Book Excerpt: Trout Love

Book Excerpt: Trout Love

Majestic pools unfolded. Rays of sunlight filtered through the canopy, adding a touch of splendour as we crisscrossed the river and pushed through the bush edge, staying covert and elevated to help trout spotting. Brimming with anticipation, we slowly unwrapped each pool like a Christmas gift. Despite all the likely looking trout habitat, the main ingredient–Salmo trutta–was noticeably absent. We’d hit a trout drought! Undeterred, we progressed, knowing trout in backcountry rivers can be few and far between. Persistence paid off as I located four decent trout–good numbers, considering. Each trout was a mere faint fishy smudge, inactive and hugging the bottom. From experience I knew, and maybe they also knew, with the turbulent hydraulics of these pools, they were safe from any fly getting down near them without drag or looking remotely realistic. I’d be better concentrating on finding trout actively feeding in shallower water.

As expected, the terrain became more rugged, the river narrowed and the banks steepened, with plenty of bush bashing and at times, scrambling around and over steep jagged bluffs.

When presented with no alternative than to cross the river, Trigs, like me, would utilize boulders to get out as far as possible until there was no choice other than to slide into the cool, swift water. If the water looked too swift, she’d patiently wait on that last protruding boulder, letting me slip in and test the crossing. If successful (sometimes I wasn’t), I’d return, hoist her up on my shoulder and transport her safely across, high and dry. Large, submerged boulders covered the riverbed, with ever-present danger lurking amongst them, making crossings fraught with the risk of leg or ankle entrapment. Attentive foot placement became paramount. Here, my trekking pole became my knight in shining armour, my saviour.

Relying on its assistance so heavily made me wonder how I’d previously managed without such an expensive walking pole.

After one deep eventful crossing, we rested while dripping, and steaming, relishing the heat from the summer sun. The smell of wet dog impregnated the warm summer air. Delightfully I drifted off, introspectively pondering how I’ve sprinted along at such a fast derby pace for much of my life. I’ve seen and experienced a lot, however, like many, I’ve bypassed much. Why not slow down, chill, what’s the rush? So, we stopped dead. Sat there in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, adjacent to yet another splendid, deep, mystical blue pool that mesmerised and provoked thought.

Time passed; deflated arse cheeks pancake flat. Joints stiffened. My mind flirted from relationships to work and back again, intermittently regaining focus, drawn back to the pool’s gin-clear waters that was now, seemingly devoid of trout.

Fireworks exploded as the definitive flicker of a large trout’s tail wavered, poking out from behind a boulder. Tasered like a deer in headlights, I sat upright, frozen in my tracks. Penetrating sunlight highlighted the visual, splendid orangeness of his huge stunning tail.

Undeterred, he drifted backwards into view. What a cracker! I dared not blink, hissing at Trigger, ‘siiiit.’ He was in mint condition, sporting a plethora of unique characteristics, though that bright orange sweet tail–yes, that tail–was candy. Sugar is sweet, and I wished to dip my hand in the candy jar, photograph, touch and caress that tail. Right now, ‘Nothing Else Matters.’

Realising we could easily be busted if he drifted back any further, I grabbed Trigger, swivelled 180 degrees and slid off the back of the boulder onto a rare, sparse patch of sand, pleasingly warm and soft to the touch. Shielded from view and riddled with excitement for a few just-in-case minutes (outta sight-outta mind), treble checking knots, then, dead sneaky-like, I slowly peered over the top, pleased to see him unaware and relaxed. Experience told me not to rush, so I readily observed.

At one point, his behaviour changed, becoming noticeably agitated. Taking his time, he cruised, patrolling the perimeter of his pool from top to bottom, checking for anything untoward. This was wiley, big resident trout behaviour I’d observed countless times. After two painfully slow reconnaissance laps, he seemed content there was no imminent danger and started to feed with ravenous vigour, swinging left and right, seizing nymphs drifting in the mid-water column.

To outsmart him, I opted for a two-fly nymph rig. The larger, heavier, size 10 Da Bomb would provide the needed weight to get down into the zone, also double as an attractor fly. Attached to this, on a short length of delicate tippet line, was a much lighter and smaller fly, the money fly! A spindly, grey, size 16 Hot Dog Nymph to match the smaller, natural mayflies I’d recently observed to be most prevalent in this upper section. The lighter nymph would emulate the naturals and entice, while the heavier fly pulled it down into the trout’s feeding zone.

‘Sit, stay, no, no, sit, come on, sit stay, lie down, no, staaay, good girl, good girl,’ was my one-sided conversation with my sparring partner. Discovering I’d left the leash attached to the tree at Big O’s pool, I was now solely reliant on dog training and dog willpower. Low-to-the-ground like a crocodile, I stalked forward, utilising a slight dip in the ground to get to my desired ambush point, where I sat with my back against a humungous granite boulder at the edge of the pool, digesting a chill pill and trying to calm the fishy excitement. Trigger, the little rascal, as expected, had moved. Rather comically, she was peeking around the side of the boulder I’d left her behind. Her little face looked so cute. I hollered a growling reminder, ‘Stay.’ She immediately pressed down. Praising her discipline and feeling slightly guilty, I rewarded her with a shout of ‘Good girl.’

With my silhouette hidden, back against the granite backdrop, I bum-shuffled around to the front of the boulder, sitting there motionless and scared to fart, as he nonchalantly glided ever so slowly my way. He was now just there. Like–just fucking there. Any closer and he would swim into my gaping mouth. Predator eyes frogging and fixated, breathing now a mere willo the wisp. False casts and movements kept studiously minimal, I executed the needed short cast with the rod angled low, knowing that rod movement, flash and even line shadows could easily alert him. The flies entered on the money with a genteel plop, a rod length above him. His old, weathered, orange, fanned tail flickered a teasing beckoning wave, tantalising me. It was a relief to get the flies onto the water without alerting him. Yes, I was excited, though now a blissful stillness and peace fulfilled me, the calm before the storm, maybe? I was in with a chance. A very good chance! Could taste victory!

It was now fifty percent strategic guesswork, fifty percent rod and line management. Sight fishing upstream using nymphs deep below the surface without an indicator must be one of the most challenging forms of fly fishing. And doing it while sitting low on my arse added another fistful of challenges.

Definitely not ideal! But fun. Game on.

‘Right about now,’ flashed as I calculated the flies should now be entering the zone. ‘Go on, you want it, eat it, eat it, eat it,’ I muttered softly.

Shockingly, nothing happened. What was up with that? Come on. Careful to avoid detection, I let the flies drift well past him. With a prolonged decision, he suddenly pivoted and sped after the flies–his quarry. Focused. Dialed in. Oblivious to everything. He now faced me. I shat my pants and froze solid, worried he would see me. But he was super focused and staring down the barrel at his prey. For him, ‘Nothing Else Mattered.’

The IMAX film played out before me as he flared golden pectoral fins and tilted up ever so slightly. A tiny white flash of his inner mouth indicated he’d inhaled. If I waited for him to turn and head away from me, I’d have the best chance of a good solid hook set. Yet from my experience, he could quickly eject it and maybe I’d miss my only chance. Rolling the dice was not an option. Nor was waiting on the No. 60 bus. The tip of my rod travelled skyward. The hook set. I was on.

A mad scramble ensued and hilarity prevailed as I fumbled to my feet, with the emphasis on the fumble, all the while trying to keep the rod tip elevated and line under tension. In the split second it took me to get to my feet, the situation got even more chaotic. Like an untamed stallion, Shetland pony version, Trigger raced past my ankles. There was no stopping her, she knew it was game on. A trout explosion went off in the middle of the pool, which certainly did not help quell her excitement. Hitting top speed, she flew off a massive, flat-topped, overhanging boulder, gliding like one of those flying squirrels (minus the tail). My neck and shoulders tightened, gripped by an ‘Oh nooooo!’ fearful cringe that she was about to land on the line. Miraculously, and thank God, she just missed it.

Candy jumped again and again, and each time Trigs doggy paddled like mad towards the disturbance. I stood on tiptoes, on the same boulder Trigger had just rocket launched from–my arm at full stretch, reaching with the rod poking holes in the sky, trying my utmost to keep a sustained, direct line and pressure on the trout’s head.

Candy Tail was probably wondering why he had a small pointy piece of wire in his mouth with someone tugging on it, plus a dog swimming above with a pent-up desire to lick him to death. Most likely not an average day in a trout’s life. Maybe even a trifle confusing. Couldn’t blame him. It’s a wonder he didn’t just surrender then and there, go belly up, or raise the white flag, but oh no! He was down deep and pulling like a motherfucking hippo.

One massive boulder lurked at the top of the pool, and it soon became evident that this was his go-to trout bunker. Our tug of war became a constant, nerve-wracking mission with me trying my utmost to stop him from bolting under it and setting up camp. Twice he accomplished this. However, by applying extreme side pressure and assisted with a flurry of good old Glaswegian cuss words, each time he was coaxed back out.

With spectacular vigour he jumped reluctantly multiple times, so much so, I thought he had aquaphobia. The direct pressure applied from above encouraged his urge to jump, and with each jump my sphincter twitched. There was a slight method to the madness of it all. My plan was to tire him out quickly, hoping the energy used in making the jumps would drain his tank. Every time I thought he was beat, I’d whisper encouragement filled with seducing confidence–‘Who’s your daddy, come to daddy.’

But each time, he ignored my swooning sweet talk and took off with Trigger frantically in pursuit, wishing she had goggles and a snorkel.

She must have completed thirty laps before she finally listened to my urgent shouts to get out of the water. Knackered, she appeared at my ankles to watch. All the while my skills, nerves and tackle were being pushed to their utmost limits.

What a battle it had been. Six changes of underpants and three heart attacks. Thankfully, the tide was turning, and my confidence was brimming as he began to show signs of fatigue. Hopefully he wasn’t playing possum. I’d selected the best spot to beach him earlier: a grey sandy patch of shallow water midway down the pool. With great care and tension, we walked him down, an act I know as ‘walking the dog.’ Like pulling a sled on top of new snow, his mass now glided toward me. A dorsal fin, then his shiny thick brown back, broke through the surface, submarine-like. I slid him closer.

A rod length more and his gorgeous fat belly would be beached in the fine sand. The rod was mind-bendingly bent double, the tip level with the reel. It was beyond belief that such a thin, tubular piece of graphite could endure such flexing punishment–a testament to modern technology.

Whoosh, zip, bang, a pre-victory celebration of fireworks sparked in my head. The exposed top of his orange candy tail glinted in the sun.

His submissive lull of calmness exploded. Thrashing wildly, spinning, twisting like a rodeo bull from the bucking chute, his heavy tail slapped the water. Trigger squeaked. A mixture of water and sand sprayed. Seizing the opportunity and without hesitation, he made a powerful final dash for freedom.

The reel’s spool spun like crazy as he pulled on the line, its drag clicking noisily–a beautiful sound! Trying to apply some pressure, my fumbling, fat digits got in the way and the reel jammed.

And he was free! Game over. I should have known better; but hey, that’s fishing! A manic ear-to-ear grin gripped me realizing my hand and arm ached from the pressure applied during the fight. Only in New Zealand eh!

Trigger lay sodden at my side, projecting eye rolls of disappointment as we sat overlooking the pool, legs dangling freely, notepad and red pencil at the ready. We stared into the deep abyss, consumed by a tangle of fishy thoughts. If I’d had a net, I probably would have landed him; touched and photographed that orange candy tail. But I’ll never know for sure. Life was good, couldn’t get much better. I’d started reading Jim Harrison’s paperback in the tent this morning–A Good Day to Die. So true. His poetic words seemed a perfect fit for this moment.

‘I dropped four hits of psilocybin, lay down in a creek for an hour and became a trout. An infatuation with poisons.’

It would have been easy and comfortable for us to sit there all day. However, the carrot was dangling. There was still time and river to be discovered and more trout to trick. Plus, on the way back, Candy might be back out. Doubtful though, but this is fishing–who knows? We continued for a couple more kilometres eventually turning back. The top of an old wooden post in the bush above caught my eye. Evidence of human activity. Intrigued, we investigated counting eleven old round rotten wooden posts engulfed in foliage. Most were broken, but three stood intact and vertically proud. Straggling strands of rusty stapled wire and mesh hung off them. Oblique remains of a high wire fence was evidence of a live capture, red deer pen from back in the 1950s or 60s.

We bush-bashed back along an overgrown deer track parallel to the river. If only the Department of Conservation had not eradicated the red deer from this valley, the track would have been way easier to follow.

At all times we kept an eye out for trout. As we neared the home straight filled with Big O anticipation, a frantic, fleeing movement caught my attention. Unable to identify it and to prove to myself I wasn’t imagining things, I immediately investigated. Hidden amongst a curtain of hanging moss and lichen was a wonderfully constructed, small woven bird’s nest. A work of art. Half the size of an adult’s hand. Peeking inside this little moss cradle revealed a full clutch of four tiny, pale blue silvereye eggs.

The silvereye, also known as a wax-eye, is a dainty omnivorous bird that’s slightly smaller than a sparrow, with olive-green plumage and a near-perfect ring of white feathers around the eye that reminds me of Mexico and the flamboyant eye artwork on calavera skulls. A lucky find. A chance find? Though maybe not. As a child, along with my school buddies and neighbours, I obsessively searched for birds’ nests and collected their eggs during spring. It’s just what we did back then. There were no mobile phones. You had to go out and create your own fun, games and adventures. We’d spend most of our time outdoors doing shit, some good, some not. ‘Mischievous’ comes to mind! Some of the folks within my inner circle had inherited their egg collections from past generations. Our egg collections were nearly always displayed in organised rows and neatly nestled in sawdust or cotton wool, safely placed in specially made wooden boxes or cardboard Clarkes shoe boxes, stashed in cupboards or under beds. Illegal wildlife forays and an obsession with Oology has undoubtedly come full circle for me. It’s all helped my love and passion for nature, my ability to admire and observe the finer things in this living world. Stoats, rats and mice had not discovered this silvereye’s nest and destroyed its eggs, so the recent poison drops were evidently helping those who had no voice. Indeed, finding that nest provided a glimmer of hope. I’d recently read a fascinating book titled The Falcon Thief, by Joshua Hammer. It’s a detailed account of the oology career criminal Jeffrey Lendrum and his quest to steal falcon eggs for profit. He travelled all over the globe stealing and smuggling them, sometimes hiring helicopters, hanging off ropes beneath them and scaling down cliffs. He’d take the whole clutch of eggs from every nest he found–something we never did with our egg collecting. We had unwritten rules: only take one egg from a full clutch, and if you already had that egg, only admire your find and take none. Lendrum, having raided the nest completely, would strap the eggs to his body and smuggle them to buyers in the falconry black market. His buyers were mainly in the Middle East, where the new sport of falcon racing had taken off (beg the pun) in the past decade. It’s big business.

Falcons, especially peregrine falcons, are pitted against the clock, flying in a straight line over various distances, it’s televised and high stakes betting for Arab sheiks.

With limited daylight left, we sneaked way downstream inside the bushline, keeping back from the boulder-strewn riverbed adjacent to the Kingdom Pool. We went two pools down before crossing and working our way back up. Nothing in the first pool, as expected. The next pool, Mr Smith’s, drew another blank.

Grabbing the camera, we scuttled up with a sense of urgency in the soon to be failing light. Some nine hours had passed since I’d made that cast to Big O this morning. I’d convinced myself that he’d be out, and I’d get another shot. And I would get him. Like a puma with her cub, we stalked in, pausing intermittently, flaring our nostrils and scanning. Amazingly (or not?), just like Mr Smith, Big O, Scar and the Bitch were nowhere to be found. The pool was totally devoid. Where were they? Why were they not out? What did they know? Disappointment flickered, though it shouldn’t have. After all these years fulfilled with Trout Love , I should know that brown trout can’t be trusted! However, it would soon be dark, and the witching hour would be upon us. Maybe it was the setting sun, maybe something in the air. Whatever it was, I found a new confidence within. Indeed, something amazing was about to happen. Bring on the witching hour!

Excerpted from Trout Love by Stu Tripney. Text © 2024 Stu Tripney. Reproduced with permission from Stu Tripney. All rights reserved.

Stu Tripney is an artist, writer, fly-fishing guide, casting instructor, fly designer and founder of Stu’s Superior Flies from the South Island of New Zealand. He lives in Athol on the banks of the Mataura River, has dedicated his life to chasing brown trout and “loves to make people smile and laugh and tries his damndest to put the FUN back into fishing.”