Story by Mike Sayle
The fishing has improved with a bang, thanks mainly I suspect to several days of good hard rain spaced out over a week and a distinct drop in temperature. The days are still warm and comfortable, but the evenings have lost their sticky, humid quality and it's getting dark noticeably sooner.
I've taken to revisiting a pool on the upper-middle reaches of the Waitahanui River that goes by the name of "The Swirl" or "The Washing Machine", depending on the age of the person you are talking to.
An interesting pool, it comprises of an elbow in a fast section of the river, with a larger clock-wise back eddy on the outside apex.
The interest here lies in the fact that trout often line up in the deep part of the eddy, right where it rejoins the river at the head of the pool. It's a little odd to see the trout at right angles so close to the main flow, but line up they do.
Due to close hemming by a huge flax bush at the head of the pool, and the usual tall and hungry scrub on the far side of the narrow river, casting to the back of the eddy so that the flies drift into the waiting trout can be something of a trial.
The pool is quite deep, six or more feet where the trout like to hang, making a long leader and heavy nymphs a must, all of this adding to the difficulty of roll casting.
After some trial and error, I discovered a gap in the undergrowth big enough to allow a fairly brutal steeple cast in the right direction. This entails making the back cast pitch up as sharply as possible to clear the line hungry trees behind, then shooting the line forward before it has a chance to fall. The benefit here is better distance than a roll cast.
Once I had this sort of under control, I took quite a fancy to the pool, mainly because I could see what I was fishing for. Casting blind for hours or days at a time is no big deal, it's stock-in-trade for most nymph fishermen, but there is quite a thrill, watching the fly sink to the bottom and scud its way toward the waiting gray torpedo shapes, resting inches from the bottom, motionless except for the slow sculling of their fan-like tails.
This is the time when you watch your marker like a hawk, gathering in line as it drifts obliquely toward you, your whole body tensed for the least hesitation or dipping, your gaze flicking from it to the almost still gray shapes that flicker and swell as the current roils above them.
Rarely will the trout lunge on the approaching nymphs. The first clue you have is the sudden pause in the casual drift of your marker, often followed by an almost sly submergence. A brisk but measured tug on the line with your left hand, accompanied by an upward twitch of the rod and a distinct resistance is felt, very much like the snagging of a rock. Now things happen rather more quickly. In the space of about two seconds the line has come alive, making the rod kick and shudder. On the bottom one of the gray shapes is flashing silver, with winks of red or pink from its side stripe, a sort of frantic hula motion as it shakes its head and rolls over to rid itself of this sudden sting.
From here, it's only a second more before the trout bolts away with an impressive burst of speed, a sudden puff of sand in place of tire smoke.
The line you had gathered is now stripped off and you marvel at the speed and power, instinctively sure that this time you have hooked a good one.
Then the reel joins in with that most intoxicating of all sounds, buzzing loudly as more line is pulled off and you palm the edge the reel carefully to slow the mad rush. Now the game is truly afoot, careful pressure makes the trout unwillingly edge toward you, another rush pulls all the line you gained back out again. A long slow bottom hugging circling is suddenly transformed into a series of strong shudders and with a splash, a perfect silver shape bursts a yard clear of the surface and you marvel at the size of it. These leaps are always a moment of high anxiety, the sudden tightening of the line has pulled loose many, many hooks. So you salute the leap with a promptly lowered rod and a foot of paid out line.
The trout lands with another splash and rushes away again.
If the hook holds, and you manage to cede with the river gods to keep the trout from wrapping your line around some forgotten sunken branch, sooner or later you see the gray shape angling towards you, other trout still free moving aside as it slides past and you compare the relative sizes, excited to see yours is one of the biggest, horrified all the more at the thought that any second you could feel the sickening slackness in the line as the hook pulls free.
Now it's at your feet, laying on its side in a foot of water, mouth gasping, the tiny nymph firmly planted in the corner of its jaw, the taut monofilament leader, spiderweb fine. The air tastes clean and you realise you are shaking slightly, a twitch in the hands and a quickness of breath. Seven pounds even, my biggest to date. The day all this becomes common place to me is the day I find something else to do.
Finally got my extended trip up the Tauranga-Taupo River. The Boss dropped me off at the top car park at 1 pm and away I headed.
The walk to Rangers Pool only takes about an hour or so now that I know where the hell I'm going, flat all the way to boot. It was a nice day, sunny but not too hot and it was easy to swing along feeling good about things in general. My pack was stuffed with all manner of things, tent, sleeping bag, mattress...
Saw a guided party half way up to Rangers. The guide was sitting crosslegged on a high bank in the shade of some scrub directing the casting efforts of his punter in the river. The punter was quite the caster, his line rolling out long and straight, rod swishing confidently.
I gave them a wide berth, judging from the guide's comments it was a single fish in park mode on the bottom. I didn’t fancy the punter’s chances, but who's to say?
The next fish were, predictably, at Ladies Reach, a quite big gray shape hanging on the edge of the pool, where the gravel tips downward to a deep pool. There are often fish here, just visible as vague shapes in the deepening water.
From there it was only a short walk to Rangers Pool and the marker for the upper winter fishing limit, effective only 10 weeks from now.
The track runs out here, from now on it's splishsplash up the river and in I go, sneaking slowly up the left hand side, right past where I camped the first time I came up here.
The bottom of the river is a picturesque golden spread of gravel under about a foot or so of water here, so the long splash of gray over turned stones when spawning fish had been hard at work was blinding obvious.
Just a few yards upstream from the shallow gray hole was another, this time with a pair of nice sized trout milling about over it.
I stood and watched them for a few minutes, waiting for the gatecrashers to arrive. Usually, a breeding pair are constantly being interrupted by one to seven or eight hopeful males who try their best to steal the lady trout's affections away. This usually results in the fishy equivalent of a pub fight, with much chasing, splashing and, no doubt, swearing.
A loud splash on the surface ten yards further up caught my attention, I moved slowly up to investigate, and sure enough, another gray streak of gravel, this time with a brawl in full swing over it. Perfect!
With no little relief I dumped my pack on the bank and assembled my rod, choosing a lightly weighted Hare and Copper for weight, this towing a small orange Globug the size of a dried pea. Soon I was sneaking towards the fight, angling up from behind on their stern quarter, trailing line out behind me so I could make that all important first presentation without false casting.
I launch the line forward, far too far to the left of the group and watch the nymphs drift past at least a yard or more shy of the sweet spot. Oh well. Stand and let the line slowly pull up taut behind me, all the time watching the swirling group of fish in front of me. There are a couple of good sized ones in the bunch, the rest are legal but not by much, with the exception of a handspan sized hopeful who very sensibly hangs well to the rear.
Cast again and this time it's on the money, I can just see the fleck of orange that is the Globug drifting right through the middle of them.
Nothing. I'm spacing out my casts, a couple of minutes at least between each, partly to try and not scare them, partly because the show is worth watching.
Four or five casts later, just when I thought my nymphs were to go unmolested once again, the marker hesitates then dissappears. I'm rewarded with the sight of a sudden silver flashing as a trout right at the back of the pack lashes its head side to side, then tears off downstream.
The river is wide, shallow and snag free here, a foot or so deep at most. The fish is still pulling madly and I wonder what size it could be, it feels like good one. A leap clear of the surface and I see it's not huge.
More splashing and zooming, eventually I reel it in and beach it some seventy or eighty yards downstream, a fine jack of four and half pounds.
Reshouldering my pack, I trudged on up stream, passing more spawning holes, all deserted except for a solitary hen who still rolled over on her side to tail away stones.
The next reach was equally sparsely populated, just two single fish in park mode some fifty yards apart. Time was pressing, I didnt bother casting at them.
The next reach up had a pair hovering over a small dig, as I moved up slowly they both swam off ahead of me and veered over to a tall bank in deeper water. Trudging up the river after them, I saw first one, then three, then a whole shoal of trout, twenty or more gray shapes resting in the lee of the bank. This was too good to pass up!
There was nowhere dry close by to off load my pack, I kept it on as I juggled for position.
Most of the shoal were still in the water, a couple or three at the back were circling and weaving slowly, first toward me, then back to the pack again. This was heartening, they wouldnt be doing that if they were wary of me.
A long false cast to gain distance, one more to make sure all the kinks were out of the line and properly under control, then lay it as far ahead of the pack as I could and wait as it drifted back toward me.
The water was nearly mirror flat here, not ideal really, but there was a tiny breeze riffle on the surface that would have to serve to hide the line.
The moment of truth, the marker was passing over the edge of the shoal, flickering slightly as the nymphs bumped busily along the bottom, picine eyes swiveling in their direction, deciding if they were food or not.
They drifted through and past the shoal unmolested. I think it is the hope of every fisherman to catch a one cast fish, certainly it is one of mine.
Only once have I hooked a fish in one cast, a hiding Hinemaiai fish in a swift gutter between pools, lost a minute later when it bolted under a fallen tree.
Gather in the line, cast for distance and once more lay the line out. This time the marker pauses half way through the pack, then winks out. Tug on the line, a plump body flashes silver and line is zipping through my fingers as the other trout scatter like leaves in a strong breeze.
Denied! A few seconds later the line goes limp and that is that.
I gather in the line in the forlorn chance that the trout as just changed direction, but I'm kidding no-one but myself.
The shoal swirls and resettles under the bank, now noticably more bunched up and I cast through them a couple of more times on the off chance, but to no avail.
If I had the time, I'd sit on the bank away from them and give them half an hour to get over their fright, but it's mid-going-on-late afternoon and I have to keep moving.
A short time later I reach the furthest point up river I have yet been, stop to inspect the rocky outcrops and pools, then push across the river and on upstream.
The opposing hillsides are much steeper here, almost vertical scrub covered banks and bluffs of solid stone. The river is getting narrower but still flowing slowly, long stretches of perfect mirror that ripple and wave as I wade in now waist deep water. Occasionally a trout splashes under an over hanging branch or bush and I toy with the idea of floating a dry fly, but I haven't got the time.
Can’t wade anymore, the river is too deep and there is no beach, time to climb out of the water and start bush bashing.
An uncomfortable two hours later I climb down the bank again to a tiny gravel beach, glad to be out of the bush, I swear my feet steam gently as I gratefully plunge them into the river, the blood from numerous rakes on my shins washing away. It's gone 5 pm now, time to set up camp and fish the inviting pools above and below the tiny beach. I'm in a gap in the gorge, a short break in the otherwise vertical rock walls. The bank I have just scrambled down is not quite vertical and I have had to swing from bushes and the like to make it down. I'm not looking forward to climbing back up tomorrow.
Dark finds me fishless in the tent, my meal of rice and simmer sausage in curry sauce brewing fragrantly on the tiny stove. This one of my favorite times of the day, a time to reflect on the day's events and plan for tomorrow. I had hoped to find a track to take me above the gorge, but this hasn't happened, guess it'll just have to wait for another day, tomorrow is for returning down stream and setting up camp not too far from the main track to ease my return the day after that.
Dinner consumed with much enjoyment, I climb into my sleeping bag and make a final check that the bug screens are firmly zipped up before blowing out the candle and letting the darkness claim me. My favorite bird, the Morepork is calling not far away as the river whispers below me.
Sun up and I'm packing my stuff back into my back pack. It's a neat trick really, everything you need for a few days away from civilisation jammed into one handy container that fits neatly if weightily on your back, food, clothing, tent, the lot.
Once again I eye the bank I climbed down the day before and wonder if there is another way to do this, I even make a quick search for a couple of good sized logs I could lash together to make a raft to carry my pack high and dryish, me swimming behind to guide it along. The actual distance I have to cover to where I took to the bush yesterday can’t be more than half a kilometer by river, no real rapids to speak of, just an easy if slighty chilly drift downstream.
Sadly, no real prospects present themselves. It's going to have to be the hard way.
Two and a half hours later I am right back were I was yesterday when I climbed out of the river, and once again my poor shins are raked and bleeding. I knew there was a reason I never took up hunting.
It wasn't a complete waste though, at several points I could look straight down into the river from high bluffs and ogle the huge trout I could see in the pools below. One in particular must have been nearer to 15 lbs. than 10 and utterly fearless as I impotently dropped bits of twig on it from atop a 50 foot vertical rock wall. I toyed idly with a new style of fishing, a combination of rock abseiling and fly fishing, your valiant fisher dangling like a spider as he casts.
I guess it has already been done. Besides, a stealthy approach in a canoe would be much easier.
Fish my way downstream and eventually set up camp near a ruined hut about a kilometer above Rangers Pool. Who ever built it had an eye for a site, the river straight and deep in front, the bush open and uncluttered behind.
Wonder why it fell into such disrepair? There are trees growing through the roof now, the iron slumped in and the floor boards returned to the earth, just a few joists remaining.
I stood next to it for a few minutes, listening to echoes of the people who had once added life to it, wondered at the fish they must have caught.
It felt good to pick my way downstream without my pack. The day was hot and bright as I cast to fish I could see and undoubtedly to ones I couldnt.
Something gave my line a solid jolt down deep under a bank, but it didn’t connect and I fished on. At one point the river split into two flows, one large and bouncing, the other compact and picturesque as it ran at the foot of a rock face, no more than four or five feet wide by a foot deep. Half way along its length is a boulder that sits right in the middle of the flow, the rush of water on either side of it no more than a foot or so wide.
I had never seen any fish in it, and the glance I gave it was no more than cursory as I walked on. What brought me to a halt was a sudden flick of movement right behind the rock, an unseen shape that darted the width of the pool and dragged down the surface of the water above it as it went. I stand and watch and in no time a second shape can be clearly seen undulating in the current. A very long cast below all this was a stand of willows right where the side stream rejoined the main river, which I now crept towards.
Around the willows and up the side creek I slowly made my way back towards the rock and its residents. I could see splashing from at least four different fish, and I was willing to bet there were at least a couple more I hadn't seen yet.
The fist sized boulders of the bank were unmerciful on my knees as I crawled painfully toward the splashing, until I was between the willows and the rock. Here I sat down and watched events unfold. There were at least six fish up there, as well as one that eyed me while hugging a rock only yards from where I was sitting. One was only inches from the bank, everytime it moved I could see dorsal and tail fins above water, the rest were zooming and splashing without a care in the world. I paid my line out into the current and let it drift down until I had the right amount out, then still sitting crosslegged, cast the whole lot up stream into the middle of the group and started to retrieve, imagining the lightly weighted hare and copper towing the tiny glo-bug through their midst. Nothing. I let the line drift past me and down, paying it out as it went, then waited. It felt like a long time, forever, at least two minutes before I cast again, a badly aimed cast that mostly landed on dry land. This I flicked back down stream and waited again, then cast.
Again nothing.
The fourth time the line landed on the far side of the stream, the nymphs touching down squarely next to the rock, perfect! A careful retrieve, a held breath and sure enough, the marker suddenly stopped. A firm tweak on the line and something splashed furiously as my rod nodded then bent over.
Standing up, I could see a flashing of silver flanks among the other fish then a sudden slackness in the line as a gray shape sped toward me. I pulled line in a yard at a time to try and get pressure back on the fish, although I needn’t have worried as the gray shape suddenly reversed course and motored back the way it had just come, taking the line I had just pulled in back with it.
Eventually I got the fish under control, the long dashes became short dashes that in turn became a dogged resistance as the fish hung next to a notch in the far bank. A reel turn at a time I pulled the fish toward me, until my marker was half a hand span from the rod tip. It was a good sized fish, the red stripe on its side broad and vivid as its huge fan-shaped tail worked to keep as much distance as it could between it and me.
Now the bend was going out of my rod as the fish tired and I unshipped my new landing net and dipped it into the water as I tried to manoeuvre the fish over it.
Hmm, problem, the fish was much longer than the mouth of the net as I tried to scoop it up the first time, the solid bar of the fish's body bounced off the net hoop and back into the river, dashing away with a short lived burst of energy. I could see now that it had taken the hare and copper, the orange glo-bug trailing at its side as it swam. When I tried to scoop it up the first time, the glo-bug had become entangled in the net mesh, then when the trout escaped it had broken off with a heart stopping twang.
Second time lucky and a fine hump shouldered jack of six pounds lay gasping in the net. I carefully removed the hare and copper that was firmly nailed into the corner of his mouth and took a moment to admire the fish before me. He had a huge head in front of his humped and bulky shoulders, the end of his toothy jaw culminating in a wicked hook, a wild trout in perfect health and a credit to the river into which I carefully returned him. He hung in my hands for awhile, his platelike gills working and tail barely moving as he recovered his strength, I admiring the way the black spots sprinkled the steely gray green of his back. Then with a flip of his tail he slid out of my hands and away back in the direction from which he came. I hoped he would find a like-minded lady friend this year, our rivers could only be improved by his genes.
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