TROUT FISHING HEAVEN

Some pools you arrive at and can sense a big fish lives there. The one I was stood at was situated on a large bend; boulders were littered throughout, and despite the gin clear water it was too deep to make out the bottom in the neck. It was the best trout habitat I’d found in five months of fishing through New Zealand, and given the stamp of fish elsewhere in this well-known river it was likely to be harbouring a sizeable specimen.

I crossed the river at the tail of the pool and made my way up a high bank on the far side to gain a vantage point, dropping my pack then continuing forwards on hands and knees, conscious of how spooky the fish were and how obvious my silhouette would be to anything sat below. With eyes glued to the water, the polarised lenses worked their magic scanning through each likely holding spot.

It wasn’t until three quarters of the way up that I saw the fish. Sat in deep water his golden flanks shimmered in the gloomy afternoon light as he swayed from side to side on his station. Impossibly large and in perfect condition, he was the most magnificent trout I’d ever laid eyes on.

What’s more, he was feeding. Every so often the white of his jaws would flash as he moved from his lie to intercept a nymph. It was only when he rose through the depths to take a fly on the surface that I appreciated the size of his frame though.

Double figure (10lb +) wild brown trout are the pinnacle of freshwater angling in New Zealand, the ultimate challenge, and at this moment I realised the fish in front of me certainly came into that category. Trout don’t reach such sizes by making rash decisions; I knew he would be clever. Thinking of the hardships he would have overcome I felt a deep sense of respect towards him.

Still, I wanted to catch him. To prove myself in a battle of wits against worthy opposition.

I sat for forty-five minutes, quietly observing. His lie was situated at the head of a dark bolder, and he rarely left it, except occasionally to inspect something drifting past. Once more, he rose in the water to eat off the surface.

I crept back to fetch the pack and hatch a plan. A fresh leader was tied on, each knot scrutinised intently. The fly box was opened and the pros and cons of the patterns within considered, with fingers eventually settling on a brown cicada imitation. Cicadas (a large winged insect) represent a huge amount of protein to a trout, and having landed two fish on one earlier in the day my confidence in the fly was high.  

Happy with the decision, and aware I would likely only get one shot, I considered my approach carefully, eventually climbing down the high bank, crossing the river and edging slowly into position. Pausing by the water’s edge, my eyes flitted through the pool and made out the bolder the fish had been sat in front of, and sure enough, he was still there. I took a moment to enjoy the situation. This is what I’d travelled here for.

With shaking hands, I lifted the rod, aerialised the line and put in two false casts before sending the fly line, twenty feet of monofilament and fly towards the fish. It flew well and landed softly where I hoped, a few metres upstream of the trout, a tapered leader aiding the turnover of the bulky cicada.

I held my breath as the fly drifted downstream. As it entered his territory, the body language of the fish changed. His fins flickered, then propelled him through the water column as he came, intrigued, to inspect my offering. He took a look, and, unimpressed, turned away and swum off.

Some choice words were muttered. This behemoth had guile, and the rejection only increased my respect towards him. I climbed the high bank once more and he was nowhere to be seen. 

The above event occurred a week or so out from the music festival on the farm. Aware of the busy times ahead, I had headed off to decompress, spending a night in a hut in the valley before fishing the following day. Driving back, I couldn’t get the encounter out of my head.

A week passed. I hadn’t forgotten about the double digit brown, so with good weather forecast I headed off once more, hiking in to spend three nights in huts in the valley. With the best conditions forecast for the Sunday morning, I fished another section on the Saturday to be at his pool when the sun was out and a light southerly pushing through the valley.

The fishing on the Saturday went well, with one well-conditioned six pounder hitting the net and two other fish hooked and lost. Really it was a case of going through the motions, warming up for the main event. Staying in the hut that night were two young Kiwis on a hunting expedition, and an older chap who’d worked on a station in the valley in the 60s. We had an enjoyable evening comparing notes on our trips; I mentioned the trophy trout that lived nearby and the younger guys said they’d be keen to come and see it the following morning.

So, after porridge and coffee, the three of us headed to the pool. The trout was sat in the same lie as he had been two weeks prior, and looked just as magnificent. Having had ten days to reflect on our previous encounter, I concluded a more subtle approach was needed. On went a woollen indicator the size of my small fingernail, followed by a size 16 ‘backcountry bug’ with a size 18 deleatidium nymph suspended from the shank; inconspicuous imitations of the trout’s daily diet that wouldn’t raise any eyebrows.

Tom and Ben provided eyes from the high bank whilst I snuck into position. Despite the forecast the wind was up. If solo this would have made spotting the fish difficult, but with company it acted in our favour, the slight ripple adding a layer between the trout and us and disguising the leader somewhat. The first cast was sent far to the right of the fish to gauge the required distance. ‘It needs another couple of metres’ yelled Ben from up high.

The necessary line was peeled off the reel and once more a cast sent to nothing. ‘That’s good’ I heard. As my flies approached the lie more blurred shouts followed, then the indicator dipped. I struck, and, in disbelief, felt almighty resistance.

Raging at his mistake, the trout pounded his head several times. Aware of the maze of underwater threats I piled as much pressure as I dared on. He moved into the current and held there, thumping his head a few times more. Conscious that hooking him was only the first stage of the puzzle I tried to gain some line, reeling in as I walked towards him.

The change of angle didn’t go down well and suddenly he tore off down the pool. I chased him downstream, and a few moments later felt everything go solid, then slack.

I reeled in and inspected the broken tippet. Ben and Tom, gutted for me but thrilled to have witnessed the whole event unfold, informed me that the fish had ‘boosted round a huge rock’. Bugger. I was shaking, in amazement I’d got such a creature to eat in the first place, thrilled to have hooked the fish whilst unbelievably despondent he had evaded capture. Once more, my respect towards him went up a notch.

Angling folklore is full of stories of the one that got away; unseen monsters that drain spools and leave anglers quaking in their boots. The whole experience, despite the end result, tops any of my captures in New Zealand. To hook a fish of that calibre is the stuff of dreams. Ah, angling… the pursuit of what is elusive, but attainable.

After that expedition I headed back to the farm for my final few weeks. Things have slowed down, and after the experience described above I’m no longer feeling the need to fish as much as I can before I leave. My cup is full, and I’ve been reflecting on a tremendous six months in New Zealand.

Speaking to another volunteering at the farm, she said that you meet yourself in different ways when you are travelling; you see how you fare in situations you would not normally come across, and consequently learn a lot about yourself. I think this is true.

I’m grateful to Zeb Horrell for hosting me here over the last three months. He is a deep thinker with a big heart. Also to Rob, Cat, Oliver, Arthur, Hunter and Heather, who live here, for their endless good humour and company. I will leave with fond memories of the Montana Flat.

I fly home from Christchurch on the 20th March before beginning a new role in London in April… Onwards and upwards.

If you’ve made it this far, thanks for reading.