Travel&Vacation

It's a powerful back-country brown trout guzzling rapaciously on passing nymphs. Like every other day in the past six months, he's undisturbed by predators.

"Look at him," says my guide. "Hasn't seen a fly since April and feeding like a starving teenager. Remember this pool, we'll be back in the morning."

On the last day in October, "the morning" looms large. We need a campsite sheltered from the incoming rain bomb. We need a square meal. And maybe some whisky.

The first day of November is opening day for high-country fishing, the rare end of fly-fishing in the cream of New Zealand's trout water.

Some lakes and rivers open year round. Others open, often with bagpipes and haggis, on October 1. But the delicate fisheries like the Greenstone, the Caples and the Lochy that feed Lake Wakatipu, Queenstown's lake, are off-limits to anglers for all except the summer months from November to March.

And such is the pressure from helicopter-riding cognoscenti that during the hot months of February and March, lower sections of this river are restricted to two anglers each day.

That makes these alpine rivers – rising from catchments of snowfields and beech forest, filtered through granite gravels and tussock meadows, unadulterated by cow dung and fertiliser – some of the world's best trout fisheries.

The day before, my mate had picked me up from Queenstown Airport and driven around the bottom of Wakatipu's Zorro-like slash in the South Island.

Beyond deer-farmed plains and the eastern entrance to Fiordland National Park, we're tramping, with packs, camping gear and food for three days, into the wildly rich alpine wilderness traversed by tracks like the Routeburn, Hollyford and Milford.

These tracks attract thousands of Europeans, Americans and Asians to our shores every summer, and are built to keep visitors on the straight and narrow, protecting the delicate ecology of the alpine forest and tundra.

An hour's walk into the fading light brings us to a lakeside hut where a multinational group of twentysomethings play cards, overnighting on a six-day hut-to-hut walk. They're in awe of the landscape.

My supremely provisioned guide matches their reconstituted freeze- dried meal with a fresh phad thai, to envious comments, and we celebrate our escape from civilisation with a few single malt whiskies from highlands not unlike these in the other hemisphere.

We strike out the next morning – the last of October – to hike 10 or 12 kilometres down an ancient glacial hanging valley, the snow-topped crests of substantial ranges soaring 2500 metres on each side. The dime- sized leaf litter upholsters the track and we amble easily beside the pools and braided riffles of the river as it hurries on its rushing journey to the lake 500m below.

The valley floor is grazed grassland, and the signs of cattle are about, but we see no livestock among the tussock and matagouri flats between the forest margins. From a vantage point we see the river curve in towards the trees, and spot a promising campsite on the far bank.

We cross barefoot, icy waters numbing wintersoft feet, to ensure dry boots for the evening – we'll be wading all the next day. There's a rain bomb approaching from the south, and already a slate-grey cloudbank blocks the bottom of the valley. The air has chilled noticeably and the prescient tuis and tits have quietly retreated into the bush.

Our little clearing makes Rivendell look passe. Towering ancient beech trees overhang a curving sweep of the river, and have generously dropped copious kindling and brush on to the spongy elevated bank.

Our tentsite and fireplaced kitchen has a flat slab of greenstone that makes a perfect chopping board for the feast of brassicas and carrots and nuts, all blackbeaned sauced, for a steaming hot dinner.

We could easily be undone by a flash flood if the southerly brings big rain, but we know this river will settle quickly once it stops. "And besides," the expert offers, "fish still feed when it's raining."

We've seen one helicopter near the head of the valley, and we're relieved to discover it's a pair of Queenstown athletes preparing for a mountain running event by pounding three hours down the valley.

At least they're not fishermen. We find out later there's a gentlemen's agreement between local anglers and helicopter operators that fishers won't be ferried in on opening weekend.

High-country fishing kit is much like tramping gear. We wear substantial boots, though the felt soles that stop you slipping on rocks have been controversially banned this year to curb the spread of the river- killing didymo algae that fishermen call rock-snot.

Polyprop longjohns and shorts are sufficient warmth – fishing with a full backpack generates its own heat – and light raingear should suffice.

With opening-day luck, dawn breaks dry, though the river is up and flowing friskily. We strike camp and rig our rods, tying tiny nymphs on long invisible leaders that should present a convincing insect imitation to our unsuspecting prey.

And when we spot three big browns lurking below a tumbling braid, we know we're in for an exciting day.

It's not long before my mate hooked up to a big fish – a nine- pound brown in old parlance – four kilos of prime muscle not keen on being roused from his routine.

The first fish of the day is also the biggest, though not the fittest. As we leapfrog from pool to pool, frisky rainbows, some spent from spawning, others still full of fight, appear as smudges against the stony banks, or feeding the heads of pools.

They're happy to strike at any half-decent presentation, though I manage to spook a few. We land a dozen fish, all returned gently to their water. The privilege of sharing their space is reward enough for our effort. Why would you kill them?

There's a memorable story in every pool. We'll argue all season about whether the top-feeding rainbow would have taken a dry fly (she took a nymph). We'll laugh for years about the fish I caught on my backcast.

We follow the narrowing river till it's almost too small to fish, and collapse in the hut at the top of the valley. It's as if we've been away for days, but the departure gate at Queenstown Airport is a startling re- entry to reality. When you've been to fishing Nirvana, nothing looks quite the same.

* Cameron Williamson visited Otago as a guest of Destination Queenstown.

 

'That's the Nunya," says backcountry fishing guide and photographer Zane Mirfin in answer to my query about the whereabouts of a great-looking trout river. Not one I'd heard of. "Yeah, it's Nunya effing business."

Dream spots fished with Bob South, an old mate and the creator of Fish and Game magazine, feature large in The Last Best Place, a gorgeous collection of Mirfin's images partnered with South's collection of quotes about fishing. The Hemingway-esque South has restricted himself to three pages of writing, allowing the pictures their thousand words. And though the book shares a title with a seminal collection of Montana stories, the water this book covers couldn't be anywhere but New Zealand.

It's a tempter, a teaser, and a test for the most well-travelled angler seeking that last best place.

 

Queenstown Trout Safaris
Dry fly fishing specialists, for experienced or novice anglers.
Jeff Jones 0272291544
fishing.co.nz

South Island Trout Stalkers
Guided trips with the emphasis on stalking sighted fish.
Gordy Watson 027 522 6966
trout-stalkers.co.nz

Chris Dore Trout Safaris
Spring creeks, freestone rivers, rain-fed streams and lakes.
Chris Dore 027 693 3027
troutsafaris.co.nz

Queenstown Fishing Guides
Memorable expedition from half-day to 10 days.
Ian Meredith 03 442 5363
wakatipu.co.nz

Southern Trout
Some of the best and most remote New Zealand fly fishing waters.
Ken Cochrane 03 442 3413
southerntrout.co.nz

Harvey Maguire's Adventures
Expert at sight fly-fishing, lake drift dry-fly and stream stalking.
Harvey Maguire 03 442 7061
flyfishing.net.nz

Roger Taylor Sport Fishing
Wilderness high country fly fishing, sight fishing in crystal clear waters.
Roger Taylor 03 442 7358
sportfishing.net.nz

SW Guiding
Sight fly-fishing to trout using 4WD, helicopter or jet-boats for access to special country.
03 442 1950 / 027 216 3787
swguiding.wikispaces.com

Born to Fish
Master of fly fishing instruction who knows the area backwards.
Stuart Tripney 03 441 2000
borntofish.co.nz