WITH ROD AND TACKLE

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLIII, Issue 20, 17 November 1909, Page 9

WITH ROD AND TACKLE

THE MUNGAROA EARLY IN THE SEASON (Written specially for the “ Weekly Graphic” by MAJOR BOYD-WILSON.) 11. O 7 F TRAMP of about three miles f I over the ridge which divides 4 J A the valley of the Hutt from that of its tributary, the Mungaroa, brings us into the country watered by the latter, a w’ell-known trout stream within easy reach of Wellington anglers. A breeze from the northward puts a favourable pirl on the, water, and is here a favourable wind for the angler, for it., blows upstream and facilitates casting. Overhead the sun is blazing out of a deep blue sky, flecked here and there by a few diaphanous, fleecy atoms of cloud, which show up dazzling ■white against the blue ether. The valley .through which the stream flows is rich with luxuriant pastures, and rivals in its verdant herbage the choicest of the’ grass countries >in far away England. The hills rising from the valley tower into the sky, and are dotted with white sheep, while towards their summits the fallen tree trunks, reminiscent of cleared forest, look as if some Titanic monsters had been engaged in a game, of gigantic spillikins. The Mungaroa, always rather dark in colour, ripples over its pebbly bed, here a pirling stream running into a deep dark

pool, where the mighty trout have their chosen habitation, under the high sharp cut bank which the stream is slowly eroding with the weight of its waters, and anon spreading wide, calm, and still over an expanse of pebbles, prior to dashing over a miniature cascade with the tinkling music which sounds so gratefully in our ears, and reminds us that once more a fishing season has arrived, and that if the necessary skill is still with us and our right hand has not lost its cunning the rod may soon be bending and yielding to the rushes of a well-hooked fish. My friend elects to try a cast on which he has mounted Hardy’s Favourite, and an ordinary March Brown, and as we have arranged that I shall walk down the stream and start about a mile lower, I wait to see him wet the first line of the season. At this time of the year the. trout are lying in the lighter ripples, often in water so shallow that it is a marvel how they manage to so adroitly conceal themselves. Aly companion is soon in readiness, and, wading into the water, he casts his flies upstream, and allows them to trickle back towards him, aided (by the Iripples- It is in the 'eddies formed behind the larger stones that the trout may be expected to lurk, watching for food in the shape of insects and Crustacea borne down by the action of the current, and these are the places that should be most carefully searched by the fisher’s flies, for nearly every one of them holds a trout of greater or lesser magnitude, and should the artificial presentment encounter a feeding fish he is, if the fly is suitable and properly presented, almost certain to seize it. I watch for some time, but although now and again a fish makes a rise at the artificial, he comes short and is untouched, and I have already turned away, and am some hundred yards on my road, before the music of the reel makes me look back, and I see the rod bending as my friend plays his first trout of the day. Fired with exultation at the sight, I tramp off down the banks of the river, and finally arrive at a nice shingly beach, which runs into the stream with the current swirling under the opposite bank, and above about two hundred yards of broken water, which looks as if it ought to form a favourable feeding place for the denizens of the stream. Quickly the rod is put together, the line run through the rings, and a cast, prepared overnight, fastened to the end of the reel line. The latter carries as its tail fly a medium-sized Red Governor, with the characteristic red tag made of wool, and not floss silk, which darkens too much in the water, and a March Brown, with its body composed of purple dyed wool or seal’s fur, for the only dropper. Casting upstream, I fish the deeper pool, but this morning there is no response, and it is not till I get into the broken water that a trout rises to the Governor; but I am a shade too eager, and although the. hook touched his mouth it has failed to penetrate, and I catch a transient glimpse of a dark shadow speeding upstream, and realise that one more trout has discovered that flies are not always what they seem. Another half dozen casts—the line suddenly clicks! I do something with my wrist which is indescribable in mere words, as every fisherman knows; a magnetic thrill shoots through my right arm, the rod bends, the line runs out, cutting the ripples like a knife, and forming a tiny cascade of spray on its own account, and the reel is discoursing the music of which the angler’s ear never tires. Upstream, downstream, goes my adversary! Now I get the chance to reel in a little of the line, now he takes a bit more! The light split cane is bending and giving to his every movement, but withal exerting a powerful strain on the hooked fish. He rolls over amongst the broken waters, and from the glance I get at his proportions I am able to guess him at about two pounds in weight. Gradually I got the mastery over him, and am able to draw him to the side, gallantly contesting every inch of water. He is nearly played out now, and presently his head and shoulders have grounded on the shelving beach, and I am able to get my hands round him and carry the first fish of the day, who turns the scale at 21lb, to safety up the bank. So the day wears on. Tie entrancing tale of hooked, killed, and Tost might become wearisome were it set down in too great detail; suffice it to say that when we meet to return over the hill, the strap of the well-filled basket pressing on my shoulder indicates that I have not lived in vain.