New Zealand (vol. 3): Boat Ride to Paradise

3 - 7 November 2015

I stood on the shore of a large lake, waiting for my boat ferry, on the threshold of making my first solo multi-day camping and fishing trip into the backcountry. I remember a feeling of trepidation at the time. What if something went wrong, like an injury, in the middle of nowhere? Looking back, I was probably a bit gung-ho about it. I didn't carry an emergency positioning beacon. I didn't even have a mobile phone (not that there would have been signal). What if something had happened? But fortune favours the brave.

Moments before I'd faced a choice. I could walk almost 20 km with a full pack along the lake shore to where the river I wanted to fish entered the lake, or I could pay for a lift in a speedboat. I paid three figures in local currency for the boat ride. I was the only passenger. After a fast but bumpy ride in the early afternoon I waved goodbye to the helmsman having agreed to meet again at noon in four days time. I stood on the jetty and watched the boat open up and speed away. Eventually the sound of the boat engine died away and I recall a tremendously eerie silence.

The track followed the river for a short section. From a bridge spanning a high gorge, I saw a very large trout in the most remarkably blue water below. It was completely safe from fly fishermen in its steep sided home. I left the river behind and followed the track into the cool shade of the beech forest where the path began to ascend. I distinctly remember a lung-busting hike over a ridge. I was grateful when I reached the summit and commenced the winding descent. When the path eventually emerged from the trees and rejoined the river it was the evening, some three hours after I left the boat. Long shadows were cast over the river. I scanned the water and couldn't believe my eyes when I spotted the dark shape of a trout no more than two metres away from me. I slowly eased back into the cover of the trees and with some excitement rigged up my rod. I can't recall whether I tied on a dry fly or a nymph but I like to think it was a dry fly. The brown trout took the fly and I released it after an animated fight. I was thrilled! What a magnificent way to start a trip.

I walked upriver until I found a secluded clearing to pitch my tent for the night. I hadn't seen anyone else on the trail all afternoon. I was tired and after eating, locked myself away in my tent, a sanctuary from the incessant sandflies. I had packed a fully charged kindle and I read a few pages of a Conn Iggulden novel about the Wars of the Roses. It wasn't long before I fell asleep under a cold, clear sky.

I woke early, collected water from the river for my coffee and oats, and boiled it in a pot on my little camping stove. I find it hard to start a day without coffee. Virtually every inch of my body was covered by clothing, including my face and neck by a buff, but the sandflies still found a way to bite the only exposed skin of my fingertips. 

There was a brilliant early morning sunlight. It would help to spot fish as long as I could keep the sun in front of me and not behind. I packed up, loaded my backpack on to my shoulders, and began to walk upriver scouring the water for fish. I didn't have to look for very long.

I approached a promising pool and in the shallow tail water was a gargantuan fish, as clear as day in the bright morning sunshine. I set down my backpack and watched the trout for a while. My nervous anticipation increased when it moved gracefully to its side to feed. The moment to perform was now and there would be little margin for error. It was a tricky cast to make, because there was fast tail water between me and the fish, and two competing side channel currents. I knew that drag would be a significant issue to overcome, but somehow I did it, and nailed the cast. The fish put up an enormous scrap and I thought my tippet would part at any moment. When it came to my net it revealed brilliant shades of turquoise and teal to match the water it was living in. I have never seen another brown trout quite like it. I'd say this colourful trout weighed somewhere around 8 lbs.

I continued to walk upriver, constantly scanning the water for trout. The countryside was gorgeous. I still hadn't seen a single soul. I was completely lost in the isolation and overjoyed by the sheer sense of unbridled liberation.

I spotted a ghostly fish in the water and remember being pleased that I had managed to spot such a light, spectral creature in the pale blue water. It turned out to be a torpedo shaped rainbow trout!

I found a perfect place to camp that night, on a flat area of soft grass next to the river. I watched the mountaintops in the distance turn a soft red in the sunset and, deeply contented, enjoyed falling asleep to the comforting sound of the river. 

I decided to leave my tent and backpack behind on my final full day of fishing. I would cover more ground in the day without them, and it would be easier to walk out from this position the following day to meet my collection deadline in time. 

I encountered several hikers (or trampers as they are known locally) coming down the track that day. They were all friendly and said hello in amicable Kiwi fashion. The gradient of the valley became steeper and the current more swift, broken by large boulders midstream. I recall seeing fewer fish this day. I lost a good trout but found another in a deep pocket behind a boulder. I drifted several nymphs past the fish without any joy. Eventually, I found the correct fly in my box, a heavy tungsten nymph, which must have descended to the correct feeding level, because the fish seized it and I managed to hold on to this one.

  

That was as good a note as any to call time on this bountiful river. I would explore no further upstream, even though the gradient had seemed to flatten out and there was likely mile upon mile of pristine fishing water ahead. I felt incomparably uplifted and made my way back down the valley to base camp with a spring in my step. When I reached my tent, I cooked a meal on my stove and then watched the water as I ate. It was probably a meal of spicy flavoured tuna with two-minute noodles, and a piece of dark chocolate for dessert. I don't particularly enjoy dark chocolate, but it isn't as prone to melting in the sun as regular milk chocolate. Whilst I ate, I spotted a fish rising on the opposite bank of the pool just upstream. I caught him, but felt a little sorry for him. He looked an old warrior with bedraggled, unkempt fins. His head size an indication of the weight he must have once carried but now disproportionate to the rest of his skinny body. 

I fell asleep in this quiet valley for the final time, I suspect in a state as close I've ever come to a spiritual fishing nirvana. I woke up in the morning to mountaintops covered by grey cloud and a cool, persistent breeze in the air. I was leaving at the just the right time. I hiked out that morning to meet my arranged boat. Of course I had to crest the steep ridge on the way to the lake but my pack was lighter and I don't recall it being as difficult as the hike in had been. I do remember having to increase my pace near the end to ensure I arrived on time and I reached the lake shore, breathing hard, just as the speed boat was mooring to the jetty. 

I looked back from the boat with a little regret to be leaving behind such a peaceful and untouched river valley but at the same time, I was tired, wanted a proper meal and in even more desperate need of a hot shower. Up until then, I had no idea if I would enjoy a solo trip. I'm sure many people would prefer the company of others to their own, but I enjoyed the solitude. A spray of water hit my face, but I didn't mind. It was cool and refreshing. Above all, I felt a deep sense of accomplishment and personal discovery. 

Next: (Vol. 4): The Big Fish River

Previous: (Vol. 2): West Coast Redemption