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.