To find true wilderness these days is pretty tricky. Even after hiking for a day or so in the Tasmanian wilderness, I often come across old, disused four wheel drive tracks or perishing fence posts. So I was surprised and delighted on my recent NZ trip to the West Coast of the South Island when, after being delivered to the start of our walk by taxi and hiking approximately one kilometre upstream, I felt as though I was in a remote, wild place.
Most of my remote, wilderness fishing experiences in NZ have involved helicopter rides to the edge of the ‘No Fly’ zones of the Kahurangi National Park, followed by hiking up rivers and packrafting out. On one memorable occasion, we took a De Havilland Float Plane across Lake Te Anau in Fiordland to the Glaisnoch and the Worsley rivers.
With ballot systems in place and more recently the restrictions imposed by the new regulations known as ‘Designated Waters’, we have had to look further afield to find rivers which offer a remote, wilderness fishing experience. Most of this research I’ve left to my fishing companion and driving force, Andrew.
Part of the wilderness experience for us requires that you spend more than a night or two camping out. Typically we plan for eight to ten days. It takes a while to settle into the environment, slow down and absorb what’s going on around you and reflect on the experience. Unfortunately the four day limit imposed by the new ‘Designated Waters’ system doesn’t allow for this.
Does fishing in remote waters mean more fish? Usually not, but somehow the fish you catch are more memorable. Perhaps it’s because you’ve worked harder for them. More often than not, it’s a team effort with one person spotting and calling the shots, whilst the other casts and hopefully catches.
My first big fish for this recent trip was a case in point. Andrew was on a high, forested bank, peeping out from between the branches, when he spotted a large brown sitting below him near the tail of the pool. Fortunately for me, it was impossible for him to cast. On the other hand, I was on the opposite side of the river with an opportunity, even though the glare off the water and my low angle totally prevented me from seeing the fish. After several failed attempts, involving listening to Andrew’s instructions, the fish inspecting but not taking my fly, and a number of fly changes, I eventually managed to hook and land the beautiful five pound buck on the largest cicada pattern in my box. The first time I actually saw the fish was when it rose through the surface, mouth wide open, to intercept the fly.
This trip was special insofar as the trout were feeding on cicadas. Although we’ve always carried cicada patterns, it was the first time (after numerous trips) we had the right opportunities to use them. In fact, most of the trout we caught were on cicada patterns.
As time went by, we settled into a daily routine of hiking, fishing and camping, and as we moved further upstream the fishing improved markedly and the ruggedness of the landscape unfolded.
Distant views of the craggy peak of Mt Uriah loomed as did the peaks of the Paparoa Range. At times, a trapper’s track offered a reasonably clear path through the bracken, understory and beech forest close to the river, only to suddenly disappear into thin air, leaving us floundering and clambering over rotting logs, through swamps, up steep inclines, or forced back to the river to boulder-hop along the edge.
Suitable campsites were challenging to find, but we managed to locate a few flat-ish areas on sand or, if lucky, on grass between the pampas, burrs and the spikey Matagouri bushes. On cloudless, cold nights the sky appeared as a glittering dome and lying in my tent, I’d drift off to sleep to the sound of the river, punctuated by the mournful call of the mopoke owl.
Each day we were greeted by a welcoming committee of sandflies…”Don’t forget the Aeroguard”. Then we began with a much-needed billy coffee and a bowl of muesli with powdered milk – just add river water. Lunches of Vita Weats with salami, cheese, cucumber and green pepper provided sustenance to get us through the day. Evenings were usually some sort of noodly affair, followed by chocolate, nuts, dried fruit and a cuppa. Wekas, the comedians of the local birdlife, provided the entertainment.
We both lost more fish than we caught, as is often the case when fishing in fast water. As we explored further upstream, the river was characterised by extensive rock gardens and even though we didn’t catch a huge number of fish, we had opportunities and were constantly engaged. Black cicada patterns were easier to see than green or lighter-coloured flies in this boisterous pocket water. Andrew, who was smart enough to move up to 3X tippet, managed to hold onto more fish than me, as I foolishly stuck with 4X.
The weather was kind to us in the main. We lost half a day to rain which brought the river up a foot or so, and saw us sitting under a tarp drinking coffee, resting, talking tactics, and generally solving the problems of the world.
This style of fishing isn’t for the faint-hearted or those that can’t do without comfort. But if you’re willing to do it a bit tough, have a reasonable level of fitness, and are able to enter into the spirit of a truly wild, remote place, then it is hugely rewarding, and wonderful. Lasting memories are forged.
