"Is that your first trout?"
"Yes it is," I replied, flushed
with success.
"Well, it is the most expensive fish
you will ever catch."
My excitement at catching the fish disappeared at once.
What had I done wrong?
The Avon River, is not high on fishermen’s lists of famous
trout water. In fact, the piece of the river that flowed alongside Hagley
Park, smack in the middle of Christchurch, New Zealand, alongside a
busy inner city road, rated very low indeed. I had never seen anyone
fishing there.
However close and lengthy examination of the water, on
the way to and from Christchurch Boys High School, had revealed fish.
The River at this point was about a meter deep, from bank
to bank. Long strands of weed waved in an irregular dance, in time with
the currents. The bottom comprised stones and rock, poking through the
solid mud base.
The trout were hard to spot. For starters there were few
fish. Secondly, they held close alongside, or under the sheltering weed.
Lastly, they were Brown trout, notoriously difficult to spot at any
time. I soon learned the lesson that it is better to look for movement,
rather than the fish. Most often a moving shadow was the first sign.
The white flash of an opening, and shutting mouth, became another dead
giveaway.
The fact that the river held fish, visible fish, and was
an easy bike ride from home, proved too much of a temptation. I had
recently been given a light spinning set-up. A few Zeltic spinners,
from Crombe & Merrit in the City, plus some advice on how to catch
trout, saw me down by the river one Saturday morning.
My first casts, taught me more lessons. Casting directly
to the fish was a definite no, no. Also the line could not pass over
the fish before the lure. Any flash from the lure, or line, in the air
would send the fish into a mad panic.
The lure had to pass the fish within a foot or so, and
within a few centimetres of its depth. Too far away and the lure was
studiously ignored. On the few times I managed to get the lure close
to the fish, one of two things happened. The fish would swing across
to look at the lure, and usually swing straight back to its lie, or
it would take one look at the lure and streak off to the middle distance.
Chasing trout proved to be a frustrating exercise.
My previous experience had focused on Kahawai,
and Salmon. Casting and retrieving to likely water was all that was
required. It was rare to see the fish being cast to. On the rare occasions
I had cast to surface schools of Kahawai, they had been so intent on
feeding, the splashdown of the lure in the middle of the school was
treated with utter contempt.
I returned home fishless for the following many Saturdays,
but each new expedition added to my store of information. I began to
identify the lies where trout were likely to be holding. This meant
that I wasted far less time looking for fish in fishless places. I learned
to cast well ahead of the fish, and by careful line control, waft the
lure as close to the fish as possible.
Finally, the inevitable happened, I hooked up. The fight
was short, and the fish was soon lifted out of the water, still dangling
from the rod tip, and on to the bank. (Not all lessons are learned at
once.) I was totally rapt. Here was a sport that combined hunting and
fishing. The chase was as important as the catch.
Many years later a customer in my shop described this
in the best way I have heard. He said that the difference between saltwater
fishing and trout fishing, is that in trout fishing the foreplay is
more important than the climax, and in saltwater the exact opposite
is true.
My sense of self pride at catching this beautiful fish
was immense. It was then that I heard the words that opened this story.
"What have I done wrong, Sir?" I asked, (the
"sir" seemed a very good idea under the circumstances at the
time), "I have got a license."
"Oh, its not that sonny," he laughed, "It’s
just that you think it is the fish that has been hooked. You have got
it the wrong way round. You are now hooked for life." I was, and
am.
When I arrived home that afternoon, my parents reckoned
that I was still quivering and so was the fish.
Mum prepared the fish that night, a French recipe with
almonds as a prominent feature. The result was, in a word, well two
words, absolutely disgusting. The trout tasted like mud. I became an
avid trout catch and release man long before it became fashionable,
and necessary.
A Postscript:
It was some time later that I learned that I had in fact
been fishing in a banned area. The Ranger who gave me this information,
luckily, thought that youth should be encouraged, rather than damned,
and directed me to legal, and more fish-holding, water.