Fishing along Sterling HWY, Alaska. Vol.II

An old pickup truck and a float plane. How Alaskan..

Northernwind Aviation flies this airplane for ADFG to find a transponder-attached wildlife.

Very rare bird, Cessna O-1 Bird Dog

Chapter 3: Combat Fishing

Since I wasn’t catching enough fish so far, I decided to visit Homer Fishing Lagoon. Nick Dudiak Fishing Lagoon, commonly known as “Homer Fishing Lagoon”, may look like a fishpond to many visiting anglers at their first sight, but this man-made lagoon is connected to Kachemak Bay only when the tide is high enough to flow over the narrow canal. There is a hard surface slope running from the parking area down to the shore for wheel-chaired anglers. The fish cleaning table and the bathroom with hot water are both cleaned by the City of Homer every day. You may say this is the least Alaskan like fishing location. Well, that’s what I thought when I came here first time. But as I learned more about Alaska from a traveling angler’s point of view, I grew the appreciation and respect toward Alaska Department of Fish and Game, and especially, the biologist Nick Dudiak who initiated the stocking program for sport anglers in Kachemak Bay.

I don’t have the exact figures with me but there are a huge number of people come to Alaska every year from all over the world and spend serious amount of money and enrich the local economy. The peak of their visit is in summer time, when many salmon returns to their rivers. The project of Homer Fishing Lagoon started in 1984 to “meet the summer demand for more sport fishing opportunity along the Kenai Peninsula road system without compromising wild runs.” (Fishery Management Report No. 07-55, ADF&G) How did they do? First, they dug the lagoon in Homer Spit because of its accessibility and popularity with both tourists and residents. Since there’s no fresh water stream there that is appropriate for salmon imprinting, homing and spawning, the fishery biologists collected salmon eggs from the broodstock that returned to the Crooked Creek Hatchery near Soldotna. Then eggs were flown to the Elmendorf Hatchery in Anchorage where heated effluent water is available from a power plant to accelerate development and produce smolts in less than one year. They were also exposed to the artificial imprinting agent. When they are about 6 inches long, the smolts are transported to the floating net pen in the lagoon and spend 5 to 7 days during which they were fed frozen fish food. The young smolts remembered the odor of the imprinting chemical dispensed from the several drip stations anchored along the Spit and use it as a homing stimulus when they returned as adult fish two years later. (The biologists later found out the fish, while staying in the net pen for a brief period, somehow are imprinted to the unique characteristics of the Fishing Lagoon and can return without the help from the artificial chemical agent. The use of drip stations was discontinued.) Homer Fishing Lagoon is a shining example of successful management of fishery resources. Though it is not as scenic as remote wilderness in Alaska, there you can see smiling faces of all sort of anglers, novice and seasoned alike.

Fishing in the lagoon is not that easy, contrary to your imagination. You need to learn how to deal with Combat Fishing. The best spot during the incoming tide is right below the parking space for handicapped people. The tide directly hits the shore where you should stand firmly between sometimes demanding and vocal local anglers. Rose (or Samai, her Native name) is one of them who you meet almost every day during the season. And next to her was the gentleman with a handicap on his right leg. They were talking about his visit to the local medicine person who had successfully removed the pain from his leg without using any medication. It seemed he was one of Native people as well.

I joined them three hours before the high tide to secure the best spot. By the time the incoming tide started pouring into the lagoon with new schools of returning salmon, the spot was crowded as it should be in the Fishing Lagoon. We stood almost elbow to elbow. Welcome to Combat Fishing Alaska! Rose got the first fish of the tide as usual. I got the next one. The place was in chaos. People got their line tangled up across the lagoon and side by side. Some of them were yelling at each other. I got my three fish quickly, thanks to my good fortune, and somehow escaped from the criss-crossing fishing lines at the right moment.

Then I saw the guy next to Rose fighting the fish. His right leg was in a plastic cast, and he stood with a cane. As he reeled in the fish close to the shore, he would have to walk backward to pull the fish to the beach. But since he couldn’t stand without using a cane for very long, he fell to the ground, just like a fallen soldier in war movie. “Want me to pull the fish in?” asked Rose, casually. He nodded to her while struggling on the ground to reel in the fish. She swiftly beached the fish by pulling the fishing line and bonked its head for quick kill, and resumed her fishing. He was still on the ground, cumbersomely handling his catch when the guy on the other side of him got a fish on. To my surprise, this time he literally jumped into the shallow water and held the writhing fish in his arms to the beach for his fellow angler. He was wet, his jacket was glistening with slime from the fish, but he was laughing like a kid who just got the first fish in his life.

People around him were smiling and cheering his bear-like attempt to land a fish. I had never seen anything like that before.

The water became quiet gradually and we all sensed the golden time of fishing had come and gone. Rose got four fish but gave two of them to the brave man with the weak leg. She left the place, saying good-bye to the people. Many know her well and if she’s done with fishing this evening, that means you should go home as well or you waste your time because “These fish ain’t gonna bite no more.” as she claimed. So I quit fishing and got ready to move to the cleaning table. The gentleman with the plastic cast was packing his gear as well. Since Rose was gone, I was now next to him. I offered him a helping hand to bring his fish, four of them, and rod to his car parked above us, and we started chatting. After talking about the tide and short-lived fishing fiasco, he asked me where I was from. “I am originally from Tokyo, but now living in Hong Kong, sir.” “You’re Japanese, then? Me, too! I am Japanese American, Nisei, from Hawaii. I moved to Oregon many years ago though.” This is how I met Ralph Yoshimura. His face was so sun burned and dark, I mistook him for a Native American. Anthropologically speaking, Japanese are not that different from them. When I was working in Navajo Indian Reservation, several local Native people had come to ask me which tribe I was originally from. So I shouldn’t be surprised to find Ralph look like a Native American after all. I felt bit ashamed of forgetting my inter-continental Asian heritage.

Ralph and I cleaned the fish together as we talked all the way till we said good-bye at Coral Point fish processing house. He comes to Homer every summer, like I do, to bring salmon back home for his family. Turns out polio ravaged his leg, which limits his mobility but not his spirit to catch fish. Since he asked me about the fishing in Anchor River, I told how beautiful the river is, even though the fishing wasn’t so good so far this year. He seemed quite interested in the river and asked me if I thought he would get by, physically. Walking to Slide Hole on the muddy slippery path is not easy for a man with both legs in good shape. Maybe Bridge Hole is much more accessible to him, I said. He seemed to ponder on the idea. I thought I would see him there someday.

Ralph was adamant to give me a fish scale remover, which I praised for its usefulness while cleaning the fish. I told him he would need it for the reminder of his fishing trip but he insisted I take it. I accepted his kind offer. It is one of those metal scale remover made in China. You can find it in a dollar shop anywhere. But this particular one would remind me of our pleasant meeting in future. (Gary liked the story as well as the gadget. It really works fine. I asked myself how often I would use the item back in Hong Kong. I decided it’s best to stay here for Gary to use, instead of ending up in the drawer in my kitchen for nothing. Ralph, your fish scale remover is still in Alaska, working so wonderfully!)

Chapter 4: Endless passion

While I was in Homer, Gary and Ev tried the river. Gary got one fish, but Ev was shafted again. Gary saw the guy catching two fish in the same spot, using the same fly next to him. As he had done it to me when we first met, Gary talked to the guy and took a quick look at his fly. It had a dark red bead on the shank of the hook. Gary wondered if it’s possible to attach a plastic bead thru the hook bend. It wasn’t. So he deduced that it wasn’t a bead after all. He visited his friend Dave, another fanatic fly fisherman in Anchor Point for help.

Dave and his wife Bonny are retired teachers and both enjoy fishing. Dave’s knee, however, gives him hard time these days, so he spends more time tying flies than actually fishing. (Similar to my case, for I spend hundreds of hours to tie flies for only two weeks of fishing in Alaska.) When I saw his fly tying table with a magnificent view, I could feel his passion. The table is full of colors in many materials, almost resembles to an oil painter’s. Every fly tier has his/her style of favor. His is giving a bit of metallic touch to his creation. He attaches small spinner blades on his streamer to attract more fish. He puts an angled jig head to his fly so that it will be keeled in the current to prevent snagging. He loves working with metals and is good at it. But Gary’s here for something non-metallic. In modern fly tying, there are so many synthetic materials used. Glue gun and multi color glue sticks are being quite popular among salmon and steelhead anglers in recent years because you can create all shape and color of salmon eggs. Dave quickly made several egg patterns for Gary.

Gary later put the orange chenille and hackles on the hook with Dave’s glue egg on it to create something similar to the fly he had seen that morning. This is how Anchor Terror (patent pending) was born. Gary was too humble to claim it as his original. So I took the liberty to name it so.

With this new weapon, Gary later caught more fish while Ev and I were rejected continuously, even though we were using the same exact Anchor Terror in the same hole. I decided to go fishing alone, away from Gary. I trekked upstream of Slide Hole one afternoon with a large bottle of water in my backpack. Walked across the huge fallen trees, which are sometimes called “nurse logs” because they work as a healer to the surrounding. Even after its demise, trees, like salmon, are consumed thoroughly by the next generation of the environment thru the help of bacteria. Nothing is wasted. I found a fresh, enormous pile of excrament on the riverbank. After close examination of its content and finding no fish bone, I convinced myself that it was from a hoofed animal instead of a bear. I kept walking upstream to find the huge pool called Dundes Hole in front of the private property next to Steelhead Camp Ground. The beach was spacious with no tall trees, perfect for fly-casting. The other side of the river is steep cliff and covered with half sunken trees. One glance and you can tell this is the top class hole.

I fished all afternoon around there. Though I didn’t catch any fish, I was certain this pool is so suitable for a school of fresh salmon right out of the ocean to get rest before their journey into the swift current. I decided to return there tomorrow morning, the last day of fishing in Alaska 2008.

At 4:30 I managed to wake up. After a cup of coffee, I hit the road. Within 5 minutes driving from Gary’s house, I was parking my car in Steelhead Camp Ground. It was still dark. Fishing in high latitude country in summer time can be physically demanding if you don’t want to miss the twilight hours of both sunset and sunrise. I walked past the group of anglers in Picnic Hole and headed downstream. To my chagrin, I found five anglers already fishing in the lower pool of Dundes Hole where half sunken trees providing a good hiding place for fish. Upper pool is much narrower but deeper. To my right the river is shallow and runs fast. Then it curves 90 degrees and slows down quickly as the pool gets deeper.

I saw a huge rock in the middle of the pool yesterday. Fish must be around that rock. I picked the chartreuse streamer with a big dumbbell on its head to fish deep. Cast toward the end of the rapid and my green floating line slowly shaped U toward the downstream and reached over the rock. I retrieved the line vivaciously, hoping the fish would find my fly sexy or tasty or annoying, for whatever the reason they use their mouth to attack it. Then on my third cast, I felt a firm tug and set the hook. The metallic scream of my reel echoed in the air, and I saw the silver shadow glisten in the dark water. She jumped into the air, then ran downstream. I saw people in the lower pool watching me, and sensed their jealousy. My fisherman’s ego skyrocketed. Finally she was beached gently. I found a sea-rice still sticking on her tail, a telltale sign that this fish was in the sea just hours ago. The observation and deduction I made yesterday were right on. I caught the fish as I envisaged. It gave me a great satisfaction, the very last day of my trip.

I fished another hour there but didn’t catch any more. The morning was now bright with sunshine. I could see the rock in the pool. I cast one more time, just like when I had caught the fish this morning. I savored the load on my fly rod during my last cast. I tried to remember how my green floating line changes its form as it drifted downstream. And I saw my chartreuse fly suddenly came into my vision thru the polarized glasses, next to the enormous rock. There she had been lying when my fly swam across. I wondered how many more fish were there with her. How many of them will swim thru the bridge beyond which salmon fishing is banned. Even after passing the bridge, they would have to face bears. I wished them luck, packed up my gear and went home.

In the afternoon, Gary and I visited Dave again. I asked him to show me his collection of guns and rifle. Both of them are avid hunters, though Gary is more inclined to fishing these years. I have been always interested in hunting but never been able to do it so far. In Japan, getting a license to buy a rifle is a long process. Gun control in Japan is so tight and I appreciate it as a citizen. The police would interview not only an applicant, but also his/her neighbors! Hunting is not something you can easily start as a hobby in Japan, especially in Honshu Island, which is almost the same size as the state of California but has a population of 100 plus million! In Alaska, as a non-resident alien, your hunting license costs $300. If you’re after a moose, it’s an extra $500 for Big Game Tags. On top of that, you have to bring your own rifle from your country unless you’re a US citizen and plan to buy it in Alaska. So I have to learn the thrill of hunting only from the reading or listening to guys like them. They truly fulfilled my thirst.

One bear was coming fast to attack a hunter who shot at it. But the adrenalin dulled the pain and the bear kept coming and mauled the hunter before it died on him, who was still alive but severely injured. You need to shoot a bear with a good distance. In Kodiak Island, a sound of rifle shot actually attracts bears. Hunters often have to abandon their catch to incoming bears. I have heard the similar story from one fishing guide. She said that in Kodiak, where the bear population is quite high, she would always submerge the fly reel to the water once she got a fish on to suppress the scream of the reel because bears are attracted to that sound. The point is, bears are highly intelligent animal. They learn, like we do. When Gary and his teenage daughter Laracella were deer hunting years ago in southern Alaska, he found the bear following them, not directly behind them, but on the trail parallel to theirs for quite some time. Fortunately the bear kept the distance and he didn’t have to kill it. But he was ready to do so, he told me. Use your imagination; you and your kid being followed by a thug on a street. It is a freaking scary thought for most of us. Now, put yourself in Gary’s shoes. Even though you have a rifle in your hand in this scenario, it is not a thug. It’s a bear which could easily eat you and your kid alive…

Grandpa Eagle

Rogue Riders

Chapter 5: Long goodbye

Next morning I left Anchor Point. Saying goodbye to Gary, Eileen, Fancy and Jigger is always a difficult task after spending so much fun with them. I have to wait another year before I see them again. I drove south to Homer to pick up my frozen fish from Coral Point. Millie, the owner, and I exchanged email addresses. She is planning to visit Japan and I feel so obliged to introduce my country to her, like many Alaskans have done to me.

When I returned to Hong Kong after a long flight via Taipei, the famous city lights were masked by the polluted air. The airport parking was full of fancy German cars, some of them with chauffeurs waiting, instead of dusty pick-up trucks with dogs in it. My eyes adjusted to this familiar scenery, but I felt my soul was way behind of me, somewhere over Bering Sea. Air traveling can be cruel to an owner of a lingering mind.

Unlike my trip to New Zealand this winter, traveling Alaska is always melancholic and makes my heart glow. I see my friends and their families whom I can see only once a year. They are year older than last time (as I am). And I see the slight change in their life and mine, like everything in life, every time I visit there each year. Maestro’s son is finally out of his active duty in 82^nd Airborne. Gary and Eileen’s daughter Laracella gave birth to twin babies. Their son Bobby was about to bring his fiancé from New Zealand to the US. Shigeko-san lost her close friend, Endo-san, who was almost like her adopted son. As for me, I used to fish literally 16 hrs a day during my trip. But this year, I spent more time chatting with people, taking photos and just letting my mind wonder. I still have burning passion for fishing, but my stance for fishing is more relaxed. And I found myself talking to myself and animals more often than ever. The sign of aging, I wonder.

I am now in the hotel room in Inchon, Korea as I finish this writing. The carbonated rice wine, which is a popular Korean booze, runs cold and smoothly down my throat. The hotel is gorgeous, the room is lovely and clean, and I know if I walk to the crew lounge I can find fellow pilots to share some stories and exchange whining about our various companies (which is always a popular topic). But I’d rather stay in my room, though I feel alone and detached from the rest of the world. The slideshow of the pictures I took during the trip is on the screen. And I turn on the music, the classical music CD I played often during the long drive on Sterling Highway. The note filled the room and my mind took off. I felt my imagination spread its wings and it soon took me to the northern land, thousands of miles away from here.

Fishing along Sterling HWY, Alaska. Vol. I

Chapter 1: The Sanctuary

My spiritual pilgrimage begins when I arrive in Anchorage International Airport. Literally, I live for this trip. Alaska offers so many things that I truly love in my life. As Air Canada Airbus 320 from Vancouver taxied to the gate, I saw the old DC-3 on the ramp. She may not be as shiny as the one displayed in Cathay City, but she’s still in active duty. Floatplanes, like Otter and Beaver and many Cessna including my beloved Caravan, are parked at Hood Lake next to the airport. North of the city, Elmendorf Air Force Base welcomes the growing fleets of F-15 Eagle, F-22 Raptor, C-17 Globemaster, and E-3 Sentry. Which city in the world has this variety of airplanes buzzing around over it on daily basis?

I start fishing in the Russian/Kenai confluence with Maestro Abe’s family. He’s one of my fishing mentors in Alaska. He is also my cooking sensei (that’s “teacher” in Japanese). He used to cook for the Japanese ambassador in the US and is currently the sushi chef in Sheraton Hotel Anchorage, he is the man every culinary oriented fisherman heeds to. In the Russian River Ferry Parking, we briefly exchanged greetings even though it was our first time to meet in last 12 months. Then we begun talking about the fishing condition and flies he’s been using this season. We quickly assembled the gears and hopped on the ferry to cross Kenai River. Its blue glacier water looked so cold but the river was full of life, for salmon were returning.

The confluence of the Russian and Kenai Rivers is called “Sanctuary” and is heavily protected by the Alaska Department of Fish and Game. This small area is one of the most visited fishing locations in the world as fishermen come from far and wide to catch Sockeye and Silver Salmon. By now, most of Sockeye has turned a deeply colored dark red. Silver, on the other hand, shines like chrome. They return to their birthplace for spawning after a four- year journey (two years in Upper Russian Lake and two years in Bering Sea). This is their first and last mating trip. Their death is imminent. They will all die within two months by natural causes, or in the jaws of either hungry bear or hungry humans. Even after their last breath, their bodies will be consumed by other trout, char, gulls, fox, and bacteria to nourish the vegetations along the river. Their annual return is key for the river’s eco system, and the survival of their eggs and fries depends largely on its surrounding conditions. Even in this seemingly rich environment, however, “for every 400 salmon fry in Russian River, only 100 will make it to the sea, only six will return to the river as adults, of which two will survive long enough to spawn,” according to the Fish and Game Department. The fish that you catch here are truly the real survivors of the wilderness. So treat your catch with respect they deserve.

The ferry crew gave us the briefing, including the meanings of horn signals. one horn is for the last ride of a day, which is at 8pm. Two horns mean there’s a bear in the vicinity. There have been so many bear attacks in Alaska this year. Even in the city of Anchorage one female runner was attacked (09-Aug-08) in Bicentennial Park, and there was a similar case in the same park just six weeks prior. In Russian River, bears are witnessed quite often. My digital camera bulges beneath my fishing vest. Taking bear photos is one of top priorities of this trip. Hopefully, I will find them in distance.

After crossing Kenai River, Maestro Abe took us to the spot. The water in front of us is gin clear, originating from Russian. But just few feet away from shore the bright blue glacier water from Kenai is a striking contrast. Thru my polarized glasses I can see many red Sockeye swimming upstream. Once in a while, gray shadow of still bright Sockeye flashes in the water. Silver Salmon is usually swimming in the glacier current, Maestro lectured us. Finally, I made my first cast of the fishing I had been dreaming of for so long.

Fly fishing is the only method allowed in the Sanctuary. But the definition of “Fly Fishing” here is quite different than in New Zealand. Let me quote the lines from the page 4 of 2008 Alaska Sport Fishing Regulations Summary.

“Gear for fly-fishing-only waters: In waters designated as fly-fishing-only waters, sport fishing is permitted only as follows: (1) with not more than one unweighted, single-hook fly with gap between point and shank of 3/8 inch or less; and (2) weights may only be used 18 inches or more ahead of the fly. (3) Beads not attached to the fly are not allowed.”

So, as long as you follow the regulations above, you can use any combination of rod and reel. You don’t even have to use the typical fly line since you don’t do normal fly-casting. In this fishing, I use a 30 lbs test braided nylon line. Many others use either spinning or bait-casting reel attached to lure rod. I put four of Size 5 split shots, roughly five feet ahead of the fly. You flip the rod almost 45 degrees to the upstream for just about 20 feet, feel the split shots drifting downstream and hitting on the bottom of the river. As the fly reaches the end of the drift, you pull the line and flip it again 45 degrees upstream to repeat the process. A traditional fly caster probably finds this fishing very dull. There’s little grace in this flipping, you may say. We do this way simply because the fish is within the flipping distance. You can fly cast with high-density sink tip line if you like. But the key is to sink the fly near the bottom of the river. If you’re good at it and lucky, you will feel a sudden yank in your hand holding the rod, and hear the scream of the reel.

Maestro and his wife come to this Sanctuary quite often and know a lot of this fishing. To my surprise, she didn’t stay next to him for long and instead walked downstream alone, leaving her own nephew visiting from Tokyo. I sensed that she is not an ordinary fisherwoman. She’s quite independent and has her own style of fishing established. And guess what, I was right. Within 30 minutes, she returned with fresh Silver. Just like that.

We gathered on the shore and celebrated her catch. It was lovely to see excited Mr. and Mrs. Abe smiling at each other and taking pictures. But I was ready to get back to the water to catch next fish, to be honest with you. I wanted to catch such a beautiful fish like hers. And they were there, right in front of us!

Well, not quite. Hours passed quietly, and all of a sudden, a group of half a dozen fisherman/woman came to join us from the upstream. The river suddenly seemed crowded so we shifted a bit to the downstream to give the new comers some space. But they didn’t seem to begin fishing at all, though they all had their gears in hands. Then I heard the word, BEAR and looked towards the voice. And there he was, a bear walking on the small island where two rivers merge. The group was actually forced to come downstream to keep some distance from the marching bear.

I placed my rod on the ground and briskly walked upstream to get a bit nearer to him. This is my National Geographic moment. I took my zoom camera out and focused on him. Thru the 25X lens, the bear in the finder wobbled like a mirage, quite difficult to put him in the middle of the frame. But thanks to the modern technology, most of the pictures turned out reasonably focused.

(Photo by Maestro Abe)

I have been fishing in Alaska for last eight summers and this was my first time to see bears. I could see two of them now, each seemed to ignore each other. They are juveniles, I guessed. About 300 lbs. And the behavior was still childish. The closer one dove into the river and quickly caught the colored Sockeye. He got a bite or two and, like us fishermen, decided to let go the not-so-yummy fish. It appeared to me that the bear was having hard time to catch fresh salmon, just like we were.

In Sanctuary, there’s a special regulation called the “3 feet rule”. Since these bears are attracted not only to the salmon in the river but also your belongings, such as your backpack which they know often contains foods like sandwiches, etc. They are also after your catch on the stringer. So, in Sanctuary, you have to have all of your belongings within three feet of you so that you will be able to run, if needed, as soon as you encounter a bear. It really made me laugh when I saw people quickly pull in their lines and hoist their catch on the stringer from the water and walk away from the incoming bear without any complaints. I had never seen any group of fishermen abandoning their spot so quickly in an almost choreographed fashion. I guess in a wild place like Alaska, we human-kind have to behave humbly before the animals.

Fishing continued after the bear was gone. And finally I managed to catch my first salmon of the year. She was a slightly colored Sockeye but a good size. I decided to keep it. The maestro got a small but shiny Sockeye and his wife added another fresh salmon, this time Sockeye. Her nephew caught his very first Silver Salmon in his life and almost danced with joy on the bank. As Maestro Abe announced this would be his last cast, he got a good sized Silver salmon. Since they needed to drive back to Anchorage, they left the river earlier while I fished till the last ferry. We planned to fish together next week in Anchor River.

Maestro Abe and fresh Silver Salmon

As it was almost time to catch the last ferry of the day, I cleaned my catch on the cleaning table on the bank. As I tossed the guts and fins to the current, many seagulls gathered for their dinner. Nothing is wasted. I also took a glimpse of Rainbow Trout rising from the deep water and gobbling up salmon eggs. In Alaska, trout and char eat eggs and even decaying flesh of salmon on top of normal diets. This helps them to grow huge in size. For the record, by the way, in Kenai River, all Rainbow and Dolly Varden (close cousin of Northern Char) over 16 inches in length are for catch & release only. You can keep two of them, however, if they are smaller than 16 inches.

I continued fishing after crossing the river. The sun was still well above the horizon after 9 pm. Like a machine, I kept flipping the line to the blue swift current. This side of the river is washed by the Kenai water. Occasionally I saw the dark red arrows darting upstream in the icy blue corridor of returning salmon. Some have bright colored flies snagged on their dorsal fin. Their journey so far must be not so easy.

Suddenly, the feel of the split shot bouncing on the river bottom ceased and the drifting fly seemed to stay in one spot. Next the rod was almost yanked away from my half paralyzed grip and my J Ryall reel spat the line and ran screaming. The moment of quietude was broken in the blink of an eye. I was the only fisherman on this side of the river so I took my time to savor the thrill of the catch. It was a chrome bright Sockeye salmon. The small green fly that I had tied many years before and neglected for so long was attached on his upper lip. Now he lay on the beach, gasping. It was my duty to quickly knock him un-conscious and give him a quick death. When I stowed my knife to its sheath, I felt the sense of accomplishment growing in my heart.

Within next 30 minutes in the darkening river, I got another fish, this time Silver salmon. The first day of my trip ended gloriously.

My original plan was to camp out in the Russian River Camp Ground. I was really looking forward to cooking over the campfire and drinking whiskey in the warming orange light of my Coleman lantern. However, the recent bear attack in Princes Lodge, which is just 15 minutes drive from the campsite, made me realize my plan was too risky. All I had to protect myself from hungry bears was my faithful fillet knife and the can of pepper spray I bought from the outdoor shop in Anchorage. There are several lodges near the Sanctuary and I visited a couple of them. Gwen’s Lodge offered the discounted price for fully serviced room with the kitchen and bathroom. It was lovely but well beyond my budget. So I decided to sleep in my rental car, just like old days when I had visited Alaska very first time.

After cleaning the fish as the sun set, worrying about the bear, I dropped my wader and fishing vest for the first time in last 10 hours. My back muscles were so stiff. My shoulders were finally free from the weight of my vest which held so many gears. The parking area was empty, so quiet. Actually too quiet and dark! I know it’s a cliché but I felt like I was being watched by someone in the woods. The bear which was roaming just downstream of this parking area only a few hours ago could be right here and checking me out. I turned my flashlight to the trees. Nothing was moving behind the woods for now. Just the breeze swaying the treetops gently in the remaining light of the sunset.

They say you can smell bears in close proximity. Bears stink so bad, according to some locals. I hoped my sense of smell is keen enough to sense an approaching bears but I wasn’t so sure. I sipped Bushmills from the bottle. The hot fluid ran down my throat and hit an empty stomach. I hadn’t eaten for hours. Hunger, which was suppressed during fishing finally registered in my senses. I had instant noodle in my backpack but was too tired to cook. Thank God I bought a bag of beef jerky at the airport. Listening to Johnny Cash while having Irish whiskey and teriyaki-flavored beef jerky made me feel manly enough to get out of a car and go to the toilet next to the dense dark woods. After emptying my bladder, I flattened rear seats of the car and put myself in a sleeping bag. I woke up a few hours later to some very chilly air and whole lotta back pain. I guess my back isn’t quite as strong as it was when I came here first time eight years ago!

Next morning, I fished on the parking area side of the Kenai River and got several deeply colored Sockeye on snag. Since they swim in highly concentrated group, it was almost inevitable to foul-hook them from time to time. And they are tough fish to pull in. Most foul-hooked fish fight harder because their head is free from the fishing line, and they can swim to the direction of their choice. I have learned from experience that usually, if the fish runs long and hard right after hook up, instead of shaking its head sideways, you can tell it is foul-hooked. Often the line broke or the hook bent. Either way the fish was free relatively quickly so it was fine.

But sometimes I had to pull the sexually matured fish to the shore to unhook and release it. They were so tired after long fight. Some needed a brief rest in my hands in the water before swimming back to the current. Several fish spurred back to the shore after I released it. Probably they were so spacially disoriented. I seriously wondered if they would survive this ordeal caused by my snagging before completing their journey. Some say those fish who fought so hard are less likely to survive later even though they seem fine when they swim away from you. I have seen dying fish washed downstream, as if the fish was drowning. It was something that I really wanted to avoid. Fish that are so deeply colored are about to spawn, and not good for eating. It is quite possible that I was inadvertently killing several fish, which were so close to the climax of their lives in order to catch one fresh, edible Sockeye salmon. I am a meat fisherman. I catch fish to kill and eat them. I don’t want to hurt fish or cause them to die if I don’t eat them later. I know it may sound almost ridiculous, but it was rather a painful fishing for both me and, of course, those fish which were unfortunately snagged.

In the afternoon I crossed the river by the ferry. I fished upstream, hoping to see bears in distance. The Upper Russian River was full of colored Sockeye. By then I was bored of flipping, so I rigged up the high-density sinking shooting head with a nylon running line to fly cast into the blue Kenai current. Within a few cast I snagged a fish again. I saw my yellow streamer on the back of a huge male Sockeye who was dark red. I was pulling him in hard to release him swiftly when the line broke. Sadly, the connection between the shooting head and the running line gave in. The fish is now attached with a 20 foot long super heavy sinking line thru the streamer snagged on his back. He won’t make it, I thought. It would be too heavy for him to swim up the river to reach his spawning bed. Feeling guilty, I left the Sanctuary and walked downstream where few people were seen.

Downstream of the Sanctuary marker, behind the designated fishing area for handicapped anglers to be exact, the river gets deep steeply and I couldn’t see the bottom of the current only few feet away from the shore. There was no sign of colored Sockeye around here. Since I lost my heavy sinking line, I returned to the flipping rig with a small green fly and several split shots on the leader. Within my three casts, my rod was bent double and the reel screamed for few seconds as the fish ran downstream. God, I hope I haven’t snagged another one, I thought. But soon the fish jumped airborne and I saw the leader directed to the fish mouth. I decided to take my time to pull in. Two trout fishermen came close to me and started casting in the water – usual practice in Alaska. But they kept enough distance from me so I managed to land a gorgeous female Silver Salmon to the shore. I quickly cut her gills and artery, and the silver bullet of the Kenai River ended her journey prematurely.

I knew more Silver were there and quickly reassembled my new leader since I found the scar on the old one. Then, an angler on the other side of the river shouted. “A bear on your way! He’s at the bush downstream of the two high tree tops, you see?” I looked and saw a brown bear nonchalantly marching toward us. I took several pictures and then calculated if I would still have time to do more fishing here. No, it wouldn’t work – this was bear territory now. I decided to walk to the ferry pier, showing off my fish on the way.

At the pier I joined a group of Italian fishermen, waiting for a ferry. One of them is an older lady, presumably the mother of the middle-aged guy who’s speaking English and Italian fluently. Since he was carrying a large caliber revolver, he must be a US citizen. To be honest, I felt quite good to be near him while the bear was in close proximity. We frantically waved our hands to the crew of the ferry who were approaching, to try to show them a bear was getting closer . Once the ferry arrived, we all jumped into it. (Actually, the crew had to physically stop the old lady who didn’t understand English, from trying to hop into the ferry before he had undone the rope blocking the entrance.)

Once inside the ferry, we enjoyed watching the approaching bear. The crew told us that they would have to teach the bear a lesson by giving loud horn signals and yelling. As the bear was almost within 15 feet from us, they blasted the loud horn and screamed, “No bear! Go!” It seemed to scare the living daylights out of the little juvenile. He looked so shocked, it almost made me feel guilty, and he ran like hell to the mountain side, ducked beneath a half broken wooden fence and continued run upstream. If he can run that fast uphill, it must be true that bears can outrun dogs…

After dropping my catch at the local tackle shop to be vacuum packed and frozen, I hit Sterling highway southbound to Anchor Point.

This juvenile gull snatched his fish!

(Fishing, Alaskan style)

Chapter 2: A fisherman’s Valhalla

If anyone asked me what place on this planet I love the most, without hesitation I would say Anchor River, Alaska. This river doesn’t possess the grandeur of Kenai, and doesn’t have as many deep swirling pools as the Tongariro in New Zealand does. The water is slightly brown hued due to the soil, quite different from gin-clear Russian. Yet Anchor River runs thru the heart of many anglers. I am one of them.

Few years ago, Maestro Abe suggested that I visit this river. I remember him saying it is the fly fishermen’s paradise. On my first visit to Anchor River, I had fantastic fishing in Slide Hole. The guy fishing next to me was quite impressed by my masterful fly-casting and unique wet lining method. He dared talk to me after seeing me catching a fish while he wasn’t doing so well (later, I found out he was merely checking what sort of fly I was using). Since I was feeling euphoric after landing a big Silver Salmon, I was chatty and generous enough to give him the same fly I was using. That was the beginning of my friendship with Gary, one of the finest fly fishermen I’ve ever met, and my fishing mentor in Anchor River.

Eileen and Gary Sheridan, with Fancy and Jigger

I drove up the dirt road and finally saw the wooden house on the hill with a breathtaking view. I was so thrilled to see him and his family for the first time in a year. Visiting his beautiful house and witnesses the progress of the house renovation is always fun and educational. Gary is a crafty man and even during harsh Alaskan winter he spends hours working on his house. I have always been curious about carpentry. But I have lived in a rented apartment most of my adult life, so there’s very little opportunity for me to exercise my carpentry skill. To me, punching a big hole in the floor and setting up a stairway to the basement is like resembling an entire radial engine. He did that last year and is currently working on his guest rooms downstairs. On this trip, I stayed in one of those guest rooms whose wall is decorated with the bear mount Gary’s father had nailed while he was working for the Alaska Railway.

His long time friends Ev and Arleigh were also staying there and we all went fishing together early next morning. Unlike Russian River, we didn’t have to worry about bears in the lower Anchor River. We marched in the darkness on a slippery path. When we reached the point between Slide Hole and Grass Hole, I was so shocked to see so many anglers were already there. Driving down to Anchor Point from Anchorage takes about 5 hours. This river had been the place of choice for the hardcore fly fishermen till recently. Well, not any more. To my surprise, the place had more anglers than world famous Russian River that morning. According to Gary who fished the same spot the day before, there were at least 40 anglers around the bend of this river! Even before I started fishing, I could sense the ominous air. But I couldn’t help but think it ironic that I left Hong Kong for Alaska, only to see another crowd of people…

Fishing sceneries in Alaska vary. If you can afford thousands of dollars to hire a floatplane and visit a remote fishing lodge, you can find yourself alone in the almost untouched wilderness. But along Sterling highway in August, it is almost impossible to fish alone in any salmon returning river simply because there are so many people visiting from all over the world. Whenever I was asked where I am from, I secretly felt a bit of pride in how far I had traveled to get to Alaska, as if I deserve the awe and warm welcome from the locals. But meeting anglers from Australia, New Zealand, Argentina and Scotland changed my mind set.

In recent years, almost everywhere in the world, fishing is becoming more difficult and you catch less and smaller fish. You can see that trend even here. I don’t know how accurate the film “An Inconvenient Truth” by Al Gore is. But I seriously wonder how long we can enjoy fishing in Alaska in future. Last winter, The Alaska Department of Fish and Game considered reducing the Halibut bag limit to one fish per day (this year you can still keep two per day). Having the poor return of Sockeye Salmon in Russian this year, I wouldn’t be surprised to see the tighter regulation coming in next season.

Anchor River was still forgiving to some anglers. Gary got two Silver Salmon while the rest of us were totally shafted. The angler next to me was a journalism professor from the University of Oregon, who is building his summerhouse in Homer. He got two right in front of me, while I kept casting in vain. His journalistic observation found the flaw in my bait-salmon egg roe (we all followed Gary’s suggestion to do bait fishing that morning). His egg roe was much brighter than mine, almost florescent red. He gave me a huge chunk of his egg and told me to use it. I thanked him wholeheartedly and expected success immediately. It didn’t work so well. Sometimes, you get nothing even with good bait. That’s how fishing goes.

American people, in my observation, are a lot more friendly and chatty than people in Hong Kong and Tokyo. And they are not so meticulous in many ways as compared to Asian – Americans are much more flexible. During this trip I had to notarize the document to renew my FAA license and stopped by the bank in Soldotna. There, a lady in her mid 30’s took care of my request, which was not her normal duty, I suppose. She had to ask her colleagues several times just to be sure if she’s doing right. And I gave her flirting criticism, which she took amicably. Finally, the paper got stamped and complete. I asked her how much I owe. “Two dollars.” She said with a cheerful smile. Then she suddenly shrugged, and said. “Oh, never mind. On the bank.” This is not going happen to you in Hong Kong and Tokyo.

Another thing I found during this trip is that how closely American people work and live with their machinery. It is very American – or perhaps just very Alaskan – to use big working machines in your daily life, and take good care of them. On the beach, I saw a tractor pulling in the charter boat. Have you ever seen the Pixar’s movie “Cars” in which cow tractors are tipped over? This salty workhorse isn’t like them. The rusty old Caterpillar engine was steaming as cold waves washed the front section of the tractor with no cowling. As the boat landed on the carrier precisely, the white-beard man jumped in the water to chain the boat to the carrier and the tractor pulled them up slowly to the parking area. As I took many pictures of the old tractor and beautiful boat on the beach, I was filled by awe and excitement like a kid watching an airplane flying by.

The landing bed for a charter boat is ready.

Base leg

Turning final

Short final

Very precise landing!

Chain up the boat. The old man was soaked with icy water.

What a beautiful machine...

After the fishing, Gary and his wife Eileen escorted Arleigh to the bank of Slide Hole. Her husband of 47 years, Harold had passed away only few weeks earlier. Gary was his life long friend and they had spent a lot of time hunting and fishing together. Unfortunately, Harold couldn’t visit Anchor River till that morning. His ashes were scattered quietly. Losing a partner, and a friend of half a century is beyond my imagination. But since I have the same desire of ending the last chapter of my life by having my loved ones to scatter my ashes, it was like seeing a movie preview of my own life. Someday, I will join Harold whom I have never met.

Anchor River was a hard place to fish this year. For the next few days I fished from the river mouth up to Bridge Hole and got nothing. Roaming around the river, however, was wonderful experience. One evening, I was fishing near the mouth as the tide came in. The river became wider and deeper slowly. I saw the bald eagle looking around from the naked tree, a perfect look out point. And then, saw the V-shaped waves coming upstream toward me quietly. The tide brought a new school of fresh Silver. I cast the egg sucking leach, one of the most versatile flies in Alaska, carefully in front of the waves. Not too close, for you want to have some distance between the fish and your fly. As the sun moved toward the horizon, in the quietude punctuated only by the sound of crashing waves in distance, I kept casting for hours. And though I didn’t even get a single bite, I was not feeling so bad that evening. The bald eagle never spread its wings that evening either. Later I saw crows join him on the tree to spend the night. The truce is made every nightfall, I supposed.

The incoming tide brought a new school of fresh salmon.

The battle of survival is over. Time to rest now...

Ev was a teacher to Gary when he studied acting in university. Later he found a job in New York to direct dancers on the stage. Since I am a movie buff and always curious about the life of entertainers, he and I spent some time talking about his experiences in the theatrical career. One of the many stories he shared with me was about the ballet dancers he once had worked with. Most of them, he said, would finish their career even before their 30’s birthday. Unlike actors or singers, ballet dancers don’t act or sing to express their emotion. They have only one method to do so, by dance. The toll for practicing ballet from the early days in their childhood is quite damaging. Many take pain killers constantly to keep dancing on stage. Pain is unavoidable. Injury is something you always hide from others or you may lose your position. And they dance not for money, since they love their work so much. “So, what happened to those people after the end of their dancing career?” I asked. He didn’t give me the answer in detail. At least one of them is still living in New York after she got married with a rather famous figure in the industry. But many other are living their humble life with severe arthritis. I wonder if he thought the reality of dancer’s career is too harsh to talk in such a beautiful house with the wonderful ocean view. Only few people become rich and famous while many others struggle in the entertainment business. His story reminded me of the days when I was a flight instructor in the US, making $5 per flight hour. Come to think of it, my life isn’t that bad after all. I’d better stop whining.

My first fish from Anchor River this year finally succumbed to my original streamer one evening at Bridge Hole. Right beneath the bridge the river is deeper and the water looked calmer compared to the surrounding current. Casting 45 degrees upstream and quickly drifting the fly while the split shot kept touching the bottom of the river. Then, an unmistakable strike! I was using a 14 lbs test leader, a considerably lighter setup than my usual rig at the time after not catching any fish for so long. As the fish ran downstream, so did I to follow him. He was a fat salmon with a hooked jaw. It was almost 10 pm and getting darker every minute. The brightness of the fish was so mesmerizing in the limited light. It s hard to describe how dramatic it is to be fishing alone when the evening silence is broken so abruptly. I came to know once again how much I love fishing.

I found out the chartreuse color worked the best in brown water of Anchor River. The rain fell quite a lot in the mountains a few days ago and the water lost its clarity completely. Since I got a fish in Bridge Hole, I decided to try other holes with the same method to see if it works. Catching fish is important but I wanted to try new places and have more experiences of fishing this river so that I can live on for another year, reminiscing them.

In Grass Hole there are always some anglers. When I visited there, a group of seven men from Seattle were fishing on the prime spot where the river gets tighter and bent 90 degrees. Their leader is Lee, the owner of the construction company for which most of the members of the group work. His son, the young doctor, was there as well. It was one of those mornings when the last bite was long ago and everybody was losing their focus on fishing. So, we talked rather loudly and shared some stories. Though I never learned Lee’s last name, it was clear that he was from Italian descendent. I felt like I was fishing next to the Soprano family. I have never heard the constant use of the F-word so elegantly in normal conversation. That’s another American thing. They can speak foul language so beautifully without offending listener so much. Then I got a bite all of a sudden. The fish ran downstream like a fucking mad dog and I had to follow the fish in front of them all, screaming “get the hell out of my way, you fuckers!” Well, not quite like that, but close enough. To my surprise, Lee’s son jumped in the water and scooped my catch by his hands for me. His beautiful smile was so beaming, and the rest of the gang congratulated me. I thanked them and returned to Gary’s house with my second fish.

In the garage, I was having a bottle of Alaskan Amber beer as I got out of the wader. The door opened slowly and Fancy, a very sweet chocolate Lab, stuck her head out to peek in the garage.

She is my most favorite dog. When I came home late last night after fishing, I was alone in the room, drinking whiskey, savoring the day. She came to me with her toy in her mouth and asked me to play with her. I’d never drank while playing with a dog in my life. But it was fun.

Dogs in Alaska seem much closer to their owners than Hong Kong or Tokyo, I think. Maybe because I see more dogs on cars, boats, and even canoes, traveling with people while in the big cities the dogs are usually cooped up at home in an apartment. Maestro has two dogs but only goes fishing with the one who doesn’t like to get wet. The other one, he said, would jump into the water and ruin the fishing.

I once saw a dog trying to stay next to its master who was wading in the water. The water was a little deep, and the dog had to keep swimming around the master and disturbing the water. Another concern is that there are many abandoned fishing hooks with small chunks of salmon egg roe on it.

Hungry dogs often eat them and end up in animal hospital, costing a lot of money to its owners. My fellow dog lovers, please be careful if you go fishing with your canine partner. And anglers, please don’t leave abandoned hooks on the ground to get eaten by some unsuspecting pups.

Tongariro: the river with many faces

1: The storm break

The town of Turangi (pronounced “too-ran-gee”) is located about 4 km south of Stump Bay of Lake Taupo. Extreme Backpackers Inn is just a few minute’s walk from the town center, where most of the businesses close at 5pm. It’s almost 1pm now, and I’m the only one in the dining room. The storm is coming and the sky is covered with gray clouds. I have been wondering if I should go fishing after lunch, or as I spent this morning, should go back to my single room (NZ$40 per night) and continue to nap…

 

The wild rainbow trout of New Zealand’s famous Tongariro River brought me down here from Hong Kong where I now live. Like their cousin the Steelhead, which is sea-run rainbow trout in North America, Tongariro rainbow can grow so huge. They look like submarines if you’re lucky and careful enough to spot them in the clear water. About 100 years ago, the first rainbow trout arrived in NZ from Sonoma Creek, CA. They adapted well in the clean water in the southern hemisphere, and now NZ is one of the most sought-after destinations for fly fishermen.

 

 

The fish above is found in Tongariro National Trout Centre. Your potential target won’t be in  this shallow water as you get close enough to take a picture like this.

 

 

I couldn’t find an official record, but according to Mark Venman, the helpful young chap in Turangi’s Department of Conservation, the biggest rainbow trout ever caught in Tongariro is over 13 kg (29 lbs), while the largest brown trout exceeded 20 kg (44 lbs). Browns live longer than rainbow in general, and sometimes live more than 10 years. Both trout are born in the streams of the Tongariro and later swim down to Lake Taupo to grow bigger on small fish called smelt. Occasionally they return to the river for food (mainly insects and baby trout) or spawning (rainbow in winter, brown in summer). Maybe because of the much higher water level than usual, brown trout have already been caught this month.

 

 

Mark Venman of the DOC

 

 

This silver coated, fresh run brown trout was caught in

Bridge Pool. The angler was using the egg pattern.

 

 Tongariro is famous for its spawning rainbow trout fishing in winter and many anglers come visit here in August through October. In summer there are few people in the river and I have been enjoying the solitude in the NZ wilderness.

 

The flight from Hong Kong to Auckland took 11 hours. Air New Zealand flies also from Narita, Los Angels and San Francisco, and the flight time is roughly the same: 11 hours. This should give you an idea of how remote this country is in the Pacific Ocean from surrounding continents/islands. During the flight I was sandwiched by two Englishmen who now live in NZ. Both seemed to be obliged to tell me how wonderful their new home country is. Consequently I was unable to sleep during the flight.

 

After my arrival, I got a rental car (Road Trip Rentals, NZ$41 per day, including the insurance), and my long drive began. The idyllic scenery of cows and sheep roaming in the green meadows relaxed my weary brain, and soon I found it dangerous to continue driving. Finally I spotted a shaded parking area, which is very scarce along the state highway. Once in the shade, I cut the engine and reclined the seat, enjoying the cool breeze in my hair. I heard the wind blowing through the woods, and there was almost no passing traffic. Soon a lovely siesta came over me.

 

The drive to Extreme Backpacker (‘EB’) took about six hours (not including my siesta). The place was full of students from the University of Kentucky who were here studying volcanoes. Some of them have strong southern accents, and it brought the fond memories of my time in Conway, South Carolina. However, being surrounded by young students and other backpackers in early twenties was a bit strange — I certainly felt a little out of place. I felt the unbreakable barrier between me and the rest. You may call it generation gap, I guess. I was a bit shocked when one of the students said to me politely, “Thank you, sir” when I held a door open for him. Just didn’t like the sound of “sir”… that’s all. Perhaps I am getting a little paranoid about my age. He could have called me “dude” if he had wanted… would have been better than “sir”.

 

 

2. Fishing Tongariro style

On Day 1, I woke up at 6 am but had to wait for the local fishing tackle shop to open at 8. Sporting Life has a variety of flies and their website, www.sportinglife-turangi.co.nz, helped me to prepare a lot for this trip. A one-week Taupo district fishing license costs NZ$34 and you can keep up to three trout a day. Your catch has to be larger than 45 cm long, from the nose to the V of the tail. Anything smaller must be released back to the water, dead or alive. Another important thing to remember is that in Tongariro river, your indicator for nymphing has to be in the form of yarn. No other materials, such as plastic, cork or Styrofoam, are allowed. Visitors should note that in NZ, many anglers put up to three flies on one line. The dropper system is quite new to me, as well as fishing with an indicator. I am sure I will learn a lot in this trip. Ray at Sporting Life told me that there’s currently only one shop in Turangi that will vacuum pack and, if you like, smoke your catch. So I visited Horty’s Smokehouse, where the owner, Ron “Horty” Horton, promised me to take care of my catch for NZ$15 per fish.

“Per fish?”

“Yes, per fish,” said the friendly gentleman, who seemed to have slight limp on his left side. He built his smokehouse just for his personal use 10 years ago but made it a business for the many anglers visiting Tongariro. Since I am planning to smoke the fish myself after the trip, I will ask this professional to treat half of my catch later.

Within three minutes drive from Horty’s was the Hydro Pool, where one of the giant brown trout mounted on the wall of Sporting Life was caught years ago. I decided to begin my fishing there. The river is wide, about 50 meters. The opposite side of the river has a small creek running into it. At one glance you can tell this must be a great hole. The water is almost green on the other side, much deeper than where I wade. My mind briefly took flight to the Russian-Kenai confluence where gray-blue glacier water of Kenai merges with gin-clear Russian current. The particular hue of water, though subtle, lures anglers like a moth to a flame.

I cast my 8wt, type III sinking line to the mighty current. On my first drift I knew it wasn’t going to work. The river is too deep, the current too heavy for this type of line to reach the bottom. I continued to cast few more, just in case. Within 5 minutes I walked to the shore to swap my line to an 8wt floating line with 13 foot long leader. At the butt section of the long leader, a green yarn indicator is attached. At the end of the leader has a bead-head olive nymph #10 and even smaller pheasant tail, #14. My third cast with the new rig, I felt a jolt in my hand. The first fish was a punk rainbow trout, about 20 cm. It was a fierce fighter but against the 8wt rod and 8lb test leader, it was not a fair match. I swiftly pulled in and released the youngster. She was on the leading fly, the olive bead-head nymph. Catching the very first fish, no matter how small it is, was a good feeling. I had spent more than three months preparing for this trip. I had read a wide range of NZ fishing reports, and tied close to 100 flies, now neatly seated in 4 boxes pocketed in my vest. At least one of them proved to be attractive enough for local fish within the first 30 minutes of fishing. I lightly patted the fly boxes in my vest, like precious gems.

Unlike salmon fishing in Alaska, you have to cover a lot of water to find fish in NZ. Trout in summer moves much less distance in the river, compared to spawning salmon in lower rivers whose movement is largely dictated by the tidal cycle of the ocean. Below the line of a stone wall which almost looked man-made, I found calmer water. Reading a river takes a lot of experience. It’s as hard as figuring out a person you just met for the first time. Appearance helps to a point, yet you’ll be surprised by what lays beneath the surface and the depth and strength of the flow. I, like many anglers, am a perpetual student of both subjects. However, I was a good student that day. I managed to catch one, right in front of some hikers taking a break. Though my ego was tickled and I felt almost overwhelming desire of puling the fish out of water so that my faithful audience can see my beautiful catch, I twisted the hook out of the small soft mouth of another punk fish instead. Then I turned around to the hikers and put my hands in front of my face, about 60 cm apart between them. Their laughter barely reached me over the murmur of water, but I was happy.

The intensity of the UV in broad daylight here in NZ is something you should be aware of and prepared. Stupidly enough, I left the sun lotion in my room. And even stupidier, I decided to continue fishing, instead of driving 15 min to EB and return. By 3 pm, my hands, neck and the back of my earlobes were totally cooked. I could sense the familiar pain. But I still couldn’t stop fishing. Thru the polarized glasses I could see fish, big one. I tested many of my proud Tongariro Summer Collection 2008 only to discover that fish were either not hungry at all or were blind. Many didn’t even turn their head to the general direction of my passing fly. I tried the smallest nymph in my possession (#14) on 4 lb test leader. No difference, nada, nothing at all. Eventually the angry growling of hunger from my stomach- not sunburn – stopped me from hiking further upstream and I drove back to the small town. I fixed the meal quickly, got the sun block and hit the road again. On the way to the river, I stopped by Sporting Life to buy a baseball cap to protect my ears and neck from further burning.

About several meters downstream of SH1 bridge I found a nice hole easily accessible from the parking space. Though I fished there for a while and didn’t get any bites, one local resident who lives right next to the parking space told me to try right beneath the bridge, the 4^th concrete block from the left bank seen from the downstream, to be exact. Wade to the block and climb on top of it and cast dry fly or lead nymph to the middle of the flow once the darkness sets in, he said. So I did.

He was right on the money. The water level was not so high so I managed to find the right path to wade to the 4^th block. The water just a few meters downstream of the concrete block was quite deep, at least 2 meters. Looks like a place for big fish to hide, I thought. The sun was now behind the peak of Kakaramea, and the darkness was settling in. It felt great to be in the shade. The orange lights over the bridge turned on and large number of insects started gathering around them. I was right beneath them, orange glow of lights, clouds of insects. The river became noisy with the sound of fish rising and jumping to catch the bugs on the surface. They were obviously ready for dinner.

I tied my #10 beetle fly on 8 lb leader and cast it about 5 to 10 meters to the center of the river. Quickly mended the line so that the fly would drift naturally. There were many splashes going on around me and suddenly I felt a strong jerk in my hand. My 6wt rod was bending beautifully, drawing a long black arc in the orange light. Fish on – and this time it was not another punk fish! The fish was shaking its head violently and swimming downstream with all its might. Compared to my 8wt rod, this 6wt pole is much lighter and finer. It was a pitched battle but I reeled her in. She was a plump, shiny rainbow and looks delicious. The length of my hand is about 23 cm from the thumb to the tip of my pinky. I measured her length and my pinky went beyond the V of her tail by few centimeters. Lucky fish. Her silver coat glistened in the dark water as I released her gently, and she swam away into the deep.

Encouraged by the catch, I quickly reassembled the line and cast the beetle fly. I immediately got another bite. This is my first dry fly fishing in the darkness so I don’t even pretend to be an expert. But I secretly believe that fish in this frenzied stage don’t care if your fly is naturally drifting or not. They just eat anything that looks like the bugs they are eating in the darkness before it gets washed away from their view.

Within 30 minutes from the first catch, I caught and released 2 fish and lost 3. Though I had no fish to keep, I was electrified by the energy of the river. By 10 pm, dinner time was over. The river returned to a placid state and the dark surface of the pool was no longer disrupted by the rising fish. By then I was covered with the insects. Some were inside my long sleeved shirts and I had to squash them through the material. I had never felt the crunch of smothered insect shell against my soft belly before. It was definitely time to head home.

I carefully climbed down the bridge block into the dark water. It was easy to do in the daylight, but in near darkness, especially right beneath the bridge, I felt a sudden chill on my spine. The rocks on the bottom are in many size and shape, and slippery as hell. The sunken logs collected near the bridge blocks were visible in daytime, but now there’s no way for me to know their whereabouts. If stumbled over them in deep water, the wader which covers my lower body will float due to the trapped air. But my upper body will be under water. That would make standing up right again during being taken downstream almost impossible. About 5 meters downstream is the deep pool with strong swirling current which I did not want to fall into, I slowly and carefully crossed the river to the shore, feeling the adrenaline coursing through my body. I can’t even remember last time I had that feeling of fear and exhilaration. When I stepped out of the water, I felt so alive.

I was tired, sunburned, and exhausted. But after taking a hot shower, I got a second wind under my sails. I mixed Chivas Regal I had bought in Hong Kong airport, with cold fresh NZ water. Boy, it was heavenly. Every square inch of my stomach wall felt the liquid rush over it like an African desert after the first rainfall. The events of Day 1 flashed back in my mind and got a little foggy with each sip of the drink. I lay in the warm bed, closed my eyes and slept.

3. Price to pay, and its reward

Fingers are one of the most useful body parts, allowing you to perform dexterous duties such as making a knot, tying tiny flies, using chop sticks, etc. However, they are also very sensitive, with many nerve endings in a small area, and they can hurt like hell if damaged. Early the next morning I woke up not in pain, but with itchiness all over my hands, fingers and stomach. It was so bad I could hardly stop scratching. The time was almost 5 am so I got out of my bed, stumbled to the mirror, and counted 23 red spots: 14 on my stomach, and 9 on my hands. The little cluster by my belly button resembles the constellation of Southern Cross. The middle finger on my right hand is swollen, like a fat sausage. 

 I don’t know what sort of bugs have done this to me, but I remember seeing tiny flies, less than 5 mm in length, landing on my hands while fishing. One gave me a sharp bite and was promptly killed by a hard slap. But the rest seemed innocent at the time. Sand flies don’t live in Japan. I’ve never seen them before. I’ve heard of them in many fishing reports on NZ but I didn’t know how tiny and innocent looking they are. For those who don’t know about sand flies, let me tell you few things. First, unlike a mosquito bite, it takes about 6 hours (in my experience) for their venom to really kick in and begin troubling you. Second, the symptoms last longer than a simple mosquito bite. The itchiness lingers for days, even a week. During my 12 days in NZ, I was bitten so many times but I still remember the precise location of first several bite marks. In fact, I am still scratching those spots even as I type now (28-Jan-08).  

I decided to get bug repellant spray as soon as the shop opens. I itched my way through my breakfast alone in the kitchen. Last night I was so tired that I didn’t even pay any attention to the kitchen of Extreme Backpackers. It happens to be a clean, roomy kitchen with 2 sinks. On top of the cooking table there is a lovely flower vase full of fresh herbs. Nice touch. I shall make omelet with them next time, I thought. 

I was gearing up at Red Hut pool by 5:30. Thankfully the temperature was too cold for bugs to come out yet. I was freezing my butt off, even though I had a jacket and sweater beneath it. It must be just below 10 degrees celcius. Crossing the wire suspended bridge before sunrise boosted up my morale and got me excited for the day. Beneath the bridge is a deep pool of about 25 meters in width. I let loose my first cast in the crisp morning air. I saw the loop get messed up over the water. Lousy cast! I cursed myself quietly and quickly pulled in the line to untangle the mess.  As I reeled in I saw the 13 foot long, 6 lb test leader below the yarn indicator somehow managed to intertwine mid-air. To make the matter even worse, there are 2 flies on one leader. In Tongariro, many anglers use this method. The indicator works as a bobber while a heavy leading fly sinks the lighter, smaller trailing fly which is connected by 30 cm long extended leader attached to the hook bend of the leading fly. When a fish bites either fly, your yarn indicator dips into the water and you set the hook up, in theory. For me the problem is to cast this rig without messing it up. It is still dark around. I can’t even see my back cast loop against the dark woods behind me. In forward cast, I can see the loop over the water. After many lousy casts I realized that, unlike normal fly casting, you need to intentionally make wider loops to avoid the long leader from getting too close to each other and the wind-resisting yarn indicator. By the time I finally figured this out, the sun was peeking over the forests and those precious moments of dawn had disappeared.

Now, I can see the pool clearly, very deep on the opposite bank. The water is full of bubbles from the rapids above the pool. I moved downstream a bit and cast across the green river. As soon as the indicator touched the water, I mended the line so that the indicator would have more time and distance to drift naturally before the long line  starts pulling the rig faster than any natural movement on the surface of the river. During one drift, I needed to mend the line at least 3 times. Of course I do all this mending business while constantly monitoring the indicator to catch the strike. Not easy way to fish at all. Every cast gives approximately 10 seconds of drift, I reckon. And each drift takes very careful casting and pulling in the line before next cast. I found it a very time-inefficient way to catch fish. And I still have to untangle the messed up leader once in a while.  I was about to give up this style of fishing when I saw the indicator, almost nearing the natural drift and being pulled downstream by the line, seemed to stop moving downstream. I pulled the line in my left hand as I raised the rod in my right hand, almost dubiously. Some pressure, surely more than the pressure by the current, pulled back and the rod tip suddenly bowed to the water. Heavy. The strong tug pulled the line right out of my hand. I reeled in the excess line to fight the fish through the reel instead of pulling the line by hand. Quite often after pulling in the line by hand, it gets terribly tangled on the ground, and if the fish decides to run long, the tangled line may not go through the guides on your fly rod, preventing smooth line movement and consequently overloading the leader. It had happened to me twice in Alaska.  

By the time I reeled in all the excess line and started to reel the fish in, he was ready to give up and soon beached. The first keeper was a male, about 48 cm long. A red band ran from his cheek to the base of his magnificently developed tail – the sign that he has spent his life in wide-open water. Next time you go shop for farm-raised trout or salmon, check its tail. Most of them don’t even have sharply developed tail. Since they grow up in congested space, their fins and tails are usually rounded up after chafing against the wall/net surrounding them entire life. He was recovering from the last year’s spawning, which must be his first, considering his size. A gold-bead pheasant tail nymph, tied below the epoxy fly (called “Penis” among the locals), was hooked lightly on his upper jaw. Since he’s still recovering from the last spawning, the meat is not in prime condition at all. But many fish like this can turn out to be excellent after smoked. The blood of my first NZ catch stained the beach of Red Hut pool on15-Jan-08.

After this fish, I quit nymphing with indicator. For the remainder of my trip, I hiked Tongariro, looking for trout rising for dry fly, or deep pools for wet lining. In my observation, about 90% of anglers in this river are nymphing with indicator on their leader. Wet lining, in which you cast heavy sinking line and swing the fly across the current, is clearly the minority. Perhaps this is because there are a limited number of pools suitable for wet lining, while you can do nymphing almost everywhere. I’ve been wet lining before. And I like feeling the tug from fish coming straight to my hand that holds the line. Sort of a signal from live wilderness. Though you have to hike to get there, Tongariro offers several pools which look like they were designed by the God of fishing (if there’s one) exclusively for wet liners.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Since Tongariro River is such a popular area for fishing, there are well-established tracks along the river with signs saying “Angler’s Access”. On State highway 1, which runs parallel to the river, there are even road signs with the name of the pool on it. It was a great pleasure to hike along the beautiful Tongariro. Every day, I found new pools to fish, shadows of submarines, storm of bugs, birds which I have never seen before. In the afternoon with the temperature rises to 30 degrees with intense sunlight, many local anglers don’t even bother to fish, while traveling fishermen like myself kept roaming the river.  Tongariro is a playground not only for anglers, but also for tourists and locals. I saw many enjoy kayaking and white water rafting. Some looked a bit embarrassed when they paddled in front of me fishing. They don’t want to disturb the quietude, I suppose. Since I came to NZ, I have been touched by the generosity and friendly nature of Kiwi people. I reel the line in and stop fishing once I see a fleet of paddlers coming from upstream. We exchange nods, their white teeth shining so bright among colorful helmets and life jackets, blue sky above and greet of water and vegetations. Come to think of it, I have never seen so many bright colors while fishing before…

 

 

While I was crossing Major Jones bridge one afternoon, I spotted two young men in swim pants standing on the rock next to the deep swift current. One jumped in the water as if he would start swimming free style in Olympic pool, and the other followed with scream. Both popped out to the surface moment later, laughing hysterically while being carried away in the strong current below the bridge toward the rapids. I wondered where they might end up after being carried downstream. They didn’t seem to be too worried. Their joyous screams and laughter still linger in my memory as I write now. What daredevils they are! Or, maybe in NZ, it is not so unusual for young Kiwis to jump into a mighty river in a hot afternoon.

 

 

 

 

See the rock near the base of the tall trees on right? That’s where they jumped into the water.

 

 

 

You can find their heads popping out in the midst of rupid to the right. What a ride!

By the end of day, after a long hike and endless casting, I was covered with sweat, dust, DEET (bug repellant), sun lotion and several new bite marks. Taking a hot shower has renewed its meaning in my life after this trip. Right now my biggest decision was how to select between my good friend Chivas Regal, an excellent local ale called Speights, or NZ chardonnay for some liquid refreshment. A nice drink would definitely complete the evening, and help me calm down, as my body and soul as I was still so full of excitement of my new discoveries and surprises. Oh, yes, I was in vacation mode.

 

 

 

 

4. Gift of the passing storm

 

The afternoon that I started writing this journal, the storm was leaving town and I couldn’t stop myself from going out fishing. The wind and rain had died down, and the cloudy sky was so tempting for the fisherman inside of me. There was an old gentleman alone in the bridge pool. I tied a gold bead olive marabou streamer on 8 lb test leader. The water level was slightly higher than the day before. I waded into the deep till my thighs were wrapped by the tightening wader over the pants. To reach the deep flow of the opposite bank, I had to cast the full length of the fly line. I counted 10 seconds to sink the fly before retrieving the line.  On my 7^th or 8^th drift, I felt the tug on my type III sinking line. It was not a snag, definitely a strike. Even before this thought came to my consciousness, I was setting the hook and immediately felt the fish shaking its head sideway. I could almost envisage the fish twisting its silver body almost 90 degrees left and right, trying to shake the hook off its mouth. I just started retrieving my line at the time so I quickly reeled in the few meters of line in my shooting basket.  Ross Gunison 4 is now dealing with the fish almost 20 meters away. The fish ran downstream and Gunison spat the line. The low buzzing of the reel’s drag system played the heart-clenching yet adorable symphony over the murmur of the Tongariro, the ultimate piece of music all fishermen dream of. Space and time seemed to shrink around me and I felt like I was cocooned. All sound was muffled, even the scream of the reel. Now, I was connected with this fish through my fishing line, in this river I truly love. The rest of the world lost its meaning suddenly. I could hear my hard breathing and nothing else, as if I am listening to my own heartbeat through the stethoscope.  I thought of moving downstream to shorten the distance between myself and the fish, but decided not to because the bottom is very slippery. Plus, I’ve learned by then that even Tongariro rainbow doesn’t run as far and long as salmon. I stood in my original position and focused on the fight. Mighty fish, she is. Several minutes passed to finally see her at the end of my leader. Turned out to be just shy of 50 cm long but she was full of energy. Her shining coat meant she was fresh out of the lake, possibly lured by the increased river flow from the storm upstream in the mountains.  After setting her on the stringer, I walked around the bank of the river to chill out. The other angler was focused on his own business, unaware of what just had happened 50 meters downstream of him. The noise level of the surrounding world started to return to normal by then, and the moment of my intimate proximity with nature, represented by fish, was done. It was as if nothing had happened here, after all. 

I waded in about 10 meters downstream of my last position. Repeated the same tactics with the same fly. Unbelievably, after my 3^rd cast in the new spot, I felt the same tug and pulled in an even bigger rainbow. She was almost 58 cm long. 2 good fish within 30 minutes! I was convinced that this was not a freak event at all. I can now tell you how to catch fish in this river with confidence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Getting back to EB while the sun was still shining intensely seemed odd after many days of fishing till 10 pm, but since I had maxed out that day I had to stop fishing (you can not resume fishing after keeping 3 fish a day, not even for catch & release). Cleaning fish in the crowded kitchen drew so much attention from the students and backpackers that I enjoyed brief popularity. The University of Kentucky team were preparing for their farewell party. Many of them would travel down to south island while others would be flying home after spending 6 weeks studying the volcano here. As if not to miss the chance to get suntanned, several girls were still lying on the grass in the garden, revealing their young bodies barely covered by bikinis. They distracted me while cleaning fish. A slipped knife sliced my fingertip. Too much stimulation for a middle aged man… 

Extreme Backpackers attracts many kinds of people, and I enjoyed meeting some of them. The stories of Kiwi yachtsmen who used to sail multimillion-dollar yachts for the rich owners in Grand Cayman Island reminded me of Desmond Bagley’s book. The lady who was riding her bicycle from Auckland all the way to Christchurch and back was the fittest American woman in her 50’s I have ever seen. There was a fly fishing aficionado from Austria who recently quit his job and was now enjoying a 3-month long trip in NZ. He claimed to have caught a rainbow trout 70 cm long the other day in the pool above SH1 bridge. Without the picture, I wasn’t so sure if he was telling me the truth or just demonstrating the typical fisherman’s exaggeration. But since I was catching some decent fish myself, I didn’t let myself burn with the black fire of jealousy at all.  

The Austrian angler claimed to have caught a huge rainbow in this pool upstream of SH1.

 

People come visit NZ from all over the world. Four young girls moved in that afternoon. Unlike the northern European guests who were cooking next to me, the newcomers’ olive skin and curly hair made them look wilder, more athletic. All of them were stunningly gorgeous, yet seemed a bit tired, maybe after the long day of hiking. The boys in the garden didn’t miss them coming in either, some stood with their mouths open. There’s undeniable beauty in them. Imagine a healthy, good looking girl with no makeup, in simple T-shirts, short pants, dusty hiking boots and enormous backpack which makes her waist even slimmer in contrast. Multiply that by four and you’d understand the scene in the parking lot.  I made sure my mouth wasn’t hanging wide open like the red-blooded Kentucky students in the garden. A man’s got to have some pride, after all. I was about to drive to Horty’s with my cleaned fish when Roger, the owner of Extreme Backpackers found me. After asking me how my fishing has been, he lowered his voice.

“You saw the four good looking girls just checked in here?”

“Yeah, I just saw them. All the boys in your place noticed them, too.”

“Well, I tell you. They are wild girls from Israel. Probably right out of their mandatory military service. They got kicked out of another backpacker’s place in the town last night since they partied too much. Listen, here’s my mobile number. I want you to call me any time tonight if they misbehave in my place. Would you do that for me?” 

On the way to Horty’s, I glanced at my face in the back mirror, slightly dejected, to see if I look so old that someone would ask me be a watch dog over a bunch of delinquent backpacking babes fresh out of their military service. Do I look so responsible? If they want to go wild tonight, I would rather join them with my collection of alcohol and fresh fish, if they would allow me to…

 

 

 

Pity they couldn’t have the fine dinner with me…

5, Horty

Ron “Horty” Horton is 74 years old. He spent many years clipping sheeps’ wool since he was a child. Now, he runs smokehouse and small cabin (NZ$25 a night), which is very cozy with 6 beds, tying table, and the wall full of pictures that prove why so many anglers come visit this river. An English angler named Clive who has been visiting Tongaoriro every summer for the last 10 years happened to be there when Horty showed his cabin to me. We talked about the fishing, discussed why fish in last few years is smaller than average Tongariro size, etc. We found out we all prefer wet lining over nymphing with a huge yarn indicator, thus agreed such method is a disgrace to fly fishing.

 There’s a huge brown trout mounted on the wall inside the cabin. Horty showed me several pictures of enormous fish, both rainbow and brown trout, caught at the river mouth into Lake Taupo. I marveled at them, and asked him the whereabouts in the gigantic Lake Taupo. To answer to my question, he offered me a morning fishing session with him. Meeting a local angler and fishing with him teaches you something you would never learn from reading fishing magazines and reports. In Alaska I was fortunate enough to have met two superb local anglers. My luck brought Horty to me this time. Since the strong wind from the storm still lingered, we decided to go to the mouth of Taurange Taupo River (local call it ‘TT’ for short) on my last day of fishing in NZ.  Horty picked me up from EB at 04:15. I was already in my wader, ready to fish as he had instructed me to do. It was a very clear night, and the air was crisp and cold. I could see a white puff as I exhale. I’m amazed at how extreme the NZ climate can be. Temperature changes quite dramatically in one day. When we got to the mouth of TT, the full moon was still high over the mountain, and the water was like a mirror.

 

 

 

 

 

Horty told me how to fish in this river mouth. The center of the river is quite deep where fish swim upstream. The temperature of the lake water is quite warm in summer time, while the river water temperature is lower than 10 degrees. You cast a boobie fly with a high density sinking line to reach the fish at the bottom. Boobie flies have a Styrofoam head so that they suspend in the water while your sinking line hugs the bottom. The leader is short, less than 3 feet long. As you retrieve the line, the boobie fly wiggles its head, dives to the bottom, and then floats back and stays roughly a foot or two from the bottom of the river. As soon as we saw the hint of the sun’s dim orange glow appear across the flow of TT, we waded in carefully and began casting. Fly casting is an art form. To cast long distance you need to coordinate the movement of both of your arms. As I mentioned before, the left side of Horty’s body is slightly handicapped. He is unable to do double haul casting for that reason. However, I could hear the sound of his fly line extending longer each time he casts in the dark. In the dim light I couldn’t see how does it, but as the sun neared the horizon ahead of us, I finally saw his technique. He casts the shooting head gracefully with virtually one arm and two hands. His left hand holds and releases the line at the precise moment while his strong right arm swings the #8 wt fly rod. It was something I’ve never seen before and probably won’t see anywhere else again. Truly an amazing feat.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Another thing which was quite new to me was the strange celestial situation of that particularly cold and bright morning. The full moon was behind us while we cast into the sun rising straight ahead of us. Have you ever been aligned with both the moon and sun while fishing? It was visually stunning, and I tried to get a sense being connected to that rare moment, but quite frankly, it’s hard to have a spiritual moment when you’re freezing my nuts off. But I did recognize my good fortune to be there with Horty next to me, the most determined fisherman in NZ, and witness the silver, icy light from the moon slowly give way to the rising sun. It was the perfect location to see the last sunrise in my NZ trip. We both managed to catch fish, and were home by 7 am.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Horty got a fish on.

 

 

 

6. The end of the trip

 

 

As I drove to Auckland from Turangi, with a suitcase full of frozen, vacuum-packed smoked trout, I asked myself what was the difference between Alaska and NZ. I now love both locations so much. Both are beautiful, but they are surely different. One big issue is bears. As an unarmed fisherman in Alaska, walking alone in the woods before dawn or after sunset makes the hair on the back of my neck stand all the time. If you don’t know what I mean, you should watch “The Grizzly Man”, a documentary about an activist who was ultimately eaten by the animal he had given his life to protect. You must know that in Alaska you are not on the top of food chain. In NZ, on the other hand, I didn’t have to worry a bit and enjoyed being in forest at twilight time. The only animal you have to worry about in NZ are troublesome sandflies. 

 In my brief experience of fishing in NZ, I must confess that I pissed off a local fellow, something I am not proud of. He was fishing right below the bridge and I positioned myself about 20 to 25 meters downstream of him. When his rig reached the end of drift, I was casting my sinking line perpendicular to the current. Two lines found each other and tangled. As he fixed the mess and freed my line, I apologized profusely to him, but he cursed me and stormed out of the river to his car and drove away. I couldn’t hear him clearly but the anger in his NZ accent was conveyed. I felt so ashamed. I pretty much bumped him out of the hole which he had found first. In NZ, you never fish so close to another angler. Maybe salmon, not trout, make anglers too aggressive and drive them to behave not so gentlemanly. I have seen several pictures in which even Kiwi anglers do so-called “combat fishing” to catch salmon. But in Tongariro, you have more space to yourself and you give more space to others. Quite different from my experiences in Alaska and this is the biggest reason why I like NZ so much now. 

During my trip I had been told to go to south island for better fishing numerous times. I am looking forward to visiting there next time. Having said that, I want to tell my fellow anglers that Tongariro River deserves your time and challenge by all means. NZ is a fantastic country, and the Tongariro is so full of life. I don’t claim to be a professional writer, but I hope this little journal of my experience has enticed you a bit. Tongariro is truly a fly fisherman’s paradise. 

Tight lines, 

SI