Hold Strong...

Bit the bullet and went bungy jumping.  Here are some pictures of the day.  To anyone with the predicament of whether to sky dive or bungy jump, it isn't even a question.  Trust the rubber.

Check out the video here.

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.

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.