The Hutt River

New Zealand Times, Volume XLIX, Issue 11251, 1 July 1922, Page 12

The Hutt River

AN ANGLER’S PARADISE

(By

I.A.M.

• for the New Zealand, Times),

The difficulties make it all the more alluring; the “sousings” thorough and frequent that the enterprising Waltoman receives—the term, though coined, is somewhat less stilted than the orthodox “angler” gives it, in some queer way, an added charm. Here I am reminded of an erstwhile friend who carried his cold-blooded method—he was a commercial traveller—into the gentle art, with' undaunted enthusiasm, but with questionable success. Briefly, his main principle was to literally “tumble in” at tho outset—get properly and completely wet. He explained that if he did this right at the start he wore an easy conscience for the remainder of the day, in that he was pretty sure to get a sousing in any event before the trip was out, and it wouldn’t worry him half so much. In theory, sound enough. He is married now, and his wife won’t let him. That was his punishment, perhaps. Nowadays, when 1 lean over the back fence, and hear him breathing dark threats concerning the snails and slugs which have played havoc with his cabbages, I remind him of the time he used the common garden worm—a distant cousin of the others —on the Akatarawa, in open defiance of the strong and sustained efforts of a far-seeing Acclimatisation Society. His “method,” however, doesn’t allow either for retribution or a sense of humour. It does for the ’ heaving of his spare sods of earth into my garden by way of a friendly exchange. I have a garden, too, you see. Nothing grows thoTe, though. I still go fishing. AN’ ERRATIC RIVER. This by way of introduction. 1 speak of the Hutt, and it is not an easy river to fish. In my younger days, I was wont to spend hours on the bridge that connects the two ends of that consequential little hamlet, look down on the speckled beauties below, and wonder if it was possible to catch them. But it was labelled “Dangerous” in the immediate vicinity, and the parental mind war. proof against all argument. Now I know that, in the main, they are much the same as any other fish—more cunning than usual, perhaps, and a little bit livelier, but trout for all that, and good fish to boot. Lively! Oan you imagine a trout, a bare half-pound in weight, which pulls out your line in much the same way as a fish three times the size? Which makes the old reel scream for the first few minutes like a chaffcutter out of hand? And which, after -jumping and splashing, and generally taking you all over the river, is still kicking and full or fight when the net comes out ? You cannot, of course. That represents the average performance of a fish of small size in this big Btream. But it is the river with its ever-changing moods that I must first tell of, for it is queerly erratic. Every flood that comes means a slight change in course. In a night a fine little shingle bank, where one may wade without fear, bordering a ripple where the big fellows always lie gives place to a pot-hole ; just sufficiently deep to cause a stumble, an unsuccessful recovery, and a thorough wetting. Such a happening generally precedes a cold bone-chilling southerly, 'which spoils the rise completely and sends the shivering and generally unhappy angler homewards—a telling example of “Fisherman’s Luck.” But it has its compensations. POPULAR MISCONCEPTIONS. To look at the water in the stretch of which I write, the prospect is far from inspiring. It is deep and sluggish for the meet part, with few, if any, ripples to disturb its surface. “Not worth a oast” would be the pronouncement of nine out of ten angling men. I do not blame them; but I am one of the few who have profited by experience, and 1 am content to remain in the hopeless minority. The fish are there, right enough. I venture to suggest, in fact, that there is no stream better stocked in the whole of the Wellington district. They are erratic, of course, in keeping, perhaps, with the general nature of the river, extemely wary, and inclined to be short-rising; but they can he caught. A light line, a favourable breeze just ruffling the water, a small fly, and if you find them at the “taking” stage, you will bring fish right from the bottom of the stream; fish that will delight you from every standpoint, and give you food for an inexhaustible run of fish yams—which nobody will believe. (As a true “sport,” however, you will not wager on a certainty, and with that you must be content.) Firstly, as I have indicated, local knowledge of the river i& essential, and even then you cannot ho sure that it will keep you dry. Then comes the question of tackle, and it is a big one. I have never yet been able to discover why the average fisherman labours under the delusion that his fly should be something in proportion to the size of the stream; that if he üßes a No. 14 in a day’s outing on the South Karori, and does well, nothing better than a salmon fly will do business at the Hutt. Many a time in the late evening have I been fishing a small reach, when I have heard a swishing reminding me of early efforts with a stockwhip, and there has passed me a fellow-angler —fishing etiquette is not a strong point at the Hutt —waving a salmon rod, with a heavy line and cast, and a fly that would put an angry scorpion to flight. On his return journey, when experiences of the night are exchanged, he has been astounded at the size of my modest little basket, and has refused to believe that a No. 14 did the fell work. But what is, is. The small fly must be cultivated. To support it should come a gossamer cast—a 4x for preference. Then, a long line. The water, for the most part, is crystal clear, and acts like a mirror. A careful advance will bring the wading angler to where he can just see a nice fish feeding. A bad cast, an moan, tioua move on hie part, and the fish has seen him first and is off. Delivery well in advance should be the motto.

THE CATCH OF THE SEASON. A fish there was that gave me a really good fun for half a season. His haunt was a deep rapid near a willowbank some distance below the bridge—a hard place to fish, with the only prospect of success a down-stream cast. I saw him. by accident one day, after 1 had placed tho fly all over and about him. He was nearly out of the water at the side, his tail and back fins plainly showing, a sight to gladden the heart of any man. I nicknamed him “Old Glory,” in memory of a big trout in the South Karori, which half tho 'xiiglern of Wellington tried for in their time, and which, nefas dictu. cvcntn-.

ally fell a prey to the lime bottle. Well, I tried that trout for months in every way. I used perhaps a dozen flies at different parts of the day and evening, wasting houre of good fishing elsewhere in the process. He was proof against everything. I looked on that fish as my own special property. 1 dreamed of him, ana he was my first waking thought. Still he lived, in apparently complete security. It became a feud, a sort of never-ending vendetta, and 1 grew into something approaching a land-mark on that particular part of the river. My family derided me: nty friends, “fishy” and otherwise, were openly sarcastic. 1 persisted. One night, at an unusually late hour, I was just giving up (with an inward vow to- give up for good) when I heard a “flop” that bespoko something big. A few minutes later it was repeated. Then, clear out of the water he came, in a rush for an unsuspecting night-fly. With an arm that trembled. I cast over the spot. An inconvenient willow obligingly took charge of tbe tail-fly, I worked it out, and tried again. A third cast, and—what a commotion! A pause, a swerving rush, and a leap two feet out of the water. Two or three of these. The reel screamed the sweetest of music. A further short period of quietness, while I did my host to keep him on the move. Off went the line again, down stream this time, and I feared for my light cast. After him I went, stumbling over stones, and clumsily splashing through the rapid. Over the top of my waders a little cold trickle made its way, Hut I cared not. I brought him up in the deep pool below, and thought I bad held him, hut off he made for the next ripple, using his weight to advantage with the current. I wound in desperately, but without avail. Out went the lino again, almost to the end of its thirtyfive yards of length. Another rush, and he made for the bank whfere snags and submerged willows abounded. Providentially, I held him off. Bit by bit I felt him giving. Another five minutes and he made his last run. "What a pang was at my heart if he should then escape I (And what a pang at the heart of the fish if he shouldn’t!) But I got him into the net, and by the aid of a torch examined him. ' A fine jack-fish—3l lb, at the least—but I had foul-hooked him! . . . . Had a certain well-known English author, whose denouements are painfully impossible, handled the yarn from this on, he would have had me put him back. Well, what would you have done ? THE INEVITABLE "WORM. Tho Hutt is becoming on© of the best fly streams in the North Island. I make this assertion without any reservations whatsoever. But, cannot it be kept as such ? The average man interested in acclimatisation work knows full well the tremendous handicap the society is under. It is safe to assume that of the 900 licenses that are issued yearly, hardly 200 represent men who confine themselves to artificial baits only. To extend the prohibition placed on the South Karori, the Porirua, the Akatarawa, and the other recognised fly streams to th© Hutt, would mean a severe drop in revenue. Thus, it is easy to call an attention to a growing evil, but infinitely liarder to suggest a remedy for it. It is harder still to convince the great majority of fishing men that live bait fishing of any sort should be confined to the open ocean. But, I predict that worm fishing -will just as effectively kill the other class of fishing in the Hutt as it has done elsewhere. I need hardly mention, as a practical example, one or two Christchurch rivers, which southern anglers were wont to boast of, and the fate that befell them through the self-samo cause. Southern anglens come north, wards for good fishing in these days. Any Sunday morning, when a “fresh” is on, the worm fisherman may be seen. He selects a suitable spot near the head of a pool, gets out his murderous tackle and sets his rod. Other necessary ingredients are a book, a pipe, plenty of tobacco, and light or heavy refreshment—to suit individual taste. The pipe is smoked, the book read, and the light (or heavy) refreshment consumed in easy stages. Perhaps a quiet snooze follows. When the rod sings, he knows a trout is on, pulls it out—and repeats th© whole performance. Sounds inoffensive enough, does it not? But, remember this: that “sport” will kill half a dozen trout while you perhaps have caught a single one. Furthermore, a few more of his visitations to the same pool, and that locality will he useless so far as fly-fishing goes for the remainder of the season. However, I can go no further than say that it “ought to bo stopped,” and there, I suppose, the matter will rest for all time; CONGRATULATORY. This would not be complete without a reference to the good work the society has done a.nd is doing, and; the E resent high standard of the Hutt shing is a fitting reward to the efforts of this live institution. Year by year, the river has been systematically stacked with fry and yearlings, making a total of go many thousands that one wonders how the fish have room to move round at all. It has taken time, but the last few yea re have seen the trout increase and multiply to an unprecedented extent. Look down from the Hutt bridge on a fine clear day, and you will see them all sizes up to four and five pounds—lying like a shoal of herrings in the still water below. Happily, poaching is a seldom thing on the stream—or at any rate the lower part of it. It is too open to publio view for one thing, and for another the occasional ranger who visits the locality is both keen and vigilant. In time to come the river must prove a sure “draw” to the angling fraternity far and wide. It is strangely unknown as a fly stream at present. It requires advertising, just as the Wellington Acclimatisation Society itself would lie in a much happier position to-day, financially and otherwise, had it gone in more for publicity as a means to enlisting th© warm sympathy of a somewhat apathetic Government, and of the public generally.