They'll Ruin Your Week-a

After we said our goodbyes to our hobbling, USA-bound friend, Les, we hopped in the Dirty Dog and headed west toward the coast.  Because we had had such an extensive sabbatical from fishing, I thought it would be a good idea to put in a couple days of car camping and fishing a few rivers on the way before we headed to the trailhead of our extensive hike into the Mokihinui River drainage.  We were recommended a few rivers near Lake Brunner, so we set up camp at a little turn off on the Orangapuki River, which is centrally located amongst several rivers and creeks that supposedly hold trout.

We began the monotony of assembling tents, blowing up sleeping pads, pillows and pulling out our sleeping bags when Zach yelled, "Holy shit!  Did you see that?".  Not sure exactly what it was, he said it looked like a cat of some sort.  I came over to investigate, only to see nothing and to become skeptical of Zach's sanity.  Just as I was about to really unleash a tidal wave of ridicule, we heard some twigs snapping behind us and spotted a brown tail end of a cat-sized animal disappear into the briars.  Still unsure of which branch of the animal kingdom this creature belonged, we looked into it further.

Previous to this mysterious encounter, we were at the visitor's center up on Mount Cook and were doing some reading on a problem with feral cats in the area.  Not your fluffy house cat named, Whiskers, but a big, "I'm gonna tear your face off", feral cat that I want no part of.  Having this in the back of our minds, we approached the situation gingerly.  As we crept up to this animal's den, we could see its silhouette in the shadows.  We sat and watched for a minute as it rustled around in the bushes when finally, it poked its head out and stared at us with a look on its face as if to say, "Do you mind? I'm rustling here!!"


It wasn't a cat.  It was a stupid looking flightless bird, about the size of a chicken, with red eyes, a long broad beak and a sense of entitlement written all over its face.  At first, we didn't mind the newly welcomed guest.  He would walk the perimeter of camp, displaying a boldness and curiosity not usually seen among normal, wary, skittish birds.  It wasn't until we began setting up for dinner, when my acceptance for this feathery asshole started to dwindle.  When food was presented, I swear I saw the bird's eyes get wide as it scurried into the bushes.

If you paid attention, you could hear the slow creep along the bush line nearing the bins of food.  Fully aware that the bird was coming, I stood there waiting both in preparation to jump and wave my arms like a crazy person to dissuade it from stealing our food and in curiosity, just to see what this bird was capable of.  Sure enough, without even acknowledging my presence, it appeared out of its cover, head bobbing like a chicken, fully preparing for unthinkable acts of thievery.  Before it was able to snatch anything, I charged it, removing the bird from its trance and scared it off.

I thought that, like most animals of instinct, this encounter would have triggered its survival lobe in the brain to say, "I just learned from this fearful encounter, that if I pursue that plastic receptacle filled with food, then that giant animal, which I believe to be a human, will attack me, causing me much stress, potential bodily harm or in worst case scenario, loss of life."  I'm sure those are the exact thoughts that flood an animal's brain when faced with a severe fight or flight situation.  This bird continued to pester our food stocks and tested our patience. Soon enough, Zach and I were forced to up the ante and tested our aim with rocks.  To my surprise, this bird wasn't fazed.  In fact, every time we missed it with a rock, he chased after the rock as if it were food.  I've never in my life seen an animal so instinctually lacking, that even after being struck with a golf ball sized rock, will continually present itself broadside and still think we're hucking food at him as hard as we can.

There was one encounter where this bird flanked us to the east, demanding both Zach and my attention.  With rocks in hand, we turned to follow to teach this bastard a lesson.  As soon as we were pulled from our posts near the food bins and engaging our new enemy, we heard the sound of rustling plastic.  We turned around only to see a second bird running back to its cover with ziplock bag in tow soon to disappear into the briars.  Since our food was latched in our big tupperware bins, I was confused as to what it stole.  I turned to Zach perplexed and all he said to me was, "shit shovel".  The asshole stole our spade that we use to bury our shit.  Even though that is a useful tool for us and we obviously use it everyday it was almost satisfying to know that the bird was eating our shit.  I think I even yelled it at one of the birds at least once, "Eat Shit, Bird!!!!", as I hauled a rock at its face.  And that's exactly what he did.  Good on ya, mate.

As soon as we thought we were finished with this pest, as I guess they return to cover come evening, we were startled awake, point blank by its squawking back and forth.  Normally, when you hear birds calling, it's in a call and response manner, usually from across a valley or a other great distance.  These birds were right next to each other, both essentially screaming in each other's ears as if it were a contest of volume.  It happened again at day break, right before it snuck under my vestibule and pecked at my face.  I've never wanted a gun more in my life.  I'd shoot that smug look right off its stupid, feathery face.  The problem is, if it didn't die or you missed he would've thought you were shooting food at him and continue ruining your life.

Oh, since this is a fishing blog, I should comment on the fishing.  It was marginal at best.  However, there is a spring creek that held some really spectacular fish, but it winds through a farmer's paddock and we couldn't find him to gain permission.  Hopefully, on our way back.

As we continued on our way to the coast, we stopped in Greymouth, enjoyed a beer at a local tavern and then ate at a place called Billy-O Burger.  Best burger by far in New Zealand.  We were directed to a campsite by some girls that worked at the restaurant.  The campsite was right on the beach.  There really weren't any good sites to pitch a tent so we decided to sleep in the front seats of the Dirty Dog.  It was pretty unbelievable to have a fire on the beach with good company, some beers and tunes.  Plenty of drift wood which made for a pretty stellar beach bon fire.

The next day, we got some breakfast and continued onto Westport.  This drive is unbelievable.  I've never seen to much virgin coast before.  In the States, every inch of beach frontage is built up with homes or high rises.  The west coast of New Zealand is untouched and goes on forever.  Truly stunning.

When was the last time you saw a road just continue right onto the beach?

Could have driven for a while before hitting anything.  And the funny thing is, you would probably hit a cow before a building.  Unreal.

We made a pitstop in PunaKaiki to see the Pancake Rocks and Blow Holes.

It was definitely a site to see, but let's get back to the devil bird I mentioned previously.  As I was walking back to the cafe from the bathroom to finish the rest of my delicious peppered steak meat pie, I noticed a piece of paper with a photo of this menacing bird that had been terrorizing our lives for the last few days.  Its called a weka (Week-a).  The hanger described the weka, its traits, behavior and characteristics.  It pretty much nailed this bird on the head with what we put up with at camp.  We had to laugh at this new information.

When we finally reached the town nearest the trailhead to the Mokihinui, we made camp at an established campsite about 15 minutes drive from where we begin our journey.  Once we had everything set up, we began packing our packs for the next days 8 hour hike in.  Packing strategically for a week in the bush is always a bit of a cluster and definitely takes some time.  Due to the fact that this area floods rapidly after a storm and usually takes a couple days to clear, we had to account for a few days of extra food in case we got stuck.  What looked like a small creek to cross on the way in, can very easily turn into an impassible torrent after a good storm.  Not much you can do until it clears.  Meanwhile, as soon as all of our food came out, you can guess who joined the party: WEKA.

In the middle of this process, there was an impressive sunset over the ocean.  Zach and I both grabbed our cameras to try and capture this unbelievable span of scenery.  When we returned to camp, we continued packing only to find that Zach's roll of summer sausage was missing.  We searched everywhere, but with no success.  There was only one explanation:  WEKA.

Can't beat this.

I often wonder how a bird like this can survive in such a harsh and unforgiving environment called Earth.  I would have put the weka on the extinct list right beside the DoDo Bird if I didn't know any better.  I guess persistence pays off in the end.  We could all learn a little something from our feathery little friend.  If at first you fail, keep trying.  And when this world begins to throw rocks at you, don't dodge them, embrace them.  When the world wants you dead and gone, just wait until a beautiful sunset, then steal its summer sausage.

WEKA:  They will truly ruin your week-a.

Hiccups

I'm not sure I know anyone who enjoys a good hiccup session.  Hiccups are bad.  Hiccups are annoying.  A bad case of hiccups can ruin your day.  Depending on who you talk to, there are countless cures of hiccups.  Drinking water while upside down.  Spelling HICCUP forwards and backwards.  Breathing in repeatedly until it hurts.  Scaring someone when they aren't expecting it.  And I could go on.

Recently, our trio had a hiccup, only the cure for it was a trip to the emergency room, surgery, 6 weeks in a cast and who knows how much rehab.

We were fishing about a half hour outside of Geraldine and came to a hole that seemed bottomless.  In order to get a better view, our nimble friend, Les, volunteered to climb an overhanging tree to get an aerial view of the water to see if an leviathans lingered in the depths.  To get the best view, he positioned himself on a questionably thin branch when "CRACK!!", the limb broke, sending him and the branch plummeting twelve feet to the unforgiving cobble rock below.  It all happened so fast that we didn't know quite how to react.  Well, I actually know exactly how I reacted because I remember giggling at the situation, ready to point and escalate my giggling into full blown demeaning laughter.  However, I was completely oblivious to the severity of the situation.  When Les didn't react and lay there in silent excruciating pain, all of us knew that he didn't land right.

This is a tree similar to the one Les climbed.

Les climbing a tree.  Not documentation of actual tree climbed.

Les dangling from branch a little thicker than one that broke.

When we reached Les, he appeared to be in shock.  Immediately ashen and sweaty, his hands were shaking and he kept repeating that this was the worst pain he's ever felt.  Thankfully, we were still close to the vehicle.  Zach sprinted for the first aid kit and wrapped his ankle over his boot as best he could to minimize anymore movement of the foot.  We carried him the short distance to the truck, set him in the back, propped his foot up on the middle console and started making our way to the nearest hospital.

The nearest town of any size was Timaru, which was about an hour and fifteen minutes away from where we were fishing.  When we got to the hospital, everyone was great.  The care Les received was top notch.  On top of this, the only thing Les paid for was the $12.00 for what would cost at least $500 back home for medication.  Anyone who claims that a socialist country has shitty healthcare would be blown away by the quality of care Les received while in Timaru.  But I digress...  One humorous thing we encountered was the terminology Kiwi physicians used for a broken bone.  Munted.  Once we heard this term, we obviously tried our hardest to use the word "munted" as often as we could.  "Oh, you totally munted it." or "I'm not sure I've seen an ankle that munted."  "Could you feel your ankle munting when you fell?"  In a situation such as this, humor seems like the only thing that seems right or at least has the potential of easing the tension, taking Les' mind off of the injury.

The doctors took some x-rays of his leg and they couldn't find any broken bones in his ankle.  However, every time they pushed on his knee, it popped.  They ended up taking an additional x-ray of his upper leg, around his knee and found a spiral fracture of his fibula, just below the knee.  In addition to the break, he tore just about every ligament in his ankle from the surrounding bones which required surgery.  In the end, Les was admitted and ended up spending 5 days in the hospital.

Very similar break to Les'.  Spiral fracture of the fibula.  Yay Google Images.

It was a huge blow to the morale of the group to lose Les to a freak accident like this.  We're thankful that nothing worse happened and that we were near help.  Had we been out in the bush... Nah, I don't even want to think about it.  All in all, Les' trip is over and is heading back to the states shortly.  No one is more bummed than Les.  Most of the success and planning of this trip can be attributed to him and for that we are all appreciative.  Again, it is a huge loss to the group and we will miss his company, his knowledge of the area and his overall ridiculous fly fishing prowess that he brought to the table.  It is now our turn to step up to the plate and pick up the slack.  It has been a few weeks since the accident and not much fishing has occurred since then.  Our momentum was lost, but it's about damn time that we get our asses back in gear and start fishing.  We've got some good stuff ahead of us.  I can't wait to tell you about it.

Pay It Forward

After we reunited with the other guys after our epic backpack trip, where we caught a ridiculous amount of big fish, we found out that their trip was a bust.  According to them, they caught one 3 or 4 lb. fish and had opportunities at only one or two others for the entire 4 days.  As we were finishing up our hike out of the river, we saw the dirty dog pulling over the bridge and I would imagine it looked as though we were skipping with an incredible bounce in our step after such a fun few days.  Even though it felt good to know we had the better beat of water, it sucked to know that Matt, who again was only here for just under two weeks, had wasted 4 of his fishing days on shitty fishing with poor conditions.

Our next stop was in Reefton.  The night before we stayed at a motel for cheap and had a pretty stellar night with some kiwi guys working at a mine nearby.  They claimed that there were eels in the creek running through the property.  Of course, we played devils advocate and called "bullshit" on their claim.  Immediately, one of the guys ran inside his room and came back out with a can of sweet chili flavored tuna and said, "Follow me".  We did and sure enough, as soon as he plopped the entire can of tuna into the water, an eel appeared, snaking up through a riffle below to investigate the delicious scents in the water.  Before we knew what happened, Matt had charged into the creek, looking to noodle up some eel.  With all of us heckling him from the bridge above, he made multiple attempts at grabbing it, but each time the eel either slipped out of his hands or Matt recoiled back in fear of getting bit.  Either option didn't bode well for him, as he was getting ridiculed for both.  We didn't receive any eel sushi that night, but overall it was pretty stellar entertainment for all of us watching.

The next day, since we all wanted Matt to get into some fish, we drove him and Les up a track up the Waitahu River just outside of Reefton.  This track is a 4WD road that eventually is impassible due to a washout across the road.  It essentially got them half way up and the rest of the way was a pretty easy hike along the road to get to the hut about 7km away.  Zach and I had a good list of water we wanted to fish, but first went back into Reefton to gorge ourselves on meat pies and coffee.  We then got back in the car and drove the half hour back to Springs Junction, found a camp site, set up camp and then departed for the river.  The stretch of river we chose was supposed to be pretty solid with plenty of fish and decent access.  We drove to the end of the road and found another vehicle parked there.  We cursed at the truck, kicked some dirt at the tires and then ventured back up the road in the direction we came from to find some access well above where they were parked.  We found a good pull off about 6km upstream of the other vehicle and dropped down to the river.  After plenty of rain the previous couple days, the river was clear, but raging.  After scanning the river for a safe place to cross, we found our route and committed.  The water was freezing and deep.  The word "shrinkage" doesn't quite do it justice.  We fished for most of the day.  We saw plenty of fish but because the water was so high, most of them were unfishable unless you waded chest deep and didn't mind dying.  It then started to rain and the fish spotting went to shit so we bushwhacked back to the road and walked the 3 or 4 kms back to the car.  We drove back to Springs Junction to a cafe and had some dinner.  Not knowing what else to do, we sat in the car, listening to music, watching the rain slowly ruin our fishing for the next few days.  It felt as though we both had this realization at the same time, but we looked at each other and almost simultaneously said, "I think the bar is still open in Reefton".

Relieved and excited for a warm establishment with a tasty brew, we drove back to Reefton, accepting defeat on the river.  It was Friday and that means Friday Night Rugby.  The bar was packed with an elderly crowd that night with a couple younger guys and what seemed like their parents.  Since we are still unfamiliar with the rules of rugby, we were asking the younger guy, who turned out to be a stud rugby player who played for a New Zealand national team in a tournament over in the states, about the rules of rugby.  They were really nice about it and definitely took the time to explain as much as they could.  After the game, we started chatting with them about who we were, where we were from, what we are doing here and all of the other friendly conversation topics.  It came up that we were heading back to Springs Junction and sleeping in tents in the rain and the mom offered us a bed at their house for the night.  The first offer, we politely declined but thanked them for offering.  However, as the night went on, the rain started pissing harder, they offered again and Zach and I kind of looked at each other, shrugged, as if to say, "why not?" and this time accepted the offer.

We followed them to their house, which was a beautiful home and they took us in like we were their own.  The stud rugby player turned out to be their son and we met two more of their kids once at the house.  They gave us a queen size bed and then brought in a blow up mattress.  It may have been the best night sleep I've had in a long time.  When we woke up, we were shown where all of the breakfast food was and as I was fixing up some breakfast, the dad, Malcolm, said something to me.  Now, what I have discovered about myself while spending time in New Zealand, is I am really bad at understanding English with an accent.  All I heard from Malcolm was, "mumble mumble mumble mumble trout mumble mumble mumble...?".  This probably isn't the best way to answer someone when you have no idea what they are saying, but I answered, "Sure" because it seemed like it was a question.  I thought he wanted to show us more pictures of trout he had caught.  When I was finishing up breakfast, I heard him say, "Are you about ready boys?".  When I heard this, I thought he was heading to work and wanted us out.  I went to Zach who was brushing his teeth, and told him that we should leave.  When we were all packed up, we loaded the car and went to go thank Malcolm for having us and that we were going to head out.  He looked at me confused and said, "You guys don't want to go see the Waitahu?".  I answered him, just as confused, "Oh sure, that'd be great...".  We hopped in his truck and drove about 5 minutes to a large warehouse looking building.  We thought he was just dropping a battery off to be charged and from there we would drive up the Waitahu River.  But, then he said "Follow me".  We did, not knowing what was going on.  We walked in and there is an entire garage of nice vehicles including a refurbished 1950s Ford 100 truck and a 60s Shelby.  All in mint condition.  We keep following him through the warehouse, he opens the back doors and reveals an even bigger room housing three helicopters.  Having found out the night before that Malcolm was a helicopter pilot, Zach turns to me and mouths the words, "I think he's taking us up in the chopper!".  Sure enough, he starts checking the helicopter, has us help him tow it out to the landing concrete area and told us to hop in.  At this point, we were aghast at the luck we were having and couldn't believe we were going to be taking off in a helicopter.  Honestly, we had no idea this was happening until we walked into the helicopter hangar.  We would have grabbed some cameras and documented the experience, but because of my damn inability to understand the New Zealand accent, we both left the cameras in the car.

We took off, and Malcolm showed us the area and the surrounding coal and gold mines in the hills.  He then took us up the Waitahu River and hovered above the hut our buddies were staying at to see if we could see them, give them the finger and possibly moon them.  When we talked to them after they returned, they thought we were a guide service that was jumping them on the river with fishermen.  This was exactly what I was hoping for.  It was one of the more unbelievable experiences I have ever had.  When we returned back to their home, we thanked them as much as we could and then parted ways, only to return later with a thank you note and a case of Speights beer for Malcolm and whoever else wanted to indulge.  We figured, since we met them in a pub, it was fitting to gift them with beer.

We are continually blown away by the hospitality the folks in New Zealand have shown us.  There is definitely a "Pay it forward" mindset here and it makes me want to bring that back to the States.  If the family that took us in is reading this, we thank you again for showing us such great generosity and hospitality.

Mustache Contest

So when we first got to New Zealand, we established that while we are here, it would be "no shave New Zealand".  That has been amended a bit, as we have allowed the trimming of a beard.  I have not quite gotten to this yet judging by the pictures of my vicious neck beard.  Gross.

One night we were standing around campfire and discussing our facial situations.  Clearly, the consensus is that our mustaches are the most uncomfortable bit of facial hair because they have gotten to the point of growing over our upper lips, into our mouths.  I'm sure this is something you get used to after a while of having a mustache, however, for the time being they are a surprising nuisance.

Anyway, while standing around the fire, we established a contest:  First person to trim their mustache has to buy the group a bottle of whisky.  No questions asked.  I open this post up for comments on who you think will be the loser of the group.  The game is on!

Drew's Strawberry Blonde Stache

Les' Rasputin Blonde Stache

Zach's Brunette Stache

Paper Covers Rock

When we were last in Christchurch to pick up a buddy of Les', Matt, I received a request to Skype with Chappie Chapman, whom we hired as a guide in our first week in New Zealand.  Of course, I answered and we began chatting and filling him in on our successes and our defeats as we made our way through the rivers of New Zealand.  Les had joined me pretty early on in the conversation and after we finished updating Chappie, he began advising us as to where we should head next.  Chappie is definitely one of those guys that has been around the game for a very long time and when he talks, you grab a pen and paper and start with the note taking.  He mentioned many of the rivers we were already planning on fishing, but then went on to talk about some rivers more off the beaten track, one of which he guaranteed a shot at a double digit (10+ lb.) fish.  Our ears perked a little at this bold statement and threw an extra underline under the name of this river.  The conversation went on for a shade under an hour, we demonstrated our gratitude for this information and said our good byes.

Once Matt arrived, we got organized and squeezed as much as we could into an already jam packed Dirty Dog (our vehicle) and set off with our compass pointing north.  We got to our campsite a couple hours before sunset, set up camp, made some bland, tasteless instant dinners, pounded some American whisky of the Wild Turkey and Makers Mark sort (compliments of Matt, Thank you), shared some laughs and went to bed.  In the morning, we made some breakfast and began discussing our plan for the next few days.  Because three people is already a crowd on a river, where all day you may see one fish, four people would be short of impossible.  We decided splitting up in twos was the smart plan, and once it was established who was fishing with who, we needed to decide who was fish where.

This brings me back to that conversation with Chappie.  This said creek, that he guaranteed a fish over 10 lbs. was in the vicinity.  Les and Matt were fishing together and I with Zach.  It came down to Rock, Paper, Scissors to decide who got to fish this water.  One round.  Me vs. Les.  One... Two... Three... Shoot...  My paper covered his rock.  Double digits were ours.

Zach and I geared up for three days camping, and after a shade over 10 km hike, which we did in roughly two and a half hours, we were there.  It was a very seamless, effortless hike in.  However, the thoughts of our last extensive tramp to the Electric River still haunted us and the thought of a long hike with heavy packs with poor fishing in return was in the back of our minds.  It is a risk that you always take when exploring new water.  But, to our surprise, there was a nice, flat trail to follow, and when we got there, there was a perfect camping area equipped with fire pit, flat soft ground to pitch a tent, a stack of wood and a 4 lb. brown sitting happy as can be in the first pool right by camp.  How about that?  Too good to be true?  Nah.  It was about time lady luck started swaying our way.

The first day on the water was good, but not mind blowing.  We had some opportunities at some good fish.  Zach had a great afternoon, bringing in a 4 pounder and a  6 1/2 pounder.   I got somewhat owned, farming two fish and catching a 4 lb. brown after losing him at my feet and diving in after him, luckily grabbing him by the tail.  So, essentially, I got skunked with my fly rod, but went one for one when noodling.  Maybe I have a future in Hillbilly Hand Fishing.

Day two could simply be categorized by using one word: EPIC.  We walked to where we ended the day before and began spotting fish.  This day was much brighter, which made spotting borderline easy.  It seemed as though every pool we came up to, housed a big ol' boy lurking in the depths.  It also seemed as though the farther we walked, the bigger and the dumber the fish got.  I started out the day casting to a fish that was pushing 7 pounds at least.  I somehow farmed him when he ate my dry fly, after waiting what seemed like 2 seconds to set the hook, and he buggered, leaving me baffled and disgusted with myself.  I got redemption on another fish that seemed spooked when I spotted him.  We were approaching a pool from atop a 20 foot bluff and when I saw him, he was darting from the tail out and stopped in the shadows along an overhanging cliff face.  Most of the time, when a fish spooks, he vanishes like some sort of apparition.  This fish, however remained visible and, on top of that, appeared to be actively feeding on nymphs subsurface.  I tied on a dry dropper rig and casted to him.  On the second cast, he hammered the nymph.  I set the hook, causing him to thrash and leap out of the water as high as I've ever seen a brown trout jump.  Without exaggerating, this fish came all of 4 feet clear out of the water.  I thought he was false hooked because he tore upstream about 100 ft, ripping up spillways, not slowing down.  I chased him upstream, eventually tiring him out and resting him in my net.  He was, in fact, hooked in the mouth and one of the healthiest browns I've seen, weighing in at 5 3/4 pounds, with the heart of a lion.  It definitely ranks in as one of the most memorable fish to date.

The leaper.  This fish was a beast to land.

We continued on this trend of seeing bruiser after bruiser.  Not all of them ate our fly, but most of them did.  We had to get creative on a few fish, but in the end, it was an unbelievable day.  We didn't break the double digit mark, but we got pretty damn close.  The final tally consisted of two fish at 4 pounds, two at 5 pounds, a 5 3/4 pounder, a 6 1/2 pounder and the biggest totaling 8 pounds.  On top of that, we either missed or snapped off another 4-6 fish all in the same weight class or bigger.  Zach had a heart breaker, snapping off the one fish that may have broken the double digit mark.  But, in the end it was an unbelievable run on this creek.  Unforgettable.  

This is the 8 pounder under water.  Brown trout pout.

Big fish of the trip.  8 pounds right on the nuts.  Thick fish.

The last night we were there, we had saved all of the wood and our flasks of whisky to have either a victorious or a mournful bon fire depending on the amount of success we had on the river.  This night was definitely victorious.  We tested the burning of cow shit and it turns out that it does in fact burn.  It smells horrible when burned, but it did help us conserve our wood to make our fire last into the night.  We felt like true cowboys, collecting shit piles, basking in poop smoke.  It's all part of the adventure.

Drinking whisky, burning cow pies.

Career Day

We ventured to the Oreti River, which is notorious for big fish.  We met up with a guy we met when we were fishing near the Mavora lakes, Jeff, and he took us to where he had fished previously on the Oreti.  This stretch gets hammered pretty good, leading to very spooky and for lack of a better word, smart fish.  The weather forecast read "fine" which in New Zealand means sunny to mostly sunny.  However, we woke up early to solidify our spot on the river to find clouds and fog, which essentially ruins spotting conditions on the Oreti.  We sat for an hour or so, making our instant coffee, scoping out maps and sleeping off the previous late night at the bar in the front seat of the car.  The fog didn't lift and the clouds didn't clear and we eventually said, "Screw it, let's go fishing".

Les and Zach took the upper Patterson Bush Beat and Jeff and I started down the Lincoln Beat only to find shitty spotting conditions and very few fish.  There is so much good water on this stretch of river, however we were only able to see 10 feet of it at a time due to the poor visibility.  We battled for the first 3 or 4 hours, spooking the few fish we saw.  Eventually, I became a bit impatient and frustrated and told Jeff we either need to start blind fishing or sit down and wait for the sun to break so we can actually start spotting fish from a reasonable distance.  Up until then, we hadn't casted to a fish and the ones we did cast to, were one wrong presentation away from buggering downstream.

We stopped to have some lunch which consisted of 3 slices of aged cheese, hand shredded slow roasted chicken breast, incorporated into a dijon aioli, topped with a delicately laid layer of dijon mustard for presentation, of course, wrapped in a whole grain tortilla shell.  But, really what it consisted of was a tortilla with sharp cheddar cheese, or in Kiwi terms, "Tasty Cheese", canned dijon flavored mayonnaise chicken  plopped down onto an aggressive pile of whole grain mustard, mushed together and eaten as fast as it was made.  A pretty tasty meal, but lacking in the gourmet department.  This was eaten just after our amuse-bouche of tasty cheese and summer sausage eaten together in whole.  A great way to get the head right and regain the energy to battle poor conditions.

When we finished lunch, our luck turned and sun peeked through the clouds.  The grey slowly turned to blue and we all of a sudden had ideal fishing conditions with great spotting and low winds for accurate casts.  The fish started to come out of the wood work and we began to have opportunities at feeding fish.  This isn't to say that the fishing was easy.  If there was a doctorate degree given to fish with an emphasis of determining what was real and what was our fly, these fish would have walked with honors and proudly hung their plaque on the wall.  Aside from our experiences with trout feeding on willow grubs down south, these fish were by far the most technical to date.  I felt as though I was pulling all of the tricks out of the book.  I almost went midgy on their asses.  I would change up flies 7 or 8 times only to have them give me the middle fin and spook, leaving me speechless and heart broken.  But, we received more chances.

Jeff hooked into the first fish.  Of all of the flies for this fish to eat, he took no time in demolishing a peacock humpy.  He had this fish on for a minute or so, but ended with it throwing the hook leaving his line limp and his morale broken.  This did, however, give us hope that these fish would eat if we presented the right fly.  It's amazing what that glimmer of confidence will do to an angler.

 I have to give Jeff a ridiculous amount of credit for his ability to spot fish on this river.  Once the conditions improved, he spotted about 90% of the fish before they spooked.  I wish our fishing was as on point.  We kept walking and casted to a few more fish.  Still nothing.  Finally, we came upon a fish and spotted it late.  It didn't flee, however.  It stayed in its lane and continued feeding.  We slowly backed off and got into position to make a cast.  It was my turn to fish and I threw a few different flies at him and he didn't budge.  Didn't even twitch.  Showed no interest.  I attempted a "Bionic Bug", which is a local pattern, tied by a guy named Stu Tripney who owns Stu's Fly Shop in Athol.  The fly is a gigantic fly that doesn't really look like anything and has doll boggly eyes glued onto two foam posts.  This fly usually is a last resort and will sometimes induce a reaction strike with trout.  You plop it down near the fish and with all the commotion on the surface, it will sometimes cause the fish to react without thinking and it will engulf it.  Well, even though it worked in the past, this fish didn't have any interest.  At this point, we walked back up to the fish, even with its eyes and looked at it, just to make sure it was a fish we were fishing to.  Sometimes you are casting for a half hour to a rock without knowing it.  Once we saw it feed again, we backed off and reformulated our plan of attack.

This entire time I thought this fish was spooked, but when we saw the fish eat right in front of us, when any other normal fish would have been a 1/2 mile downstream by now, we knew we had a definite chance at hooking this fish.  I tied on a size 16 Shroeder's Caddis with a traditional, hare's ear soft hackle off the back, trailing about 2 1/2 feet.  On the first cast, the fish swung out and hammered the soft hackle.  I set the hook and my rod was bent.  From there the fight was on.

When I first started casting to him, I thought he wasn't that big.  Maybe 3 to 3 1/2 pounds.  Big back home, but average to below average in New Zealand.  I'm not gonna lie, we're starting to become a little spoiled.  He was a strong fish, however.  I was laying the hammer to him pretty good, but he wasn't budging very easily.  I eventually got him near shore to discover that this fish was enormous.  I beached him in some shallow water and Jeff jumped in behind him and tailed him.  We put him at all of 7 pounds and up until this point, marks the brown trout of my career.  It was an absolutely perfect fish and a perfect way to end a tough day.  It is a time like this that makes all of the patience and dedication worth it.  I could have quit and walked back to the car at that moment.

I'll remember this day forever.  I hope for the opportunity to one day top this fish by the time I leave New Zealand.  But, if not, 7 pounds is pretty damn good.

Zach also roped one in on the Oreti.  Right at 6 lbs.  Good on ya, mate!

Asian Carp

I stole this from my buddy Jesse Robbins blog Solid Hookups.  Pretty damn funny.

Click here to see the video.  You won't regret it.