Fishing in NZ > Magic Moments

Magic Moments

There are moments in any life which stand out as special – the times when enduring memories are created, memories that as time edges them grey and mildewed become more and more special, and often exaggerated with it.

On this occasion, we were going to Taupo to a party. As usual I had a sneaky rod hidden in the car.

It’s a long trek from Waiheke, especially with a small baby who insists on stopping every 10kms to eat, vomit or generally ruin your attempt to break the record for trip, and so I was initially skeptical.

However, the boss’ whispered mutterings of fishing opportunities and unprecedented late runs of big feisty rainbows soon whipped up my enthusiasm for the forthcoming festivities and so off we went.

My watch tells me that the trip took only 8 hours, but it seemed like a month. As a strict non smoker, I was of course dying for a fag at this stage, and after we were settled in, I suggested that I might nip down to the stream mouth at…., well, wherever, and see if I could pick up a fish.

Fine, she said, I’ll be the one asleep in bed when you get back.

So there I was, half a packet of cigarettes dripping from my mouth, frantically trying to tie on a fly in the pitch black.

It was a clear yet seemingly moonless night. The stars glittered in the manner of stars, the black shimmer of the vast lake stretched out before me, and the only sound was the seductive chuckle of the small stream emptying out into the lake beside me.

Having finally assembled my tackle, I lit another 15 smokes and settled down to what I was sure would be a fruitless yet pleasant hour.

A friend, the owner of the house we were staying in, had once mentioned that if you were going to fish this stream mouth, then something big and black was a sure way of nailing a whopper. Putting aside the certain knowledge that he had never caught a fish in his life, I tied on a large black woolly bugger and commenced casting across the rip.

Fishing at night is as much about not having to change flies as it is about catching fish – when it is dark, it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than it is for nylon to be threaded through the eye of a hook, so I was particularly annoyed when on the third cast my fly caught fast on the bottom.

I was about to use my patent unsnagging technique – give it a bloody great yank – when the bottom suddenly took off at an alarming pace heading seemingly for the middle of the lake.

And that is when the moment became a magic one and was engraved in my memory forever, because at night, you see, you are fishing blind; you do know where the fish is or how big it is, and so instinct takes over.

I had used a single leader of 4lbs fluorocarbon, so I was quite nervous when I felt the power of that first run; long strong and deep, and it was with some trepidation that I wound in when the fish finally stopped.

17 times we repeated this exercise; my hands were shaking, my heart beating at an alarming rate, burning cigs were scattered everywhere but I felt a unique moment of joy. This was why you go fishing, this really was what it was all about, man against beast, a primeval battle of nature, or so it felt.

I do not have the words to be able to recreate the exact experience, so in order to get there yourself you must go to..., well, wherever, and try for yourself, and hope you are as lucky as I was, for lucky it was, make no mistake. My woolly bugger and I just happened to be in the right place at the right time, and that fish was waiting for us; in fact, based on this extraordinary piece of luck, I felt mildly optimistic about Saturday’s lottery and even made one of those what I will spend it on when I win lists – which sadly came to nothing, again, but anyway.

Finally I managed to beach it; my arms ached. My nerves were in tatters, adrenalin coursed through my veins. Even in the dark I could see from its outline that it was a worthy opponent.

I rushed to the car – I wanted to share the moment with the better half, and pausing only to give myself a series of congratulatory high fives and muttering such phrases as You are the man, I drove back to house with 9lbs of fresh, beautifully conditioned brown trout.

I have, in truth, caught a lot of fish over the years, and each one still induces that heart stopping excitement when it first bites, but none had ever given me such a moment. I felt 10 years old again.

I suppose in hindsight that it was naive of me to expect similar enthusiasm from the Mrs, especially when I woke her up, fag in hand, to tell her to come and see what I had caught, but she dutifully and heroically managed a quick That’s nice dear before dropping off again.

For me sleep was out of the question, and so I sat on the deck, under the stars, smoking innumerable smokes, quaffing red wine and toasting the world in general, fly fishing in New Zealand, and the stream mouth at…, well, wherever it is, and to Alex and his something big and black.

Jerry Flay

Editor, Reel Life

j.flay@inbox.net.nz