37 minute read
High Fives
LUKE VAN DEN HEEVER
BOUNCING BETWEEN HIS STUDIES AT STELLENBOSCH AND HIS FAVOURED STOMPING GROUNDS IN THE ESTUARIES OF THE WESTERN CAPE’S GARDEN ROUTE, LUKE VAN DEN HEEVER IS KICKING ASS (MAINLY GRUNTER, BUT OTHER SPECIES TOO). JUDGING BY THE PHOTOS OF HAPPY CLIENTS AND THEIR FISH, HE HAS A LONG CAREER AHEAD.
Photos. Luke van den Heever archive and Peter Coetzee
5 best things about where you guide?
1.The easy accessibility. As long as one is willing to put in the effort, there is some incredible water right on our doorstep. 2. The sheer diversity of the fly fishing options in the area. 3. The flats and the sight fishing opportunities. The Garden Route is riddled with incredible flats both in the estuaries and along the coast line. 4. The quantity and diversity of other aquatic life that one can encounter in these estuaries. 5. The endless possibilities of a once in a life-time catch. As with any saltwater fishery, you never know what you will encounter.
5 fishing-connected items you don’t leave home without before making a mission?
1. Twice as much water as I think I will need. 2. Decent sun block, a cap and Maui Jim sunnies. 3. REEL flyfishing orbital vice. You never know what will happen and sometimes, on the trip you need to tie a few patterns that will get the job done. 4. Walt fishing shirts. Comfy, lightweight and effective. 5. A plan of action and two backup plans based on possible changes in conditions. Always go with a plan, even if it changes in the first ten minutes, at least you have somewhere to start.
5 bands to listen to while on a road trip?
1. Anything produced by Nico Efstratiou 2. The Palms 3. Glass Animals 4. Bon Jovi 5. Long Distance by Sam Gellaitry. This track sets the vibe for any fishing trip.
5 things you are loving right now
1. Devil’s Peak Hero beers. 2. Stellies student life. So much to do, so little time to do it. You never get bored. 3. Tex bars. 4. Good fresh food and cooking. There is nothing like preparing a good meal. Whether it is chilli mudcrab or a simple pasta, good food always slaps. 5. Time to myself. The older I get, the more I appreciate the time I get to spend away from everything, free of distractions where I can really appreciate what surrounds me.
5 indispensable flies for Garden Route saltwater?
1. Grey over white clouser. 2. Grey over white sparkle foam crease fly. 3. Marabou soft hackle 4. Dumb Blonde baitfish 5. Flexo crabs in marsh crab or shore crab colours.
5 indispensable flies for freshwater?
1. Strawberry milkshake (thanks Lyle). 2. Cream coloured blob. 3. Black cdc bugger with a gunmetal bead. 4. Missing link. Gordon van der Spuy’s hackle-less version 5. Marabou-tailed bloodworm.
5 favourite fly fishing destinations across South Africa/ Africa?
1. The Garden Route estuaries. 2. A little river that flows south into the Vaal River. 3. The Crocodile River system above the confluence with the Jukskei River, especially the very upper regions. 4. Upper Eerste River, small stream dry fly heaven. 5. Blyde River around Pilgrims Rest. Yellows, chisels and rainbows in the thousands with the chance of the odd brown surprise.
5 favourite fly fishing destinations globally?
1. Tongariro River in New Zealand. Everything in that country is beautiful, except the weather 2. The Knysna lagoon. It deserves its place on the global circuit. 3. Any Colorado trout stream. 4. Snake River, Wyoming 5. Otava and Vlatava systems in the Czech Republic. The country literally has brown trout and grayling in the rain gutters. So imagine the populations in these rivers.
5 of the best things you have picked up from guiding?
1. So many stories of incredible places, fish and people, I wish that I could tell them all but that would be a whole other article. 2. The excitement of an incredible experience and shared memories. 3. A better appreciation of our fisheries and fish. There is nothing like hearing anglers who have fished all over the globe rave about the fishery that you have worked on figuring out for many years. 4. Experience, both on the water and from the clients, you can always learn something new. 5. The sense of happiness watching someone else land a beautiful fish and knowing that you helped him or her achieve their goal.
5 flies to pack (in the smuggler kit under your driver’s seat) to cover most species?
1. Jumbo pack of sharpie markers. 2. White rabbit bugger. 3. Strawberry milkshake. 4. White clouser minnow. 5. White flexo crab.
5 people you would like to guide or fish with?
1. My good friend Luke Leatherbarrow. No matter when last we fished together, I would drop anything I am doing for another one of our missions. 2. My Ballie (father). Never take for granted the time you get with your folks; no one lives forever. 3. Keith Rose-Innes. His reputation precedes him. 4. David Arcay. He is one of the best competitive anglers in the world, for a very good reason. 5. David Attenborough. He was my biggest childhood inspiration and really helped sculpt my love for the outdoors. Even if there was no fishing involved it would be an honour to meet him.
5 fish on your species hit list?
1. Golden dorado 2. Milkfish. It is basically a supersized mullet on steroids powered by rocket fuel. What’s not to like? 3. A kob. For all my time in the salt, I still haven’t caught one on fly. 4. Permit. I want to see how they compare to the spotty locals. 5. A grunter over 15lbs sightfished on the flats. So far they have only left me with parted tippet. But that will change soon. 6. A duckbill ray over 100lbs. I just need to even the score again. After an hour of dogging it and after getting towed a couple of kilometres, the shit hit the fan when the thing realised it was actually hooked.
5 shower thoughts that have occurred to you while fly fishing?
1. Why do raggies always look like logs until you are right on top of them? 2. What the hell was my client’s name again? Names are definitely not my strong point. 3. How do so many grunter go from being invisible to clearly visible when they are only three metres away? 4. What just brushed against my leg?! 5. I wonder how this place fished 200 years ago before it was seriously affected by the influence of mankind?
5 of the most underrated species in your book?
1. Largescale yellowfish. Once they reach that 35cm mark they become extremely difficult to catch. They require small flies and fine tippets yet fight hard and dirty, resulting in very few fish landed in tight, overgrown streams. 2. Smallscale yellowfish. Nothing beats swinging large baitfish flies in small streams to these chrome bars. 3. Striped and flathead mullet. These fish are not as difficult to hook as their smaller cousins but when they are hooked all hell breaks loose. Backing is often stripped along with stunning aerial displays. 4. Flatfish species, most of our flatfish are willing to eat a fly, and always give a good tussle, especially the duckbill and eagle rays. 5. Rats and mice. Sometimes conditions don’t permit for targeting larger species and you find yourself scratching around with the 1-6 weights. The diversity of species that can be caught is breath-taking and most of the little guys have striking patterns and colours.
5 things that make where you fish so special?
1. The people who you mission with. No matter how bad the fishing is, if you are with great company it can be an incredible trip. 2. The accessibility. Ten minutes out the front door and I am on turtle grass flats dodging pyltjies (sting rays) and throwing flies to whatever moves. The membership (fishing license) is cheap too at R76 per year (around $5). 3. The ever-changing conditions. As harsh as they can be, they keep the system alive and changing. There is nothing like feeling the full force of a Cape storm. 4. The marine and birdlife. The Southern African subcontinent has such a rich array of fauna and flora that it is easy to be side-tracked from your fishing. 5. The increasing numbers of fly fishermen along the Southern Cape coastline. Three years ago no one was throwing fluff at these fish. If you saw another fly fishermen on the system it was a topic of discussion on the way home. Now it is normal to see half a dozen groups on a regular outing.
5 destinations on your bucket list?
1. Oman - permit in the surf on crab flies and sleeping in the back of a bakkie (pickup truck) under desert stars. Sounds pretty cool hey? 2. Bolivia - big flies in small streams. 3. The lower Orange River. It’s a trip that all South African fly fishers need to do at least once.
4. Nepal - a wild destination with big wild cyprinids. 5. Kosi Lakes, Natal. I really want to get a big GT on fly in South Africa.
5 things you would take up if you weren’t always fly fishing?
1. Fly tying. Sometimes I enjoy the tying more than the fishing. It’s calming and helps keep my mind on a leash. 2. Artlure. I love the idea behind any form of fishing with artificials. 3. Hiking and rock climbing. 4. Cooking. There is such an art in preparing and cooking good food. I would love to gain more experience in the kitchen. 5. Day drinking. Let’s be real, a life without fly fishing would be pretty shit.
5 things you have learned about spotted grunter?
1. They are a poes (twat) fish with a shitty bipolar attitude. 2. No fishery is the same. What makes grunter so challenging to catch is that their behaviour is system specific and to a degree flat specific too. No sub population of fish behaves the same. 3. See the fish first then cast. A tail only indicates where the fish are moving. If you cannot see the fish itself and which way it is facing there is a very limited chance your presentation will be seen. The fish in Knysna lagoon also move off approximately six metres after aggressively tailing, before they start feeding again. 4. Full sun conditions are best. If you can see the fish you can present to them, even if they are a little more spooky. 5. They are truly beautiful and unique and deserve to be treated with respect. No set of spots is the same.
5 essential ingredients for an incredible mission?
1. Good food 2. Good friends 3. Enough petrol 4. A plan of action 5. Little unplanned surprises and moments that make each trip special. These cannot be planned but always make the trip.
5 flies that, to look at, make no sense but that catch fish all the time?
1. Anything out of Luke Leatherbarrow’s box. 2. Salmon flies. There are few triggers and little movement; they also imitate nothing. 3. Multi-coloured blobs. 4. Gary de Klerk’s carp and bass flies. It helps when there is a wizard behind the rod. 5. Control caddis. Why does a #6 nymph with a bright bead work so well?
5 things about fly fishing that you may never understand?
1. The cost of the sport. There is no need for things to be so expensive, I don’t fish top of the range rods or reels, yet I have a blast. Rather focus on using high quality terminal tackle like leaders, tippet material and hooks as these are your weakest points. There are some exceptions to this rule though. 2. Not pulling fish properly. Always pull a fish at 75-80% of what your gear can do. You will land and successfully release more fish. 3. The politics in competitive fly fishing, I love the sport and competing but there is no need for all the nonsense. 4. Why there are not even more of us. I meet very few people who have used a fly rod and not enjoyed it. 5. The arrogance and sense of entitlement some fly fishers have. There is so much that we can learn from the conventional guys, so don’t look down on them.
5 common mistakes that most clients make?
1. All the gear but no idea. A good set up will not make you a better angler if you do not know how to use it correctly. 2. Learn to cast. This is the fundamental basis of fly fishing and there is no shame in getting lessons. If you cannot cast there is very little a guide can do to help you catch fish. You don’t need to cast a full fly line; focus on line speed and accuracy. 3. Don’t cast until your guide says so. I want you to catch fish just as much as you do but impatience will get you nowhere. 4. Don’t try make your guide move slower or faster than he is doing. If we are stalking the flats, I am conscious of three things: client safety and nasty critters; spotting fish without spooking them and covering the water most effectively during our tide gap. 5. Not getting a guide earlier. There is no shame in getting a guide. You can learn more from a guide in one day then you can going solo for one year.
Your last five casts were to….
Rainbow trout in the Smalblaar River and grunter on the Knysna turtlegrass flats.
QUICK SILVER
IF FLOAT-TUBING FOR SILVER KOB OFF INSHORE REEFS ON THE WESTERN CAPE COASTLINE SOUNDS LIKE AN ATTEMPT AT ENTERING THE DARWIN AWARDS, YOU’RE NOT ALONE. BUT FOR CONRAD BOTES AND THE FEW HARDY FLOAT TUBE KOB ANGLERS WHO SPECIALISE IN QUICK SESSIONS ON THESE URBAN COASTAL WATERS, THE REWARDS OUTWEIGH THE RISKS.
Photos Sacha Specker. Kob photos Contad Botes.
Cellos at Dawn
It’s still gloomy outside, but in the predawn darkness I take refuge under a streetlamp next to my car and start gearing up. I follow the usual routine; first inflate my float tube, then rig up my fly-rod and finally I get into my neoprene pants and splash jacket. While I’m busy doing my thing, two ‘ouens’ in a bakkie pull up behind me. They’ve got an Ark inflatable in the back, along with all manner of fishing gear. One of them walks over to me, while the other one starts getting their stuff together on the pavement next to their car. He asks me what my target species are. I reply that I’m going for kob. ‘Watse aas werk die beste hier?’ (What bait works best here?) he asks. I hadn’t rigged my rod yet, so
I reply that I’m a fly-fisherman. He responds with a condescending snort and returns to his chommie.
While I finish up I can hear them laughing, probably about my fishing from a float tube, or perhaps the futility of fly-fishing for kob.
I jump across the low wall that separates the beach from the road and walk to the water’s edge. As I paddle out I can see them launching their Ark inflatable a few hundred metres behind me. At this stage, I focus on the fishing and start planning the morning’s session. I decide to hit Bermuda Triangle first. Bermuda is a spot consisting of three rocks about 30 or so metres from each other, that break the surface at low tide. There’s a nice foamy hole in the middle of Bermuda and more often than not, a kobbie or two hanging out in it. When the kob are about, you will often get a take within the first five to ten casts and, if you don’t, you can move on to the next gulley until you find them. I launch a cast and land my fly in the sweet spot. As I start the retrieve, the line is almost jerked from my hands, and I tighten up on my first kob for the morning. It’s not often that one gets a fish on your first cast, and wanting to share my stoke, I decide to show the two ‘papgooiers’* that flyfishermen do actually catch kob out on the False Bay reefs. I turn around to look for them. I spot them about 60 metres away from me, thrashing in the water next to their capsized inflatable boat, with moderate surf rolling over them neatly distributing their floating gear across the surface of the water. It’s a shit show. Papgooier number one is trying to turn the boat upright again, while papgooier number two is trying with all his might to climb on top of the craft, thereby nullifying his comrade’s efforts. The reason for the hysteria, of course, is their fear of sharks, something that I’m all too familiar with. Eventually, they manage to get the boat turned upright and clamber back on in a flat panic. After trying to salvage a few items, they start making their way back to shore with a single oar. I turn my back on them and continue fishing. It’s early dawn and the horizon has turned from dark grey to a bright pinkish hue. As a single oar floats past me in the light south easterly breeze, I ponder the phenomenon of people’s unreasonable fear of sharks. The first comment people make when I mention fly-fishing for kob from a float tube on the inshore reefs in False Bay, is the danger of shark attacks. Most people will make some dismissive joke about such a foolish pursuit, while others will express their deep concern for your safety and try to dissuade you. My buddy, MC Coetzer, who is one of the float-forkob clan, told me with much glee that one of his oldest friends and an experienced saltwater fly-fishing guide said that if there was one thing that he will never do in his life, ever, it would be to fly-fish from a float tube in the open sea.
A comment from our esteemed editor when he finally agreed to join me for a session on the float tube and went to buy a pair of neoprene longs was, ‘I tried to get them in a bright colour, because I thought black ones would leave me looking like a seal.’ I rest my case. (ed. In my defence, have you ever seen a luminous orange or green seal? I also rest my case…doos). If you consider the number of surfers and swimmers in the water in and around Cape Town every day of the year, and the frequency of shark attacks, I really find this perpetual fear of being killed by sharks irrational. Are there sharks in the water where people surf and where we float tube? From my experience after 20 years as a spearfisherman, the answer is most certainly yes. Sharks are very aware of people’s presence in the water, they are simply not particularly interested in people as a food source. If the sharks automatically attacked people, there would be shark attacks every day. A recent encounter with a shark out on the reefs is a good case in point. We were out on our tubes, fishing for kob around a mid-day low tide when I spotted a very large dark shape moving over the shallow, outer part of the reef we were fishing. ‘Seal’ I thought but changed my mind almost immediately. It was too big to be one of the seals we see around here and it wasn’t black like a seal, but rather dark, brownish-grey. A while later it approached me horizontally from a completely different angle, when it was about ten metres away it turned and swam directly towards me. Only then did I get a good look at it in the murky water; a bronze whaler with pectorals spread beautifully to the sides of its wide trunk, it swam straight towards me and when it was about six metres away it spooked and hauled ass into the deep, like a neurotic grunter who had a JAM fly tossed on its head on a skinny sand flat.
The fact is that the chances of being attacked by a shark are just too slim. By comparison, most other sporting activities seem extremely dangerous. Like mountain hiking for instance. According to the South African Mountain Accidents Database, there have been more than ten fatal hiking accidents on Table Mountain during the past 12 months.
The sad fact is, that sharks are the true victims in this scenario, considering that people kill more than one hundred million sharks per year. Go on, Google it.
One late afternoon earlier this year, while I was gearing up for the evening session, I was approached by two bait collectors that frequent the reefs at low tide. After explaining that I don’t use bait, and therefore didn’t want to buy any, I was being scrutinised by the two, while I was pumping up the float tube on the pavement. ‘Gaan Pa op daai ou booitjie uitroei!?’ (Are you going to row out there in that little boat?) I tried to explain the virtues of a float tube as well as I could, but the pair were left shaking their heads in disbelief and confusion.
I have found that this is also the general reaction when it comes to float tubing in the surf. We are often asked why we don’t use more solid craft like inflatable boats or stand-up paddleboards. While these craft also have their place in the surf, I find that float tubes work really well for the following reasons. They are easy to carry, quick to inflate and will fit in the back of your car, even when almost fully inflated. They are steady in the surf; having your legs in the water, using proper diving fins, acts as water anchors and will keep you from capsizing. You can keep casting and fishing even while you are paddling from spot to spot. My buddy, Jannie Visser, fishes from a stand-up paddleboard (SUP) and says that because of its high wind resistance, he can’t go out when it’s too windy. A float tube on the other hand has a much smaller wind profile and I often use it in a stiff south easterly wind. Standing up on a SUP or inflatable boat gets quite tricky when the sea gets a bit choppy, but this is not a problem at all in a float tube where you have a low centre of gravity.
Silver bullets
Fly-fishing for dusky kob is a blood, sweat and tears affair. The fish numbers have been depleted so much that stocks are commonly referred to as “collapsed”. Even if we fish in the big estuaries like the Breede River system, you are very likely to blank targeting kob. If you are fortunate enough to land more than ten good duskies in one season, you can regard yourself as a decent and, no doubt, die-hard, fly fisherman.
When I started targetting kob off the False Bay reefs with Jannie Visser a few years ago, this all changed. Catching fish became the norm and blanking the exception. The reason for this is that the kob that are commonly caught in False Bay are a different species. Unlike Argyrosomus japonicus (dusky kob), the stocks of Argyrosomus inodorus (silver kob) are healthier, but no doubt under similar pressure as duskies. While they appear to be identical, their behaviour seems to be completely different. Unlike duskies, silver kob rarely enter estuaries but clearly congregate in healthy numbers on shallow inshore reefs. For this reason, we were stoked to discover that they can be targeted close to where we live. The schoolie size silvers also put up a better fight than duskies of a similar size. But while we’ve been studying dusky kob behaviour for over a decade, we know very little about how silver kob behave. Every day on the water reveals something new. A session with Mike Gradidge, another of my fishing buddies, earlier this year is a good example of how little we know. I returned to the reefs with Mike the day after a killer session with Jannie and MC. We arrived and started fishing in the same spot as the day before, but couldn’t buy a fish. After checking all my regular spots without any luck, I suggested to Mike that we try small silicone mullets for elf or garrick. After moving to an altogether different part of the reef, I had a solid pull on the silicone, stripped just under the surface. I called Mike over, yelling that I’d found some leeries, and soon we were both tight into good fish. What we thought were leerfish, turned out to be silver kob that were evidently feeding higher in the water column, something we had never encountered over inshore reefs before. What followed was one of my most memorable sessions on the reefs, as we stayed anchored on the edge of a basin, targeting a single shoal of silver kob.
The following scenario is very common. We’re gearing down after a session, breaking down rods and discussing the highlights. A conventional angler, who just arrived and is making his way onto the reefs where he’ll be fishing from the bricks, approaches us. As he gets closer, I see him searching our stuff for evidence of a successful mission. He doesn’t see any fish, but asks anyway; “Did you guys catch anything?” At this point, I always give the same reply; “We’re fly fishermen”. He smiles and walks away. I deliberately say nothing more, leaving him with his preconceived opinion that fly-fishermen don’t catch fish in the sea.
Here’s a little secret. More often than not, the fly will outfish conventional methods on these reefs by a large margin. I will always savour the memory of a mid-day kob session MC Coetzer and I had a few months ago. It was a Sunday, an absolute pearler of a day with not a breath of wind. Every man and his dog was out on the reefs; kayak
fishermen in the backline and conventional rock and surf chaps on the bricks. After a few casts, I left MC at the Bermuda Triangle and decided to try a deep basin near the backline. I noticed after a while that MC was catching but, foolishly, I stuck to my spot since it had produced my biggest silver kob there the year before. After an hour I paddled back and joined MC. His reaction was, “Dude, what took you so long! I’ve already landed ten kob!” What followed was one of the best sessions I’ve ever experienced on the reefs. We fished the long reef to the east of Bermuda, casting to the inside of it. Our casts must have overlapped with four rock and surf guys, who were fishing from the very point of the reef and casting towards us. It was quite ridiculous. At one point we were getting hooked up shot for shot, while papgooiers were getting no bites whatsoever. MC ended up with a final tally of 19 kob and three elf, which is the most kob I’ve ever seen landed on fly in such a short session. At one point, with my rod bent double on a nice fish yet again, I looked over and caught the eye of one of the papgooiers. As he stared at me in disbelief, I gave him a little nod, as if to say, ‘Sorry man, we’re fly fishermen.’
* A condescending reference to baitcasters in Afrikaans. Literally, ‘pap’ is ‘cooked maize’ and ‘gooiers’ is ‘throwers’ in refence to the baitbombs carp anglers use.
HELL BOY
FISHING THE NEW ZEALAND TONGARIRO RIVER IS HEAVEN ON EARTH AND A DREAM COME TRUE FOR FLY ANGLERS; EXCEPT IF YOU ARE GERHARD UYS HAVING AN OFF DAY.
Photos. Gerhard Uys
Let’s get this out of the way. I am a fly fishing white belt. The fishing trip I plan and the one I get is often not the same. The knots I practised while on the couch at home are suddenly impossible. I freak out about depth and tippet length (which in New Zealand makes all the difference when catching fish) and, when there are others nearby, I become nervous and my casting becomes a sight-not-tobehold. Feeling like a loser screws up my whole day. But there are also odd days when I slay it, and those keep bringing me back for more.
No, no, it doesn’t end there. Before a fishing trip I also always worry that I won’t get enough sleep the night before. I have had insomnia my entire life, and a good night’s sleep makes the difference between a shit day and a great one. This means I always lie awake worrying that I won’t fall asleep and worrying that I won’t hear my alarm. So I don’t fall asleep. All days fishing therefore start out badly for me. Oh wait, this is an article about fishing the Tongariro and the surrounding rivers in New Zealand’s North Island. In case you wondered, it is as amazing as you’ve heard. The brown and rainbow trout are massive; there is an abundance of them and the rivers are truly endless. The views of snowy peaks in the background are Instagram fodder; the river crossings are mean and, by the end of each day, you will have plenty to recount around the braai. The drastic changes in seasons means you can hit the water with everything from nymphs, throughout the year, to dry flies in summer. If you have time and some money you can explore the backcountry and catch fish that may never even have heard rumours of the existence of humans. The deafening roar of the river stays in your head two days after you’ve left the place and, as it fades, the memories of the Tongariro remain. Yes, you should pack your bags right now and come fish for monsters. It will be worth the money you spend. But there are provisos. Everyone knows the river is awesome and many weekends you will see full car parks and lines of fly fisherman at the popular local pools. One weekend I saw 14 fishermen line up on the edge of a long riffle at the popular Bridge Pool in Turangi, a bustling town that has multiple access points to the Tongariro, or “The Tong” as my buddy Cam Kriss calls it. The Kiwi government has a thing about access and will build a carpark and access points to anything that they find is frequented by the public. This means that secret spots could suddenly become parking lots, just because someone from Fish and Game or the Department of Conservation became aware of it. At one pool you’ll even find a sign explaining what fly fishing is. If you are really lucky they will put up a sign with the pool’s name and even build a long drop close by so you don’t do a bushy should the desire overwhelm you while you’re casting for trout. As a side note, don’t even talk about taking a bushy close to a popular tourist fishing destination in New Zealand, because somehow the words ‘open defecation’ will find its way into a local newspaper because you took a poop, covered it back up and then had the ill luck of someone’s damn dog getting the sniffs and digging a hole.
I digress. Covid lockdown first meant that no foreigners could come and fish, and the water was here for our taking. But alas, the Kiwis seemed to have had a surge of interest in fly fishing and some days the rivers are crawling with enthusiasts.
If you are like me and fly fishing is a pursuit that goes handin-hand with solitude, then a day fishing the Tongariro is often spent shouting at a full carpark, then doing a screeching U-turn, and gunning off to find a pool where there is no one around, or where access is fairly difficult and excludes everyone except the fittest or the semi adventurous.
For newbies like me, figuring out what’s potting in Turangi presents challenges. If you see a Ute (Kiwi word for bakkie, meaning utility vehicle) randomly parked next to the road in this area, you could mistake it for a sign that there is a pool nearby full of monster rainbows that someone just discovered on Google maps and is fishing it.
In many cases however a car parked next to the road does not mean there is a spot to fish but that someone is hitting meth (New Zealand has a huge methamphetamine and gang problem) and the spot you think could be a trout gold mine is just a stop next to the road for a meth head. Provisos aside, when I slipped my feet into my waders one cloudy day I was psyched. Cam Kriss was already in the water. He had meandered downstream from the overfished bridge pool, crossed the river and was fishing away from the crowds.
Cam had put over 20 000km on the clock in 2020 because he took the four hour ride from Auckland to the Turangi area every weekend to fish. He was turning into a real ‘Tong’ slayer. Cam moved to New Zealand from Australia during lockdown in February 2020 and spent two weeks in quarantine with a practice rod perfecting his cast. He also bought a book on fly fishing spots online and dropped pins on Google maps and has spent the past year exploring these fishing spots. In short, he is the man to fish with. Cam, Suzie (they are not putting a name on what their relationship is yet) and I waded across rivers, bundu bashed a bit, and hit some fairly “off the radar” pools. Because I only manage to fish once a month, Cam immediately went into instructor mode, which I appreciate. A very easy cast, often used by Kiwi fisherman when nymphing, is the use of a bomb point fly, with a foot of tippet to a light nymph that floats around freely and hangs from the point fly. Somewhere above or below the point fly a piece of split shot ensures that the fly gets down to the bottom. This is all topped off with a wool indicator. This is on at least two rod lengths of tippet, which is allowed to be taken downstream for about ten metres. Once the line is straightened out a simple water load cast gets your fly upstream. After this only mending is needed and once the drift is finished you simply repeat the effortless process. Like the Kiwi’s say, “too easy.” I didn’t know it, but a long series of mishaps were about to start that had nothing to do with my lack of sleep or my anxiety. After only my second pass through a pool I felt a nibble and, when I struck, the weight of the fish brought the reality home quickly. I had had a rotator cuff repair four months ago before that and, despite hours of physiotherapy, I cannot get decent mobility back into my shoulder. I can barely lift my arm more than ten degrees above my shoulder. I switched the rod to my left hand, but my reel was left hand wind. I desperately began stripping as much line as I could with my right hand. Profanities echoed off the walls of the low valley. I switched hands again and awkwardly tried to reel in line. The fish sensed slack in the line and gunned it. I switched hands again and managed to get a tight line going. I saw a decent sized fish tip on its side. I was psyched! I was about to catch my first brown trout (eyewitnesses confirmed it was actually a rainbow). But, consecutive yanks on the line, switching hands and my stop-start efforts meant the line broke off. Three water loads later and I got another fish on. I knew its size was good as I could feel how solid the beast was as it tried to escape me. Again, I was psyched, but the same rod roulette happened and the fish swam to freedom as I reeled in a broken tippet.
Cam and Suzie chuckled as I howled into the valley. I was perplexed. I should have switched my reel wind direction, I should have done more physio, the shoulda-wouldacoulda went on. Did I really drive three hours for this? After we hit a few more pools (with no luck) we promised to hook up two days later. The next day Friedrich Fourie. Christoff Smith and I (all expat South Africans) hit the river. We tried to head out early and finally fish the bridge pool to avoid the masses but, by 6am there were already four lines in the water. As we got out of the bakkie Friedrich slapped himself on the forehead and pulled the face one reserves for times when disaster has struck. He had left his wading boots at the lodge. We all got in the bakkie again and drove off to fetch his boots. We realised that the crowds meant that the bridge pool was not an option anymore. After much bickering about where to go next we decided on another pool. It was 7am but Friedrich was already miffed. Forgetting his boots was a clear sign of the karma that was about to play out. He wolfed down his lunch because, he said, “I won’t get time later”. The night before I had devised an action plan to get fish in the net. I had decided to Czech nymph. It would cut out any need for casting and give my arm a rest until needed. I should have changed my Loop Evotec G4 reel wind direction while devising the plan, but I convinced myself it would work. I tied on an olive C3 Habanero (tied by Taupo fly guide Dustin Habaner) for a point fly, and some light weight brown jobbie to float around on top of it. We hit the water for an hour but had no luck so we hiked up river where a cold wind came up and messed with our casting. With the Czech technique the wind doesn’t bother me too much.
I saw a clear riffle, something out of a magazine or ‘how to’ fly fishing book. On my third pass I felt something and struck. My emotional well-being increased instantly as a fish jumped out of the water, my shoulder muscles didn’t give a damn about my aspirations for the weekend and after a few desperate looks at Christoff and Friedrich, who were standing closer with a net, I started dropping multiple ‘F’-bombs. Same story. I saw the fish on his side, I switched hands, the fish was within reach, I must have yanked or something because the leader snapped. I realised I hadn’t crushed my barbs and immediately felt like crap about the nymph that might be stuck in the fish’s mouth forever. “My fokken arm, my foookkkeen aaaarrreem, fok!” An hour of tight lining it and all the muscles had cramped up. Friedrich and Christoff stared at me. Pain and loss aside, I had had fish on and I was chuffed. “What fly did you have on? What length was your tippet? “ We are all white belts here (maybe not Friedrich). But, if one of us gets a fish, there’s that immediate assumption that he must have some golden ticket that had done the job. For a moment, despite what my arm had done to me, I had the key to success. For the first time I appreciated the moment. Cold blue water, low rock cliffs, the cold wind howling and my buds. But the next moment I was under the water. Under, really under. My waders filled up. I tried to stand but a monster pain shot through my right shoulder. I performed a weird flailing swim movement several times and finally managed to get a foothold on the riverbed.
My Redington waders were slightly leaky and I realised I hadn’t put my iPhone in a Ziplock bag. I pulled it out and saw the screen flicker. I switched it off.
The rivers here are bloody cold so, in an attempt to dry off, I semi dropped my waders and sat like I was having a blatant bushy. I found a sunny spot but the wind wasn’t helping my body temperature. I tried to fish again but I was shivering.
We fished on with no luck so decided to hit the town for some grub. While Christoff and I sat down for some food, Friedrich went off to meet up with his better half for a while. I was still shaking. I felt dizzy. Cold. There was a shooting pain going through my left arm. It was getting worse. This can’t be happening. I’m only 41, but work had been hellishly stressful recently. “Dude, I am sorry to do this to you, but I think I am having a heart attack,” I said.
Christoff is a man for an emergency. “What do we do?” he asked. He did not seem phased at all.
“I think I need an ambulance.”
Christoff scoops up our burgers in his hands with one grab as our sit down meal became a takeaway. “You just stay calm”.
Google Maps takes us to the fire station. Two hot ambulance women strap me to some electric wires, pop a heart monitor on to my index finger and ask me questions I should have considered before I clutched my left arm and went into 911 mode.
“So you fished with the arm you don’t usually fish with? Your left one? How long were you cold for? Over an hour? When last did you eat?” As their questions appear to rule out a heart attack, it dawned on me that I would not have to phone my wife to tell her to please walk the dog every day when I’m six feet under, and that she wouldn’t have to send all my meagre savings to my family in South Africa, after she used some of it for a vacay. “You’d do good to go home, take a hot shower and eat something,” hot ambulance lady number two said. We returned to the lodge (it’s called a lodge but is a very two star house owned by our fly fishing club). I popped my iPhone into a bag of pasta to see if it would save it. We didn’t have rice. I sat down and stuffed my face with various edible items.
“Dude take a hot shower,” Friedrich advised me.
“Nope. I’m not dead. Let’s go fish,” I said and we climbed into Christoff’s bakkie. The dudes both netted a few nice Tong rainbows and scored a bunch of likes on Instagram. I broke off two more fish, and then I snapped my rod. Holy hell. What a weekend.
