• TOP TO BOTTOM • Torrential spring storms cranked the flows on New Zealand’s North Island rivers, giving Taupo guide and Category 3 Fly Company owner Sean Andrews a chance to try out his new “Red-headed Stepchild” nymph. Sean found a deeply-kyped six-pound rainbow that entertained the group with aerials the full length of this pool. Photo: Robert Dotson “‘Can’t be real,’ we whispered to each other on this remote North Island river. It was like a Peter Jackson cinematic kiwi reveal would open before us around each bend.” Photo: Robert Dotson “If you’re not the boss of them, they’re the boss of you,” Johnny had said earlier about the close-quarter combat that defines many of these fights. I was fairly sure where the balance of power would lay if it got out of these rocks and up into a snaggy stretch above. But mercifully it turned and headed back into the pool where it was easier to handle and a few minutes later it lay panting in the net beneath us. At this moment, all the effort expended, the chal-lenge of the stalk, the intensity of the fight and the sheer size and beauty of the fish all build, embodied in a yell of joy that comes from the pit of your guts up through your chest and gets airborne with all the gusto you can give it. These backcountry waters are delicate systems and rarely did we see more than one fish in a pool and frequently there were none. It can be a long walk between fish but doesn’t feel that way. It’s hard not to be high on life when you’re out here, part of it all, listening to the piping whistle of an unseen whio (blue duck), smelling the musky scent of a deer that has bolted up a side creek on your approach, watch-ing huge sinuous eels emerge from the depths before snaking away again, interacting with inquisitive, flighty little fantails, or feeling the crisp coolness of the mountain water permeating your tramping trou-sers as you wade the river. Every fish out here, big or small, hooked or not, landed or not, is an event. Another of these not-to-be-forgotten experiences was a big brown that, early in the contest, had bolted for a small dark cave on the far bank and was pigheadedly refusing to come out. Johnny waded across to attempt to net it in situ but as he got close, agonizingly close, the fish powered out past his outstretched hand and thundered down-stream. Johnny swung round, temporarily blindsided. “Which way did he go?’” The bow wave now tracing a line down the shal-lower water of the far bank directly behind Johnny’s legs told its own story. The power of these fish is extraordinary, and with the strength of the current now added to its own it tore away downstream. As it did so, in my peripheral vision I was conscious of a form sprinting across the riverbank rocks in determined pursuit, long legs swallowing up the yardage, feet playing “hot potato” with each boul-der top, net swinging at the end of a flailing arm. The fish had taken refuge in a rocky rapid 40 or 50 yards from where the battle had begun but Johnny pounced before it had a chance to set off again and held the great fish aloft in triumph, letting out a holler that echoed in the valley. I responded in kind. It’s a privilege to catch these fish, take some quick snaps for posterity, slip them back and watch them melt away with a few languid tail strokes. Two nights and three days moving upstream and camping out under our own steam had brought some rich rewards and even richer memories. You earn these fish and that all adds to the satisfaction. When you’re “big and bent and gray and old,” as Johnny Cash sang, you relive these days with joyful clarity—long after you’ve forgotten the name of that guy you used to be friends with, you know, the fella who kept bailing on fishing trips last-minute. 076 NEW ZEALAND
The Flyfish Journal The Flyfish Journal 15.4: Page 74
