Fishing the “Secret Squirrel”.
Graeme Hughes

As is often the case the worst weather occurs as winter slides into spring. With the recent snow, ice, rain, floods, subzero temperatures and a wind chill to match, any association with water is of the agenda for all but the hardiest of anglers.  For myself I’ll just inch a bit closer to a crackling log fire and watch our athletes sweat it out in a Beijing climate. Fishing is out, at least until September when as in previous years a 3 day lake fishing expedition is planned. The weather at this time of the year can make or break a trip however as long as you get a days fishing in, “a hut day” despite being hard on the tucker bin, can be a most relaxing alternative. With a norwester roaring and the rain rattling on the iron roof, the warmth of a sleeping bag is luxurious. One by one, each member of the party mutters “Hut day” and hunches deeper into his bag, back to a glorious “sleep in”, something one can seldom get away with at home. Of course there is always the fanatic who can’t abide with sleeping in daylight so close to fishing water, despite the very obvious climatic conditions. Crashing and bashing about he readies himself for a battle with the trout and the elements. With the slam of the door, apart from the drumming of the rain all is quiet. The door crashes open with the announcement “Forgot my glasses”. Gone again with another slam of the door and for me sleep is not readily available. I reminisce. 

On my last visit, as is usual at this time of the year, the lake was very low. We boated into one of the many long guts running into deep water at the head of the lake. As we hauled the boat onto the “dry” a breeze from the south began, ruffling the surface, spoiling my hope of easy spotting. However the sight of several trout streaking for deep water as we idled into the shallows was encouraging and we impatiently began tying on a tried and true nymph pattern which my long time fishing mate supplied. With a confident comment that he never used anything else here at this time of the year, my fisher friend was off, out to the left, stripping line and getting a cast on the water while making distance between the boat and himself.  As I fumbled and missed the loop on the clinch knot and began it all over again, I guessed he would have a fish on before I’d even set foot over the side of the boat. During a slight lull in the breeze, movement drew my attention to a small school of fish, swimming past, and then I saw another few and the occasional single. Hmmmm, Koaro? Why am I tying on a nymph? I located the “Wheatly” lure box and inspected the many patterns within.

The smallest in the collection which could possibly emulate Galaxias brevipinnis was a sparsely tied fur fly concocted from some part of a Grey squirrel, its tail I suspect, over a silver body. A turn of orange hackle gave it a splash of colour, which I thought should appeal to any “rainbow” lurking in the depths. With the fly firmly attached on about my third attempt at the clinch knot, I stepped quietly from the boat. My companion straining to reach maximum distance, fishing now for at least 5 or 6 minutes, mysteriously had not yet hooked a fish. He usually does, often within one or two casts. An imaginary fish shaped “smudge” appeared to move steadily along the deeper water of an adjacent gut only a rod length from the hull I had just vacated. The mini chop created by the most unhelpful breeze defied my best attempts through badly scratched polaroids to positively identify my target or even keep it in sight. The conditions were such that you had to have a good imagination to convince yourself you were looking at a fish.  I have a crack at casting my feathered lure well in front of the “fish” which not surprisingly has disappeared as it merged with the substrate. Too far ahead! As I chastise myself for a poorly executed cast a definite fast moving shape streaked ahead, the rapid movement erasing any doubt the image seen moments before was a trout. I was still muttering about how could it have seen me when my line straightened and the rod arched. A surprised rainbow slashed the surface. Just as surprised, I had no idea the fish at full speed was intercepting my lure, I had the wherewithal to remember to yell loud enough “Yes!”  My triumphant signal to my companion that I had a fish on.  The reply was complimentary, which indicated to me that he was seeing fish and was confident he would fool one at any moment. Released, the 3lb trout made for deep water and I checked the trace and lure. I few paces along the gut I made out a similar, poorly defined but steadily moving shape, similar to my last sighting. I cast well in front and a high speed response followed just as before. With a vicious thrashing another “rainbow” churned the water before stripping off a serious length of backing. My triumphant “Yes” was not so well received as my fishless friend put his all into another long distance cast. As the third fish made off with my “Squirrel” firmly jammed in his gape my fishless and frustrated friend sloshed his way towards the boat from which I had hardly moved asking in an incredulous tone “Are you using a nymph?” “The cat was out of the bag” and I replied I was not. As I removed the hook he called me a rude name and immediately began sorting hastily through pockets of his vest for something similar. I offered my selection and advised him with a knowledgeable tone that the smallest and slimmest lure would do the trick. He could never catch up and after a first for him and a fifth for me the breeze turned into a wind and the marginal spotting conditions deteriorated until sighting any submerged movement became impossible. We persevered fishing blind into the increasing gusts but soon decided that a bouncy boat ride was going to be uncomfortable enough at the present wind speed and to stay longer meant we would definitely get a wetting.

The "Secret squirrel" lure used to deceive rainbow trout hunting Koaro in
Lake Hawea.

While I remember the occasion well, my friend whom, I suspect has not forgiven me for not telling him about my “secret squirrel” tends to forget important details.  Out-fishing him, a rare event, was quite a victory. The “who got what and why”, are crystal clear in my fading memory, seeing the galaxids swimming by and “matching the hatch” or in this case the “swim” brought instant results. If only all fishing was as easy. I suspect he’ll be keeping an “eagle eye” on me, and my fly box, when we repeat our foray on cruising lake trout this coming September.

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