For far too many years I avoided fishing at night. Maybe because of a natural
human fear, or at least nervousness when out in the dark away from the light and comfort
of home. More probably perhaps because of my first night-fishing experience.
John Milner, then owner of the Anglers Paradise motel in Turangi where
I regularly stayed, had regaled me with stories of monster brown trout that lurked in
a pool on the Tongariro River. They could only be caught at
night it seemed. Finally temptation overcame reticence and armed with a detailed map
and John’s strenuous warning not to start fishing until dark I set off.
The first part of the walk was easy, along the clear track for twenty minutes
in the evening twilight. The track on one side bounded by flat paddocks, the other by
thick bush.
I found the track turn-off that should have led me on a five-minute walk
down to the river. Following the map and this less well-defined track deeper into the
bush, night drew in and drew all light out. No moon and lack of any other ambient light
soon made the area black as the deep pits of hell. If that is what Hades is like I do
not want to go there.
My small torch with its pencil thin beam was no match for this darkness
and made my progress a shuffling, many wrong turns, stagger.
Finally nearly 15 minutes later I lurched out of the bush and tripped and
stumbled over the boulder covered bank to the rivers edge.
More stumbling and bumbling finally found me on a sand bank which John’s
map and advice stressed was the only place from which to swing a fly through the lie
of the monster browns.
I sat down, lit a cigarette and in an attempt to settle my nerves and racing
heart tried to contemplate my surroundings. Not a chance. The blackness was as impenetrable
as a wall of basalt rock. I knew where the river was of course. The sound told me that,
but the whereabouts of the cliff on the other side of the river, where I was to cast
my line, throw in some slack line, and then drift the line into the pool formed by the
current pushed out by the cliff was a deep, very dark mystery.
I decided that coming this far should provide reason enough to at least
throw a couple of casts out into the blackness, so I rigged up and commenced casting.
Trying to cast would be a more accurate description.
In daylight I count myself a competent caster. Years of practice seem to
make the line do much of what I want it to most of the time. But there in the dark my
casting fell to pieces. I could not see how much line was out. My backcasts hit the boulders
and driftwood behind. Three times I replaced flies lost in that tangle behind me. Twice
I managed to seat the fly firmly in the back of my fly vest. Finally I got things together
and the fly shot out towards the unseen cliff rumoured to be straight out across the
river. In direction at least I was right. The fly reached the cliff and secured itself
in whatever shubbery covered its face.
As I sat down yet again to replace a lost fly, I began to notice that I
could actually begin to see some of my surroundings. A half moon had risen, and even
though a screen of thin clouds filtered its light my by now more night-accustomed eyes
began to pick out some detail in the black shapes around me.
Now empowered by this feeble light I began to cast and my line began to
go where I wanted. I even managed to catch two or three fish. Not the fabled brute browns,
who kindly waited for another better-prepared night, but nice rainbows. Very nice in
fact. Fat, deep bodied fish that pulled my line all over the pool.
Satisfied I prepared for the walk out.
Even though the moonlight was very thin my night vision had clicked in
to the point where the trip back over the boulders and driftwood was relatively easy.
After a few anxious moments trying to find the bush-screened entrance to the track back
up through the bush I set off.
Only a few steps into the bush saw me back in the same predicament as the
inward journey. The bush canopy completely screened out any moonlight and I was back
in total darkness. I stumbled and bumbled on in the thin beam of my torch. My progress
slowed further as the torchlight seemed to dim. My suspicions were right, the batteries
soon died and there I stood in absolute black, totally blind. I will admit to some panic,
but I took what seemed to be the most sensible course and sat down to try and work out
what to do. Briefly I thought about trying to use my cigarette lighter to light the way,
but its light was too dim and only served to make my night vision deteriorate. There
seemed only one sensible thing to do, and that was to sit tight and wait for morning.
So I did.
As I sat there in the darkness I began to notice that I could actually
begin to see things. Looking up I could see some light through the canopy. Then I began
to notice that there was a band through the canopy that seemed to let in more light from
above. I realised this most be the thinner canopy over the track. Then I noticed a lighter
patch on the ground. There was a very heavy dew that night and I figured this light must
be the reflection of what little light was coming through onto the dew that had settled
on the track.
Slowly and very carefully I followed this very faint glow on the ground
up the track. I had not gone more than fifty metres when looking ahead and slightly up
I could see, quite literally, the light at the end of the tunnel.
The beginning of the track down to the river from the main track was dead
straight for the first fifty or so metres and at quite a marked slope. I headed up the
tunnel of light and very soon stepped out onto the main track where I could see it seemed
forever. The thin clouds earlier in the night had cleared and the bright moonlight reflecting
off the frosty dew lit up the area. Almost jauntily I walked back along the track to
my car.
Perversely perhaps, since this episode I have become more and more keen
on trout fishing at night, mostly in lakes. The attractions are summed up in two words,
big fish.
The dark of night seems to bring big fish out from wherever it is they
lurk in daylight into the range of shore-bound casters. Maybe it is the darkness that
adds some further mystery to a sport that is already full of mysteries. Out there unseen
in the darkness a trout, hopefully a big trout, lines up your fly and engulfs it. Your
first hint of its presence is that first bump, then the tightening of the line, usually
followed by a splash somewhere out in the darkness. Landing a fish in the dark is a testing
experience. You are never quite sure where the fish is. You know where your line is heading
off the rod tip, but that does not always line up with the fish’s position.
There is much to learn about fishing in the night, and I learn something
new every time I step out into the black water. Now I very rarely fish in the Lotto sessions
lined up in the rip, I move further afield, and since doing so have caught more and bigger
fish. I have also learned some things about fly selection that differ widely from the
conventional wisdom held by the stalwarts standing firmly in the pull of the current
in the rip. This will be the subject of my next article.
But the little personal drama on the Tongariro outlined above did teach
me some very basic lessons I should outline here.
Now I never night-fish a piece of water, lake or river, which I have not
previously reconnoitred in daylight. Knowing the general layout of the place helps in
gaining your bearings in the dark. It will also give you a much better idea of where
to fish when it gets dark. More on that next month.
Unless I am night fishing at a lake or river where I am very confident
of my surroundings I will not fish alone. This is one time and place where there is safety
in numbers.
I always take two torches. A biggish one, for navigation, and a smaller
one for tying on flies etc. The two torches also provide a degree of insurance against
torch failure, or as happened to me more than once, dropping a torch in the water. Now
I always pack a spare set of unopened fresh batteries for each torch.
I always wear a tight belt around the outside of my waders, and if I am
fishing in a new area I regularly wear a pair of Sospenders, a non-intrusive flotation
device.
Fishing at night is not for everyone. It can be very cold. Casting in the
dark is not easy. Knowing where your fly is difficult. It is repetitive, constant casting
and retrieving, but with subtle changes you can help make things happen. The rewards
in terms of bigger fish are to me worth it.