Two days back I shot down the Ohau Rd to recce the lower section of the Twizel river, in an effort to get downstream of a few good spring fed creeks where I hoped to combat the rapidly dropping levels further upstream.
bad news though, the 400m upstream of the lower ford is racked with Didymo, and din't seem to hold many fish. in the hour and a half I spent looking and blind casting, I only saw one fish, albeit a good sized one. hopefully a decent flood event will flush the dreaded rock-snot out.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
River Levels Dropping
Most of the rivers that are not sourced from the main divide in the Southern Alps are dropping in level rapidly as hot, dry norwesters have been consistently hitting the region all through spring and early summer.
The larger rivers, sourced from large snowfields and the main divide are getting enough melt and 'spill-over' from the West Coast rain that they are holding their level reasonably well.
These conditions saw me heading up to the Ohau River on a few nights back looking to repeat the same results achieved on the Fraser with an evening hatch, except on a river that is about ten times the size. There's heaps of didymo in the Ohau too, but it holds heaps of fish, and doesn't get as much pressure as many of the rivers up here.
There had been a cool easterly blowing up some cool sea air for the first time in a few weeks, and the lower air temperature seemed to affect the sedge hatch on the river. Arriving at the river around nine was a bit early, so I spent a lot of time sitting on the bank and not doing much, waiting for some fish to show themselves in a 100 m long run that was smooth and slow moving. one cruised past close by, but not much was happening until about 10:00.
At the same time as a small hatch broke out, half of Timaru appeared to come spotlighting down the far bank of the river, which was normally OK, until somebody let rip with a shotgun at a rabbit in the general direction of yours truly. I let rip with a few choice words at full volumem, which sent them off to recklessly discharge firearms somewhere else.
Now where was I? Ahh yes, the hatch. A few quiet 'plops' punctuated the near silence, one fish just down-stream and three meters off the bank became quite active. moving below it on the river bank, I managed to get some good dead-drifts past the fish going on. It took a few casts to elicit a take, but as the light faded he kept rising in the same position, and finally took the imitation - a Dads Favourite I think. The 2lb rainbow put up a struggle akin to a fish much bigger, and took some ten minutes to finally land. I was keen to release it, but as I slipped it into the net it flopped off the rim of the net and up onto the river bank. after a few seconds of thrashing on the rocks it was looking a bit worse for wear, so I elected to bang it on the head, and take it home for tomorrows tea, instead of risking it failing to recover from it's injuries while on shore.
The moon was up, but covered in cloud, which made the now rather sporadic rises hard to pick, so home we went. So far on similar sorties the Ohau hasn't produced spectacular fishing, but I'm pretty confident that on a warm, still night, some sections of the river have a lot of potential. will keep you posted.
The larger rivers, sourced from large snowfields and the main divide are getting enough melt and 'spill-over' from the West Coast rain that they are holding their level reasonably well.
These conditions saw me heading up to the Ohau River on a few nights back looking to repeat the same results achieved on the Fraser with an evening hatch, except on a river that is about ten times the size. There's heaps of didymo in the Ohau too, but it holds heaps of fish, and doesn't get as much pressure as many of the rivers up here.
There had been a cool easterly blowing up some cool sea air for the first time in a few weeks, and the lower air temperature seemed to affect the sedge hatch on the river. Arriving at the river around nine was a bit early, so I spent a lot of time sitting on the bank and not doing much, waiting for some fish to show themselves in a 100 m long run that was smooth and slow moving. one cruised past close by, but not much was happening until about 10:00.
At the same time as a small hatch broke out, half of Timaru appeared to come spotlighting down the far bank of the river, which was normally OK, until somebody let rip with a shotgun at a rabbit in the general direction of yours truly. I let rip with a few choice words at full volumem, which sent them off to recklessly discharge firearms somewhere else.
Now where was I? Ahh yes, the hatch. A few quiet 'plops' punctuated the near silence, one fish just down-stream and three meters off the bank became quite active. moving below it on the river bank, I managed to get some good dead-drifts past the fish going on. It took a few casts to elicit a take, but as the light faded he kept rising in the same position, and finally took the imitation - a Dads Favourite I think. The 2lb rainbow put up a struggle akin to a fish much bigger, and took some ten minutes to finally land. I was keen to release it, but as I slipped it into the net it flopped off the rim of the net and up onto the river bank. after a few seconds of thrashing on the rocks it was looking a bit worse for wear, so I elected to bang it on the head, and take it home for tomorrows tea, instead of risking it failing to recover from it's injuries while on shore.
The moon was up, but covered in cloud, which made the now rather sporadic rises hard to pick, so home we went. So far on similar sorties the Ohau hasn't produced spectacular fishing, but I'm pretty confident that on a warm, still night, some sections of the river have a lot of potential. will keep you posted.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Epic Evening Rise
Being a somewhat kept man, I'm not usually alowed out too much after the 6:00pm curfew, but last night was a notable exception. After attending to a work related call at about 8:30pm, I decided it was high time to have a bit of a look at how the small streams in the area go at night. It was a bit of a pleasant suprise.
I managed to hook up two or three fish in the Twizel and land one while there was still daylight. When it finally got dark at about 10:00, I snuck over to a spring fed stream that always runs a lot colder than the Twizel, and predominantly holds Browns . The stream had literally come to life. A somewhat monster hatch of mayflies was underway, keeping the air thick with flying things.
A mate of mine who I do a bit of rabbit shooting with reckons that for every rabbit you see, you've walked past 6. After last nights display of trout numbers after dark, it would be fair to say the same thing about trout. Whenever I visit this stretch, I usually only spot a fish or two. A momentary pause as I approached a long slow moving run in the stream revealed an almost constant sound of 'plop'...'plop' as fish sipped insect after insect out of the surface film all up and down the run.
The Moon was at that kind-of fingernail phase, so there wasn't much light at all. There was just enough to reveal the ever increasing rings of each rise nearby, but spotting where the size 12 Dad's Favourite fly landed or drifted was nothing but informed guesswork.
The next hour and a half was spent casting to the vicinity of a recent rise, and watching/listening for a take somewhere close to where I thought the fly might be. This was kind of tricky, as there were always other fish, sometimes right by my feet ditracting me as they grabbed something off the surface.
I must have missed about twelve to fifteen takes (due to the guesswork) and hooked up positively about seven times. Only 3 fish came to the net, as there is no shortage of submerged obstacles along the deep sided banks for the wily browns to wrap a tippet around. Each of the fish that I landed were in pretty good condition, and were full of determination not to be netted. They didn't tend to run too far up or downstream, but whenever they came close to the net, put in a burst of pace back into the middle of the stream before settling down again.
It was about 11:00 when Sarah dropped me a text message telling me I was a naughty boy for staying out so late. Despite having a fiesty trout on the end of the leader, I replied that 'I'd be home soon, and that txting one-handed with out losing a fish is a bit tricky....gotta go'
After landing and returning the fish to the water, I snuck home to bed to find Sarah fast asleep.
The intensity of the hatch was a bit of a suprise, as was the number of fish in the streams that normally you just don't see during daylight hours. I reckon that a change in curfew might be in order over the next few weeks......
I managed to hook up two or three fish in the Twizel and land one while there was still daylight. When it finally got dark at about 10:00, I snuck over to a spring fed stream that always runs a lot colder than the Twizel, and predominantly holds Browns . The stream had literally come to life. A somewhat monster hatch of mayflies was underway, keeping the air thick with flying things.
A mate of mine who I do a bit of rabbit shooting with reckons that for every rabbit you see, you've walked past 6. After last nights display of trout numbers after dark, it would be fair to say the same thing about trout. Whenever I visit this stretch, I usually only spot a fish or two. A momentary pause as I approached a long slow moving run in the stream revealed an almost constant sound of 'plop'...'plop' as fish sipped insect after insect out of the surface film all up and down the run.
The Moon was at that kind-of fingernail phase, so there wasn't much light at all. There was just enough to reveal the ever increasing rings of each rise nearby, but spotting where the size 12 Dad's Favourite fly landed or drifted was nothing but informed guesswork.
The next hour and a half was spent casting to the vicinity of a recent rise, and watching/listening for a take somewhere close to where I thought the fly might be. This was kind of tricky, as there were always other fish, sometimes right by my feet ditracting me as they grabbed something off the surface.
I must have missed about twelve to fifteen takes (due to the guesswork) and hooked up positively about seven times. Only 3 fish came to the net, as there is no shortage of submerged obstacles along the deep sided banks for the wily browns to wrap a tippet around. Each of the fish that I landed were in pretty good condition, and were full of determination not to be netted. They didn't tend to run too far up or downstream, but whenever they came close to the net, put in a burst of pace back into the middle of the stream before settling down again.
It was about 11:00 when Sarah dropped me a text message telling me I was a naughty boy for staying out so late. Despite having a fiesty trout on the end of the leader, I replied that 'I'd be home soon, and that txting one-handed with out losing a fish is a bit tricky....gotta go'
After landing and returning the fish to the water, I snuck home to bed to find Sarah fast asleep.
The intensity of the hatch was a bit of a suprise, as was the number of fish in the streams that normally you just don't see during daylight hours. I reckon that a change in curfew might be in order over the next few weeks......
Fish Condition Improving Rapidly
The Christmas Season is well known for it's propensity for adding some extra pounds to one or two of us, and it seems like the trout in the Mackenzie Basin are partaking of some yuletide feasting also.........
The morning started with a light frost (yep, it's summer), so there was a bit of a delay getting down the road as the windshield needed some time to thaw out. The whole frost thing prescribes that the air is rather cold, which took me a bit by suprise, so I hit the river right on sunrise with gloves covering my cold little fingies. Gloves suck for tying on flies and tippets tippets etc, so off they came before my fingers could recover from the initial shock of stepping outside the front door of the house.
Twenty minutes later, after much frozen fumbling, I got a fresh tippet and fly tied on and attempted couple of blind casts into a likely looking pool - no movement was to be detected. After crossing the mist-shrouded stream (yet another shock to the senses), I bumbled across a paddock through icy grass to a consistent pool that is always worth a quick look before work. At this point, I think the water temerature was a whole lot warmer than the air temp, so there was no hesitaion in getting back into ankle deep water as I approached the most likely piece of holding water in the stretch. Hesitation would have been a good option, as no sooner did I step into the pool that a movement a meter or two upstream caught my eye. Disturbed by the graunching rocks as I entered the water a solid trout of about 6-7 lb worked his way into a murky backwater only meteres away. he didn't bolt, but just ensured that whatever made the noise wouldn't get a chance to have a go at him. Slow learner! That was the second time I'd spooked a fish on entering the water in this pool while in a hurry to get to the 'sexy' water just upstream.......
The Sun started to come up and the air rapid began to warm rapidly. The black humpies I bought off trademe last season have been getting a hding, and today was no exception. 3rd cast along the steepening bank near the head of the pool elicited a response from a well concealed 2-4 lb rainbow, who spat the dummy within seconds of rather spirited thrashing midway through the water column.
Confident that the last 10 meters or so of the pool head was still relatively undisturbed, I kept casting blindly at some very high-percentage looking water. 2 more casts later a less impressive fish of the same species rose enthusiastically to the humpy. This time the hook up was solid. She had a lot of guts for a small fish, putting four or five spectacular leaps in before stripping the line off as she tore downstream into the well defined, fast moving channel below the pool. Five minutes later, after chasing her down to the rapid and coaxing her into some quieter water, she came to the net.
The trout would only have tipped the scales around 2lb at the most, but was in much better condition than any of the rainbows in the rivers have been of late. Her body had lost the gaunt, post spawning look and her deep flanks and shimmering colours made for an impressive sight. Not needing any meat for the table this week I slipped her back into the water and enjoyed watching her disappear into the rapids for cover.
Work-time was nearing, so I almost skipped back to the car and headed off to do whatever it is that I'm supposed to do when I'm not fishing.
The morning started with a light frost (yep, it's summer), so there was a bit of a delay getting down the road as the windshield needed some time to thaw out. The whole frost thing prescribes that the air is rather cold, which took me a bit by suprise, so I hit the river right on sunrise with gloves covering my cold little fingies. Gloves suck for tying on flies and tippets tippets etc, so off they came before my fingers could recover from the initial shock of stepping outside the front door of the house.
Twenty minutes later, after much frozen fumbling, I got a fresh tippet and fly tied on and attempted couple of blind casts into a likely looking pool - no movement was to be detected. After crossing the mist-shrouded stream (yet another shock to the senses), I bumbled across a paddock through icy grass to a consistent pool that is always worth a quick look before work. At this point, I think the water temerature was a whole lot warmer than the air temp, so there was no hesitaion in getting back into ankle deep water as I approached the most likely piece of holding water in the stretch. Hesitation would have been a good option, as no sooner did I step into the pool that a movement a meter or two upstream caught my eye. Disturbed by the graunching rocks as I entered the water a solid trout of about 6-7 lb worked his way into a murky backwater only meteres away. he didn't bolt, but just ensured that whatever made the noise wouldn't get a chance to have a go at him. Slow learner! That was the second time I'd spooked a fish on entering the water in this pool while in a hurry to get to the 'sexy' water just upstream.......
The Sun started to come up and the air rapid began to warm rapidly. The black humpies I bought off trademe last season have been getting a hding, and today was no exception. 3rd cast along the steepening bank near the head of the pool elicited a response from a well concealed 2-4 lb rainbow, who spat the dummy within seconds of rather spirited thrashing midway through the water column.
Confident that the last 10 meters or so of the pool head was still relatively undisturbed, I kept casting blindly at some very high-percentage looking water. 2 more casts later a less impressive fish of the same species rose enthusiastically to the humpy. This time the hook up was solid. She had a lot of guts for a small fish, putting four or five spectacular leaps in before stripping the line off as she tore downstream into the well defined, fast moving channel below the pool. Five minutes later, after chasing her down to the rapid and coaxing her into some quieter water, she came to the net.
The trout would only have tipped the scales around 2lb at the most, but was in much better condition than any of the rainbows in the rivers have been of late. Her body had lost the gaunt, post spawning look and her deep flanks and shimmering colours made for an impressive sight. Not needing any meat for the table this week I slipped her back into the water and enjoyed watching her disappear into the rapids for cover.
Work-time was nearing, so I almost skipped back to the car and headed off to do whatever it is that I'm supposed to do when I'm not fishing.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Cool Damp and Windy
The title is about all there is to say about the fishing conditions over the last few days.
The rivers that are sourced from the main divide are in full flood, while the high country rivers sourced in the foothills are all running high and clear. Saturday and Sunday saw some fresh snow on the tops, which is uncommon but not an outlandish sight at this time of year. Hopefully the extra bit of snow and rain will ensure that the river levels will remain reasonable for a few weeks to come.
The fish are moving and rising to dry flys where visibility avails - I hooked two and landed one this morning, right after he stripped me out to my backing. Go the mighty humpy!
The wind has hardly stopped, with gales on Saturday and Sunday, but generally calmer in the early morning and late evening.
The worst days fishing is still better than the best day at work, so get out there and get your hat blown off, your fly snagged in a tree, and your feet wet!
The rivers that are sourced from the main divide are in full flood, while the high country rivers sourced in the foothills are all running high and clear. Saturday and Sunday saw some fresh snow on the tops, which is uncommon but not an outlandish sight at this time of year. Hopefully the extra bit of snow and rain will ensure that the river levels will remain reasonable for a few weeks to come.
The fish are moving and rising to dry flys where visibility avails - I hooked two and landed one this morning, right after he stripped me out to my backing. Go the mighty humpy!
The wind has hardly stopped, with gales on Saturday and Sunday, but generally calmer in the early morning and late evening.
The worst days fishing is still better than the best day at work, so get out there and get your hat blown off, your fly snagged in a tree, and your feet wet!
Wednesday, December 09, 2009
There's More To Fishing Than Fishing
Some clever fella once said that there is so much more to fishing than just fishing. Wise words. After a somewhat tiresome meeting last Wednesday night, I dropped Sarah a quick SMS to advise that "I was going fishing and I may be some time".
A few mates had been telling stories of the beautifully conditioned, but extremely elusive trout that reside in Lake Poaka. The lake is relatively deep for its size, definately not tarn-like, and is fed by a constant supply of clean, well oxygenated water from the upper Twizel river. Poaka outlets below the Pukaki Canal into the lower Twizel. A couple of family picnics had revealed large numbers of well condtioned trout that cruise the extensive weed & silt beds. Restricted to fly-fishing only, the lake doesn't receive a lot of pressure, and the amount of willow trees lining the shore give limited access for a fly cast. These conditions are certainly conducive to good numbers of good fish, and also to stories of what a difficult place for an angler to catch a feed.
Exicted by the prospect of solid fish numbers, unfazed by other reports of difficult fishing, and jaded from the busyness of life, I jumped into the truck and bumbled up to Poaka for a look around. It was about 1/2 an hour before sunset, and a light nor-easter was dredging up the odd cool gust from the coast. As I rigged up the #6, I kept a close eye on the piece of water that I intended to fish. The evening rise was being adversley affected by the breeze, but every few minutes a slight lull would render the water glasslike. Nothing much was hatching off the surface until the breeze abated, and then a few sedge would appear. If the lull lasted long enough, the
odd swirl would materialise as a trout sucked it's prey off the surface film. Not a huge amount of action, but enough to give away the presence of a feeding fish, if only I could get close enough.
The simplest spot to put in an unobstructed cast looked to be in a small neck that is used as a ford for anyone owning an SUV, and carries a considerable flow as the lake steps down into the outlet area. The flow of the lake built considerably where it entered the neck, and I hoped that it would hold a fish in one position, as opposed to the rest of the lake where the trout predominantly cruise.
Being an impatient sort joker I quietly waded knee deep into the ford. The Black Hills stood above the western end of the lake, shrouded in a golding sky. A few canada geese glided into the northern shore, and a sense of genuine well-being enveloped the entire place. The worries of our self-made, pre-christmas chaos seemed to drain out of my boots as the current pulled past.
I probably stood there for an hour and a half. Partly watching for fish surfacing within casting distance, but mostly enjoying the moment.
A disturbance in the water at my feet revealed a large brown working his way upstream, aware of human presence but not alarmed enough to bolt. Instead he quietly increased his determination to head up stream, and purposefully worked his way into the deep safety of the weedbeds.
With each lull in the breeze, the wind-driven ripples were replaced by the telltale rings created from feeding fish. Few were within casting distance, and none were appearing in the same spot with any regularity. finally, a fish seemed to go to work on the surface, rising every minute or so to slurp a newly hatched insect off the surface. The fish was parked about 6-7 meters upstream and a similar distance to the right, close to the shore. Her position was such that a steady supply of food was floating past, but was yet to pick up the speed that was whipping past my legs. A size 16 twiglight beauty was the pre-made descision, and a couple of casts went out, presenting relatively roughly, and a little short of the target. Drag was proving to be a problem too, as fishing upand across to the fish meant that the flyline was at the mercy of the every-increading current below her lie.
Feeding out some extra line and forceing a 'wiggle' in the line bought a few more seconds of dead-drift, as did some creative mending as the fly was about to drag. all up the best I could get out of this spot was about 5-7 seconds from the time that the fly hit the water to the time that the fly looked more like a microscopic water skier getting down the lake. The odds were stacked against the angler, for sure.
Nervous that I may have spooked the animal with the first casts, I impatiently wated for a few minutes to see if she would continue feeding. As the light and my hope faded, I reflected that returning home with out a fish would not be too fazing as the whole experience had been like medicine. A definitive swirl indicated that she was unalarmed and hungry. Ahh well, give it a nudge and go home, I guess.. A higher back-cast gave a bit more control and I planted a decent presentation on the water. Nothing. Casted again. nothing. The third cast seemed to do the trick and just as the little black fly threatened to start dragging, the water boiled and the imitation was taken.
A quick three-count and a gentle tightening of the line set the tiny hook firmly. In the near darkness, the fish seemed relatively unalarmed, oblicvious to the danger that it was in, and mostly just keen to remove the odd discomfort in it's mouth. Quietly I moved towards the fish, winding slowly, until she got the message, made a couple of airbourne bids for freedom, then ran out into the lake. I was keen to steer the fish well clear of the willow choked current below our position, but the trout was equally cognisant of the unfair advantage that the piece of water provided. As she worked her way across and down towards the faster water, I applied as much strain as I dared to encourage her back up stream. It was so dark now that the line was invisible except for the first couple of meters leaving the rod, so her exact postion was a bit of a guess
until she disturbed the surface every so often. The increasing darkness certainly held the advantage that the fish was less aware of my location, and was quickly netted when she began to tire.
A well conditioned Brown hen tipped the scales at 4lb, her lack of length was more than made up by her thick back and deep flanks. needing to keep real the justification of going out for some man-alone-time, I dispatched her with 95 yr old Grandad's hand-turned beech baton, and made for the car.
There is definately more to fishing than just fishing.
A few mates had been telling stories of the beautifully conditioned, but extremely elusive trout that reside in Lake Poaka. The lake is relatively deep for its size, definately not tarn-like, and is fed by a constant supply of clean, well oxygenated water from the upper Twizel river. Poaka outlets below the Pukaki Canal into the lower Twizel. A couple of family picnics had revealed large numbers of well condtioned trout that cruise the extensive weed & silt beds. Restricted to fly-fishing only, the lake doesn't receive a lot of pressure, and the amount of willow trees lining the shore give limited access for a fly cast. These conditions are certainly conducive to good numbers of good fish, and also to stories of what a difficult place for an angler to catch a feed.
Exicted by the prospect of solid fish numbers, unfazed by other reports of difficult fishing, and jaded from the busyness of life, I jumped into the truck and bumbled up to Poaka for a look around. It was about 1/2 an hour before sunset, and a light nor-easter was dredging up the odd cool gust from the coast. As I rigged up the #6, I kept a close eye on the piece of water that I intended to fish. The evening rise was being adversley affected by the breeze, but every few minutes a slight lull would render the water glasslike. Nothing much was hatching off the surface until the breeze abated, and then a few sedge would appear. If the lull lasted long enough, the
odd swirl would materialise as a trout sucked it's prey off the surface film. Not a huge amount of action, but enough to give away the presence of a feeding fish, if only I could get close enough.
The simplest spot to put in an unobstructed cast looked to be in a small neck that is used as a ford for anyone owning an SUV, and carries a considerable flow as the lake steps down into the outlet area. The flow of the lake built considerably where it entered the neck, and I hoped that it would hold a fish in one position, as opposed to the rest of the lake where the trout predominantly cruise.
Being an impatient sort joker I quietly waded knee deep into the ford. The Black Hills stood above the western end of the lake, shrouded in a golding sky. A few canada geese glided into the northern shore, and a sense of genuine well-being enveloped the entire place. The worries of our self-made, pre-christmas chaos seemed to drain out of my boots as the current pulled past.
I probably stood there for an hour and a half. Partly watching for fish surfacing within casting distance, but mostly enjoying the moment.
A disturbance in the water at my feet revealed a large brown working his way upstream, aware of human presence but not alarmed enough to bolt. Instead he quietly increased his determination to head up stream, and purposefully worked his way into the deep safety of the weedbeds.
With each lull in the breeze, the wind-driven ripples were replaced by the telltale rings created from feeding fish. Few were within casting distance, and none were appearing in the same spot with any regularity. finally, a fish seemed to go to work on the surface, rising every minute or so to slurp a newly hatched insect off the surface. The fish was parked about 6-7 meters upstream and a similar distance to the right, close to the shore. Her position was such that a steady supply of food was floating past, but was yet to pick up the speed that was whipping past my legs. A size 16 twiglight beauty was the pre-made descision, and a couple of casts went out, presenting relatively roughly, and a little short of the target. Drag was proving to be a problem too, as fishing upand across to the fish meant that the flyline was at the mercy of the every-increading current below her lie.
Feeding out some extra line and forceing a 'wiggle' in the line bought a few more seconds of dead-drift, as did some creative mending as the fly was about to drag. all up the best I could get out of this spot was about 5-7 seconds from the time that the fly hit the water to the time that the fly looked more like a microscopic water skier getting down the lake. The odds were stacked against the angler, for sure.
Nervous that I may have spooked the animal with the first casts, I impatiently wated for a few minutes to see if she would continue feeding. As the light and my hope faded, I reflected that returning home with out a fish would not be too fazing as the whole experience had been like medicine. A definitive swirl indicated that she was unalarmed and hungry. Ahh well, give it a nudge and go home, I guess.. A higher back-cast gave a bit more control and I planted a decent presentation on the water. Nothing. Casted again. nothing. The third cast seemed to do the trick and just as the little black fly threatened to start dragging, the water boiled and the imitation was taken.
A quick three-count and a gentle tightening of the line set the tiny hook firmly. In the near darkness, the fish seemed relatively unalarmed, oblicvious to the danger that it was in, and mostly just keen to remove the odd discomfort in it's mouth. Quietly I moved towards the fish, winding slowly, until she got the message, made a couple of airbourne bids for freedom, then ran out into the lake. I was keen to steer the fish well clear of the willow choked current below our position, but the trout was equally cognisant of the unfair advantage that the piece of water provided. As she worked her way across and down towards the faster water, I applied as much strain as I dared to encourage her back up stream. It was so dark now that the line was invisible except for the first couple of meters leaving the rod, so her exact postion was a bit of a guess
until she disturbed the surface every so often. The increasing darkness certainly held the advantage that the fish was less aware of my location, and was quickly netted when she began to tire.
A well conditioned Brown hen tipped the scales at 4lb, her lack of length was more than made up by her thick back and deep flanks. needing to keep real the justification of going out for some man-alone-time, I dispatched her with 95 yr old Grandad's hand-turned beech baton, and made for the car.
There is definately more to fishing than just fishing.
Tuesday, December 08, 2009
One Last Cast
I'm a firm beleiver that Monday mornings are better started with a fly-rod in hand, as opposed to the standard cup of coffee and a stack of paperwork in the office. With this in mind, I set off for my regular pre-work beat on the Twizel and Fraser river just a shade before 6:00 am, intending to start the day with wet feet, cold fingers and the sense of well being that can only be achieved by floating a fly in a small stream at day break. The rod had not been used for a few days, and last time it was dismantled in the dark and left to bump around in the back of the truck until the line was horribly confused amongst each of the four pieces. As I slowly undid the gordian knot I stood below a favourite stretch that usually holds a fish or two and inspected the riverbed for any likely movement. The Fraser has remained slightly discoloured over the last week or so, and it took a while for me to spot the fish holding beside a small ledge on the shallower true left bank. The river in this stretch is quite shallow and the fish are often spooky, however visibilty wasn't good enough that I was confident of spotting the target taking a nymph. Being early December, the brown beetles were still doing their thing, so I tied a bushy black humpy on and tried my luck. One poorly aimed cast later, the fish stopped feeding and quietly drifted off to deeper water on the true right. slightly disappointed, but not put off, I crossed the stream and headed to another consistently productive stretch, hoping to leave the fish for my return in half an hour or so. Five minutes later another fish, this time a rainbow had shown itself feeding in a bouldery drop off just a few meters below a long willow choked channel on the Twizel river. This lie invariably holds a good fish, due in part to the large numbers of uncatchable fish living under the willows directly upstream. Once again I opted for the humpy, as he was rising freely. The first couple of casts went a meter or so astray as the wind was starting to pick up. After putting some more thought into the back cast, I planted the fly on target. The water was relatively fast, and moved into slight rapid, so drag was a bit of an issue. With a little bit of frantic mending I achieved a relatively dead drift past the fishes last-known-surfacing point. On this occasion the trout attacked the fly greedily, briefly showing his long, deep flank. Possibly a 3-4 kg fish, which isn't bad for the Twizel river. Unfortunately, this was all I would see of him, as after I set the hook, the big fella hunkered down on the bottom, and with three shakes of his head, snapped the tippet and then bolted for the trees.
Time was against me now if I wanted to get a decent breakfast in before work, so I hurried back to the crossing where the first fish was spooked. Nothing materialised as I approached the crossing, so I quiet slipped through the tail of the pool, disturbing nothing. Unable to resist, I flicked the black humpy down the deeper part of the channel while consulting my watch which said ten-past home time. The water boiled as a good fish took the fly about 4 meters upstream.
Counting to 3 before setting the hook, a solid brown went to work on the fly lodged in her mouth. after a few seconds of angry headshaking, she swung downstream and spotted me. An immediate dash downstream was her response, risking a snag in some overhanging vegetation. I charged across and down, but it was too late, as she hooked up in a small piece of dead broom. unsure if she was still on I approached the branch, and saw the fish just under the surface still. The branch was stubborn and try as I might, I couldn't unsnag the leader from it's grasp. The heavens smiled on me and once more the fish spotted me approaching from behind and to her left, and made a beeline for the top of the rapids. Her backtracking of the process that caught her in the broom was exactly the direction required to release her, and off she shot, free of the broom, but still miraculously attached to the flyline.
Finally I started to get the measure of her and she allowed herself to be led towards the shallows. As with most brown trout, this beautifully spotted specimen wouldn't give up the fight, and the moment my ne hi the water, she ran again, thistime without the dramas encountered previously. Once more I attempted to net her, but as I led her into the net she thrashed some more and managed to effect another lucky escape.Third time lucky, she allowed herself to be led into the waiting net to be unhooked and weighed. The well conditioned 2.1 kg Brown needed little encouragement to find cover upon release, and scuttled across to the deep channel on the far side of the stream.
It was now 7:20, and I knew I was cutting it fine, so I rushed home, and got ready for work. after copping a few stares from the some of the workmates, but then derived plenty of joy dishing out the excuse that 'the fish wouldn't go into the net'.
Time was against me now if I wanted to get a decent breakfast in before work, so I hurried back to the crossing where the first fish was spooked. Nothing materialised as I approached the crossing, so I quiet slipped through the tail of the pool, disturbing nothing. Unable to resist, I flicked the black humpy down the deeper part of the channel while consulting my watch which said ten-past home time. The water boiled as a good fish took the fly about 4 meters upstream.
Counting to 3 before setting the hook, a solid brown went to work on the fly lodged in her mouth. after a few seconds of angry headshaking, she swung downstream and spotted me. An immediate dash downstream was her response, risking a snag in some overhanging vegetation. I charged across and down, but it was too late, as she hooked up in a small piece of dead broom. unsure if she was still on I approached the branch, and saw the fish just under the surface still. The branch was stubborn and try as I might, I couldn't unsnag the leader from it's grasp. The heavens smiled on me and once more the fish spotted me approaching from behind and to her left, and made a beeline for the top of the rapids. Her backtracking of the process that caught her in the broom was exactly the direction required to release her, and off she shot, free of the broom, but still miraculously attached to the flyline.
Finally I started to get the measure of her and she allowed herself to be led towards the shallows. As with most brown trout, this beautifully spotted specimen wouldn't give up the fight, and the moment my ne hi the water, she ran again, thistime without the dramas encountered previously. Once more I attempted to net her, but as I led her into the net she thrashed some more and managed to effect another lucky escape.Third time lucky, she allowed herself to be led into the waiting net to be unhooked and weighed. The well conditioned 2.1 kg Brown needed little encouragement to find cover upon release, and scuttled across to the deep channel on the far side of the stream.
It was now 7:20, and I knew I was cutting it fine, so I rushed home, and got ready for work. after copping a few stares from the some of the workmates, but then derived plenty of joy dishing out the excuse that 'the fish wouldn't go into the net'.
Monday, December 07, 2009
Snap - Opening Day 2009
I always wondered why those over-equipped, under-fished city folks often talked about having their 'spare' rod in the back of the car........
Opening day on the Central South Island high country rivers dawned spectacuarly. Last year we were greeted with severe gale force nor-westers and showers, but this time round we were blessed with hardly a whisper of breeze and clear skies. The evening before opening I had given my fly reel a good going over, attached a new tapered leader, painstakingly sorted out the mess of flies that had been left jumbled up and unloved over winter, and ensured that everything in my vest was where it was supposed to be, and threw everything into the back of the truck ready to sneak off before any small-people in the house could wake up.
Sneak off I did at about 0530 on the first Saturday in November, the sky was brightening up quickly, and sunrise was imminent, already showing on the peak of Aoraki-Mt Cook, forty miles to the north. 10 minutes later, the car was parked, locked, and left behind as I eagerly rushed down to the spring fed creek that had divulged the prescence of a few trout on a pre-season recce the week before. After a few blind casts in a likely looking spot returned no results, I toddled down to a well regarded pool just as the sun breached the Grampian Mountains. It wasn't more than a minute of standing still and watching the shadows on the riverbed, that our hallowed quarry gave away it's position. Not trophy sized, and not obvious, but a semi-regularly swaying shadow held just centimeters down stream of a large stone in the middle of the stream. Unhurriedly I tied a Beadheaded Pheasanttail Nymph on to the tippet, took a deep breath and moved into position about 8 meteres downstream from the feeding trouts position.
The whole experience has had a silver lining though. Opening day aside, November has been laced with strong winds and unpleasant fuishing conditions, so I didn't miss much. A broken rod and tight family financial conditions has 'allowed' me to undertake what we shall call the Norman Giles Experiment. Norm was the approachable, patient, selfless fellow who taught me to catch trout on a fly all those years ago. Norm was by no means the wealthiest man in Otematata, and maintained that a good fisherman with a cheap rod with a cheap reel, with an even cheaper line could catch as many fish as he would with the flashest gear that money could buy. Norm certainly walked the talk, his entire rig wouldn't have cost more than $150, and was one of the most prolific fisherman I have ever been priveldged to witness flicking a fly. The beginning of December saw a shiny new Rod-Reel-Line combo arrive at my door, costing the grand sum of $109.95 including shipping, and so far, I haven't lost a single fish due to the quality of the cast or the workmanship of the gear. The rod certainly doesn't present as well as my last one, but all that requires is a bit more concentration on my slighlty lazy back casting habits.
Opening day on the Central South Island high country rivers dawned spectacuarly. Last year we were greeted with severe gale force nor-westers and showers, but this time round we were blessed with hardly a whisper of breeze and clear skies. The evening before opening I had given my fly reel a good going over, attached a new tapered leader, painstakingly sorted out the mess of flies that had been left jumbled up and unloved over winter, and ensured that everything in my vest was where it was supposed to be, and threw everything into the back of the truck ready to sneak off before any small-people in the house could wake up.
Sneak off I did at about 0530 on the first Saturday in November, the sky was brightening up quickly, and sunrise was imminent, already showing on the peak of Aoraki-Mt Cook, forty miles to the north. 10 minutes later, the car was parked, locked, and left behind as I eagerly rushed down to the spring fed creek that had divulged the prescence of a few trout on a pre-season recce the week before. After a few blind casts in a likely looking spot returned no results, I toddled down to a well regarded pool just as the sun breached the Grampian Mountains. It wasn't more than a minute of standing still and watching the shadows on the riverbed, that our hallowed quarry gave away it's position. Not trophy sized, and not obvious, but a semi-regularly swaying shadow held just centimeters down stream of a large stone in the middle of the stream. Unhurriedly I tied a Beadheaded Pheasanttail Nymph on to the tippet, took a deep breath and moved into position about 8 meteres downstream from the feeding trouts position.
It was over in seconds. I quietly fed out enough line downstream to deliver the fly a meter of so upstream, and began my first cast. But something happened. instead of gracfully lobbing the fly past the trouts lie, the fly didn't move, the line tightened, and a nasty 'snap' eminated from some where over my head. I looked up in time to see the last foot of my faithful old rod sliding down the line towards my leader, which was anchored by the nymph to a sumberged branch about 9 meters downstream. It would be fair to say that the air turned rather blue at this point. Not only was the first cast to the first fish on the first day of the season not going to happen, but my faithful 14 year old rod was beyond repair. Not the the most expensive rod on the planet, but she had a lovely medium action that would punch through a strong breeze nicely, and still present the fly delicately to a spooky shallow-water fish. the reel was the part of the rig that was normally more likely to let me down, as over the last 14 years, it'd bumped into quite a few rocks and following a particuarly rough landing on one in 2003 had developed a brief 'catch' on every revolution that momentarily loaded up the line as a fish ran hard following a hookup.
The reel was the least of my worries now. I trudged dejectedly back towards the Truck, lamenting that I now had yet another toy replacement to sneak past the financial-controller who was still a-snooze at home.
The whole experience has had a silver lining though. Opening day aside, November has been laced with strong winds and unpleasant fuishing conditions, so I didn't miss much. A broken rod and tight family financial conditions has 'allowed' me to undertake what we shall call the Norman Giles Experiment. Norm was the approachable, patient, selfless fellow who taught me to catch trout on a fly all those years ago. Norm was by no means the wealthiest man in Otematata, and maintained that a good fisherman with a cheap rod with a cheap reel, with an even cheaper line could catch as many fish as he would with the flashest gear that money could buy. Norm certainly walked the talk, his entire rig wouldn't have cost more than $150, and was one of the most prolific fisherman I have ever been priveldged to witness flicking a fly. The beginning of December saw a shiny new Rod-Reel-Line combo arrive at my door, costing the grand sum of $109.95 including shipping, and so far, I haven't lost a single fish due to the quality of the cast or the workmanship of the gear. The rod certainly doesn't present as well as my last one, but all that requires is a bit more concentration on my slighlty lazy back casting habits.
When the budget permits, I may upgrade to a slightly fancier rod, and then, possibly, this country boy will keep a spare rod in the car on opening day too....
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)