ANGLING

Southland Times, Issue 19458, 24 January 1925, Page 14

ANGLING

(By “Creel.”) HIS HANDICAP. The local all-round sportsman met the vicar, who was returning home with his fishing tackle. Stopping, they talked for a moment, and then the sportsman, who prided himself on being a great angler, inquired: “Hallo, vicar! Any luck?” “Yes,” replied the vicar, tapping his basket,” I have a trout—a pound and a-half —that I pulled out from Lower Brook.” “Oh, that’s nothing,” bragged the other. “I’ve caught dozens of fish of two pounds and over in that stream.” “Ah, but you have the advantage of me,” complained the vicar. “Advantage? Advantage, vicar?” exclaimed the sporty one. “Same brook, and you have the better gear?” “I know that,” was the retort, “but you must remember that I am a parson and you’re not.” With south-easterly winds prevailing for last week-end, conditions were against anglers securing anything exceptional in the way of bags, and as far as can be learned, a few odd fish only were captured. On the Mataura River, which is reported to be in first-class order, Messrs Geo Dempster and C. McPherson (Edendale), grassed four fish each on the Red Pomahaka fly during an evening rise. On the Aparima River in the vicinity of Thornbury, Mr Jas. Ward landed a nice trout on the minnow, about 51b weight. Mr H. C. Foster also caught a nice fish, about Hlb, with the same class of lure. The latter angler made fast to two or three good fish with the fly, but unfortunately lost them during the “playing.” Trout are reported to be plentiful in this river. The writer visited the Dunsdale stream on Wednesday afternoon, but found the river to be literally choked with duckweed and slime. Three sizable trout took a lot of manoeuvring before they were placed in the bag. A fly fisherman will find it considerably easier when fishing a stream under the above-mentioned conditions to simply use one fly at the end of the cast. This action saves a lot of “cuss” words, as the angler has only one fly to clean the slime from, and, further, it is very much easier to cast the fly into any desirable portion of the water. A correspondent forwards the interesting information that Mr M. McAuliffe recently landed a splendid 10lb Atlantic salmon from the Waiau just below the Power House. The same angler has caught a lot of good trout in this vicinity this season. Trout up to 141 b weight have been caught in the Monowai at the spillway, and fish are reported to be plentiful, with the river low, and some splendid fishing is to be obtained. FISHERMAN’S LUCK. At this time of the year when half (as a rule the better half) of the season has slipped by, we anglers often strike a balance as it were to see if what the Gods have provided has been good or otherwise. Of course I do not mean a balance in the financial sense, for. the benefits we have received on our various outings cannot well be measured in pounds, shillings and pence, for we get many pleasures money cannot buy. Perhaps to be a trifle more exact, we strike a mental half yearly balance to see if it has been worth while, whether the benefits accruing from our sport has been worth the trouble and labour expended. Sometimes at the end of the season an occasional novice may say: “It has been a very poor season, I don’t think I will

bother taking out another license. For all the time and trouble I wasted in getting a dozen or so paltry trout, the 'game is not worth while, better buy them.” A few of the old hands say the same, but when the next season comes round you will once again find them on the list of licenseholders for they cannot resist the call, they know only too well the many pleasures derived from the sport outside the mere catching of the fish; for after all it is the fishing and not the fish that counts in the long run. There is many a day he returns with a full heart yet with a light bag. There is supposed to be a deal of luck attached to fishing, but personally my experience of many years has been that the man who works the hardest has the most luck and the heaviest bag. Luck translated is only one third, knowing how, where and when, the balance hard graft. Just another case of the man behind the gun, he must have proper tools and know how to use them to the best advantage at the most opportune time, and should have sufficient knowledge of the habits of the fish and where they would most likely feed. There is always an odd chance of picking up a stray trout even in an unlikely spot when your flies are on the water, never while they are in the air. I am wondering if there is such S’ thing as luck in fishing? There certainly is a great similarity between getting our tail down in cricket and angling, and the result is generally of a negative quantity in the scores; but luck perhaps? Some years ago digging in the garden (not for worms), I unearthed a tiny replica of a China doll, a diminutive Buddha, not more than an inch in length, it was a curious little object when cleansed of its earthy covering. I put it in my match pocket in one of the old coats I generally wear out fishing and there it remained year after year, accompanying me on most of my fishing trips. I am generally accounted a lucky or successful fisher because I work fairly hard and at the end of the day it is very rarely that I have not a few to give away. If my boys chaff me about the fishing and wonder why my bag is generally the heaviest I jokingly refer to the China doll as the cause.

For months perhaps it would disappear but again at the beginning of the season it would turn up in some old discarded coat. It has, as a rule, for company in my pocket, a few matches, a disgorger and a piece of ink pencil, and one season the coat must have been left wet, for the image took on a dark bluish black stain, save the eyes. It looked and I called it a little black God —my mascot.

Years went by till I got so used to its presence when fishing that I felt for it; often really to strike a match on. This season it has disappeared and I am wondering has my hand lost its cunning or has my luck deserted me with my mascot? Whatever it is, I have so far this season made but few attachments with my friend the trout in comparison with former years. At Christmas we planned a trip to the Pomohaka at the junction of the R ankleburn. We had a splendid camp and altogether a good time, but from a fishing point of view it was a rank failure. The fish were there—good fish too; but the deadly east wind made a record and fishing impossible by blowing for a week straight on end night and day. As a rule when arranging a fishing trip I make due allowance in the commisariat department for fish to be caught; and trout for breakfast is a hard and fast rule, but it was broken two or three times on this occasion as none were caught, in fact we might have had to go on short rations had the boys not been successful when trying out a new rifle in securing a couple of stags on the hills; for this part of the district is open land for deer. Had it 'not been for the venison we would have had to fall back on tinned fish. Fancy this on a fishing trip. The only fish I caught were a half dozen up to 31bs, picked out of a side branch, sheltered by the hills and bush from the prevailing easterly. So much for the Pomohaka; it was still blowing hard east when we left, but what a splendid fishing proposition it is thereabouts.

To make up for our lack of sport in the fishing line, we concentrated on the next trip at New Year and fixed on the Mataura, in the vicinity of Mataura Island. For a day or two beforehand I fashioned wet flies and dry flies, large flies and small flies, with an occasional moth for night fishing; for our reputation was at stake and my family were beginning to cast words of scorn about my ability to catch fish. I bear them no malice; it must be rather tough for them, after promising fish right and left, for “Dad has gone fishing” and he returns empty handed but full of excuses. However, we had heard such great reports about the Mataura that we just could not fail to make a record. It rained fairly solidly as we started, but what was a few inches of rain, it would put the fish fairly on the feed. It rained part of the journey down, then the sun came out, promising a good rise of fish, and we were in great fettle, but on reaching the bridge we found the river mud. Yes, just liquid mud. We did not have the heart to return, so just pitched a camp and sulked, waiting for the river to fall. It kept falling all day so there was a silver lining—the hope that next day it would be fishable ; it kept falling gradually all day and night and then started to rise again from the local rain, rose two inches and we left. What about the Waiau, will wc give it a go? Never once had I failed to get a good bag there and so with the prospect of making up for previous failures we duly cranked up the old bus and headed west, and in due course were comfortably installed in a hut on the west bank. We fished the incoming evening tide both on and off the spit, but if it had not been for a stray flounder, fish would once again have disappeared from the breakfast menu. Two or three other anglers were busy with the rod, but as there was nothing doing they soon discarded this for the flounder spear. The second day was but a repetition of the first, and the third just as another second. I did really land half a dozen on the third evening, but none over a pound. Taken altogether the outing piscatorially was not brimful of results, so I have made up my mind that prior to my next trip, be it north, east or west, anj' hunting I shall do in preparation for same shall not be for bait, but for my little black god—my old mascot. RED SPINNER.