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....
