Epic-less

After Les' injury, our fearsome twosome named Drew and Zach, lost all momentum.  We were taking names and kicking ass up to this point, but it was difficult conjuring up the motivation to ditch Les and carry on with the mission of ripping faces of unsuspecting brown trout throughout the south island of New Zealand.  When we finally pulled it together and decided on a departure date, I was itching to get out of there and get after it.  A break here and there is alright.  But, two weeks, primarily cooped up inside, is enough to get you a bit antsy.  Needless to say, I was ready to fish, and fish hard for my remaining few weeks.

As I said in my previous post, we made a couple pit stops on the way to the Mokihinui trailhead.  The fishing was forgettable with only a couple small browns landed.  I unfortunately can tell that I have become a big fish snob and am potentially ruined for life.  Those small browns were all between 3 and 4 pounds and would serve as my big fish of the season back home.  But, it's all relative, right?  We continued on, gearing up with groceries in Westport and stopped at an information site, or "i Site", to check the weather for the week.  This particular drainage is very flood prone, so it is important to be ready for bad weather and the potential to be stranded at the hut due to impassable creek crossings.  On the 7-day forecast, three of the days called for scattered rain throughout the day.  Now, we've seen some wacky weather on our travels throughout New Zealand and we've learned not to fully trust the weatherman.  I'm not sure who in there right mind would choose to become a meteorologist in New Zealand.  The weather, in most places around the world is difficult to predict, but when you slap a small piece of land in the middle of the ocean, covered with beach, jungle, intense mountain ranges, vast valleys and everything in between, weather becomes a weatherman's nightmare.  Regardless, since I hadn't been to the west coast yet, I innocently asked the lady working behind the information counter whether when they forecast light rain, it truly means light rain or it has the potential for torrential downpour.  Out of a dark corner in the room boomed the most evil, maniacal cackle I have ever heard.  It honestly made me jump a bit as I had no idea there was anyone else in the room.  Sitting behind a card table stationed across the room, was an old lady, that if she was an actress in Hollywood, would definitely be type-casted as the evil witch or hag warning Caesar of the "Ides of March".  She was garbed in rags and sweatpants, wore her hair in long greying dreadlocks that draped to the middle of her back, sported only a handful of rotting teeth that were enveloped by a straggly salt and pepper beard and an impressive jet black mustache that would rival that of Tom Selleck.  After she was finished with her satanical display of gut-wrenching laughter, she let out a deep, mucous moving cough, most likely spawning from an eternity of cigarette smoking or years of inhalation from her steaming, bubbly cauldron where she conducts her spells and brews elixirs.  It was the type of cough that you not only hear, but are forced to watch, causing anyone unfortunate enough to witness such a spectacle to cringe and wish they could take back the last minute of their life.  When she was finished, she began indirectly ridiculing my seemingly worthless question and telling me that it never just rains in this part of the country, but instead pours until the entire coast is pleading for mercy.  This was very comforting news, however a simple, "It never really just lightly rains.  I'd prepare for heavy rain." would have sufficed.  But, thanks to this strange lady and her evil ways, I both became informed and officially frightened, ensuring years of nightmares and potential therapy.

This might be a stretch.

After our free lesson in west coast weather, we ventured on and arrived at the trailhead the following morning.  Having packed the night before at a nearby campsite, we were all set for a quick departure.  On our last extensive hike into the Electric River, my boots took a bit of a beating.  Two of the metal eyes that hold the laces snapped off, causing the boots to lace up improperly and the soles of both boots were severely separating from the leather.  I ended up buying a new pair of boots online from America and had them shipped here because outdoor gear in New Zealand is obscenely priced (New boots ~ $400+)  Unfortunately, even though I knew the boots fit (same company as my previous boot), I had no idea what type of boot they were. They looked like a similar model as the ones I had before, but when they arrived in the mail, I immediately noticed that they were extremely rigid and had very little bend to the sole, requiring a severe break in period.  Perfect!  I essentially strapped them on for the first time that day at the trailhead, and I could tell that this hike was going to be brutal.

The sign at the trailhead said 8 hours hike to the Mokihinui Forks hut.  Normally, we cut quite a bit off of that since we hike at a pretty good pace with few short stops.  I could tell immediately that I was going to struggle.  Within an hour, my heels were hamburger.  Normally, you get a grace period and feel hot spots that don't turn into blisters or, if they do, it's after many hours or even days of successive hiking.  With having little to no bend in the soles of my sparkling new boots, my heels had nowhere to go but up the back of the boot, causing steady rubbing from the get go.  As a result from the consistent sharp pain, my gait changed from vertical walking to kind of a side to side waddle.  With a 50-60 pound pack on your back, this unnatural movement causes your muscles to work harder and differently than normal, further progressing my exhaustion and strain at an accelerating rate.  After about 4 hours, my legs were officially gone and were prematurely cramping up.  My pace was absolute shit and I was expecting an 8+ hour hike.  Surprisingly, after a shade under 7 hours, the hut appeared ahead of schedule.  At that moment, when the hut peaked its head from amongst the dense foliage, all feelings of disgust and feeling like a pansy-ass vanished as I was spontaneously filled with adrenaline spawned energy allowing for a strong finish.  As always the relief and overall satisfaction of reaching a back country destination was overwhelming.  It's always worth it.

That night, we settled in, made some dinner and ate to the light given off by the quaint fire we were able to muster with the limited supply of firewood supplied by the previous temporary residents of the hut.  Not much was exchanged between the two of us other than expressing our satisfaction for our gourmet cuisine of dehydrated noodles mixed with canned chicken and discussing our plan of attack for tomorrow's fishing.

Drying off.

When I woke up the next morning, I felt as if I had been run over by something large and heavy and then the driver threw it in reverse and speed bumped me one more time just for shits and giggles.  Both of us were a little sluggish to get the day started.  As eager as I was to start fishing, my body was failing me.  When I finally did make my move around 9 am, I pulled my legs to my chest to find my exit out of my sleeping bag.  As I did, excruciating pain shot to my heels as they had officially scabbed up and adhered to my sleeping bag liner, ripping the thin layer of covering to the ping pong sized blisters off abruptly.  It was a great way to begin my day.  Once we made breakfast, geared up and strapped on the wading boots, we set off up the south fork of the Mokihinui.  We were told to bypass the first couple miles of water due to the silt and sand build up resulting in very unsuitable habitat for trout.  We walked for about an hour before we spotted the first fish.  It was Zach's shot at casting.  As he was approaching the fish to make his cast, we spotted another fish appear out of nowhere sitting amidst a large snag subsurface.  Fearing that this second trout would bugger upstream and spook the first fish we saw, I opted to cast to the lower fish to see if, one, I could hook him and pull him out of there so Zach could cast at the original target, and two, hopefully, if that plan failed, spook the fish down stream.  Well, neither plan succeeded.  We resorted to throwing a small rock at the downstream fish, but the commotion of the rock breaking the water's surface not only caused the fish to jet upstream, but also immediately spooked the original fish and both disappeared forever.

Disappointed in our lack of tact and stealth, we trudged on in search of another fishy looking silhouette.  We saw a couple more fish but they either were spotted too late or were sitting in areas that made it impossible to get a drift over them.  Zach did end up hooking into a nice 4 1/2 pounder that took a nymph dropper.

Good ol' buck.

We hiked all the way up to a couple of the tributaries to the south branch.  But this late in the season, there wasn't enough water for these tribs to sustain a population of big browns.  I would imagine fishing them earlier in the season at higher flows would be worth your time.  By this time, we were a ways away from the hut and night was quickly approaching.  We decided to call it quits and begin our disheartening trek home.  That night was pretty typical, though we had a bit more energy to go head to head in some games of cards.

The next two days we headed up the north branch, the first day on the lower stretch and the second day up into the gorge.  The north branch embodied a completely different character.  The lower reaches resembled the south branch, however, as soon as you walk exactly an hour, you run into a lone boulder the size of a minivan.  This marks the beginning of the gorge, which is gorgeous, no pun intended.  Unfortunately, the fishing was extremely difficult.  Because of the low water levels, all of the fish were sitting in the slow deep pools, belly to the bottom, cruising and eating nymphs flowing inches from the river bottom.  You'd think you got a good cast, anticipating the trout's line, and allowing enough time for the nymph to reach the bottom before the fish reached your fly.  As soon as the trout would approach your fly, the damn thing would take a rapid turn to face you and swim and follow your fly line to your feet until it bolted back down to the bottom, pectoral fins out like wings and wants nothing to do with you.  Each pool had at least one good-sized brown cruising the depths and of course we tried and failed to catch each one, further sinking into a rut of depression and frustration.  This continued for around 6 km of river when finally I spotted a fish that was actually in a feeding lane in the pillow upstream of a submerged boulder.  Even though, up until that point, I was downtrodden and doubting my ability as a trout fisherman, this was one of those fish where I knew would make its way into the mesh of my net.  It was one of those fish that was completely drunk with feeding and would essentially eat anything that even came close to resembling a fly.

I climbed down from the boulder from which we were spotting from and made my way to my casting position directly downstream from the trout's perch.  This was right at the head of a pool in a deep run so the water was moving pretty swiftly and deep.  I was standing in waist deep water and as I looked up to line up my cast and assess how much line I would need, I noticed a pretty nasty glare on the surface.  I made a cast and as I feared, I couldn't see my dry fly on the surface.  I yelled up to Zach to see if he had a read on the fly.  He couldn't see it either from where he was standing.  I did notice the fish was feeding mostly to his right and fortunately there was about a foot wide line to the fish's right where I could see the fly and as a result, detect any strike on the nymph below.  I kept pounding that line over and over.  Since the fish was feeding so aggressively, there was a good chance he wouldn't see my fly or could be swinging in the opposite direction.  In most cases, in New Zealand, when you make one or two good casts over a fish and he doesn't eat or spook, you immediately switch flies.  Since this particular fish was in such a frenzy, I assumed fly selection was irrelevant.  The trick was to get the trout to see the fly, and in this case, persistence paid off.  On about the tenth cast, my parachute adams was dragged under, I set and the line went tight with life.  This fish gave me a run for my money and tore up and down the river, weaving in and out of boulders.  It was quite the task maneuvering through this deep section of river to land this trout.  Finally, after a nerve racking session of fighting the fish standing directly upstream of him, trying to drag him into a back eddy, I managed to net him after an unforgettable fight.  It weighed in right at 5 lbs, but goes down as one of my more memorable fish and made the hike in worth every painful step.

Pretty fish.

We spent another day exploring a bit more water but ended up cutting our trip short.  After what we equated to be 28 hours of hiking, we landed two fish.  We saw some absolutely beautiful country and I guess that makes it all worth it in the end.  But let's be honest, a few more fish in the net would've been a welcomed highlight to this adventure.  We could have done without the ridiculous amount of sandflies as well.  But, I've gotten as used to them as I am going to get.  They're still bastards and I hate them, but I am always ready for them.

Tiny demons.

We hiked out after our fifth night at the Mokihinui Forks hut.  What took us a shade under 7 hours on the way in, only took us a little over 5 hours on the way out.  As bummed as we were to not have as good of fishing as the area has the reputation for, we still had a great trip and saw a breath taking part of the world.

Unfortunately, I can't un-see or un-experience the hag at the i Site.  She was truly terrifying.