The long slope down...

There is a strong sense of vulnerability in this blog post. We all have our low points. We all have heart felt moments. We all have moments where life just goes our way. This blog post has all the above... and ties in to what we always say is so true for us: that fly fishing is an extension of, enmeshed in, ingrained in, and inseparable from our lives.

Before we left for New Zealand, Amelia had some eye work done. She has Keratoconus, which is a slow degeneration of the corneas: rather than remain round, over a lifetime they become cone shaped and thin to the point - worst case scenario - you may end up needing corneal transplants. She had a relatively new procedure done about 3 or 4 weeks before we left for New Zealand that has shown to slow or cease that degeneration. About a week prior to leaving, she had a follow up at her optometrist and her eyes were considerably worse than prior to the procedure due to the corneal cross-linking treatment and riboflavin additive to strengthen her corneas. Things usually get worse before they get better, so this way expected.

Anyone see what could possibly go wrong with embarking on 3 months of sight-fishing in New Zealand?
(Her eyesight has gotten better since, the surgery knocked it back and she's gotten way better).

We knew it was going to be a little difficult at times of our trip, but up against -40C and the dark winters of Alberta, Canada, we weren't foregoing New Zealand!

Once we arrived, at the start of this year's trip, we decided to try to get the smallest of things corrected in Amelia's fishing. I've long thought Amelia was a good fly fisher, but there were subtle little things here or there that could take her to being a great fly fisher, and a lot of it has had to do with letting the killer instinct take over and allow her sub-conscious do the things in fly fishing that need to be done, in order that her present mind could pro-actively anticipate and adjust to ensure that the situation and fish didn't control the show. It's subtle, but a world of difference that few fly fishers get to.

Yes, we decided to do the above at the same time as her eyes were recovering.
Genius.
The first three weeks of our trip to New Zealand were good weather. It was a mix of sun and cloud and the wind came and went. There were some cold, windy days where it didn't quite reach double digits in the high country. But we really got on a roll, and Amelia was working into some of the subtle improvements nicely. Honestly, we didn't miss much - to the point it was a little tedious.

About 2 weeks into our trip, we fished with a new fellow, Jack, whom we wound up befriending and fishing with again later in the trip. We'll touch on that later, but the first time we fished together, it's important to say that we nailed everything we touched. At that time of the trip, Amelia was calling Jack over to have a go at fish that we sighted as she was literally nailing everything and wanted to make sure that he was getting in on fish equally. About the only thing she was not excelling at was casting into the Nor'wester wind. She got by though and she was certainly catching the fish.

About a week after fishing with Jack, Amelia and I were fishing the back end of a paddock. We were on our way out and we took turns closing electric fence gates. Amelia was closing one. I'd walked through and saw a narrow ditch covered in grass. After the long day, I didn't say anything and assumed she'd see it. Nope! She turned and fell up to her mid thigh in the ditch. To make matters worse, there was an old fence post in it and it jammed her thigh. She was left with quite a skid mark and deep bruise on her thigh. The next 2 weeks were brutal on her as she recovered.

About 10 days after her boo boo, the rains came in. Hard. For the next month and a week, literally every 18 to 72 hrs a <relatively> major rain front came in. The worst was one deep low that dropped over 600mm of rain (think 24 vertical inches) fell in about 20 hrs. Most fronts had 100 (4") - 300 (12") mm as they came and went. It wasn't so much the rain and high waters (you can always find clear water to fish in New Zealand, even after 24" of rain) that became an issue as the cloud. Perpetual cloud.

Let's go back to Amelia's eyes. It was one thing to have her eyes not focus as well. However, the one thing that quickly became apparent was contrasting situations were difficult for her to see well. 5 weeks of cloudy skies didn't help as the glare on the water gave her fits, drove her nuts.

Through the dark, dull weather days, Amelia's eyes took over. I noticed her concentration on the finer points we'd worked on slowly gave way while she fished. Going away was the subtle mend as she laid the line out. In its place was the oft repeated "I can't see my fly" or "I can't see the fish" as her fly drift. She began to focus on the optics ans less on allowing her subconscious deal with the fundamentals. And the slightest of currents would slowly take over her drift. Sometimes her eyes would play tricks on depth perception and she'd land the fly 6" upstream of the fish instead of the 2 or 3 feet, her eyes and the contrast obviously taking the toll. It got to the point that her feel of the rod in her casts was sometimes replaced with being so focused on seeing what was going on rather than simply feeling. And honestly, it was difficult to watch the downward trend. She was still getting takes from almost every fish, but the difference was that she was inducing short takes or worse, downstream takes which she sometimes didn't see. If you know anything about visual, downstream takes, you know you have to have a keen eye to see the turn: to not wait and see the trout turn leads to a clear miss. If you can't see in the glare, or are having a tough time focusing, it's a killer. So, what was causing her to have these subtle errors was compounded in that she couldn't anticipate, adjust, nor compensate for the errors caused by them.

On last year's trip, she went 3 and a half weeks without missing a fish. It was likely the most amazing run I've ever seen from anyone I've ever fished with. She didn't miss a single one. Fast forward to this trip and she likely got a take on 80 - 90% of the fish on the back half of our trip, but I bet you she missed 1/3 of them because she couldn't see the take or because her depth perception was off, inducing a bad take. (I know, we're nit-picking here because she still caught a ton of fish and we do get pretty high results in New Zealand, of all places. But when your standards are high, they just are)

And it got to her. I'll admit it got to me, it was tough to watch. Honestly, my fishing also took a bit of a hit as well. Not that I was missing fish nor doing anything poorly... my intensity and desire to fish waned slightly. When you know your spouse isn't going 100%, your desire to put the hammer down and fish hard yourself wanes. It does with anyone truth be told. If I'm fishing with someone who isn't as experienced or not as likely to have good success I've always tended to give way, passing up fish or turns at fish to their benefit. Sometimes many, many fish in a row (you just want for people to be successful and joyful while fly fishing!). Most people are oblivious when I do give way, but Amelia certainly wouldn't be! It was really, really odd... strange... to find myself remotely thinking this way with Amelia.

It got to the point that when we again fished with our friend Jack with 3 weeks to go in our trip, her confidence was wavering and now he was trying to help her with a couple of things. That's nothing against him at all, but it was very telling that at the start of our trip she was calling him over to catch fish, and now he was helping her even feel a cast into the wind. It was a subtle difference but knowing my wife well, I could see it plainly.

The pinnacle came on a spring creek we were fishing during a back country raft float of a larger river. It wasn't an easy day of fishing. The browns were doggo in the main river (literally still as can be, not feeding, maybe looking at a fly if it came within 6" of its head as it sat along the rocks on the bottom of the very recesses of the tailouts in the warm water). By the time we got to the spring creek, our patience wasn't great for doggo fish. The spotting conditions were so-so as we waded upstream into a mixed sunset. We came onto more doggo, yet slightly spooky fish in the lower reaches. We eventually landed a nice 7lb brown a little further up, finally finding an actual feeding fish that I presented a wee nymph to.

It was Amelia's turn. Her confidence in a straight ahead cast with heavy bush behind us was iffy. Having gone 6 weeks of tough lighting and sighting and not being perfect as she & I have come to expect of her(self), she was now relying on me and/or Jack to tell her what was going on. It is a massive difference to have the full confidence of "I've got this" and simply step up, have faith in your gear & set up, to then position yourself in the best location, and make the simplest cast to get the fish. (Note that I didn't say best cast - I replaced that with simplest cast because that includes the best cast and location). That was in stark contrast to her posture at that moment. She remained standing in the middle of being shoulder to shoulder with Jack and I, with me being on the downstream edge, and the shoreline was covered with heavy bush. All she had to do was switch spots with me and her back cast was monumentally clearer. She didn't see the fish Jack was pointing to in the darkening glare of the sun going behind the mountain. She saw one of the rises but not all, and couldn't see where the fish would station. And because she had been on a downward trend in confidence, her casting was at an all time low. I honestly hadn't seen her cast so inconsistent and erratic in 10 years by that evening.

She was giving way to Jack & I in casting position, spotting, and not feeling her casts... and wasn't taking a confident charge to the fish.

It was tough to watch. It had to be tough for her.

Being there, fishing with someone new, making a new friend but standing watching your wife struggle, knowing why... and not being able to say anything to help because I didn't want to make her feel less in front of someone else by saying anything to help which could have been taken the wrong way by her or Jack... it was very tough. I watched. I kept my mouth shut best I could.

To complete the sequence, on one of her casts, a drift fly she couldn't see and was waiting for help, there was a rise. In her defense, Jack told her to set. Knowing she was late, she ripped the hook set. I was watching and cringed because I had seen the rise - the fish had taken a mayfly 3 feet from her fly and even Jack had missed the location of the rise. Of course, now the fish was going to be gone for all that commotion.

It went further than that mind you. We stood silently a spell. The water was calm. Nothing happened. I grabbed the rod from Amelia as I anticipated we'd continue upstream. We all spoke of where the fish had been holding. Amelia finally was able to see the spot where it had been. I never did see it from where I was, but I flipped a left handed cast in that area and asked "where in relation to that?" Jack said "About 3 feet further up and to the left". I then looked down at my reel as I began to wind up the line. "SET!" the two of them cried out.

I had the fish, naturally. I now had 2 fish and not only did Jack not have one, but I just Trumped my wife in front of someone else at a time she was low. Not so HOO-RAY for me given I knew where my wife was at - not at all. It was, after all, just a fish. My wife, after all, needed my support. I had to find a way of delicately giving my support to her with someone else there at a time she felt lowest about her fishing and all the factors leading to being so low.

Just to salt the wound, about 10 minutes later we came about a nice trout and it was Jack's turn. There had to be a fish in the run we were coming to. None of us saw anything. I decided to walk around, staying low. I was 3/4 up the run, toward the shelving riffle at the top, walking painfully slow. In the glow of the yet light, blueing, twilight sky I saw a gold slithering arch of a gorgeous brown turning to take an emerging mayfly 3 feet off shore. I called instructions to Jack and on his first cast the dry went down, the fish sucking the dropper nymph. Exciting! Jack had an amazing trout of 8 1/2 pounds. It was a stunning fish that was an awe-inspiring moment for all of us. What a creek. What an evening. It was stunning. We all took a lot of joy in Jack's fish and the air electric. We were all buzzing. It's still amazing to see Jack's fish in our photos.

From my perspective, and to Amelia's credit, more because it's who she is and not that she would even consider sulking, she was as excited as anyone about Jack's fish. It was amazing. I've fished with one or two people who, if things don't go their way, you don't even want to fish until they catch something... anything... for their sulking, simmering anger, or tense silence - and those types usually can't even see it in themselves. Amelia doesn't have such a bone in her body.

It was getting a little late in the day - it had been a long one as we'd pre-shuttled the cars, put the raft in the river, floated 6 hrs, and fished a few hours up this spring creek. If we saw another trout, it was Amelia's. And this is where I give Amelia all the credit in the world. The biggest compliment I can give her and the thing I admire the absolute most in her is her tenacity in pursuit of a positive end goal. She was down but no way was she done.

We walked upstream in the glow of Jack's cracker of a brown. I'd say that you couldn't have had a more amazing evening, except that I knew that while Amelia was glowing for experiencing Jack's fish, that she was wanting a turn-around herself. Not 100m above Jack's fish, I saw a rise for the ages. There are browns that move water... and this was one that was moving water. Jack & I stationed on the opposite bank and with the dark, bush reflection, could see the fish's every movement. It was going to town... no insect was making it downstream. Amelia was in the water, we were calling out its movements, left, right, up, down... waaaay across. Knowing my wife, I knew the energy in her was palpable, consuming.

It was time.

Her cast landed to its right. The elk hair caddis a perfect silhouette against the now steel glare where she landed it. For both Jack and I, we'd seen the fish in the glare free water to the left. We both commented later that all we saw was the fish, saw it turn as the fly landed, and then disappeared in the glare. Jack and I both excitedly called (shouted?) out "HE'S COMING!!!"

I hadn't learned the lesson. Amelia neither. She or I could have set a boundary and simply said that "she's got it, so don't say a word". In fact, she needed to. But, she didn't have that poise and both Jack and I wanted to help her. Instead, our calling out so excitedly no doubt froze her rod tip in the air rather than lowered on the water, leaving tip slack - I guarantee it. Her hook set... ugh! Her hook set zipped through the HUGE lips of the large brown as it broke the steel surface.

She missed? It missed? She missed. No matter.

It was a heartbreaking moment as nothing came of the hook set.

I had my face in my hands. I mumbled, hissed, exasperated, to Jack "That was the fish of the day!"

Actually, it was a moment in my wife's life I was happy to be present for. And this is where I admire her most. She knew she was bottomed out. She knew it was on her to pull herself out. And she needed a lucky break to help.

And she got it.

The fish began rising once again.

And she stepped up. She turned to Jack & I and said "Don't say a word. I've got this".

Jack and I shut our traps.

The line sang through the guides of our Helios. The line shot with a zip I'd not seen in a few weeks. It laid out perfectly, gently. The fly landed two or three feet from the fish - perfect for New Zealand. Jack & I were silent as we again watched the fish disappear from the window into the glare. The brown's head broke with a slurping pop.

The sound of the fly line etching the smooth surface of the steel surface filled the still air.

And it was only replaced by three people breathing as the rod went tight and all hell broke loose!

I'm not sure if Jack picked up on the tension. He couldn't have possibly known the downhill slope Amelia had been on or why, though there were clues in a few dropped fish. And I guarantee that when that fish finally came to the net that he had no idea how much that fish meant to Amelia, to me, to us... he had no idea how much that one photo he took meant and what it represented in our fishing. As I somehow scooped the fish as I slipped on the oily rocks, I turned with the monster in the net and Amelia literally jumped in my arms. Happy?

Her poise had returned. She'd had enough. She stepped up. She did everything right. I didn't say a word. I didn't have to coddle her like I had to with one fellow I fished with, who failed miserably in New Zealand, unable to catch a sighted trout for 5 weeks, pouted mercilessly, and had to resort to deep nymphing under a bobber to catch trout. She stepped up. She made the choice to take charge.

And that's what impressed me most.

It didn't matter if the fish was a hair under 10-1/2 lbs, it was her poise and fight to the best possible end result that mattered.

Now, it's not like her eyes magically got better over night for the rest of the trip. She dropped a gimmie rainbow in a back eddy the next day due to optics (a short cast induced a downstream take and poor hook set) and needed help sighting another rainbow that evening in the contrasting light. BUT, things certainly got a lot better. By the end of the trip she was spotting very well for me. Of course, the weather also improved and that helped. While her eyes remain on the mend, and still slightly off, we look forward to the benefits of the eye procedure that slows the impacts of Keratoconus.

I guess I write this as an encouragement to anyone who might be going through a difficult time, either in life, in fishing, in health, or maybe feeling emotionally or mentally down. Life gets us. It just does. We aren't alone in that. We all go through something. All we can do, all we're called to do... is persevere the best we can. We all ask for help in our own ways, to feel connected, to do what we need to do to continue to persevere. And it's also in us to keep persevering with those around us that might be going through such an experience in life. I know it's contrite to compare a "woe is me I can't catch every fish" to someone who's depressed, has cancer, or has something going on in life, but the principle is the same: remaining committed to each other and persevering. I know in our future that a health issue will befall one or both of us. I'm also lucky enough to know that I'll have someone beside me that will be tenacious to the best possible outcome of the situation every day of that journey. And she has that as well.

Will Ferrell Goes Fly Fishing

After floating hopelessly for a spell on a 'kind of' middle of nowhere reach of water, we decided to have a look at a bit of water running against a cliff bank 100 m up a side braid. We hopped out of the raft, walked over. I had taken the time to get myself over the narrow perch above a run and it wasn't until I looked in the top pocket in the upper reach of the run that I finally spotted fish. Amelia & our friend Jack then took the time to walk around to get in the proper position to work the one, large rainbow that was working the back water. It was a stunning fish to watch.

 

 

Not HUGE big, just big enough and doing a sexy enough bit of feeding to warrant the time to do it right... and get it all on video from my perch. It took 10 - 15 minutes for them to walk around and set up. Finally, they were in position. It was a windy day, wind howling loudly in the bush beside me. The riffled water beside them and the wind where I was meant that we had to pretty much yell to hear each other. Fair enough, we did what we had to and all was good.

Fast forward to later that afternoon. We were floating the main river past a good bit of water. The tailout had a great set of rocks. Amelia drift her flies past the rocks and a nice rainbow came to have a look but never took. It followed her fly 20 - 25 m but never committed. We pulled out below and beached the raft to walk back up to the rocks. I once again got up high to spot. I saw 3 rainbows in the wee pocket, only one was feeding.

Once more the wind was howling where I was. I could hardly hear for the wind in the matagouri bush. Assuming they had the same, I was yelling, LOUDLY. At one point, Amelia put her fly in the zone and a fish came to have a look "OH! HERE HE COMES!... ... ... REJECTED!" I yelled out. For the better bit of 10 minutes, I was givin'er vocally. It wasn't until I heard them muttering to themselves that I clued in. I said something in a normal, subdued voice and they both responded. Ah boy. Embarrassing! I'd just been yelling at them for 10 minutes when the accoustics where they were could have been normal talking! Uggh. As Jack said later, he'd never heard someone yell so loudly without being severely pissed off at him.
In hindsight, as I even sit here now, I'm still embarrassed by it. I kind of akin it to me being the Will Ferrell of fly fishing. In hindsight, my "REJECTED!" must have just seemed so Will Ferrell. I could easily see him doing a fly fishing movie, screaming out "REJECTED!!!".  For as much as I don't laugh at a lot of Will's movies, that would be a moment I would for sure. Awesome. I was there. Still embarrassed by it in my memory. Ah well. What can you do? Classic.

PS ~ Thanks to Jack Kos for the middle 2 pics. :)

Quietly Into the Night

We return to Alberta tomorrow. We leave New Zealand, with the leaves drying and willows turning yellow at the first signs of the changing season, late Feb eerily similar to late August at home - the warm, dry weather taking its toll on the trees. The rivers are low and warm. The nights only now cooling quite noticeably. The afternoons are calmer but take just a touch longer to warm. The highways are quiet. All is peaceful.

So it was on our last foray into the back country, to explore a new road and a couple of new valleys, mostly for the fun of it and definitely for next year's trip. The salmon are in many waters and the trout are a little more than just put off - they aren't happy their big, distant cousins are in the small habitat, and certainly aren't keen to share a bath tub.

So it was we were driving out from that last jaunt up a remote, lonely valley that we thought of a fish I'd missed on 3 successive rises to my mayfly. I stood above it high on the bank and each time it rose to my mayfly I struck early. The optics from above were starkly different to water level: from above you saw the head pop but you strike too soon often, as the large headed trophies need to turn or return to the water prior to striking. I missed each take back 6 weeks or so, simply pulling the fly out of an open mouth prior to that turn. It was at the end of the 5 weeks of high, muddy, miserable weather and water and that moment more frustrating because of the negative run of conditions.

But on this drive out the water was low, cold, clear. And there was enough time to walk over to the pool and see if it was there. We were close by and it was worth a look. And as we walked over and peered over the bank, the mayflies were popping and my fish was popping like mad.

It was epic. And I got him this go 'round. And it was the greatest moment and memory we'll both take with us from this trip. Me for being so engaged in the fishing, Amelia in the video. And it was epic.

This Tar Baby's Got No Rhythm

If you know the story of Brer Rabbit and the Tar Baby, you can appreciate that sometimes the harder we swing the worse it can get.
A month prior to flying to New Zealand Amelia & I were doing some hill sprinting in the snow at a golf course back home in Red Deer. We like to try to stay in shape. At the end of the work out, the last hill of course, I felt a blast of pain shoot up my right calf, like a zipper of pain coiling up. I couldn't walk. I tried my best the next  month to walk, but it hurt to do a lot of different motions. When we arrived in New Zealand, the first few weeks were brutal. My right knee doubled in size and the calf was still sore. Whatever I did was not getting much better. I simply couldn't walk the distances we normally do, but I tried. And the knee was simply just there to swing my leg... kind of a jelly feel. Some days were simply hopeless for the pain, others for the numbness and weak feel.

About the time I finally clued in and had the means to do so - I started icing and taking Voltaren (thanks to our friends here who happen to be in the medicine field) Amelia took a nasty tumble while crossing a paddock. She was putting the electric fence back up, turned, and took a step. That step landed in a grass covered hole that had a hidden, old post. All I know is that I turned around to hear her writhing in pain. She was hurt pretty good and the bruise just kept getting sexier to look at over the next week or two.

We fished, we made do, we struggled physically to keep going, but we did. The fishing was ok those first few weeks. Actually quite good but when you are struggling physically, you know you just aren't on top of it all.

AJ got better, the ice and Voltaren started to work a little, and just as we were ready to roll, the weather hit. For a month. Literally 4 weeks of every 18 to 36 hrs a major front of 100 - 600mm. 2 vertical feet of rain in 20 hours is stunning to see the effects of. But this is New Zealand and there is always a place to fish, and we did quite well. But the trip continued to be a Brer. We kept swinging, kept taking a best stab, best jab. Never quite on top of it. The trip was going well, it just didn't have the feel of any rhythm.

It was during a big rain event that we decided to take a couple of days to hike and raft with our friends. And that's when my big break through came. We hiked to a mountain top one day and I had been stretching out my knee, my calf, and trying to get loose. On our way down the mountain I decided to give my knee all it could handle. I ran down the mountain. Literally. And my knee loosened up, big time. It was ironic: I hurt my leg sprinting up hill in the snow at home; my leg instantly felt better running down hill in summer in New Zealand. And it has been pretty much 100% since. Who knew?

We set out for our latest jaunt 3 weeks ago from our friends' place. We left in a heck of a rain storm that turned to a dump of wet snow as we drove across the tops. The rivers were high, muddy. 2 days later, it was 30C and the past 2 - 3 weeks have been an amazing run of weather. The trip that had zero rhythm changed that day. Like any good cutthroat trout stream at home, these New Zealand trout need a good run of fine weather to get going, to get in their rhythm. And in turn, our trip has a solid rhythm to it. So much so that today, a cloudy day (dare we say finally!), we're back at our friends' place. Amelia's baking banana bread, we'll have a jug of coffee, and sometime after lunch we'll head down to the local river to fish a 2km side channel for a soft, 'off' day. Tomorrow is a heavy rain day so we'll finally take a day off the water and maybe do a little more blogging, sharing more shots like these. Of course, if you want to see more photos and are on Facebook, check out our Jensen Fly Fishing Facebook Page.

The Coolest Experience

It's not as though we didn't know what was coming, what we were getting into. But, in New Zealand, sometimes you have to stare into the eyes of a tiger and then take a claw in the face. We had seen the weather forecast. 2 days of fine weather (which, again, stands for no monsoons but could be sunny, cloudy, some rain, and a variety of wind - or all these), then the bottom was to drop out. When the forecasters give the map at right, you take notice.

From the map, heavy rainfall warnings start at 100mm in a few hours duration here, with significant heavy rainfalls that we've seen in the 600mm in less than 24 hrs (that's 24" depth of rain, incomprehnsible to Albertans who freak out over 75mm of rain). Serious rain. Severe gales start at 120kmh and have gone to gusts of 140-160kmh. Spillover rain is when the west coast rains come over the divide, which when combined with severe gales can make the rain being pushed from 30km away feel like pellets from a BB gun hitting you en masse.

 

As it was, we chose to hit a small stream for a couple of days and, the day the first front was forecast was to arrive, we hit a spring creek. Again, the first 2 days were cloudy but warm. The spring creek day the first front smoked us... hard. We got 150mm in 8 hrs just as we got to our favorite glides. AJ missed a 10+lb brown that we got a big white mouth take on video from. As she set, the mouth opened to chew the nymph and she pulled it out of its mouth. A huge trout. Alas, that was it for that side of the island as we woke to a FULL, black river beside our van. When van camping, you try to avoid being wet, so our choice, given the above forecast map, was to head east, hoping that the associated forecast that called for a severe threat of spill-over precip held off before deluging. Hopefully it would give us a day or two.

We drove over the divide in pouring rain, rain that ebbed as we came down the east side and turned to hot, dry wind. We went from a saturated rain forest to a dry tussockland (bunch grasses). In about 80 km as the crow flies. That's the dramatic New Zealand ecosystem changes.

We got one amazing weather day in on the eastern divide - albeit in howling winds. The sun was present a short spell then disapeared as the leading edge of the next front came in, with only a minor spill over rain in the distance.

The interesting hilight of that day was coming across a nice rainbow from a corner pocket pool at the top end of the stream. It was the exact fish that we caught in the exact pool as last year.

The next day, as the major front was to come in (Jan 2), we woke to a freight train of a wind. A head wind to boot. Trees were pushed over, some snapping. The stands of HUGE pine were screaming, forcing Amelia & I to yell to hear each other - from about 6 feet apart. We woke that morning to an amazing morning Nor'wester rainbow. Morning Nor'wester rainbows are formed when the easterly rising sun reflect the spillover rains to the west. As the fronts roll from the Tasman Sea, they hit the alps and head NE, following the chain. When a massive front comes in, it can push over the top. That's what this one had in mind.

The morning was nice, full of broken sun and a warm wind. Amelia photographed the rainbow, we enjoyed a morning coffee, then set out for a fish. So warm, I opted to wear a thin shirt, AJ 3 layers in case the distant spill over grew. And it would. By the time we walked downstream to our start point, the rain from the tops was driven upon us in the 120+kmh winds. It was a driving headwind. The trout spotted took some 30 minutes to time good casts to the right spots.

 

Our fortunate streak of good fishing continued through this wind and pellet-like driven rain.

 

Then the yo-yo effect began. A deluge came and the black clouds from the tops spewed east, then retreated. The sun popped out before the next push of the western front fought back. The distant western skies turned white with sun lit rain, replaced by black as the front pushed up again. It was literally directly over head, fighting all day long. Over and over this repeated itself as the wind continued to roar. By 4pm the skies turned jet black. We were soaked. My decision to wear a thin shirt on this fine day? Dumb. I shook as I cast at given trout, no longer wanting or caring to hook up. I defered to AJ to fish. I was frozen in the dropping temps and the driving rain. As it came to the last run - we couldn't take it any more - I could barely hold a firm rod. I thought I could see a dark shadow under Amelia's feet along the bank. My last cast of the day revealed a heavy rainbow that I could hardly hold due to numb hands.

AJ was soaked from driven rain yet the sun shone on her as she released a beautiful brown.

By 5:30 pm the valley began to fill with lightning and thunder, a once a year event for the valley. Oddly, the ebb-flow of the front continued as the lighting came overhead then retreated west. All night though the next morning the lightning literally came overhead, then retreated west. Black and clear went the weather.

 

By morning the spring creek and small streams of the valley were swollen as the river on the other side of the mountain in the valley jumped over and filled the entirety of the whole valley, filling the streams and spring creeks. About a mile or so wide. In less than 12 hrs of rain.
We'd been warned by our local friend in that valley that the river would likely do just that, and told us to get out if we had the opportunity as the road could easily wash us out for a few days. When we awoke, we were able to leave. When we got to our other friends' place on the other side of the island 3 hrs later, we saw that valley was completely flooded and the road under water less than an hour after we left.

The west coast rain totalled 600mm in 18 hrs.



6 - 18" of snow hit the tops as the front moved through and temperatures swooned.

The rivers? SWOLLEN. A west coast river swelled 24 vertical feet.  Check out the river chart at left and consider the units of depth and time, and how quickly the rise and fall!

Flood waters hit the eastern waters. West coast rivers ripped bridges, flooding highways, and major slips closed 3 of the 4 routes through the north and western area of the island.

A short news video: http://tvnz.co.nz/national-news/deluge-cuts-off-west-coast-video-5309821

The irony? 2 days later, we're sight-fishing clear water. Alberta waters would be toast for the season, as 2005 showed. It's a country formed from this extreme weather, it can handle it. The people simply have to adjust. And life goes on. So, we were forced to have a day and a half off fishing. Tomorrow, we're back at it at a high country spring creek we stumbled upon 2 weeks ago but never had time to fully investigate it as it was at the end of the day and we'd had 3 flat tires that day already and needed to make sure we got back (another tale of back country NZ roads and hard times!). That's the life and times of the west->east coast environments. And what keeps you on your toes in New Zealand! Always an adventure...

 

Brookies & the new Helios 2 Fly Rod

We made the Orvis News once more with these photos of some Fortress Lake brookies and the new Orvis Helios 2 Fly Rod (which is a very nice rod to use!). Be sure to follow this link to see them all:
http://www.orvisnews.com/FlyFishing/Photos-Fortress-Lake-Brook-Trout-and-Helios2.aspx

Thoughts & Sharing

Thanks to Darryn Epp for some great photos we've borrowed!
Obviously to those who get it, and hopefully those who don't will consider it: this isn't about me, me, me - this is meant as a consider it and hopefully apply it to an opportunity yourself kind of post...

My first memory of the wee alpine lake that we fished last weekend was a one day, bang-out-the-fish trip. There are numbers in my head from my earlier days of fly fishing and that day was one: 221 cutthroat trout landed of the 400 that had been stocked 2 years earlier. A pretty good day. I was on the hunt, a fish predator, and I worked fast and furious. I wanted to catch as many fish as possible. I wanted what I wanted and had there been anyone else at the lake I would have been selfishly disappointed to some degree - I always wanted to have the best fishing possible every time I went out and tried to think ahead of where others wouldn’t be fishing. I never ran into anyone in the <maybe> dozen times I fished it, until the last visit. I was 27 my last visit.

I,  I,  I... uggh.

I hadn’t visited that lake in a decade until this past weekend. I stopped fishing it because the people I ran into the last visit were hikers that bemoaned the fact that trout had been stocked. The lake had been quietly used for decades as an out of the way, beautiful hiking destination. They were bang on right about the impacts of fishermen. 1/2 the perimeter of the lake is mossy and anglers (myself included) shamelessly and carelessly toured laps around this 200meter diameter bowl while fishing. I wish I had taken photos because the moss was trashed by boots. Further, anglers were now camping and cutting down trees and leaving garbage. Things got so bad that an outhouse had to be erected. Too many people. Considering that trees grow painfully slowly and moss recovers from insult in ice age time frames, I simply abandoned my then favorite alpine lake.

This past weekend Amelia & I decided to do something completely different and returned to the lake. Shockingly, there were a dozen vehicles at the trail head. That morning Amelia had commented that maybe if there were more than 4 cars we wouldn’t go. Well, there were. Our fly fising isn’t about competing with anyone else for fish, nor about worrying about anything external. It is simply about enjoying our time and whatever happens, wonderful! As it turned out – many wonderful things did happen. First, on the hike up, we ran into an old friend of Amelia’s and chatted for 15 min, catching up on things from our first 2 1/2 years of marriage when we were caretakers at Pioneer Ranch Camp on Crimson Lake. As we continued our hike we came across a family with 2 boys that had never been to the lake. We gave them directions and told them it was worth the hike. Sure, it’s straight up at times, but worth the hike. We continued on. When we arrived at the lake, there were a lot of people. Kind of a shock given how we were used to things, but it was the first gorgeous weather of the summer and a summer weekend, so it was busy. As we came to the lake, I heard a fellow call to his gorgeous male yellow lab, “Rocky!” I heard the words and replied,”Is that Rocky from Facebook?” I had never met Darryn but for Facebook and yet we recognized each other. It was good to meet face to face. We tossed sticks into the lake for Rocky – a very happy pup that loves the water.

Amelia & I decided to string up the rods as there were fish rising. It was kind of funny because they kept cruising the shoreline despite Rocky’s energetic swimming. It wasn't affecting anything. When my rod was together, the family of 4 from the trail arrived in time to watch me catch fish on 3 or 4 consecutive casts to start my day. I could tell the boys were curious, though had never fly fished before. Amelia & I were fishing barefoot so we invited the boys to shed the hiking boots and have a go at fly fishing. It took some coaxing but the younger brother finally stepped up and had a go. Dad kept asking us if we were sure we were ok sharing, sure that we didn’t mind the time interruption. Really, we were going to catch a ton of fish, that was a given. Why not share with others? So, eventually, over the next hour, we had the 2 boys and dad barefoot in the water, catching cutts. It was great to hear dad tell me that the whole event was going to cost him hundreds of dollars in fly fishing gear, but you know what? Perfect! The boys were really into it and loved the hike. If they can fly fish, hike, and enjoy time all together – perfect.

When dad decided to give the rods back to us – despite our assurances we were totally fine with sharing – they started the hike out. But, there was this Darryn fellow that I know likes to fly fish. I simply handed him my rod and made sure he knew I was ok with him using it and simply to return it when done. Again, Amelia had her rod, I had a camera. We’d be busy enough. We opted to walk 100m to the mossy bend and left him the rod. I suspect we might have surprised some people with simply giving of our time and fly rods, but in that setting, on that day, why not? The result for us was already in hand – I had hoped to get photos, to enjoy a day with Amelia, and land a fish. We’d get more fish, of that I was 100% positive. And from what we could tell, Darryn, his wife, and Rocky all had some fun with a fly rod.

It’s amazing how 2 fly rods kept 8 people and a yellow lab so happy.

Why not share?

As I wrote in an earlier blog post last week, there are times when we need to get past ourselves, to fill our needs, to get away to fill our personal needs prior to being with others. That’s healthy. Each of us has our own point of need. That’s fair. But, though it was our day off of guiding and hosting, we took the time to share. Why? Well... perspective. We were going to catch 1 – 200 trout with 2 rods and that kind of fishing. So? Do you need to? I haven’t counted my catch, save one 10km reach of the Ram R for a decade and have no plans to again any time soon. The photos and videos worked out well and there were people that were curious and enjoying their day.

I think to spots of combat fishing on the Bow R – the internet attitude of “get out of my way”, “he did this or that wrong”, and I wonder – if we simply shared and honored each other, what would happen then?

For anyone wondering: surprisingly, the lake has fared well. The camp sites are used and kept clean by users. People haven’t beaten the moss badly at all. We went barefoot around the perimeter to ensure we didn’t rip it up. We were extremely happy with just how nicely the lake has fared the past decade. And given the eagerness of the little cutts and the fact that we had the only fly rods of the 20+ people that came and went throughout the day, it’s clearly not heavily fished.

I also think to our trips to New Zealand. Would we be so forgiving with fish and water on our vacation where so few fish and such explorative, intimate moments are found? Amelia & I have given way plenty of times to honor those we fish with. We’ve actually discussed it a lot – all it takes is one fish a day engaged or a good day once every few days to fill our personal need. The photos and videos are of more interest in New Zealand, typically.

As I wrote at the outset, there was a time when I would have to catch every fish, plan to fish waters that nobody else will fish or plan to stay ahead of others – in order I could catch as many as possible. Sharing would happen but only after filling my need. This is why I can so readily see this same trait in some others I've fished with. Catching fish is still somewhat important, but my personal need is very much different now. I / we still find as out of the way trout waters as possible, but we do it because we have an intimate waters need – to explore nooks and crannies where fish may or may not be and not because we have to catch a ton of fish. That’s what drives our New Zealand trips: hiking 10 – 30km in a day to explore what’s there. We know that a good day once in a while and an encounter with a good trout is going to happen, and that suffices our personal needs. With our skill, sure, we'll get a take from 95% of the fish we encounter but by no means is conquering every fish the impetus. There's a massive difference between having to fish all the time, to catch every fish and not being fulfilled - versus fishing to explore, share, and enjoy for its own sake and deriving fulfilment there, regardless of result.

Of course, there again is a difference in sharing just because and sharing to fill a personal need for attention, for self fulfillment in any way. It's painfully obvious, those who give in order to get attention. It's not a negative, in the end, but it can dampen the experience for the person on the receiving end if the other is sharing based on a need - in the end it's all about them and their needs, not anything to do with the receiver, which is unfortunate.

The one caveat to this discussion is what kills my desire to share: people who take it for granted or show little to no gratitude. That, right there is my personal line. If we fish often with someone who simply fails to thank us or simply takes us for granted, future trips are non starters. I try to be gracious in the moment but future encounters are certainly limited. If there is mutual thanks and appreciation, wonderful - it's about the relationship. But if someone is simply out to use for their personal gain, it is very difficult to continue sharing. As Amelia says, I’m quite cut & dry on that. Quite simple psychology in that. And it’s not hard to identify those who have such an angle – and easy to hold back sharing. It’s typically those who simply enjoy life outdoors and aren’t selfishly obsessed with fly fishing that are more a joy to share with than those who want to tell you how everything in fly fishing ‘is’, and tell you / teach you all about it. It’s just fishing, folks. Enjoy it. Share it with others who could be enriched by it. Obviously, we're not perfect people and have our own shortcomings, but even in something so simple as sharing a fly rod, we can be a small part of enriching others' lives. Hopefully we can all explore this a little more with no self fulfilling need for anything in return.