Fish stories

The other big quest of the trip was fishing. On the day we set out to walk the Rotburn track, we crossed a beautiful azure blue river. We took time to study the waters and spy for fish. Down stream about 20 meters in a swift water section. Christy spotted a brown object in the water. Upon pointing it out to me, I though Christy has just spotted a submerged log of about 1.5 to 2 feet in length. I mean come on that cannot be a fish, but as we looked at it it was moving side to side about 6 to 12 inches. It definately was a fish in a feed zone. Yikes was it big. Wow we though to ourselves, when we start the fishing expedition side of this trip it is going to be incredible.

Back in Glenorchy after tramping the Rotburn track, we tried various local streams. But the rain we had experienced on our third night was part of a large front moving through the area. Nearly all side streams were now nearly spilling over their banks - not a very good condition for optimal fly fishing. We found ourselves only catching few small fry at the mouths of the now silty streams spilling into the lake. The renowned rivers where you can "walk accross on the backs of fish" was not turning out to be. A full day was spent hiking a major sidestream with no luck in spotting any fish, let alone getting something to bite.

In hopes that letting the rivers have some time to drop to more workable levels, we decide to kill two days doing boat tours of Milford and Doubtful sound in Fjordland National Park. (A post on that spectacular scenery will be forthcoming, but lets get back to the fish story...). Regrettably, the wait of two more days turned out to be mistake. In the lodge at Milford sound we experienced a repeat downpour similar in intensity to the heyburn hut deluge. Swollen rivers remained everywhere. Then the next night down at Manipuri where the boat launch to Doubtful Sound occurs, another furious downpour. Fishing the local waters remained unproductive with waterways now significantly overflowing their banks. We decided to make it further down south in a pilgrimage to the fishing holy town of Gore.

To the fish affectionados among you, you know the power of that word: Gore. A town in agrarian belt of Otago that is famous for its boast: "The Brown Trout Capitol of the World." A place where monster browns are caught on imitation mouse flies. Yes, you hear me right, a mouse. You sling this monster hackel of deer hair aroung your head and fling it out into the water. A fast retrieve supposedly looks like a swimming mouse and the monster browns then just eat them up. (Oh yea, right. I suppose the next thing you will tell me is the biggest of the browns eat a newborn lamb!!!! ....The don't? do they????)

But the rumors you hear support the fact that these fish eat mice. One tackle shop owner proudly shows a picture of a gutted 10 lb monster with the gooey husks of 8 mice alleged to have been recovered from its belly. Another angler claimed to have caught a 17 lb monster with a mouse, in broad daylight! .....hum, maybe. .....maybe not.

Well regardless of the fish stories, once in Gore the situation was not good. Local information supported this observation, as well as the obvious visual inspection of the now overflowing river banks indicated one thing: Fishing Sucks!

At this point to alleviate our frustrations we decided to bail on fishing and check out the Catlin coast. It was obviously a pretty area, and would have been more attractive if only it would stop raining. The next day we made our way up through Dunedin for a stop at Speights Brewery, the major brew for NZ, in an attempt to drown our sorrows. After a relaxing beer, we ventured outside to find local eatery. Being Sunday, almost nothing was open. At first the unseasonable cold was tolerable (40-45 deg Fareinheit), but then the sky opened up again and started pelting water sideways. Tempers started to flare, possibly from fishlessness frustration syndrome. A disorganized retreat to the car commenced. Food was needed. After a bit of driving, solace was found in a rather expensive but delicious eatery. With the decision to pretty much give up on fishing at this point, we decided to check out where all this rain was coming from. It was time for a drive up to the west coast.
Into a land of impressive glaciers that come down quite away towards the sea. Their origins far back in the high mountains. We got lucky, the forecast had finally turned for the better. Fair weather on the west coast for the next three days was predicted (i.e. no more that freakin rain).
Driving up towards the pass and now entering a dazzling sun-light valley. A tasty river beckoned Christy to give it one last try. Desperate to give it one more go, whereas I had pretty much given up, chocking up our failure to produce glorious fishing as a victim of false urban legends, or freak weather that had dropped a record breaking 30 cm of rain in one week. But Christy remained a devout believer. She was not willing to turn her back on all that she knew. All that she had read. All she had been taught.

You see, Christy has spent many nights leading up to this trip doing astute fishing research. She had sussed out all the legendary rivers (now tried, failed, and kaput). She had order regional specific flies. (a good quarter now gone in the bushes, brambles and waters). She had dialoged with the pros. She was determined to catch some fish.

With awe at her determination but both completely skeptical, we pulled aside the road at what look like a good fishing hole. Waters were still high though and her attempts were again proving futile, then fortunes of fortunes smiled upon us.

Now I bet you are thinking that she hooked the big one?

Au Contrare' Fishing still sucked; never caught a fish at that hole.

Instead, we got busted by fish and game. Well not busted exactly, but a fish and game guy came down the bank wanting to see our fishing licence. Since I was the keeper of the Family Fishing Licence card which was in my fishing jacket back at the car, we decided to quit and head back to the car. The Kiwi turned out to be quite the affable fellow. Especially upon producing a valid fishing license, he proceed to give us the low down on where the best fishing spots would be on the west coast. With sandflies swarming his naked legs (man must have nerves of steal), he wrote down specific directions on how to get to one lake and 4 streams, all spring fed and legendary for lunkers.
Well we searched far and wide. No stone was left unturned. We were on the hunt for the big browns.

It was in our second day on the west coast when things finally changed. Fishing had still been unproductive up to this point. We were increasingly feeling like the target of a cruel NZ form of elaborate practical joke. But on that first day, post fish-n-game guy meeting, we did finally make good sightings of fish in the river. It was the first spring fed stream the guy had mentioned. Walking onto a bridge twenty feet off the water, I saw a large fish (3-4 lbs?) in a nice feed zone below a sandbank. As I slowly crept closer on the bridge, the fish saw me from about 50 ft away and ran. This was repeated that first day, lunkers spied only after being scared from far away. These brown criters are way more skittish than the moron brokies and bows we have back home. These browns are so easy to startle.

The day of redemption on the second day started a little shakely. Cloudyness was building in the mountains again. The development of rain was obviously in the air.
But out on the western plains the weather was remaining fair. And then we came upon Nirvana. Paradise found. The Harihari River.

In a very bucolic setting surrounded by dairy cows and sheep. We drove up to the target, a spring fed creek, the Harihari runs absolutely clear. Hoards of alga biota on the banks and bottom. This river looked promising.

Christy was the first to attempt at a 100 meter stretch. Alexi's new found passon is throwng rocks into rivers. Not exactly a good for one's fishing technique. So me and Mr Fish Spooker took a walk down the road. Returning about a half hour later, I found Christy in a exited but slightly agitated state. Dozens of monsters had been sighted but she had yet to make a presentation without spooking them. We discussed her technique as I traded gear and handed over Mr Fish Spooker. I became convinced that she was not being stealthy enough.

On my river stretch, I avoided stream entry and crouched low. I kept of about 10 feet from the bank. Up river I spied good feed zone. And Icould approach out of view and hide behind a nice tuft of grass. A very careful and light presentation of a #16 parachute Adams was made 15 feet upstream, just above the sweet spot. Drifting down about 4 feet the feed zone the fish spied the fly. And wow was he big. I held my breath as he slowly rose towards my fly. Lazily he opened his huge mouth and sipped at the surface where my fly was. A swift but not to strong yank and I had him on line. He (or perhaps she, for sex of trout is only obvious to me in the fall as the males front teeth morph into fangs for the impending spawn), he/she dropped back to the bottom.

Strange, not much fight there???

I started to try to pull him to the surface and thats when he erupted. A strong surge upsteam felt like it would break the line if I did not give him some. I then realized we got game.

I screamed up to Christy,

"Fish-On."

Hurriedly she she came bounding back with Alexi in one arm, camera in the other.

Meanwile, my fish had turned and was comming back at me. I stripped back line as fast as I could, to keep the tension on. Then he ran past me and down stream. I had to give him even more line for this run. By the time I got him back he was starting to show signs of being tired. Then in one more thrilling surge, he jumped clear, twisting out of the water, one foot into the air. Christy arrived as I was coaching him in, and she started to snap away at the pictures.

This one shows my small hand in there for reference.


A quick hold up for the shot before returning him back to the water.
And these were just average to small size for this stream of about 100-200 cfs. I landed another that day and hooked a few more.

Christy took a turn an landed one of similar size which I caught on video (I am having trouble associating the movie of her catch here, so I will try it as a separate posting). A little latter, Christy hooked possibly the biggest one of the day. I estimate twice the size of the fish shown above. Christy had a good long fight, but before it could be banked it gave a good tug that appeared to cut the line. I say cut, because these critters have teeth. The little fish back in the states have sandpaper for teeth, but these brown monsters have fangs the size of small rose bush thorns. The locals do not fish with anything smaller than #5 line And they were making clean cuts on our #5.

An explanation for a strange phenomenon of only large fish occurred as we walked back for the day. I was perplexed at the lack of sightings of smaller fish (15 inch or less). Why is it that there are no small smaller fish and only big fish? I know they are ruthless carnivores but come on, cannibalizing a 14-15 inch family member? ....unlikely.

Starring back in the water where we had just fished, the answer to this riddle came. I was startled by sudden movement 20 meters out at 3 o'clock. Flying off a nearby fencepost pole was a rather large and healthy looking osprey. Lazily but quickly the bird gained altitude as he few away, his strong talons hanging from brilliant white-plume legs and underbelly.