having a good stare at them.
Time to hit the delta proper. We took a walking track across the paddocks, jumping small crystal clear spring feeders here and there. About a half hour walk from the van, we finally came to the first of many little bays and inlets that we would spent the rest of the day exploring. The lake level was up, flooding tussocks. Looking across the top of the lake, vast shallows lay ahead of us. Standing at the top of that first bay, we spotted our first fish. A large drifting shadow. Bloody big actually. A cicada was sent out to do its worst but only managed to turn the huge shadow momentarily.
We explored the area, finding many cruising Browns & Bows. The drifted in ultra clear water that gave them plenty of time to check out or ignore our Adams para duns, blowies, sedges, damsels flies, various emergers and shaving brushes.
I spotted a nice Brown doing his thing in an oval shaped beat, just doing laps in an inlet. Every time he turned away, I could drop a fly ahead of him. The blow fly went out 4 times with no interest. You are kidding me. I pulled the dry fly box out of the chest pack and look at my weird arse collection.
Somewhere between pissed off and bewildered, we decided to can this place and go searching closer to where the stream hit the big river it fed. We drove downstream, jumping in here and there, searching for fish closer and closer to the junction. Same deal, absolute crap. Time to look at the map...
We decided on taking a chance and hitting a lake delta fed by a big stream. We found an access point, drove past it, did a U-Turn and drove down to the lake. The wind had picked up and the Nor-Wester was doing its usual best to annoy us.
Walking down to the lake edge, we took a peek at some flooded backwaters. Through some gaps in the willows where there was some respite from the wind, we polaroided cruising fish. Browns and Bows, big and small were gliding the shallow inlets. We threw a few flies at them where we could. A leggy cicada got some bows a bit fired up but they’d just turn away after having a good stare at them.
Time to hit the delta proper. We took a walking track across the paddocks, jumping small crystal clear spring feeders here and there. About a half hour walk from the van, we finally came to the first of many little bays and inlets that we would spent the rest of the day exploring. The lake level was up, flooding tussocks. Looking across the top of the lake, vast shallows lay ahead of us. Standing at the top of that first bay, we spotted our first fish. A large drifting shadow. Bloody big actually. A cicada was sent out to do its worst but only managed to turn the huge shadow momentarily.
We explored the area, finding many cruising Browns & Bows. The drifted in ultra clear water that gave them plenty of time to check out or ignore our Adams para duns, blowies, sedges, damsels flies, various emergers and shaving brushes.
I spotted a nice Brown doing his thing in an oval shaped beat, just doing laps in an inlet. Every time he turned away, I could drop a fly ahead of him. The blow fly went out 4 times with no interest. You are kidding me. I pulled the dry fly box out of the chest pack and look at my weird arse collection.
I picked a red sparkly thing I call the Bloody Mary Humpy and flicked it out. Second lap, the trout swam over slowly towards the fly and paused about 3 feet from it. The red thing just sat in the surface motionless as that fish eyeballed it from the distance. I swear I saw that fish from in confusion before ever so slowly drifting up to the fly. With agonisingly slow purpose, the fish came closer and closer to the fly. I am thinking trout should not do Valium. After what seemed like a week, he was at the fly, mouth open, nose breaking the water surface in a neat take. Rod lifted briskly, hook set, fish surprised as hell, a short tussle and 4 ½ lbs of beaut Brown landed. Elation! Finally, after 3 solid hours of stalking and casting, I got to hold one of these delta cruisers aloft!
Tony had a cheeky fish swim up to his dry, give a good inspection and kissed the fly before casually swimming away.
Walking to the river proper, we followed a fast flowing small feeder stream whose undercut banks were infested with 2 and 3 lb Bows. Damn hard to fish to as well but gave us some fun.
Tony landed a nice silvery brown whilst nymphing the river proper right at the mouth. Although I was miles away, I recon it might have been a salmon. Who knows?
The Delta area proved amazing. Extensive flats interspersed with little islands of sunken willow and tussock. The fish would favour the flooded spring feeder creek mouths. These little inlets would often be very deep but the water was always crystal clear. 3 to 6 cruising fish per inlet was pretty much the norm. And they have all the time in the world to check out your flies.
Tony worked a woolly bugger through one of these deeper inlets and it got whacked.
6.30pm and we started back to the van. We drove to the ‘Hayshed’, a place we found last year just off the main road where we could stop for the night. The landscape here reminds me of pictures I’ve seen of vast American prairies. Great open spaces carpeted with wavering knee dry deep grass glowing gold in the twilight. A ring of mountain ranges creating the world’s biggest natural amphitheatre.
The Ahuriri River level looked good. We set up camp hoping that the wind would die off during the night letting us have a morning session. The night was mild and the sky clear.
Dinner & wine. Contemplated about the drive down to Southland as we had no real idea of what the weather was like down that way. Hopefully it’s okay. Wine: Villa Maria NZ Merlot Cab-Sav 2008. 3.8 stars from the both of us. Nice.
Tony had a cheeky fish swim up to his dry, give a good inspection and kissed the fly before casually swimming away.
Walking to the river proper, we followed a fast flowing small feeder stream whose undercut banks were infested with 2 and 3 lb Bows. Damn hard to fish to as well but gave us some fun.
Tony landed a nice silvery brown whilst nymphing the river proper right at the mouth. Although I was miles away, I recon it might have been a salmon. Who knows?
The Delta area proved amazing. Extensive flats interspersed with little islands of sunken willow and tussock. The fish would favour the flooded spring feeder creek mouths. These little inlets would often be very deep but the water was always crystal clear. 3 to 6 cruising fish per inlet was pretty much the norm. And they have all the time in the world to check out your flies.
Tony worked a woolly bugger through one of these deeper inlets and it got whacked.
6.30pm and we started back to the van. We drove to the ‘Hayshed’, a place we found last year just off the main road where we could stop for the night. The landscape here reminds me of pictures I’ve seen of vast American prairies. Great open spaces carpeted with wavering knee dry deep grass glowing gold in the twilight. A ring of mountain ranges creating the world’s biggest natural amphitheatre.
The Ahuriri River level looked good. We set up camp hoping that the wind would die off during the night letting us have a morning session. The night was mild and the sky clear.
Dinner & wine. Contemplated about the drive down to Southland as we had no real idea of what the weather was like down that way. Hopefully it’s okay. Wine: Villa Maria NZ Merlot Cab-Sav 2008. 3.8 stars from the both of us. Nice.
Day Six – Braided dust storms: Déjà vu: Boris on the Bridge.
It’s a Tuesday. We are up at 6.30am for a dawn breakfast. The wind had shifted during the night. Its strong and blowing that bloody North West again.
We decide to leave without wetting a line. Drive to Omarama where we find the local amenities. We decide to get civilised and use real toilets for a change and even get a shave in before the drive to Q Town. Got to say, to their credit, the kiwis do look after their amenities well.
It’s a bit windier out there in the open and even though it shouldn’t worry us, there are better places to fish when the Nor’ Wester gets up.
As we bang on down the road out of O, the early sunlight is playing magic on the Clay Cliffs. They look like gigantic ant hills that some crazy alien has shovelled out of the hillside. Pretty cool.
It’s a bit windier out there in the open and even though it shouldn’t worry us, there are better places to fish when the Nor’ Wester gets up.
As we bang on down the road out of O, the early sunlight is playing magic on the Clay Cliffs. They look like gigantic ant hills that some crazy alien has shovelled out of the hillside. Pretty cool.
We do QT and head up out of town with the hopes of hitting a little diamond of a stream. The road out of QT follows the shoreline of Lake Tikapo. It’s a winding, up and down forty minutes before we hit open plain. Crossing the bridge, the braided river bed below is throwing up glacial dust in the gale force winds. It’s eerie to watch long tendrils of dust kicking up over the river. Walls of dust spiral upwards across the braids. You could be in a desert dust storm. Mad.
The meadow stream of our desires is finally found. It’s gorgeous but flowing hard. As we try to maintain an upright stance against the wind gusts. Shit.
Back in the van we double back to QT and dialled in The Mataura at Brightwater. Its low and it’s clear and wind aint so bad. There are lots of fish, mostly in tail outs and we raise one or two but they are being tough. I take a pic of one poor bugger of about 5lbs trapped in a pool that has been cut off from the river as the level dropped. He is sooking. Just sitting there in a foot of water. I hunkered down and let him have a look at a couple of flies before walking up to him and stopping for a chat. The big brownie is not in a talkative mood and with a few flicks of its pectorals fins, fins away slowly so as not to see me. Poor bugger.
Speaking of buggers, The Aristocrat from last year is there. Unbelievable! Has not changed. Still not talkative. Probably upset that we have come to fish the section of water that he has owned since the 70’s.
We also meet Dale, a local poet & writer and his charming lady friend. We talk about local politics, writing and adventure. I am eyeing off the companion, thinking that when I hit 70, I want one just like her. Not bad.
The meadow stream of our desires is finally found. It’s gorgeous but flowing hard. As we try to maintain an upright stance against the wind gusts. Shit.
Back in the van we double back to QT and dialled in The Mataura at Brightwater. Its low and it’s clear and wind aint so bad. There are lots of fish, mostly in tail outs and we raise one or two but they are being tough. I take a pic of one poor bugger of about 5lbs trapped in a pool that has been cut off from the river as the level dropped. He is sooking. Just sitting there in a foot of water. I hunkered down and let him have a look at a couple of flies before walking up to him and stopping for a chat. The big brownie is not in a talkative mood and with a few flicks of its pectorals fins, fins away slowly so as not to see me. Poor bugger.
Speaking of buggers, The Aristocrat from last year is there. Unbelievable! Has not changed. Still not talkative. Probably upset that we have come to fish the section of water that he has owned since the 70’s.
We also meet Dale, a local poet & writer and his charming lady friend. We talk about local politics, writing and adventure. I am eyeing off the companion, thinking that when I hit 70, I want one just like her. Not bad.
Where was I? Ah yeah... The fishing. Tail outs, undercut banks and sheltered glides proved to hold fish but I could only get one fish to come up for a paradun that was rejected after some study. Tough man, bloody tough.
Up anchor and head for the Nokko. We cruised about, looking for a place to camp. We ended up in a deep culvert beside the cutting where the road heads up the hill. It was okay actually. Kit up and hit the road.
I am crossing the bridge as a car pulls up mid crossing. The guys asks if I was TJ. I can’t deny it as I have the initials on the shirt I am wearing. Yup. That’s me – I am thinking who is this dude? Do I owe him money? Should I poke him in thr eye with my rod tip? Hang on; It’s Boris from the forum! Cool!
We chat for a half hour on the bridge, watching big browns drifting back under us. Boris is leaving, has been fishing the area for some time is flying out the next day. Was good to catch up with him but we have fishing to do. Up anchor and head for the Nokko. We cruised about, looking for a place to camp. We ended up in a deep culvert beside the cutting where the road heads up the hill. It was okay actually. Kit up and hit the road.
I am crossing the bridge as a car pulls up mid crossing. The guys asks if I was TJ. I can’t deny it as I have the initials on the shirt I am wearing. Yup. That’s me – I am thinking who is this dude? Do I owe him money? Should I poke him in thr eye with my rod tip? Hang on; It’s Boris from the forum! Cool!
Downstream there are a few risers. they are small but we get into them. I land three or four of these small ones on dries but the bigger fish are eluding us this evening. The evening is cool but calm. The water flows unruffled by the hurricanes we encountered earlier. It’s so good being on the water that we stay until it’s black.
Dinner and discussion. The Gorge might be a goer if the wind stays down. We do the wine thing as usual. It’s a Solacks Merlot 2005 or 8. My notes are blurred. It’s fruity and velvety deep. TJ: 4 stars. BF: 3.5 stars.
Bed at Midnight.
Day Seven – Smelly ferrets; Cromwell and the Frenzy
We rise at eight, weary. Coffee and breakfast. Sitting and sipping on hot coffee, we watch a sky of grey that is laden with threatening clumpy black clouds skimming low over the tops of the surrounding hills. It’s telling us no Gorge for you today boys.
Preferring sunny climes, we crank over the van, point it at the road to Te Arooooow. (You’ll find out soon enough) The new plan today is to look a couple spots – One a stream the other a tail race.
Park at the dam wall, at the start of the foot track. There's a few trampers around. Some old, some young. I felt sort of special slipping on the gortex waders as others were slipping into hiking boots below their shorts.
Checking out what’s below the dam wall, Tones spots a big, big fish below. Man, I feel like running now.
The track is pleasant to walk down. Here and there, I smell the stink of ferret. I ask Tony if he has tummy issues today. Apparently not. It’s really noticeable in the clean, crisp mountain air. We spot ferret traps here and there as we tred along under the birch forest canopy. There track is a soft mass of trod down forest litter. Ferns mass in the wet dales and tiny rivulets. It is a surreal other world. Mostly silent and still. Apart from the tramper we caught taking a dump on the side of the track and the other fifty or so who passed us, it’s quiet. Nary a bird call. I make a mental note to avoid stepping in freshly dug mounds.
Three foot bridges and a half hour later we find the drop in point. Its marked by a short thick hollow log sawn down the right hand side next to the sign that says ‘drop in point’. I’m kidding about the sign but the log is really there.
Entering from the sawn side, we dropped down to the river. Standing on a long gravel spit, the clear water boiled and swirled deep in front of us. It was about 2pm.
We tried wets. we tried nymphs. we even spotted a few fish on the bottom but apart from a few hits, none got hooked.
Then, at about 7pm, a smallish but rotund man stumbled along the upper bank. Boots, pants, shirt and sun hat. It was about 8 degrees and the water was dialled down to a testicle killing temperature. This was, as we could see and were soon to prove, a special individual.
Cromwell, from Washington State was a totally likeable loud bugger of a yank who loved a sledge and a good laugh. He showed us the fishing ‘pole’ he suggested he was coerced into buying at a local shop. Better still was the innovative method of rigging a tandem rig he used to catch and lose his only fish for the day. Let’s just say that dries don’t go under the tungsten beads, okay?
We chatted for a while. The banter was fast and sharp as you tried to get a word in edgewise. He was one hell of a talker and bloody great fun. The main chat was about the creatures that can kill you back you in Australia. he recited a list of dozens, expressing his amazement that we have lived for long as we have. W got good advice on divorce management that involved lonely bush plots, a bullet, a car boot and a shovel. he told us he could not share a drink with any aussies as he feared for his life and liver. Convinced we were some sort of uber piss sculling master race of alcoholics, he told us of his fear of failing the customs entry test of skulling a slab in three-point-o seconds. Then we got onto rugby. My gawd. He expressed his surprise that that we could stomp on guys, body slam them into next week, punch on until your mush was mash, break as many noses and jaws as you like, chew off the occasional ear but, God above forbid you should actually trip over another player.
We asked Cromwell about home. We learnt of killer grizzlies invading his front yard and the local wild rivers he never has time to fish. We parted company as the first rise of the evening was seen.
At about 8ish, the first lil caddis flies began to pop up off the surface. This was followed by little splashy takes on the surface. Suddenly as if it was raining golf balls, the river upstream, in front of us and downstream was being covered in these splashy rise forms. Full on frenzy of caddis gorging fish. It was an unreal thing to watch – the fish were rising everywhere.
We caught several big bows fishing nymphs on a short dropper under a dry. Every fish was taken on the last of the across and down swing, just as the current would force the nymph to swing upwards. They hit hard, too. Hooks broke and hooks got straightened.
Tony reeled his fly a few times only to discover just the eye of the hook left attached to tippet. That was weird.
In total blackness, I cast to a close in riser. I’d lost the nymph and dropper a few casts earlier on a savage take and was left with just a stimmi. I flicked it out upstream to cover the rise. I could just make out the subtle take on the surface where fly should have been and lifting the rod, came up solid. The fish went ballistic.
It rolled on the top and gave a few huge leaps before catching the current and belting off downstream. It was eventually landed and weighed in at 4lb but the fight in the current was epic.
Tony was the gun on this section. I lost count of the fish he hooked. The guy just had it all in sync. Pity about the shyzen hooks. Eventually the moon was clear of the cliffs and the clouds parted. As the moon rays hit the water the insane rise switched off.
Man that was so cool. Definitely gonna do that again.
We were back at the van by 10.40pm. Time to find a camp site. We found a good one way down the road at a place I dubbed Hanks. Good camping. Dinner and bed at 1am. Light rain pattering the roof as we drift into dreams of rampaging bows.
The track is pleasant to walk down. Here and there, I smell the stink of ferret. I ask Tony if he has tummy issues today. Apparently not. It’s really noticeable in the clean, crisp mountain air. We spot ferret traps here and there as we tred along under the birch forest canopy. There track is a soft mass of trod down forest litter. Ferns mass in the wet dales and tiny rivulets. It is a surreal other world. Mostly silent and still. Apart from the tramper we caught taking a dump on the side of the track and the other fifty or so who passed us, it’s quiet. Nary a bird call. I make a mental note to avoid stepping in freshly dug mounds.
Three foot bridges and a half hour later we find the drop in point. Its marked by a short thick hollow log sawn down the right hand side next to the sign that says ‘drop in point’. I’m kidding about the sign but the log is really there.
Entering from the sawn side, we dropped down to the river. Standing on a long gravel spit, the clear water boiled and swirled deep in front of us. It was about 2pm.
We tried wets. we tried nymphs. we even spotted a few fish on the bottom but apart from a few hits, none got hooked.
Then, at about 7pm, a smallish but rotund man stumbled along the upper bank. Boots, pants, shirt and sun hat. It was about 8 degrees and the water was dialled down to a testicle killing temperature. This was, as we could see and were soon to prove, a special individual.
Cromwell, from Washington State was a totally likeable loud bugger of a yank who loved a sledge and a good laugh. He showed us the fishing ‘pole’ he suggested he was coerced into buying at a local shop. Better still was the innovative method of rigging a tandem rig he used to catch and lose his only fish for the day. Let’s just say that dries don’t go under the tungsten beads, okay?
We chatted for a while. The banter was fast and sharp as you tried to get a word in edgewise. He was one hell of a talker and bloody great fun. The main chat was about the creatures that can kill you back you in Australia. he recited a list of dozens, expressing his amazement that we have lived for long as we have. W got good advice on divorce management that involved lonely bush plots, a bullet, a car boot and a shovel. he told us he could not share a drink with any aussies as he feared for his life and liver. Convinced we were some sort of uber piss sculling master race of alcoholics, he told us of his fear of failing the customs entry test of skulling a slab in three-point-o seconds. Then we got onto rugby. My gawd. He expressed his surprise that that we could stomp on guys, body slam them into next week, punch on until your mush was mash, break as many noses and jaws as you like, chew off the occasional ear but, God above forbid you should actually trip over another player.
We asked Cromwell about home. We learnt of killer grizzlies invading his front yard and the local wild rivers he never has time to fish. We parted company as the first rise of the evening was seen.
At about 8ish, the first lil caddis flies began to pop up off the surface. This was followed by little splashy takes on the surface. Suddenly as if it was raining golf balls, the river upstream, in front of us and downstream was being covered in these splashy rise forms. Full on frenzy of caddis gorging fish. It was an unreal thing to watch – the fish were rising everywhere.
We caught several big bows fishing nymphs on a short dropper under a dry. Every fish was taken on the last of the across and down swing, just as the current would force the nymph to swing upwards. They hit hard, too. Hooks broke and hooks got straightened.
Tony reeled his fly a few times only to discover just the eye of the hook left attached to tippet. That was weird.
In total blackness, I cast to a close in riser. I’d lost the nymph and dropper a few casts earlier on a savage take and was left with just a stimmi. I flicked it out upstream to cover the rise. I could just make out the subtle take on the surface where fly should have been and lifting the rod, came up solid. The fish went ballistic.
It rolled on the top and gave a few huge leaps before catching the current and belting off downstream. It was eventually landed and weighed in at 4lb but the fight in the current was epic.
Tony was the gun on this section. I lost count of the fish he hooked. The guy just had it all in sync. Pity about the shyzen hooks. Eventually the moon was clear of the cliffs and the clouds parted. As the moon rays hit the water the insane rise switched off.
Man that was so cool. Definitely gonna do that again.
We were back at the van by 10.40pm. Time to find a camp site. We found a good one way down the road at a place I dubbed Hanks. Good camping. Dinner and bed at 1am. Light rain pattering the roof as we drift into dreams of rampaging bows.
Day Eight – Our New Girlfriend and the Shingle Stream Cicada Crunchers at Bambi’s
It’s our second Thursday in NZ today. Time is flying by too fast. We are up at 8am and feasting on sausages and eggs.
We leave camp just before 11am. The air is chilly and dark clouds threaten. We are low on fuel and water so hit town, about 20 clicks down the road.
At the local Mobil, we meet the girl of our dreams. Sandra. She is so into her fly fishing it hurt to pay and go. Could have chatted to her for hours. Her local knowledge was enormous. She tipped us into a couple of spots to take a look at. Spot #1 at the local weir was okay but a tough and dangerous place. We sussed it out and could tell why Sandra liked to float tube it. Bloody deep and nearly impossible to cross or wade. Big water. Too big.
We looked to the map and found a likely looking access to a small stream. Driving in, we met the farmer, Grig. Or Greg, as we called him. Tony had a good feeling about this stream. He’d heard a little whisper about a couple of years ago. It did rely on good flow and honestly, driving over it at on the main road, I was a wee sceptical. But hey, an open mind a sense of adventure goes a fair way...
Greg was a bit pessimistic about our chances. Anglers who’d been through in the weeks before us had left with mixed results. One guy had killed it. Others swore it was fishless... This last bit made me shudder a bit after recalling that other promising place where aliens had abducted all the fish.
We drove through a few gates, leaving them as instructed. We noticed a lack of tyre tracks ahead of us. Good.
At the end of the track, we set up rods and headed out over the paddocks. We got to a bit of water that was not all good. Shallow, stagnant and cruddy. Confusion. This could not possibly be the same stream. We spotted a tree line further across the meadow tussocks and set off. Then we found it! A lovely, small to medium meadow stream. Clear as vodka, with a gentle flow. This would be twig water back home and I was sort of regretting not lining up the 4 weight. As it turned out, the 5 would prove to be barely adequate...
We prospected likely little runs, pool heads and tails with nymphs under dries. No fish sighted or signs seen.
As we rounded a bend, I saw the remnants of a disturbance. Had to be a surface take of sorts. The gravel and stone bottom sloped gently from nothing on the left bank for a few yards before forming a three foot deep channel. He had to be in there. It was deep enough and there was a nice strip of weed for cover. But I could not see the fish. I switched to a #12 stimmi in a not too subtle fluoro pink and lime. I covered the spot where I had seen the disturbance. I saw the fish once he reacted to the landing of the fly some 5 feet ahead of him. He shot out and neatly took the dry like he owned it. When his snout closed over the fly, my arm shot up and the hook was a set. I called it for a monster and spent the next 10 minutes or so straining against his surges, trying to will him away from his weedy hidey hole. Oh-My-Gawd, this was a serious fish. It was a long, fit and beautifully marked brown with a huge lump of a head and a mouth that could swallow a man’s fist.
Looks like cicada time!
Changing to cicada patterns we fish on with earnest. Its early afternoon and the fish become easier to spot and are much more active. We still prospect likely spots without big dries. My next is a 4lb bow that like a lime Carty’s cicada. It’s a great fish. Plenty of go in the skinny water.
Tony drops a nice brown and gets smashed by a seriously big fish that swims away with his stimmi. Now we are both using cicadas and getting our good share of bows from 2 to 4 lbs. You’d kill for twigging like this back home.
The stream had some sensational pools and we stalked quite a few fish in dead calm water under willow. They also loved the flows in some of the deeper channels and called many of the streamlined weed beds at the heads of pools home. Here and there, the stream was being fed by some deep, dark but short spring creeks. We leave camp just before 11am. The air is chilly and dark clouds threaten. We are low on fuel and water so hit town, about 20 clicks down the road.
At the local Mobil, we meet the girl of our dreams. Sandra. She is so into her fly fishing it hurt to pay and go. Could have chatted to her for hours. Her local knowledge was enormous. She tipped us into a couple of spots to take a look at. Spot #1 at the local weir was okay but a tough and dangerous place. We sussed it out and could tell why Sandra liked to float tube it. Bloody deep and nearly impossible to cross or wade. Big water. Too big.
We looked to the map and found a likely looking access to a small stream. Driving in, we met the farmer, Grig. Or Greg, as we called him. Tony had a good feeling about this stream. He’d heard a little whisper about a couple of years ago. It did rely on good flow and honestly, driving over it at on the main road, I was a wee sceptical. But hey, an open mind a sense of adventure goes a fair way...
Greg was a bit pessimistic about our chances. Anglers who’d been through in the weeks before us had left with mixed results. One guy had killed it. Others swore it was fishless... This last bit made me shudder a bit after recalling that other promising place where aliens had abducted all the fish.
We drove through a few gates, leaving them as instructed. We noticed a lack of tyre tracks ahead of us. Good.
At the end of the track, we set up rods and headed out over the paddocks. We got to a bit of water that was not all good. Shallow, stagnant and cruddy. Confusion. This could not possibly be the same stream. We spotted a tree line further across the meadow tussocks and set off. Then we found it! A lovely, small to medium meadow stream. Clear as vodka, with a gentle flow. This would be twig water back home and I was sort of regretting not lining up the 4 weight. As it turned out, the 5 would prove to be barely adequate...
We prospected likely little runs, pool heads and tails with nymphs under dries. No fish sighted or signs seen.
As we rounded a bend, I saw the remnants of a disturbance. Had to be a surface take of sorts. The gravel and stone bottom sloped gently from nothing on the left bank for a few yards before forming a three foot deep channel. He had to be in there. It was deep enough and there was a nice strip of weed for cover. But I could not see the fish. I switched to a #12 stimmi in a not too subtle fluoro pink and lime. I covered the spot where I had seen the disturbance. I saw the fish once he reacted to the landing of the fly some 5 feet ahead of him. He shot out and neatly took the dry like he owned it. When his snout closed over the fly, my arm shot up and the hook was a set. I called it for a monster and spent the next 10 minutes or so straining against his surges, trying to will him away from his weedy hidey hole. Oh-My-Gawd, this was a serious fish. It was a long, fit and beautifully marked brown with a huge lump of a head and a mouth that could swallow a man’s fist.
Looks like cicada time!
Changing to cicada patterns we fish on with earnest. Its early afternoon and the fish become easier to spot and are much more active. We still prospect likely spots without big dries. My next is a 4lb bow that like a lime Carty’s cicada. It’s a great fish. Plenty of go in the skinny water.
Tony drops a nice brown and gets smashed by a seriously big fish that swims away with his stimmi. Now we are both using cicadas and getting our good share of bows from 2 to 4 lbs. You’d kill for twigging like this back home.
The sun swung a little lower in the shy and we called it quits below the great blue-grey cliffs. It was a relatively short but sensational session on a new bit of water. Justifiably, we felt pretty good. It had paid well to think outside of the square and hunt down fresh water. Still vivid memories of the mad tail race frenzy beckoned so we headed back for another crack.
The rise was late. It was almost dark before we saw the first action. The rise was short lived and we managed a good bow each with Tony landing a huge fat brown that make him run downstream in pursuit just to be different. My bow that evening is the biggest I’ve ever caught. Chrome torpedos with a smear of rose down the flanks, rippled flesh belying their constant exercise against a strong current. Bloody awesome.
We hike out after 10pm. The walk through the forest is eerie. Strange sounds whisper around us. Scuttles though the undergrowth. Shadows play with the mottled moon light creating sinister apparitions though the bush. Vines and dead branches become the ghostly reaching hands of dark monsters. Faces appear in the tree trunks. Ferret stink becomes the dead rotten breath of the creatures from the underworld. We count down the bridges and are glad for the clearing.
Camp Hank and dinner. Been a great day. We plan tomorrow and sleep the good sleep of the physically exhausted but mentally sated.
Day Nine – The Robin: Monster Mousers and the Attack of the Killer Eels
The last full days fishing has arrived. We are keen to make the most of it. We are up at 8am and hit the road back to explore Bambi’s from where we left off the day.
Bambi’s is near a deer farm. I wanted to take a couple of pics of the deer in the paddock. This where a discovered Tony’s strange attraction to these animals. At first I thought it just because we had been living on mostly tinned food and had not had fresh meat for a while. But no, he was just commenting on their legs... “Take a look at the legs on that...” I tuned out once stocking and suspenders were mentioned and thought it may be a good thing to be returning to civilisation in the next couple of days...
It’s a fair walk and we prospect a bit of water getting there but it proves fishless. We get a bit worried. The day is bright and clear but the Nor Wester has found us today and the long leaders are woeful. In desperation and probably a fair bit of frustration, they are cut back to 12 feet and are better to manage. As it turns out, the shorter leader was no hindrance to the fishing anyway.
Things were looking a bit better when a nice bow got spooked. I was prospecting the left side of a nice run with the Carty’s. As I watched the fly track back down to me, I spotted a bow that was sitting a couple of yards up and about 45 degrees to the right. It lifted itself up wards, zoomed forwards and intercepted the cicada with a snatching take. Rod up and games commence. It’s a good fish at 4lbs and gives plenty of curry that was met with an equal amount of stick. I am fully locked up on him, trying to hold him down as not to spook another fish Tony has since spotted a bit upstream. The tippet is good and the fish is wrestled to submission.
We continued upstream only to run out of water. Just like that. The river ended. Yet, there was still a slight current in the water. The river was running under the shingles! Hopping onto a higher bit of river bank we spot an isolated pool with a high bank. It’s some 30 yards long and maybe a few wide in the middle section. And a fish is rising! Looking into the deep yet astonishingly clear water I see two fish facing into the slight current. They are in feeding mode checking out anything that drifts by. They are hungry.
Tony’s turn to have a crack. One fish spooks. The other is still there but Tony can’t see him from his position. He tries a cast but it’s wide. I am trying to explain to him where the fish is sitting when there is a rise 2 yards in front of Tony. I tell him to cast at it. He lifts the rod and finds he is snagged on a fish! The spooked fish has doubled back and hungrily snaffled Tony’s free drifting fly without us seeing! It frees itself but Tony just plops the fly down back in front of the second fish which immediately eats it. It’s a great bow and at 5lbs, a ripper. We saw another two trapped trout but these guys were onto us and panicked about the pool.
Bambi’s is near a deer farm. I wanted to take a couple of pics of the deer in the paddock. This where a discovered Tony’s strange attraction to these animals. At first I thought it just because we had been living on mostly tinned food and had not had fresh meat for a while. But no, he was just commenting on their legs... “Take a look at the legs on that...” I tuned out once stocking and suspenders were mentioned and thought it may be a good thing to be returning to civilisation in the next couple of days...
It’s a fair walk and we prospect a bit of water getting there but it proves fishless. We get a bit worried. The day is bright and clear but the Nor Wester has found us today and the long leaders are woeful. In desperation and probably a fair bit of frustration, they are cut back to 12 feet and are better to manage. As it turns out, the shorter leader was no hindrance to the fishing anyway.
Things were looking a bit better when a nice bow got spooked. I was prospecting the left side of a nice run with the Carty’s. As I watched the fly track back down to me, I spotted a bow that was sitting a couple of yards up and about 45 degrees to the right. It lifted itself up wards, zoomed forwards and intercepted the cicada with a snatching take. Rod up and games commence. It’s a good fish at 4lbs and gives plenty of curry that was met with an equal amount of stick. I am fully locked up on him, trying to hold him down as not to spook another fish Tony has since spotted a bit upstream. The tippet is good and the fish is wrestled to submission.
We continued upstream only to run out of water. Just like that. The river ended. Yet, there was still a slight current in the water. The river was running under the shingles! Hopping onto a higher bit of river bank we spot an isolated pool with a high bank. It’s some 30 yards long and maybe a few wide in the middle section. And a fish is rising! Looking into the deep yet astonishingly clear water I see two fish facing into the slight current. They are in feeding mode checking out anything that drifts by. They are hungry.
Tony’s turn to have a crack. One fish spooks. The other is still there but Tony can’t see him from his position. He tries a cast but it’s wide. I am trying to explain to him where the fish is sitting when there is a rise 2 yards in front of Tony. I tell him to cast at it. He lifts the rod and finds he is snagged on a fish! The spooked fish has doubled back and hungrily snaffled Tony’s free drifting fly without us seeing! It frees itself but Tony just plops the fly down back in front of the second fish which immediately eats it. It’s a great bow and at 5lbs, a ripper. We saw another two trapped trout but these guys were onto us and panicked about the pool.
We walked the dry riverbed but apart from a few small pools, the river that well and truly ended. It had simply gone underground.
We head back.
5pm sees us on the road, hurtling towards the mysterious Mavora lakes. We find the best camp spot of the trip at South Mavora. It’s by a sheltered bay with a mountainous backdrop. A short stretch of green grass leads to the calm, clear water. A beech canopy above completed the tranquil and peaceful aura.
Once settled, we were greeted by a curious and very friendly NZ Robin who proceeded to eat anything we would give him. He hopped around us, picking up bread and muesli bar scraps. He would alight on out outdoor furniture. He’d flitter onto our feet and pick at the sandflies on our trouser legs. He got very brave and even checked out the inside of our van, leaving a little white, wet calling card.
Once settled, we were greeted by a curious and very friendly NZ Robin who proceeded to eat anything we would give him. He hopped around us, picking up bread and muesli bar scraps. He would alight on out outdoor furniture. He’d flitter onto our feet and pick at the sandflies on our trouser legs. He got very brave and even checked out the inside of our van, leaving a little white, wet calling card.
Evening and a hatch of small caddis begins in our sheltered bay. I pick up a small brown in a #16 Klinkhamer. The occasional fish is sighted cruising and the rise is sporadic but enough to keep us interested. The Robin stalks us as we move around the shore. For a bit of fun I try a Chernobyl Ant but goes largely ignored.
Night falls and the sky is ablaze. The twilight is a wildly insane splash of crimson and deep orange – a final extravaganza of a sunset. Damn cool.
We tie on some mouse flies in the fading light. There have been reports of trout eating these around these parts and we were keen to get a fish off the surface on one these ridiculously big flies.
They proved interesting to cast even off the 6wt TCR which I’d strung up with a 7wt floater. But cast we did and as night fell so began a weird evening of spooky events.
Standing at the edge of a drop off at the point of a small headland, I was able to fan cast the mouse, blooping and blipping it back over the drop off. Splashy takes from off the lake surface somewhere in the darkness echoed back to me. A huge explosion of water a few yards to my right made me jump, shattering my Zen like state. The fish was huge and was chasing down something...
It became quiet as the full moon rose over the crest of the hill, the wind dropped and in the moonlight I could easily track the mouse fly as I stripped it back to me. Occasionally, a flicked on and off along the shore. Tony’s head lamp.
I was back in my Zen thing, eyes closed, feeling the cast, getting into the rhythm of slinging the big fly. I was enjoying the feeling of the rod loading and the cast happening almost on auto pilot. When the fly landed, it’d be stripped back as I looked down into the jade tinged water, the moonlight bright enough for me to clearly make out the shape of the underwater rocks, the clearly defined drop off...
“Arrrrgh - you rotten bastard!” My God! That was me! My scream echoed around the amphitheatre of hills. At the same time my mind had registered my scream it registered that something had bitten me on the calf of my leg. Looking down in horror, I saw a bloody enormous eel slinking away. You dirty sneaky rotten low bastard. I had waders on and since I could not feel anything wet and cold flooding in, I let out a sigh of relief that it was not a sabre tooth eel and it had not torn the gortex.
The sinister bugger would not go away. It taunted me, gliding and circling like a shark around a life raft.
Tony loves eels as it turns out. He feed one his sharkskin fly line and it loved it, chomping down and trying to take it away from Tony. I mean, who else out there has caught a massive NZ eel on a mouse fly? I like Tony’s ‘push boundary’ attitude.
I sport a surface boil and cover it. Can you polaroid in moonlight? Because I clearly saw the massive shadow under the mouse fly. It was 30 feet from me and followed for some 10 feet before smashing the mouse fly. It was savage. The huge snout broke the surface and clomped down on the poor fly. It held for a few explosive rod rattling seconds before the hook pulled and it was gone. A few moments later another huge shadow loomed up over the drop off and began to patrol. Looking for the steady stream of mouse paddling around no doubt. Then another!
Next cast saw a huge bow wave following the mouse fly and again, a Mavora shark engulfed the foam and fur creation, leaving a boil on the water and a weight in my rod hand. I struck strip strike style and hung on. It was as if I’d stepped on the detonator trigger of a kilo of sweaty simtex, the water exploded and the 12lb tippet parted from the fly. Man, I tie great knots but that was insane!
The other fish swam towards me and turned side on before disappearing back in the inky darkness of the drop off. Clearly it was a bow. Clearly it was enormous. Clearly I was freaked. Clearly I’d been done over big time. Clearly I’d be back one day.
The session ends, we go back for dinner and find our bunks some time after 1am.
Day Ten – The Leaving
D Day. Departure time. It’s ended bro. We depart at 10.30 after repacking, washing gear and boots. The Robin is back and cheekily poses for a cute photo, alighted on my freshly washed and decontaminated wading boots. Bastard. Shat in my boot. What is it with this bird? Pretends to be all cutesy and lovable then drops a crap in the worst spot.
We leave a campsite overlooking cruising and rising fish in a perfectly calm bay with a clear sky overhead. It belies the weird session of the evening just passed. Spooky weird but intriguing place.
On the road to QT it’s blowy as hell. We drive through rolling meadows and tussock low lands. Our boots are on the dashboard or the van and the heater is directed to the windscreen. It’s a good way to dry boots.
We enter Athol. Tony tells me to check out what’s on the left of me as he steps on the accelerator past Stu’s. Cruel, cruel man... but it’s probably a good call as I do have this problem with leaving tackle shops in any reasonable amount of time...
1pm and we hit QT Air Port. Van dropped off, check in, wolf down venison pies & rolls. Get some cute security gals to take a pic of us. One is ex professional photographer and takes a really good shot of us. Sunburn, bloodshot eyes and all.
Hours later, we land in Sydney, transfer to Melbourne and are home at midnight. I tiredly flick thru a few pics and crash.
We leave a campsite overlooking cruising and rising fish in a perfectly calm bay with a clear sky overhead. It belies the weird session of the evening just passed. Spooky weird but intriguing place.
On the road to QT it’s blowy as hell. We drive through rolling meadows and tussock low lands. Our boots are on the dashboard or the van and the heater is directed to the windscreen. It’s a good way to dry boots.
We enter Athol. Tony tells me to check out what’s on the left of me as he steps on the accelerator past Stu’s. Cruel, cruel man... but it’s probably a good call as I do have this problem with leaving tackle shops in any reasonable amount of time...
1pm and we hit QT Air Port. Van dropped off, check in, wolf down venison pies & rolls. Get some cute security gals to take a pic of us. One is ex professional photographer and takes a really good shot of us. Sunburn, bloodshot eyes and all.
Hours later, we land in Sydney, transfer to Melbourne and are home at midnight. I tiredly flick thru a few pics and crash.
It’s cool. The feeling of satisfaction of a great trip and the knowing that it might well happen again soon enough is comforting as I slide into a smiling, relaxed deep unconsciousness free of flesh eating eels.
© Peter Emilan 2010
© Peter Emilan 2010
Another nice trip there Guy's
ReplyDeletegood stuff TJ
ReplyDeleteDave.