It’s dark and Ann and I were walking back to the “Bunkhouse” by flashlight, after a delightful dinner/evening with our new friends Philip and Jenny Harper and we hear tap dancing over in the darkness. Frantic tap dancing! What in the world? Shining the flashlight in the direction of the strange sound revealed Harvey (the yellow lab) standing on the roof of his doghouse dancing to beat the band. Philip was bringing him dinner and boy was Harvey excited. Mystery solved.
Harvey the dancing Yellow Lab.
The bunkhouse at Philip and Jenny's farm.
How did we get here – staying in the bunkhouse at a farm in the middle of cow country (north of Geraldine)? Once again, our strategy of “Serendipity” led the day. Readers of previous posts will remember that Ann was “just talking to” a couple of folks in one of the hostels we stayed at and that led to getting invited to a middle school cricket match to learn more about the game. One thing led to another and before we knew it we were invited to stay the weekend at the Harpers’ farm and (bonus) go fly fishing in the high country.
Wow.
George, Bob and Philip.
So, it’s now a couple days later and we pull into a lovely tree-lined lane with a beautiful rock wall on one side and a small creek running through it. This is an 800 acre farm started by Philip’s father, George, after WWII. They grow corn for feed and raise cows for milk farmers (with apologies to Philip for no doubt not doing justice in these short paragraphs to all the work you folks really do!). George Harper got a government loan in the late 1940’s and started the farm that Philip and Jenny now run. And a bonus for us – 89 year-old George lives nearby and was our co-guide on our fly-fishing expedition into the high country!
We set out at 8:30 in the morning in a 4×4 Toyota truck. Down the road a ways and then turned off on a rough gravel road up into the hills. First stop – the farmhouse of the land owners to say “thanks” for letting us have access to their thousands of acres in the most glorious lands you have ever seen. The gift? A current newspaper! They live far enough out of town, they don’t get the current news very often.
Entering the backcountry.
After our brief stop there was more driving over bridges, through some small creeks and washboard roads (which they call “corrugated” roads here in Kiwi-land). Talking about names of things, we also learned that the hiking food we call Gorp, is called Scroggin down here.
The road in.
Finally we got far enough into the high country that George and Philip pulled over at one bridge and announced that we were going to do the “bridge test”. Huh? We got out of the truck, walked to the middle of the bridge and peered into the gin-clear water. No trout. That’s the bridge test. If there’s no trout under the bridge, you keep going. So up we went. The road got rougher.
The bridge. What more can I say but; "breathtaking!"
George doing the "bridge test".
Finally George – who has been fishing up here since, well who knows how long since he’s lived here all his life, announced there was a likely pool “over there”. Philip stopped and turned off the truck in the middle of the road – there’s no traffic here, and it was time to do some fishing!
Well, almost. First things first. We had to set up our fishing gear in case we saw a fish.
Philip and Bob rigging their gear.
Second. Before doing anything, we stopped for a “wee spot of tea”.
"A wee spot of tea"
Bob and George with their "cuppa"
OK, now fully fortified and prepared, we set off in search of giant brown trout. I’ll shortcut this a bit and just say it was a day of mythical beauty. We searched high and low for trout…and didn’t find any. Philip did however catch a salmon – way up here in the mountains.
The river panorama where Philip caught the salmon.
Philip, Bob and George heading down to the river.
A timeless portrait of George viewing the river.
First fish of the day! A salmon, about three feet long, that Philip caught with spinning gear and a lure in a deep pool.
After a long and wonderful day of tramping through some of the most beautiful country Ann and I have ever seen, Philp announced that we would head for the last possible spot where we might catch a trout. We backtracked a little but then got out of the car and started toward the other side of the valley from where we had been fishing all day. George drove the car down the road a bit and waited, later saying, “I got a bit of snooze!”, while we were postholing across a swampy area toward a most incredible trout stream. Postholing is a polite term for a hellish trek where every third of fourth step your entire leg disappears into a deep watery chasm that grabs your entire leg, threatening to suck your shoe off your foot should you try and remove it too fast. Grueling.
Philip leading the way to the secret fishing spot. You'd never know there was a creek here if you didn't have a knowledgable guide.
Finally, we reached the stream and all I can say is the hike through hundreds of yards of muck and crud, falling every ten feet, pulling ourselves back up and trudging on was worth it. This was a mythical fly-fishing stream. Five to ten feet across, gin-clear water cutting through a meadow of pampas type grass. Despite the nightmarish approach, this is the stuff of fly-fishing dreams!
Philip scouting for fish in the narrow stream.
Stealthily, we moved upstream. The stream is so relatively small you have to be very careful to not be seen by the trout as you stalk them. Once, then twice we spooked a huge trout. Damn! The biggest fish I have even seen went splashing away when they saw my shadow before I saw them.
Then finally coming around a corner of the stream, both Philip and I saw it at the exact same time – a huge German Brown Trout rising on a surface insect and then back down into the depth of the stream. We stopped dead in our tracks and went to our knees. “Did you see it?” “Yes!”
The wind was blowing by now making casting upstream of the trout tricky. It’s really easy on such a narrow stream to either tangle the fly in the vegetation on the edges of the steam, or with the wind blowing, slap the line on the water above the fish and scare him.
Carefully I made a couple false-casts of my dry fly to measure the distance and then let the fly land. It fluttered softly to the water about two feet up river of the fish. Holding my breath I watched as it drifted back down past him. I’m sure he saw it, but he didn’t make a move. Did I have the right fly? Did I position it right? Nothing to do but try another. So, I pulled it gently out of the water and made a couple more false-casts to shake the water off the fly, measure the distance and test where the wind was going to blow it, I let it again flutter to the water. Whew, it didn’t splash. Watching the fly coming back on the current I saw the trout start to rise toward it. The moment of truth – he was going to hit it!
When he opened his mouth and took the fly, I set the hook and thus started a mammoth tug of war. What turned out to be a four or so pound trout against my 5 lb test leader. Take in a bit of line, then the trout dives and you have to let a little out lest he break the tiny line. After about ten minutes of tiring the fish we got him to a place where Philp could ease him into the net.
Fish on! He took the fly, now we have to keep this big guy from breaking the tiny line.
Success!
Success! After a quick photo, we eased him out of the net and back into the stream with many thanks for a wonderful experience.
Of course after such a wonderful experience we let Mr Trout go with a “Thank you” for being a good sport. We already had our salmon which as it turned out fed Ann and I for two nights with just the half that Philip so generously offered.
After this, all that was left was another couple hundred yards of hellish post-holding, but this time it was met with a six pack of beer that Philip had hidden away in the truck and kudos from George on a good catch.
We ended the evening where this post started – with a lovely dinner with new friends Philip and Jenny and the tap-dancing Harvey the dog. Our sincere hope is that we can return the favor of such a wonderful experience someday to these generous folks.
Serendipity. It works. It’s wonderful. Try it some weekend yourself.
