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.
