ANGLING

Timaru Herald, Volume CXLIV, Issue 20966, 19 February 1938, Page 7

ANGLING

JOY OF THE SPORT And when the weather Serves to angle in the brook. I will bring you a silver hook. With a line of finest silk. And a rod as white as milk To deceive the little fish. From "The Faithful Shepherdess" 1611. All has been quiet on the salmon front for the past week or so. The Rangitata gave promise of being clear enough last week-end, but came down thick again on Saturday. With an-

other rise early this week it is now very doubtful whether it will be clear enough to fish this Saturday.

Milford was well patronised over the week-end by bathers, herring fishers and quite a few optimistic salmon rods. There were very few salmon about, and onlv an odd one had been caught up to Tuesday when four were landed, one weighing 321 b. A run may be expected any time now', though the warmness of the water in the Opihi will not prove attractive to the fish. Th? rain rivers have all been run-

ning exceptionally low and clear, the Opihi especially being reduced to a mere trickle below the intake to the irrigation system, and the problem for the angler has been to remain out of sight, of the trout. Good catches under these conditions have been few and far between in the day time, and a bright moon has rendered the task of the night fisherman nearly as hard. The best time for fishing has been in the evening during that short space of time between sunlight and moonlight Daybreak is reported to be equally good, but this is a fact that most of us will take for granted. A DAY ON THE KAHAKU "Let’s try the Kahaku,” said Nimrod. "There are some good trout in the upper reaches.” The place to which we went certainly looked to be good fishing. Under a high cliff lay deep tree-shaded pools connected by good ripples. Nimrod is a companionable fisherman, and we wandered upstream together. Not the best way to catch trout certainly, but more enjoyable than solitary prowling. It was mid-afternoon and the larger fish were lying dormant in the deep pools. Only here and there an enterprising 10-incher was on the look-out for food in the faster water. Idly we wandered up. enjoying to the full the beauty of the willowbordered stream and the darker greens of a patch of native bush on the steep bluff on the other side. Here and there an undersized trout came protestingly out and was gently returned to its native element. Two or three just oversize were reposing in the basket and Nimrod had had a struggle, short and sharp, with a pounder that was the reward of a Red Tip Governor flicked in under an over-hanging willow, but which proved too lightly hooked. At the tail of a large deep pool, we lay contentedly smoking and the afternoon wore on. Suddenly Nimrod, who, except for an occasional puff of smoke that a truly ripe briar emitted, was apparently sound asleep, murmured drowsily "Give that one a go.” There, gently gliding down with the current and edging out to the shallow side of the pool, came a fair-sized trout. As we watched it took up its position just below a small rock. “Evidentally its usual feeding place,” said Nimrod. "No overhanging growth. It must be expecting a hatch. Wait a minute,” he continued, as I rummaged in my fly box for a Greenwell’s, "let’s see what it is going to feed on.”

For ten minutes we waited. So did the trout. Motionless it lay in the eddy caused by its rock. The opposing pressures made by the rock-split current saved it the exertion of swimming to keep motionless, and only a gentle adjustment of position by a slight undulation of the body or a

gentle waving of the pectoral fins denoted that it was alive. No sign of fly appeared. "Try the Greenwell," said Nimrod. Cautiously I crouched at the edge of the pool. A glance behind, and then two or three false casts to get the distance. Lightly the Greenwell landed just over the neb of that trout.

"Evidently something good to eat,” decided the trout as he turned and followed it down for nearly two yards. Slowly the body of the trout tilted until the current was carrying fly and perpendicular fish down together. Just past the fly a bony mouth gaped wide to receive it. My wrist started to tingle and as I prepared to strike the hook home. I wondered, "Will I be able to catch up on that slack line.” "After all.” decided that trout, “I don’t really like the look of it.” Next second its shadowy form was behind the rock once more. Six times the Greenwell hovered over the nose of that fish and floated dow’n, but for all the notice that was taken it might not have been there. "Try a change,” suggested Nimrod. On went a Hardy’s Favourite. "Here’s something new," thought the trout, and down it came, touched the fly with its nose and turned back to its rock. More casts with the same fly were ignored. "Give it a wet fly," murmured Nimrod between puffs. A Red Quill dressed to sink was promptly despatched and the novelty again attracted attention. “That trout came there for something,” said my companion. I put on an Olive Quill and cast industriously. "Keep it up." said Nimrod drowsily, "make him think a hatch is on. The thirtieth cast always rises the fish.” Thirty came and was passed, patience was exhausted, the timing failed, and cast, line and fly landed in a tangled heap fully two yards to the side and below the fish. Without a moment’s hesitation, it shot over, collected the fly from the midst of the tangle, hooked itself, and

came to the net just under two pounds. "I told you it wanted the line too,” said Nimrod. From then on the trout were on the feed and as we wandered up the river bank spreading rings on the water denoted feeding trout. Each pool yielded a fish and our baskets grew heavier as we came to a place where a side-stream deviated from the river, flowing over a rocky bar into a deep willow-shaded pool that joined up with the river. Here it flowed through a narrow opening between projecting willow roots on one side and a pile of flood-borne driftwood on the other. "Best place I have seen to-day for a fish,” said Nimrod. Willows made it impossible to fish from the far side, and from the side we were on the drag would have drowned a fly the instant it alighted. By careful wading Nimrod secured a position directly below the gap. At his first cast a trout darted down stream and was securely hooked, only to immediately bury himself in the driftwood. Nimrod ruefully tied another fly on to his broken leader and cast again a little further up. Those trout in that rather inaccessible place were not expecting anything artificial in the way of flies and it was taken on the drop. This time the fisherman was ready and the trout was struck and pulled determinedly down stream in one action. Before it knew it was hooked, it was out of the gap and fighting it out in the main stream, where it was quickly brought to the net. "There will be a good fish up at the top if I can get a fly there." said Nimrod as he dried and oiled his fly. It was an awkward cast as the narrow gap stopped the use of a side cast and the overhanging willows meant that the fly had to curl in under them, but, after one or two ineffectual attempts, it was accomplished. There was a mighty splash and the fish of the day was on. Nimrod tried to repeat his previous tactics, but the fish was heavier and was further up. It came down with a slanting run and buried itself right in under the roots of the willow. There was a moment’s tension, and then a slack and castless line. "So that’s that,” said Nimrod, "let’s call it a day.”