New Zealand (vol. 4): The Big Fish River

9 - 11 November 2015

During the 2014/2015 fishing season there was one river in the South Island which had something of a mythical status amongst those in the know. It was a jealously guarded secret. There had been a localised "mouse year" and the trout in this particular river had grown very large feeding on them. I later came to learn that some anglers had caught multiple double-figure brown trout, some well into the teens, from this river. I was let in on the secret right at the end of my stay and managed, after some toil it must be said, to land a double-figure trophy. When I returned to New Zealand for the 2015/2016 season, I was keen to visit this river again and see if it had changed through the passage of a winter. I wanted to explore a little further upstream this time, and I planned a three night camping trip. The weather outlook wasn't promising, but I took a gamble. 

I parked my car just off the main road at around noon. I felt alive with the sense of liberation and intrepid anticipation that comes before a trip such as this. After a walk of several hours, covering 9 km of familiar ground, I came to the upper limit of the fishing on my previous visit, a point roughly where a hut is sited. I had been told by a contact very familiar with this river to ignore the next 5 km of open, braided water as it was largely hit and miss. My plan was therefore to walk a total of 15 km in the afternoon, find a place to camp for the night, wake up early and refreshed, and have miles of rich pickings ahead of me.

Just past the hut the track is elevated for a short section and it offered a good vantage point from which to look into the river below. I kept my eyes on the river as I walked, and I paused when I thought I saw a fish in a narrow pinch point of fast water and scattered boulders. I peered into the clear water and confirmed my suspicions. A large trout lay suspended in the water behind a boulder. I watched the fish for a while, working out the best line of attack, and as I looked on it moved occasionally to intercept aquatic morsels. Game on. My adrenaline spiked and I felt a sense of nervous excitement, because this was evidently a trout of considerable proportions. I retraced my steps a little way, set my backpack down next to the path, and scrambled down a ravine on my backside, emerging on the rocky riverbank. My plan, as always, was to sneak into a casting position downstream of the fish. I panicked initially when I couldn't spot the fish. It was harder to see into the fast flowing water from the level of the river. My heart sank when I concluded that the fish had seen me and spooked as I emerged from the trees. I was on the verge of giving up and climbing back up the slope when I spotted the trout again. I had been looking at the wrong set of rocks!

With the fish located, I knelt down and pieced my rod together. I tied on a nymph below an indicator and walked into the cold water, almost up to my waist. I wanted to get as close to being directly downstream of the trout, to try and combat the swirling, competing currents which coursed between the rocks. The trout didn't take my offered fly on the first cast, nor the second, but it did on the third or fourth cast. When the indicator checked and disappeared under the water's surface, I lifted my rod high into the air and felt the enormous weight of the trout. As I had found with my previous catch from this river, this trout at first appeared nonchalant about being hooked, almost as if it was unaware of the fact.  But it soon came alive with energy and an almighty scrap ensued as it zig-zagged in the water. I muttered desperate pleas under my breath for my tippet to hold true. It did, and eventually I was able to guide the defeated trout into my net and exhale a huge sigh of relief. The trout had broad shoulders, thick muscular flanks and a large, gun metal grey head. A prominent kype suggested it was a cockfish. Was this a magical double? I lifted my net and waited for the inbuilt scale to settle on a reading. 9 lb! Close, but it mattered not. This was an exceptional, bumper trout when I hadn't even planned to do any fishing this day.  

I followed the track away from the river for the next 5 km as the shadows lengthened across the valley, eventually reaching the distinctive waypoint I had been told to look out for [you will appreciate why I have anonymised the details]. Above this point the fishing was meant to take an upturn. I found a soft grassy place to pitch my tent between a small stream and the sheltered lee of a cliff, with the stream helpfully providing a ready supply of drinking and cooking water. I had been told about a small tributary nearby which sometimes held trout, so I spent the hour before nightfall walking up it, but I  saw no fish in the low light. I settled in my tent for the night and warmly wrapped up in my sleeping bag, I was about to fall asleep, when I heard the distant sound of a motorbike engine. What on earth, I thought. There were no roads for miles. It was an incongruous and unsettling sound. The noise of the engine grew louder and suddenly my tent was lit up by a spotlight. Slightly alarmed, I poked my head out the tent and was faced by two men sitting on the same quad bike, rifles slung over their shoulders. They mentioned they were hunting deer, and just wanted to be certain who was in the area in the interests of safety. Fair enough, I thought, when the shock had subsided. I fell asleep and had a good night's rest.

I woke up early and boiled a pot of water for my instant coffee and breakfast of oats. After my meal, I packed away my tent and rejoined the main river where it passed through a small gorge. I ignored this impossible water and skirted around the gorge through the trees. I spotted a trout in the pool immediately upstream of the gorge but fluffed my cast and the trout slunk away. 

About half a kilometre upriver I found another trout in a featureless glide of riffle water flowing over rocks the size of bread loaves. This is often the most difficult water to spot trout in, because the riffle distorts the window of view. I remember being impressed at myself for discerning this trout from the similar coloured rocks around it. It rose to a dry fly, a thin fish, unusually devoid of spots.     

At around noon I came to a 2nd hut where I had hoped to spend a night. There were quad bikes parked next to the hut and several plastic bags of waste outside it. Deer carcasses hung inside a fly mesh enclosure not too far away. The hut had the appearance of being well lived in, but still, I opened the door to see if there was a vacancy. The hunters were inside the smoky interior, taking up all of the bunks, resting from their nocturnal hunt. One of them made me a cup of hot chocolate which I gratefully drank. I asked how they got all their heavy gear into the valley and how they planned to get it out, including the carcasses. It had been perplexing me. They explained it was by helicopter drop and collection. They asked about my fishing and it was friendly enough chat until I asked about their hunting, when the conversation became stilted and coy. I was genuinely interested in their sport but knew enough to ask no more. It was only later that it was mentioned to me the hunters perhaps weren't complying with the full letter of the law.

Upstream from the hut I came to a large pool where a brace of trout were acting in an animated fashion near the head of the pool. A third trout lay in the water near the tail of the pool too. Seeing so many trout in one place was quite a rare thing in New Zealand in my experience and, being November, it couldn't have been spawning behaviour. I targeted the rearmost trout first, with a dry fly. It rose to the fly and its cavernous mouth pierced the water's surface and consumed it. I struck and the hold was initially firm, but several seconds into the fight the line inexplicably went limp. I kicked myself. The trout at the head of the pool hadn't seemed to notice the commotion behind them and I turned my attention to them. It wasn't a case of targeting an individual fish because they were actively jostling with each other, so I cast my fly into the current entering the pool and left the choice to the trout. One of them took the fly, and on this occasion I managed to bring it to my net, after an epic tussle of course. It was an excellent 7 lb fish.      

I made camp on the bank of the river that night, elated with the day's achievements. The temperature had dropped during the day but I thought nothing of it. Ahead of me lay some glorious looking water, stretching for miles to the snow capped peaks in the distance. I was looking forward to fishing this water the following day but in the night it started to rain. It was a heavy, persistent rain but fortunately my tent was a good one and it kept me dry. I hoped the rain would pass by the morning.

I woke in the morning to the disappointing patter of rain on my tent. I looked outside and the outlook was gloomy. I made a decision to pack up and go home because sight fishing would be impossible in this weather. It was a 20 km walk to my car and I would face a choice at the very first hut in the valley where the track left the river - a hard inland walk along the track, which featured many hills, or an easy walk along the flat river valley, but which needed the river to be forded near to my car. I was worried that I might not be able to cross the river if it continued to rain. I walked briskly in the driving rain, past the second hut and gorge, and resolved to make the decision by gauging the river level at the first hut. When I arrived at the first hut, the river looked only to have risen marginally. I decided to take a gamble on the easier route home. It was a stupid decision in hindsight. 

I didn't pause to rest and tried to ignore a painful leg. I made very good time but even then it was several hours later when I reached the ford, which looked unrecognisable. Where the water used to be knee-deep and clear, it was now a brown, swollen torrent. I faced another choice - walk back and rejoin the track near the hut (a demoralising 18 km round trip) or risk the flooding water. I decided to brave the water. Again, it was a stupid decision. I removed the backpack from my back and balanced it on my right shoulder, then waded into the water. Very soon the water came to my chest. The current was powerful and it sapped my energy, constantly pulling at my legs and gradually shifting me downstream in a diagonal rather than straight line. The current threatened to lift me off my feet and in one heart stopping moment I lost my foothold. Both of my feet lifted from the ground and in that instant I feared I was going to be washed downstream. Somehow I managed to regain my footing and then the worst of the current was behind me. When I reached the rocky shore I threw my pack to the ground and sat down in relief, thanking my lucky stars for narrowly avoiding a calamity.

On the drive to this river three days earlier, I stopped along the way at a supermarket to buy food supplies. The supermarket had a small selection of South African products and I bought a Stoney ginger beer, a little taste of home. I saved it for when I knew I would emerge from the bush wanting something a little different to coffee and water. I have never enjoyed a ginger beer more!     

The trout weren't quite as big on this visit, having lost weight over the winter as the supply of mice diminished.  I didn't mind that at all. It was gratifying to return to this river a better angler, and get the better of its trout on this occasion. 

Next: (Vol. 5): The Tributary

Previous: (Vol. 3): Boat Ride to Paradise