Three of us bump along a dusty road as we make our way to a river in the Canterbury region of New Zealand’s South Island. After many long nights spent poring over maps in Idaho to create a flexible itinerary for this month-long trip, it’s finally happening.
Zac and Abbey Mayhew and I position ourselves to fish lowland streams amid an oceanic climate, with dry tussock and gorse-filled mountain catchments, fairy-tale green, bush-flanked rivers, and high alpine glaciers. And on the back end of this trip, Zac and I are headed for a week of guided helicopter fishing at Cedar Lodge, located along the Makarora River near Mount Aspiring National Park.
The South Island is roughly 32 percent larger than the North Island, yet only one quarter of New Zealand’s 5.3 million residents call it home. We pass few cars on the dirt road as we head to a high-country stream that meanders over shale bedrock lined with flax, tussock, speargrass, and outrageously prickly and prolific gorse. It’s more than 4,000 feet from the valley floor to the mountain peaks, and despite our mid-March timing — New Zealand’s late summer to early fall — there’s a smattering of small snow fields tucked into the shaded cirque glaciers.
At the end of the road, we rig our rods and stuff our day packs for a three-mile walk before we start fishing. Once we begin moving, the sand flies leave us alone. They can be awful, and despite their tiny size, they’re undoubtedly the fiercest predator we encounter.
It’s sunny and cool with a light breeze, and the dirt track we follow is rife with small plant life — our entire world is fragrant. We decide on a starting point, a long run with depth and a slightly raised, grassy bank that’ll give us a heightened perspective, making it easier to see into the crystal-clear water.
Fishing the South Island is akin to stalking and hunting. The trout population in this watershed is low, like many South Island rivers. Blindly fishing all the good water would take too much time. We try to spot fish before we start casting. Even on ideal, sunny days with gin-clear water, the trout blend in with the bottom. They are also spooky and cagey — one misstep can send an otherwise happy fish sprinting for cover. This is nothing like fishing an Idaho or Montana river.
We walk the high-bank side of the river, stepping slowly. Tiptoeing. With the wavy surface and a touch of glare, our fish-spotting skills are put to the test. Earlier in the trip we made three fly changes to target a single fish until we realized it wasn’t a fish at all. Six eyes, all fooled.
We work as a team, taking turns, fishing one at a time while the others speak over the river with simple instructions: “Three feet left and four feet farther. It just fed.” We’ve spooked three fish, the result of a cast too wide or too long and the fish seeing our line. We didn’t come all this way for easy fishing.
Abbey is knee-deep in the aquamarine water and cannot see the trout. Zac and I wave sand flies away from our faces while standing on a high bank with an excellent view of the fish. “OK, the fish just made a big move right to feed. It’s back now,” I tell her. “Throw it three feet right and six feet farther.”
There are states of mind I strive to be in, and this is one of them. No stray, unwelcome thoughts pitting Abbey against this brown trout while Zac and I watch her and the fish. Slow motion and hope unite like two lines from a great song you want to play over and over. Time wins out, and Abbey’s small, white yarn indicator, about two feet from her size 16 nymph, drops below the surface.
Zac and I witnessed the brown trout move a few feet to its left and take her nymph. There’s a long moment before Abbey comes tight. Slack line clears as the brown makes a big upstream run. After five or so minutes, Zac tails the fish. I high five Abbey. She’s wearing a massive smile, and this 5-or-so-pound fish is stunning in the light. She releases the trout — it kicks off with a tail splash and disappears.
Back at our rental car, we drink cold Speight’s beers — “Pride of the South” is written on the bottle. We trekked a total of 12 miles. My heels are bruised from rock hopping and hiking with a heavy pack. The sand flies are bothersome enough to hurry us into the car, where we play ’90s music. Our favorite pub in Hanmer Springs awaits.
Backcountry rivers on South Island are rugged and full of mystique, with no roads running parallel. The larger fish often reside in the headwaters, which is counterintuitive for anglers who fish the western U.S., hence a desire to explore more remote stretches off the beaten path. Zac, Abbey and I talk about this at the pub on our final night together. Abbey is heading home; Zac and I are headed to Cedar Lodge.
Using Helicopters to Fish for Trout
Cedar Lodge managers Scotty Little and his wife, Leanne, set the game plan for the week. While never guaranteed, we’ll likely be placed on waters that have not been fished in four or five days. Music to our ears. We’ll be flown in and out each day — no long walks back to the car, departing as early as 3 p.m., and missing two hours of fishing time.
The day starts with a short, leisurely stroll from the back deck of the lodge to the helicopter. It’s 8:45 a.m. and sunny. We plan on heading to the west coast with Scotty, which I’m super-excited about, as this will be our first time heading that way. Despite a few wet outings, Zac and I have been enjoying fishing with a different guide each day and becoming a team on the water. I’ve learned from each of the guides, and outside of the generally fantastic fishing, I’ve discovered an appreciation for the Kiwi self-deprecation that’s on full display, which makes fishing with these guides an absolute pleasure. Of course, the fish are the main reason we’ve come to South Island, but the experiences are what I’ll most remember.
We hit a patch of turbulence, and Scotty says jokingly to the pilot, Duncan: “You’re starting to lose control of this bird.”
“Oh, it was just a wee bump,” Duncan says.
“Yup. Potholes in the sky,” Scotty replies.
We fly low over a high ridge, bank hard and descend thousands of feet. “Hope these boys didn’t have breakfast,” Duncan says with a smile.
We disembark, and Duncan takes off. Scotty, Zac and I rig our rods in the morning shade on a small, dewy mountain meadow next to an aquamarine river. It’s cool, but it won’t be long before the sun creeps above the ridge, giving us a crack at spotting magnificent trout.
The water is clear and refreshingly cold. We walk over cobblestones and set our eyes on the run ahead of us. Scotty is a quintessential host who seems to always be there, yet he’s not obsequious. You won’t beat him at his game, either; behind those wise Kiwi eyes is a fierce competitor.
I find spotting fish every bit as enjoyable as casting. Having said that, Scotty’s keen eye and competitive spirit mean he’s not likely to miss a fish as we slowly move from pool to pool. I photograph. Zac fishes. Scotty scans.
Zac is up to his thighs in a swift side channel casting upstream, while Scotty, hidden under a giant fern on a raised bank, gives casting instructions. “When your guide says five more inches to the left, you know you’re casting to a selective fish,” Zac says with a grin.
“Let’s change it,” Scotty says, pulling a smaller beetle out of his box. “That should do.”
South Island Trout Adventure
Earlier in the trip, another Cedar Lodge guide, Paul, with a wicked sense of dry humor, said quietly to Zac, ”Well, I can take a horse to water …” That’s exactly what Scotty has done here. That’s what our first guide, Alex, did, as well. I remember asking Alex how many days it had been since the river we were on had last been fished. “Probably at least two weeks,” he said.
The fish is still feeding as Zac makes one of two measured false casts. The brown moves quickly to its left to nab some sort of nymph three or so feet beneath the surface. We’d watched it rise a few minutes earlier and think it has the will to come up and eat Zac’s beetle. “You served it to him on a silver platter. He’s being a bit toey,” Scotty says when the fish refuses the well-drifted beetle.
Scotty makes another fly change. “I think we need to go with the nymph,” he says. He puts a small, white yarn indicator a couple of feet above the nymph and walks back to his perch under the fern.
Zac makes a false cast. His nymph lands in the perfect lane upstream of the fish. His indicator passes over the brown and drops. Scotty is silent. Zac’s rod bends, and the backcountry brown takes a hard, upstream run. The only sound we hear is the roar of the boisterous river.
Back home in Idaho, it’s early spring, and I watch falling snowflakes through a living room window. I think about the day Zac and I fished with Scotty on one of the prettiest rivers I have ever set foot on. I recall the remoteness and camaraderie, the sound of the river, the clarity of the water, and the way Scotty smiled at the end of the day, riding in the chopper 6,000 feet above the river we had just fished. He surprised Zac and me with cold beers as Duncan flew over Mount Aspiring National Park on our way back to the lodge. And the trout. I almost forgot about the trout.
