Casting for brown trout on a stream flowing into Lake Rotorua (left), Reeling in a four-pound rainbow on Lake Rotorua (below), Success! (bottom)

Fishing in New Zealand
By Stan Morse
January 16, 1998

I may never fully understand why Christchurch has been such a downer. I can blame it on "bad chemistry" between me and the place, but it's probably more my fault. I didn't have anything planned, and nothing materialized. I relied upon my seemingly endless luck, and it let me down.

After four days, I finally give up trying to find fishing on the south island. Besides, the weather has turned cold. When I arrived it was in the 90's. Today, it barely reaches 65. The "Antarctic Express" has thrown a frigid cloud-blanket across the land.

I catch a flight to Wellington, the southernmost city on the northern island. The minute I board the plane my mood improves.

But I don't outrun the crummy weather. In Wellington, the sheeting rain convinces me to leave as soon as possible. The only flight to Lake Taupo (in the center of the northern island) has already left, so I opt for a 5:00 p.m. flight to Lake Rotorua -- only an hour's drive north of Taupo.

The 33 seat Saab turboprop jounces up through grey soup before breaking into mountainous cumulus clouds. During the hour-long flight the clouds finally thin into a broken summery overcast.

I like small planes. Large jets are like cattle cars. Small planes, conversely, are like carnival rides; things get chucked around and there's never a dull moment. On this particular flight I manage not to spill the coffee, and everything seems routine, until we land.

The strip at Rotorua stretches 4,000 feet along the lakeshore. The pilot brings us screaming down over the water in a sharp bank, lower and lower, until I wonder if the flaps and rudder are stuck and we are going to smash into the slate-blue waves. But at the last moment the wings level, asphalt appears, and the wheels screech onto the runway. Ex-fighter pilot, no doubt.

The terminal is straight out of a Bogart movie. The aging one-story building resembles a 1950's country store, except for the Maori (native) wood carvings framing the front. No one seems to be around, and I imagine waiting forever for a cab.

"How are you getting into town?" asks Yvette, the flight attendant, as the wheelchair forklift jockeys up to the cabin door. "We take a shuttle, if you need a lift."

"Could I?"

"Sure."

I'm liking this day a little more.

Once in the van I start talking about my trip, my writing, and my desire for flyfishing. The driver keeps glancing at me in the rear-view mirror as I vent my frustration about Christchurch.

"Those southerners," he finally says, "are not as friendly as we are up here."

"Why don't you ask Kevin?" Yvette says encouragingly, nodding towards the driver.

I suddenly feel dense. In the rack of tourist brochures at the front of the van is one titled: "Rotorua Trout Fishing", with a photo of a young woman holding a huge trout. "Kevin Coutts" is the guide. Our driver was introduced to me as, "Kevin".

"I can take you if you want," Kevin says. "I've got a friend with a stream on his property. His son caught a 13-pounder there just the other day."

"Great!"

Yep, I like this day. What I couldn't accomplish during four days on the south island, I've accomplished within 20 minutes at Rotorua.

The following morning Kevin's wife picks me up (Kevin has an urgent-transport call, but will join me later) and drives to a lakefront house owned by Dennis and Robyn Ward. Simon, their 14 year old son, takes me out to the grassy bank of the stream that runs past their property.

I cast for an hour, but no fish rises to strike at the nymph-fly. We give up and head back to the house. Kevin has arrived and is having coffee with Robyn. When he hears my fishing woes, he asks, "Do you want to try going out in a boat?"

It's after 2:00 p.m. The wind is kicking up waves, and I wonder if the fish will be feeding, or just hunkered down on the bottom. But I'm not the expert, Kevin is.

"What do you think?"

"Let's give it a try," he says hopefully. "I've got a friend with a boat ramp not far from here."

That's how I meet Clark Gregor. He and his son, John, have a guide service based out of their lakefront house. They have a guest unit as well, which is completely wheelchair accessible. Even the four-burner cooktop has space to pull a wheelchair underneath. I'm impressed.

But the real genius is Clark's boat. Between the twin 90 hp Yamaha engines is a custom-built gate 30 inches wide. Clark has placed an aluminum ramp up to the back of the boat, ready for me to roll aboard. It's the first fully-wheelchair-accessible small boat (25 feet) I've seen. Clark beams with the enthusiasm of an addicted hobbyist as I zoom up the ramp.

Fifteen minutes later Clark throttles back the engines to trolling speed. We're about 300 hundred yards from the shore. "There's a weed bank down below where I've been having success," he says. He and Kevin go to the back of the boat and let out three lines, each with a spinner and a fly.

The wind is still ruffling the water, obscuring what's under the surface. But the boat has radar; a screen filled with colorful (but to me, confusing) lines and dots. We'll know if there's a fish passing under the boat. But I prefer watching the poles in the old fashioned way. I become obsessed with this, not wanting to miss the smallest nibble.

Minutes pass. Kevin and Clark are talking politics and ignoring the poles. Occasionally, they consult the radar screen, then get back to their conversation.

Something occurs to me as I sit at the back of the boat, maintaining my vigilant lookout. I turn to Clark, who is nonchalantly stuffing his pipe with tobacco.

"We're gonna know if a fish hits, aren't we?" We are, after all, fishing for large trout. And these are fly rods and fly reels we're using.

"Oh yeah," Clark says, his voice pleasantly amused. "We'll know."

I take a last look at the rods, then move into the cabin. It's been half an hour. I think of all the writing I've done since the Reef, and how I've marveled at my luck. Well . . . humility comes when you least expect it.

I can be philosophical about failure, if I try. And this outing doesn't have to be a waste. I can at least learn about New Zealand fishing, even if we don't catch a fish.

"Are the trout raised in hatcheries?"

"Not in Rotorua," Kevin says. "We only have wild trout. But other lakes may have some hatchery stock."

"It's the wild trout people come here for," Clark adds.

I learn that Rainbow and Brown trout populate the lakes and streams of New Zealand. Both were introduced species, and both have thrived because there are no natural predators. To protect this valuable sport fishery, New Zealand bans commercial trout fishing as well as trout farms. You literally cannot buy a trout in New Zealand. If you want to cook it, you have to catch it. In fact, there is a hefty fine for selling trout. Kevin explained the importance of this.

"If you could buy trout, it would encourage poachers. Say, if somebody went into a restaurant and wanted a big trout, it would be easy for the cook to find a guy who was willing to catch a wild one for him. The wild ones taste better. If you can't buy a trout, it guarantees that only sport fishermen will catch them."

"You want a cup of coffee?" Kevin asks. He senses my disappointment.

"Sure," I reply, reconciling myself to just a boat ride and good conversation.

"Milk?"

"Yeah."

Kevin hands me a mug. I've taken only three sips when the left pole's reel goes "Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!"

"There we are," Kevin says, scrambling to retrieve the rod from it's holder. Clark idylls the engine then comes back. Kevin hands me the rod with a fish on, then he and Clark quickly reel in the other two lines.

I begin to reel the fish in, working hard as it fights coming toward the boat. This might be the only chance of the day -- of my trip! -- to catch a trout, and I want it . . . bad.

"Keep your tip up!" Clark cautions. I've lowered my pole to make the reeling easier. "And if he runs, let him!" I pull the tip up -- the obedient student -- and let the trout have all the line he wants. Twice he jumps, a silvery flash above the cold blue water. But eventually he tires and I carefully pull him alongside.

Kevin scoops in my catch with a net. It's a four-pound rainbow, silver with a red blush.

"Nice one," Kevin says, taking the hook out.

Kevin and Clark put the lines back out and we return to our coffees, but the break is short- lived. Another trout hits in two minutes.

During the next hour I catch six trout, each weighing between three and five pounds. I feel lucky again. That night, I take just one trout back to the hotel's restaurant. They take it to the kitchen only after I've provided my registration card to prove that I purchased a license. It comes to my table, baked, with a garnish of slivered almonds. Four pounds of prime New Zealand rainbow trout. There is so much, I end up sharing most of it with a family of four at the next table.

The next day I meet Dennis Ward (Simon's father) who specializes in high-country stream flyfishing, with transportation provided by helicopter. He's just come back from guiding a trip, and wants to meet me at the hotel and find out more about what I'm doing.

"I know a couple of streams that would work for you up in the mountains," he finally says, contemplatively. From the gleam in his eyes I can see he is fascinated by the challenge of taking a wheelchair up to the high mountain streams, then finding ways to get me close enough to cast for the wily mountain trout.

Well . . . maybe next year.