New Zealand; South Island Trip Report - January 2015

NEW ZEALAND; THE SEARCH FOR MOUSE FEEDERS Trip Report by Olly Thompson, January 2015

It had been two years since I had last been south to New Zealand, so a trip felt due. This time not by myself, but with a friend and fellow guide Matthew. Word on the street was that it had been a warm winter and beech forests had produced more seed than normal. A heavy beech mast provides unlimited food, which in turn is able to support large populations of mice. The mice often cross waterways in a bid to find more seed and their next meal. This does not go unnoticed by the resident trout who exploit this rare opportunity to gain weight quickly on a protein rich diet.

Having explored some of the more remote fisheries in the North Island we picked up the ferry to Picton and ambled south. Time spent surveying small details on large maps had given us a rough hit list of rivers and waterways. With almost three months to fill, we had time to cherry pick rivers according to current weather conditions. The old adage of the more difficult a place is to access the better the fishing, is rarely truer than in the New Zealand’s South Island. With this in mind, neither of us were shy of long walks off the beaten track to remote waters.

Throwing my Irish companion straight into the deep end we started our South Island experience by a day and a half bush whacking to a very remote and wild West Coast river. For two years Matthew had listened to my drivel about this place, about the approach, the setting, and the wonderful brown trout fishing. Despite having some of my best days here in the past, it was a complete flop. The numerous browns I had seen before, were now few and far between and in poor condition. Certainly not the shoulder thick mouse predators we were after. The blow was felt heavier by knowing we still had to slog up steep slopes and through thick bush to return.

Clasping a cold pint in the local we discussed a plan of how to find large mouse eating trout. Even in great mouse years, the outbreak may only be concentrated to specific areas. It can be difficult to find reliable information on fishing in the South Island so thinking outside of the box is often required in order to succeed. The Department of Conservation (DOC) are especially careful to keep track of areas of high rodent concentration. Much of this is so populations can be managed to protect indigenous bird species, many of which are ground nesting.

A trip to the local DOC office had given us a pocket full of phone numbers and Time on the phone had given us a rough idea of where our furry friends lay. So, we spent lunch sipping cold Speights and examined maps. Hungry eyes fixed upon a river an hour south, little of which was written about in the guidebook. Two days of easy town living had allowed our weary legs to rest and gave us the chance to top up supplies for the days ahead.

That evening our tired looking Toyota ground to a stop at the end of the gravel track. Still with an hour of light we prepared camp to settle for the night. The end of this track sat perched on the brow of the hill which fell down to the river below. Before it got dark I walked down the steep track to chance a look at the water below. It slipped gently over shingle before gathering pace to become a fast run. The run was shielded on either side by steep walls which made a gorge. Being high I still had visibility even in in the dying light, and could see two fish, the size of which confirmed we had chosen the river well. I could just distinguish shades of olive and grey which suggested they were browns. The upstream fish was smaller and approaching a trophy, the downstream considerably larger.

A narrow shingle beach on the far side gave access to part of the gorge and an opportunity to cast a fly. On arrival back to camp I spoke with Matthew. He was not persuaded a night expedition was worth sacrificing several hours of precious sleep for. My decision had already been made. Once dark, I wandered back down, then walked upstream to the shallows above the run and crossed. I was careful not to use my head touch, so could only just distinguish the silhouette of the far bank. A bed of small stones and a gentle current made for a trouble-free crossing, and fifty metres later I stood at the entrance of the shingle beach I had surveyed hours before.

In the dark I had no measure of either fish’s position, so inched my way downstream as though I was stood in peaty Scottish salmon water. Slowly, I gathered feeling for my surroundings and adjusted better to the blackness of the night. All I could hear was the flow of water and the plop as my fly hit the surface. Gentle strips guided the streamer back to my bank invitingly. Now mid swing the line drew tight, then slacked soon after. Surely, one of the two. The following swing confirmed this was true. The line did not tighten as it does when trout normally take, but softer like a resting salmon. The gentle gradient of the beach allowed me time to admire the fish in the net. It was not humpbacked and pig like, but long and torpedo shaped. No red spots, just black on silver and light olive, a hen fish.

Daring not to wake an Irishman from his slumber, I resisted until the following morning before telling Matthew of my exploits. Spurred on by success we packed up, waved goodbye to our rust bucket and marched forward. With one of us on each bank we moved quickly through open valley, spotting as we went. Four kilometres of water proved fruitless, despite looking inviting. A further four produced some large rainbows, that on most years would have been little more than five pounds. A protein rich diet had broadened their shoulders and these fish now stretched the scales to several pounds heavier. Much of the water we had seen consisted of fast runs and even current. This made spotting the grey backs of these rainbows extremely difficult and I am sure we missed many fish. Now further upstream, it had been some time since we had seen fish and the day was late, so we stopped and set up camp.

A quarter moon and clear unpolluted skies allowed the stars to shine brightly. Matthew and I sat watching with a mug of black cowboy coffee straight from the pot. We did not speak, for I think we both felt it would have ruined the stillness of the night. In the morning there was no need to rush as a heavy mist clung to the valley floor and would not go until the air warmed. Breakfast was the familiar mix of Oat-So-Simple warmed through with river water and a cup of black coffee. Proper coffee was the only luxury we gave ourselves on these longer trips, for it weighed little and was a nice change to an otherwise bland diet.

The day started as the previous had finished, slowly. By lunch nothing had come to hand and we had seen few fish. Over an oat bar we discussed whether to press forward or head back down. The collective thought was to continue further into the unknown. A few kilometres upstream the river did not run through open plains as it had before, now the dense beech forest was closer. The nature of water had also changed. It no longer flowed straight and even but was deeper and more boisterous. This was the first time the forest had met the river since downstream of the gorge.

Looking upstream and to the right we could see stunted beech trees leading to a high bank made of smooth polished rock. This continued until the river meandered left. Twenty metres in front of us the current pushed against a protruding point to form the first deep hole. We stood on the shallower opposite side and could see nothing. Unconvinced, we both dropped our packs, crossed at the tail and moved onto the high bank. One fish of unspeakable size confirmed that we had made the right decision to press upstream.

Unseen, we continued to the longer run above. Covering sixty metres on the high bank, we saw 12 fish. Of those, you would be hard pressed to find one below double figures. I would not wish to place a weight on the rainbow that lay deep at the head of the run, but it was bigger than any trout either Matthew or I had ever seen. The two pools above were smaller in nature but still held fish of great size. It was 1700 by the time we had seen the four pools and the sun had left, so we thought it best to hold out to the following morning.

Rarely have I had more restless nights. In-between mouthfuls of porridge, Matthew told me that he also got little sleep. Daybreak exposed the abundance of mice in the area, it was difficult to walk more than a few metres without seeing one scurry past.

To keep away from the water, we walked through the beech forest to the small deep pool where we had seen the first of the large fish the day before. Even with better light, it was difficult to see through the riffles made by the main current pushing against the rocky point.

As I had caught the previous fish, Matthew took the first cast. While he stayed put I walked downstream and crossed at the tail, then moved onto the high bank for a better view. I parted the bushes and eased my way onto the edge of the polished outcrop. As with the day before, the big brown held slightly downstream of the point and to the side of the main flow. The fish was lying deep. Every so often he would move underneath the point and out of view.

I guided Matthew into position and told him where to cast, for he could see little from his side. It took a couple of casts until his heavy nymph drifted on the right line. Once it was, I eyed the fish carefully, trying to focus on its mouth opening. Both the depth and drift looked perfect. Nothing. Absolutely no reaction. Change fly‌ repeat. Same again. Half a box of flies and many more casts did not to improve the result. Eventually, the fish got bored and pulled its broad shoulders back underneath the shelf to safety and out of sight.

Throughout the run above, the fish also lay close to the high bank, lying deep and making themselves a challenge to spot.

Plentiful opportunities allowed Matthew and I to alternated between fish. With each swap, came new flies, a tweaked setup, and renewed hope. That morning we covered more trophy fish than I have done in three seasons of fishing the South Island. It was clear that these rodent heavy trout had little interest in our slighter offerings, so we continued upstream weighed down by our lack of success.

A few hundred metres above the last defined pool the river became braided and holding water looked sparse. The beech forest also became distanced from the river, as it had done downstream before the trophy pools. A further six kilometres of walking confirmed it was not worth pressing forward. We had found our big trout, concentrated between a series of pools where the dense beech forest met water.

Having fished all of the pools we decided to rest and return under darkness the following night. The next day was spent on the soft grassy plateau where we had camped, reading, drinking more coffee and discussing tactics for the night. By now, we had both caught a handful of decent rainbows. I am ashamed to say that this made us dismissive of catching another, for we both longed to bank one of the large browns. Of the group in the middle pool there was one that stood out, not only for its size but also its beauty. The midday sun meant we could see the fish well from the high bank. On our stomachs we eased to the edge where we could admire all the complexities of this big brown. It was in perfect condition, an olive grey back merged to big black spots, and each fin large and flawless. I have not had such hunger for catching a fish before or since.

Once the warmth left and the sun started to dip, we took our rods, left the grassy plateau and walked down dirt and shingle to the first pool. Placed at the end of ten-pound maxima was a sizeable mouse pattern made of rabbit fur and foam. The dying half hour of light was spent watching the river and trying to remember where we had seen each fish earlier. A game of Rock-Paper-Scissors had given me the first shot, but it mattered little for there were several pools and many more fish.

Once the blackness had gathered I walked to the head of the run and eased my line out, being careful to cover the nearer water first.

Memories of my night in the gorge returned which made me nervous. Not only did I have an idea of how many fish were present, but I also knew how large they were. As in the gorge I moved slowly and with purpose. I was now three quarters down and had not heard or felt anything. The visit to the high bank earlier left me in no doubt that I had covered fish.

With each downstream step and fruitless swing my anxiety grew. Had the expectation of catching Mr Big Black Spots weighed too heavy? Some casts later, it proved not. First came a gulp, then a tug, and then a bent rod. The lack of anger in the fight suggested it was a brown and not a rainbow. I am not proud to say this, but I have rarely been as disappointed with an eight-pound fish as this. Any other time or river and I would have been over the moon, and quite rightly.

A few steps later I could feel the water shallowing, so knew the run had been covered. It was now Matthew’s turn to tackle the next pool. We crossed and walked quietly to the edge of the small stone beach. I took a pew on something soft, which I hoped was a clump of grass.

We were very careful to only use our headlamps when absolutely necessary. Besides, our eyes had now adjusted to the lack of light. All that broke the silence was the sway of Matthew’s casting and the sound of his mouse hitting the water. Being almost sixty metres, this was the largest of the pools and held the most fish, none of which were small. I was quite sure that one of the twelve would find Matthew’s construction of fur and foam too tempting to pass by.

Being set back further up the beach I did not hear the gulp, or splash, only the bark of an excited Irishman. Not shy now, I switched my heading torch on, keen to watch the fight unfold. The fish did run far and there were no acrobatics, yet the rod was still bent deep and the short bursts had power and purpose. Sensing the struggle was closing Matthew walked away from the water and I walked to the shallows to help land the fish. Tired, the big brown slid its girth awkwardly into the net. He was humpbacked, broad shouldered and mouse heavy, pulling the scales into the teens. Scars on his face exposed both his age and some of his battles.

Having unsettled the pool, we sat back on the beach to slow down and enjoy the success of the evening so far. In the stillness of the night we chatted quietly, killing time before the next effort. Further down, we landed two rainbows. Although close, neither tipped the scales into double figures. To fish deeper into the small hours would have been greedy, so we stopped and returned to the comfort of a sleeping bag.

We thought we had cracked the code and approached the following day in the same way. Resting in sun, then heading to the water as darkness fell. Arrogantly we expected the same result. Some hours later we returned to camp tired and beaten, empty handed. Having had the night to ponder, we discussed plans over breakfast porridge. Matthew and I were of the same opinion that the water needed resting for longer.

For several days we whittled away time by reading, chatting, sleeping and peering the edge to observe our finned friends.

The top pool was far shallower than the others. It started with a riffle that eased into a straight run which flowed over grey shingle and small stones. Lining the run on the true right bank was a five metre wall of compact grey and orange earth. A mixture of small brushes and spindly trees topped the wall. We had not risked fishing here by night, for a large sunken log and series of branches looked guaranteed to catch any misguided flies.

The pool held only two fish, big and bigger. Unlike further downstream, these two fish held off the main current and in shallow broken water. My first thoughts when seeing fish in water like this, is that they are there to feed, and secondly, they should be easier to catch. Unknowingly, the two browns had nominated themselves for our day time project.

Anyone who has spent much time fishing rivers in the South Island will have come across the North Westerly wind that is often a feature from time to time. Here it was, picking up as the heat of the day increased. The wind had affected us little during our night time exploits, for it left as the coolness of the evening arrived, only to return at around ten thirty the following day. This was a problem because the run sat in shade until eleven. Eventually, the sun would climb high enough to expose light, warmth and wind to the water below.

Each day we had a small window of twenty minutes where we could see the fish and be able cast before the North-Wester started pumping. Of those twenty minutes we had an even smaller window of only a couple of casts before both fish withdrew to the comfort of the sunken log, not to be seen again until the next morning. We spent the best part of a week trying to catch the two browns. Both of us tried to use our daily handful of casts as wisely as possible and were careful not to have one cast too many for fear we may put the fish down for longer. We tried, dries, nymphs, streamers both small and large. We even tried rest days. For six days, nothing, nada, only mere sniffs and little else.

The deeper runs below the largest fish remained unresponsive by both day and night. The only exception a good rainbow that succumbed to a mouse pattern in the dark early hours of one morning.

Day seven of project “Big Brown” started as any other, another bowl of porridge paired with black coffee. Another walk along the high bank and into the tree line that lay above the run the held the two big fish. Leaning against a skinny, bleached tree I waited for the sun to fall to the water below. Matthew had stayed back, happy to relax in camp. I had persuaded him to hold out for one more day before returning to civilisation and cold beer.

Both browns had moved lower and into shallower water than before, the larger of which sat lowest. I watched for several minutes before marching back to the tail, eager to beat the North-Wester. Crossing the shallows quietly and with caution meant neither of my friends were spooked above.

Although shallow, the lower fish was lying nose down. Not wanting to take chances I tied on a nymph, knowing that after a few casts he would start sulking. Keeping low I edged into position, the water was shin deep and felt refreshingly cold. Rather than cast first, I watched. Such clarity allowed time to observe each detail carefully before acting.

The size fourteen landed softly, then drifted down, passing the fish’s left side without catching a glance. Change fly… repeat. The fly lands slightly further right this time. Anxiously, I watched for the white of the fish’s mouth. Mouth open, white shows, I wait, I strike.

Two head shakes later, and I am greeted with slack line. He is rude enough to lie close, permitting me one final look, before darting back to his den to sulk. He takes the smaller fish above with him. I shuffle pitifully back to camp and, like the fish, I am sulking.

It has been well over a week and we have been in the bush for some time. Our stable diet of easy to cook carbs has become increasingly bland, and we are desperate for a cold pint, so we packed up and started to amble downstream. I am silent, wallowing in self-pity and grumpiness. My Irish companion assures me that my lack of humour can be easily fixed with a box of cold Speights. It took until the following afternoon to get back to the car which had sat lonely for ten days.

Over the following months we had some extraordinary fishing and experiences throughout the length of the South Island, but none quite like this. Even now, I think of that big brown far more than any other fish. As our winter approaches each year my feet get itchy and a powerful urge to return to the South Island washes over me.

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