Sometimes a dream fishing experience just
seems to pop up out of the blue. For no particular rhymes or reasons
– it just happens. There are no early indicators that something
extraordinary is in the wind, no clues to set the blood pumping.
But it happens – fishing to dream about.
Last week I struck fishings’ Lotto.
It started out inauspiciously enough. I had a week’s
work to do in the Taupo area, and the reports on the Hinemaiaia
River indicated that it was very low and clear – not the best news
for a fisherman, but good news if that fisherman had work to do.
I arrived down at Hatepe (the village at the mouth of the Hinemaiaia River)
late Sunday evening, and did not even bother inspecting the river. My son Eddy was still
at the cottage when I arrived and he was raving about the fishing
he had over the previous two days, and the two fish he was taking
home were evidence that there had been good fish in the river.
It was the "had been" that confirmed for me that I could
not expect much. How many times have we fishermen heard the old
"yashudavbinhe-ahyestadee"?
So I set about preparing for the day’s work for
next morning. In the morning I set off for work in deep ignorance
of what was lurking under the surface of the river.
I finished my labours by early afternoon, and headed
back to Hatepe with the idea of wandering up the lower part of
the river, to see if I could get in a cast or two to a fish or
three. In the pools right down near the lake my Polaroid’s revealed
pretty much of what I suspected they would reveal – a good deal
of nothing. But as I made my way upstream towards the road-bridge,
I started to see little pods of fish five or six fish – holding
in the pools that are unfishable.
Those who know the Hinemaiaia will know that fishing
there, even in the good pools, is difficult. If the tree limbs
above and around you don t grab your fly, the blackberries will.
And that is just above the water. Below the water is a veritable
minefield of snags. Pure Tiger territory. Still, it is a prime
reason for the river being relatively angler free, even in prime
fishing times.
Finally I reached the pools that were more easily
fished and was totally overawed by what I saw. Twenty or thirty
fish in plain view, just holding there, barely moving. Occasionally
a Jack or two racing about trying to establish dominance broke
the tranquility of the scene, but for most of the time the fish
just lurked there, quietly finning away, holding station.
I had bought a nymphing set up with me, loaded with
a couple of Glo-Bugs, and I put the rig to work. I cast and cast
– cast after fruitless cast. I got some of the casts right. The
Glo-Bugs would sink well above the fish, and dead-drift right
amongst the fish, who with total disdain moved a few inches to
the right or left to let the flies drift past, unsullied. Then
I would screw up a cast – a sure bet when you least want it to
happen and the line would splash down over the fish, and off they
would race to the hidden places in the pools that only fish know.
My frustration was intense. Oh for a sinking line! The sinking
line back at the cottage a cottage too far a walk to go back a
fetch it, and get back to the pools before dark.
My frustration ensured a sleepless night. A night
filled with fish yet uncaught, and the dread that surely the fish
would move by tomorrow.
I endured my work the next day, and could only get
back to Hatepe for an hour and half’s worth of time on the river.
But this time armed with a wet line and using the tactic of walking
the down river swinging the fly through the pools, what an hour
and a half! The fish were still there, numberless fish. I have
fished the Hinemaiaia as much as anyone, and a great deal more
than most over the last eight or so years, and never have I seen
so many fish in the river at one time.
I hooked fish after fish, most escaped. Many streaked
off down the river and simply pulled the hook out. Others took
the fly and bolted upstream far too fast for me to wind or strip
in the loose line and so the fish flicked away as the line went
slack. Eventually of course I remembered my own advice and did
not attempt to strip in the loose line as the fish bolted towards
me, but using the line itself and the river’s current to hold
the line taunt I managed to land a fish or two. Great fish – fit
and fat. As I got my technique back into some sort of working
order I managed to land and release more fish. Darkness finally
forced me from the river, and I wandered back to the cottage with
a pair of lovely hens, one over seven pounds, and the other just
under. The flesh was the colour of red brick – wonderful fish.
The next late afternoon was more of the same, same
number of fish in the river, about the same number hooked, lost,
and landed. Magical fishing.
That evening the lovely Beverly flew into Taupo
unexpectedly, but very welcome. It gave me a chance to try out
a recipe I had been given by a friend of mine who lives in Bangkok,
where fish cooking is an art form.
I filleted the trout leaving the skin and scales
on, and then removed the bones with long-nose pliers. I slashed
the skin round the edges of the fillet to stop them curling. Then
I heated a fry pan to a medium heat. Into the fry pan I spread
a thin layer of salt, so the pan was nearly covered in salt. Over
this I ground a very liberal sprinkling of pepper. The fillet
was then laid skin side down onto the salt and pepper. That is
right, no oil, butter or fat! I watched the fillet carefully and
once I saw the flesh cooking up through the thick end, I placed
the fillet, still in the pan, under the pre-heated grille. On
the journey from hob to grille I placed a dab or two of butter
on top of the fillet, a squeeze or two of lemon, and some more
ground pepper. I let it grille for a minute or two.
It was the first time I had tried the recipe and
it is quite simply the best trout recipe I have ever tasted, full
stop, end of story. (I suspect it would work well for oily fish
such as kahawai and kingi.) The flesh flakes off the skin, and
has a wonderful texture. Definitively delicious. Beverly agreed
so much so I had to do a repeat performance the next evening.
The next day, Thursday, the fish were still there.
And, for an hour or so, so were we.
But Friday produced some real magic. In the afternoon
as Beverly and I walked along the river bank to the pool I wanted to
start my downstream meander with the wet fly, we turned a corner
and there in the river in front of us were 50 or more trout. It
looked like a pool in Rainbow Springs (a fish sanctuary and tourist trap) in Rotorua.
I blurted out something like "For goodness sake, look at all those lovely
trout," that being a fairly loose translation, to be met
by the reply, "yeah, we are fishing to them," from two
unseen anglers behind a screen of blackberries. Beverly and I
watched this amazing spectacle for a few minutes before moving
upstream to test our luck.
Well we tried, hooking six fish and losing six.
The fish were just too big, too tough and too smart. But that
was not the end of the amazing sights.
Just before we had to quit the river to make the
drive back to Auckland a big wood pigeon landed in the branches
of a tree, not too far off directly above us. Then to our utter
astonishment the pigeon dropped down onto a thin branch of a Five
Finger tree that over-hung the river. The bird was only three
or four rod lengths in front of us. Then the bird carefully sidled
down the branch that began to bend down to the water. The bird
kept sidling until it was close enough to dip its beak down into
the water to take a drink. Pure delight. One of the sights that
make fishing much more than just a line-in-the-water experience
for me.
A truly memorable week of fishing. A week that really
came out of nothing with no expectation of anything remarkable.
The drive back to Auckland that night was hard. Maybe the fish
would still be there tomorrow and I would not but then maybe not.
That is another part of the mystery of fishing that keeps me coming
back.