A Fishing Funk

Weak Sauce at Gunn's Camp, broken down the day after we got her

Invercargill! The place to come if you want to see raucous teens racing their obnoxiously loud Subarus and Hondas down the main strip or 60-year-old women dancing wild at a Drum and Base club at 2AM. It's not all bad though, it has crosswalks that actually change when you hit the button and plenty of shows to go and see at night. We came here from Te Anau, stopping to journey through a limestone cave network, made more interesting with two shared fading lights and several narrow passageways that required sick contortions of our bodies to squeeze through. We saw some interesting caverns though, many covered with scattered glow worms and involving treacherous sprints around the edge of deep, surely bottomless puddles. We made it though! We also stopped at Dusty's Bar, the lone tavern in a small town of Clifden, and had the best seafood platter of the trip, along with "the best Speights beer on tap in New Zealand," according to one elderly local, the sole customer other than us. After arriving at Invercargill, we decided to stay here through the weekend before venturing to Stewart Island. Between the Aqua Center, Jordan sleeping under a bush in just his sleeping bag, and Julie and Katie dancing to the hypnotic beat of a drum-and-base DJ and finally convincing Jordan and I to join, it's been quite an enjoyable few days here. We even took a few Subarus and Hondas in Weak Sauce! (our Toyota van, for those who missed the first blog entry). I think we ended up at about .500 in our short-lived racing stint, and the phrase "You've Been Sauced!" was coined in our victorious moments. We also just bought tickets to a reggae show featuring DJ Jahred, Irie Eyes Soundsystem, and Koile to check out tonight before taking off early tomorrow to catch the 9AM ferry. Good fun.

A recent event did occur that I've been struggling with, one that some will find silly or scoff at maybe, but I'm going to tell you about it anyhow for personal remedy for the guilt...


Weak Sauce rolled to a halt on the gravel shoulder of the Riverton-Wallacetown Highway, giving a final lurch, sputter, and sigh before we settled just yards from the Oreti River.
"Ahh, the elusive fishing access." I pointed out a small trail that dropped over a steep bank, winding under the bridge. Two days before, Jordan and I had driven around for hours looking for a mythical access sign. New Zealand, land of phantom rivers and dyslexic cartographers, ended up besting us and we wound up spending the day in quaint-yet-artsy downtown Gore, visiting a few museums and nearly weeping every time I saw the sign procalaiming the town "The Brown Trout Capital of the World," posted under a huge sculpture of a brown striking a fly.

"Looks like we're gonna get some fishing done today!" I'm one of the rare few who get an actual adrenaline rush as something as simple as the thought of trout fishing. Hopefully I don't find myself in an assisted living facility someday dancing on the table when I win on multiple cards at Bingo night. However, the prospect of fishing this esteemed river in the trout fishing Mecca of the world had me glowing as it may any trout enthusiast.

After giving Jordan a once-over of the basics, I set down the river. The sluggish Oreti spat and burbled in front of me as I began peppering eddies and troughs with my lure. The day was comfortably overcast; amongst the murky current, soft dark of the day and trace amounts of water seeping into my shoes from the spongy grass lining the bank, I felt right at home. I've gotten to know many a river in Montana on these terms, with the sun flickering through high soft spots in the stratus, flashing off of the water just seconds at a time. It's like a candlelight supper where your date just sparkles, stares back, and doesn't speak. Perfect.

I navigated the bank for about an hour, cutting away behind the tall, gnarly brush to the nearby pasture and back, casting when I could but producing no results, just a few costly hang-ups on the unpredictable submerged timber. Eventually the steep bank gave way to sheer cliff, forcing me back upstream. On my way, another snag left me with one hand-made silver spoon, tarnished with rust but retaining its action well enough. It's hard not to let frustration destroy a day like I was having, but I tried my best to mold it into some sort of resolve and convinced myself that just one fish would be adequate for my first full day out. I trekked back to the most promising spot I had seen, a turnout swirling above several boulders and a short, sloping rapid.

My first cast and I was hung up. Just as a guttural curse escaped my lips it morphed into a high-pitched whoop in the same breath; I'd felt a tug. Logs don't tug. Ten feet out I saw the flashy yellow-brown and spots of a monstrous brown trout. Logs don't look like monstrous brown trout. As the fish ran with a power intensified by the current and that far outstripped that of any fish I'd had on a line in Montana, I reached an overwhelming ecstasy that I've seldom experienced. Cars must have whizzed past on the nearby highway. At some point Julie and Jordan must have come running, I vaguely remember barking at Julie to grab the camera and somewhat cruelly yelling at Jordan to "get the hell out of the way." All I could focus on was the beast I had on, tugging and flipping as my line wildly etched out our struggle on the surface of the glossy pool. I had a battle on my hands.

The fish shot for the rapids just feet downstream. I tightened the drag to control the line that was now whizzing out of my reel, but inevitably the fish flopped over a boulder into the rapid below. Hopping over a log to avoid an uphill battle, I repositioned while the fish settled in a large eddy and lugged at my line like a scrumming rugby player, giving me a good five or six seconds to settle my footing and loosen the drag on my tensed line. The fish gained a few feet and shot up a chute between two of the boulders, almost snagging the line as I threw my rod into the air and then yanked it back down, giving him a few more feet to run to the top of the pool I had originally hooked him in. When he finally ran toward me, I spun the reel to catch up the slack, gaining the first inches of a battle where my inches were dwarfed by the seeming miles of line required to give a fish this size, especially on 7 lb test line.

Inches mattered. The fish's next run toward rapid water I was able to cut short, coercing it out into the more open water where I again gave it more line but at least cut its advantage to a minimum. We struggled a few more minutes in the open river and finally the trout's stamina began to fade, but not after greatest game of give-and- (mostly) take I had ever played.
Time in these matters becomes irrelevant, and I think this is partially responsible for the euphoric feeling. It's man and nature, nothing else. The fish has nowhere to be but free. Man has nothing to do but best the fish. The whole concept of time, a creation of man, is flushed away in nature downstream of all concern. I don't know a single angler who would quit the battle with the fish I had on for anything, be it a child's birthday, business meeting, or even his own wedding. Shouldn't an angler's wife be understanding of the infatuation that most fishermen find in the beauty of nature and its inhabitants? If not, it's a doomed marriage anyhow. I was in the middle of the most beautiful, wordly and unworldly experience that I know of, something so natural and wild that your periphery melts away and the narrow tunnel that is one event in an eventful life expands to be your everything. Then I ruined it.

Finally more tired than I, the trout became cumbersome. No longer were its darts for freedom so fierce and defiant. Where it formerly lunged it now just rolled, flashing its bulging white belly as a tired but powerful tail propelled it away from the bank till the line pulled taught, forcing it to circle around and do it all again. It was close enough that I could tell it was hooked well. Three barbs flexed through its tough, thick skin, two from the tough upper area behind the nostrils and one through the tongue and jaw. The rusty spoon dangled, periodically spinning a loop as I pulled my prize closer and closer to shore.

My conservative and self-servingly pessimistic estimate of the fish is 26 inches. A fat 26 inches. A gigantic 26 inches. It was a fish some live their whole lives to even glimpse. I've met many an angler who have spent thousands of dollars and years of dedication in pursuit of this exact fish, the beautiful creature that now ended up resting in a pool at the feet of a penniless 24-year-old with only one rusty lure left in his cheap plastic tackle box. To relive the next few moments is and will be horrible for me for my entire life.

I had no net. My New Zealand budget doesn't allow for a net. I didn't need a net-the fish was hooked, exhausted, and resting just feet below me. I slowly slid my rod back with one hand and reached for the head of the lure, going gently for the left gill with the other. Seeing my approaching hands the fish gave one more desperate, powerful flop. I reached for my rod, looking to give it just a bit more slack, grasped it, and picked it up. Or I tried. Focusing on the fish while I had slid it behind me, I had stuck the reel under a taught vine. My tip raised in the air but my caught rod didn't give. The snap may have been the most sickening sound I've heard in my life.

Still the fight wasn't lost though. The spent fish just sat there, even after I leapt off of the foot-high bank into the knee-deep water beside it. The river curled around me as I reached under the fish's belly and tried the double bear-paw to scoop it onto the bank. It was too heavy. Too slippery. The last lethargic, instinctive wiggle was enough to send its enormous mass plopping back into the water and careening down the rapids. I could see it for a good few seconds as the fish slipped out of my life. At least physically. I still suffer mental anguish from one particular fish from my past, anguish that will surely be dwarfed by this event.

It may be self-indulgent to dwell on a fish. So many worse things can and surely will occur throughout the course of my life. Fishing, and more particularly a single fish at a single place on a single day, is just a sliver of life. However, for me the portion has grown throughout my years in Montana, possibly second only to New Zealand for trout fishing. My love for the sport and respect for the fish I go after has grown exponentially. They are beautiful. They are mysterious and quirky, and on any given day you are just as likely to be tricked by the fish as you are to trick them. They are great eating. I've killed many a fish before, but I do not regret any and have made use of all I have killed.

One of the most respected fish I've landed I killed pointlessly with a stupid mistake. The trout, if it even survives the exhaustion I fought it to, will have a period of rest and then will have to feed to replenish. With a mouth pinned shut by three barbed prongs, it won't be able to. Numerous random event between the courses of two lives resulted in a beautiful moment where our paths crossed and I got the pleausure to grapple with an amazing feat of nature. I fought it perfectly, with the exception of one moment of carlessness. Not only did I lose perhaps the largest brown I will ever catch, but I killed one of the most beautiful creatures I've come across in my life.

The Hollyford Tramp

1. Some falls along the way 2. Jordan on one of the several wire bridges

3. Lake McKerrow

Well, it's been a bit delayed and I hope at least somewhat anticipated, but I finally found time for my first journal entry on our New Zealand adventure! Our trip definitely hasn't lacked in excitement. We flew into Queenstown, a busy little resort town on the South Island and set about finding transportation. After a bit of searching and whirlwind deliberation we landed a 1989 Toyota TownAce campervan, which we purchased from a middle-aged Chilean ski instructor who seemed bent on highlighting how easy the title transfers are in New Zealand, claiming one could steal and sell a vehicle with little more than a forged hand-written note from the previous "owner." I had a bit of a feeling he had some first-hand experience. We departed Queenstown soon after, and the van clunked along wonderfully all the way to Te Anau, serving as a cozy accomodation after we shed the saggy pillow and worn sheets that were generously thrown in with the deal. After camping for a night however, our new pride and joy's alternator gave out at Gunn's camp, the last speck of civilization before the trailhead. Not to be defeated, we went ahead with the trek anyhow, leaving our now aptly named "Weak Sauce" to rest by the trailhead.


The Hollyford tramp is a hearty endeavor, especially for first-timers..........Get the snickering aside...........We hiked four days to our destination over diverse jungled terrain, catching weather half of the time and spending two hours our first night stumbling over what little ground two headlights shared between four people could illuminate. Trials aside, we eventually reached our destination, Martin's Bay, although it was on a particularly rainy night and in rather daunting circumstances...







Three hours into our last day found Jordan and I dripping wet in the thick of the jungle staring into the beady, hollow eyes of a ghostly figure draped in a glistening bright yellow rubber rain-gown. Human beings are scarce in the off-season here, especially in the Southern reaches, so it almost felt necessary to make conversation.


"How you doin'?" I asked. The gaunt figure just swayed slightly, seemingly from the force of the rank steam puff that escaped his tightly-cinched hood. I figured he may not have heard over the fuzzy patter of the jungle storm so I repeated myself, though somewhat more meekly. He swayed again, surveying me as a drunkard may another round.


"Martin's Bay ya 'eaded to?" he wheezed. I just nodded. "A coupla miles, ah, yay, a wee bit up..." He raised his arm and pointed down the trail with his bony pinky finger, clutching a handful of animal traps tightly with the others. I expected more to follow but he just swayed, arm raised, suspending the traps over the wet bed of mucky foliage.


"Oh," I finally let out, "well thank you! Have a nice day!!" Trying to muster false enthusiasm and at the same time restrain it is a task I apparently have yet to master; in retrospect I think I let out more of a squeak. We quickly resumed our march down the trail, leaving the haunting figure squinting after us, a squint that didn't break even as he bent to pick up an unmarked burlap sack with tufts of dark fur poking out at the seams.


During encounters like this I always find it difficult not to recall middle-school English lessons on foreshadowing. This creature of the bush would have been the perfect predecessor to woodland chainsaw carnage in a sappy horror novel. Either that or a culprit in the mysterious disappearance of household pets from a gated community. It's hard not to feel on edge after crossing a being like this, especially in an element so different than you're used to, but I somehow did manage to gather my nerves by the time we arrived at the hut.


The rain had thickened considerably, and the pale Kiwi winter sun had slipped around the mountain at the back of the bay. Nearly bumping into the sign, we looked up at our flat for the night, scarcely illuminated in the flat light. It was immediately apparent we were not going to be sleeping alone. The sagging clothesline suspended over the porch held a variety of tattered wool and thermal gear, the only ubiquitous quality being that each looked as though a colony of mice had mistaken it for a piece of cheese. Jordan and I threw exhausted glances at each other and approached the hut a bit more wearily than warily, although my nerves were definitely back at attention. Slinging our packs up on the chicken-wire covered boards of the deck, we surveyed our surroundings a bit more closely.


"Well, it definitely looks like someone's been here a bit," Jordan pointed out, looking at the rubbish in the front.


"Yeah, more than a wee bit," I replied. I nudged the mountain of driftwood at my feet with my toe. "It's almost like someone's liv-" The word died on my tongue as I noticed, hanging on the line between a pair of blue thermal underwar and an orange hunting cap, two bloody pelts from animals I couldn't identify. Straining past them I pegged the hunk of meat hanging from the bush as a deer leg. "Huh." Jordan opened the door to go inside.


This hut definitely had residents that felt comfortable enough to establish some degree of permanence through the off-season in this public area. Two gas stoves and an array of canned goods hogged the majority of the counter, sharing it only with a pile of bones in the corner. A linen rack pinned behind the iron stove supported twice again as much as the outside line held. The distinct scents of stale tobacco, old sweat, burnt meat and the composting of our own unwashed bodies fought for the atttention of my nostrils. I kicked at ab empty 20 kilo bag of flour and looked over at Jordan, who was holding up a men's magazine vertically.

"Well, at least they've got this going for them," he said, flicking through the crinkled fold-outs. He settled on a big-busted blonde. "I guess if I had to be stuck out here I'd want her along too." He tossed the magazine back on the table, forcing a cloud of rolling-tobacco granules into the air.

"I suppose this'll be cozy," I said as I looked around the room. It's smaller than the rest, but at least we have plenty of firewood, and we should get some good views of the bay when it clears up."

"Yeah, it'll be fine. Better than pitching a tent," he replied, signaling the raindrops echoing off of the metal roof. We set about starting a fire and jockeying for room to dry our drenched gear.

About an hour later a loud thump on the porch announced an arrival. Our heads both swivelled, expecting to find Julie and Katie, but instead observed a hulking red-bearded man whose bulk dominated the entryway. Accompanying him was a dark hound with a mass no less awesome. I skipped a breath as the door shot open.

"Ey, newcomers!" he somehow softly roared. "Didn't expect any this late." We both mumbled greetings in return. He looked at us for a moment, blinking away the raindrops pooling at the end of his dark red curls and falling away into his eyes. A smile sprang up between his plump cheeks that seemed at the moment sinister.

"So...." I hesitated, not sure how to adress the Kiwi version of Paul Bunyan, "looks like you're out here for a bit!!" I think my false enthusiasm actually squawked rather than squeaked that time.

"Yee, we're possuming! Well, we're tryin' to possum but this bloody weather....bumped into me mate a bit down the track, said a coupla yenks were 'eaded this way, 'ere yee are!"

"Yeah, we have a couple more on the way, they shouldn't be long," Jordan replied. "You said you're doing what?"

"We're possuming! 'untin possum! Name's Von by the way!" He extended a paw down to where we were perched on a bench. "N' that there, that's Spot, me 'untin mate!" Spot whimpered. We shook hands, still a bit awed at this different breed of man who was efficiently shedding gear and tossing even more on the already over-laden racks.

"So, do a lot of people possum around here?" Jordan asked.

"Aw, yee, there's good money to be 'ad in possumin'!" Von then enthusiastically broke down the possuming trade for us. Possum fur apparently is in high demand around the world due to its hollow composition and thus insulating quality. The current market will pay between $100-115 per kilo of possum fur, depending on who you know. A kilo of fur requires 10-12 possums, depending on their size, and with luck a trained possumer can pull in 35-45 possums per day, although the current possum-pulling rate was much lower due to rotten weather. All told, 600-700 possums a month is a good goal to shoot for.

" So what do you do to get the fur off of the possums once you trap them?" I queried.

" Use a 'ammer!" Takes one to stun and two to slew! What ya do is knock out the possum, n' when ya do it releases its fir!" By now it was apparent that Von spoke animatedly all the time, and this multiplied when he spoke of anything possum, which he pretty much constantly did. "Then when it's out ya just gently rub yer thumb along its back and the fir comes off like butter! Ya collect it in yer bag kill it with yer second 'it with the 'ammer, n' move on to yer next possum!"

"And what with the possum?" I ventured.

"Well we usually leave 'em, but they're quite tasty if ya just fry 'em up in a bit o' butter!" Before we could even reply we heard a second thump on the porch, this time a ghoulish figure devoid of pigment. "Yee, that'd be me mate, Kevin."



The door creaked open and the slick yellow hood fell back, revealing a face that was at least a bit more marginally human but still ominous. tall, slim, and pale, Kevin's close eyes seemed to pull at his nose, triggering much similarity to the rodent he was hunting. Long scruff almost hid the indent between his pointed chin and nose that served as a mouth, which inside contained sparse teeth arrayed in random alignment. A wavy mop topped him off, stuck in place so that not a greasy hair shifted when he moved his head. The effect of his craggy countenance was intensified by Von's gas lantern, now the sole source of light in the cabin. Finally, after a long sway, he spoke.

"'Ey." Throwing down his gear, he stiffly walked to the bunks in the back of the room. Without a word, he pulled off his boots and rubbed his feet. It was Von who stoked the conversation.

"Any possums?"

"Nay."

"Yee the weather's a killer. Glad these yenks 'ere made it."

"Yay, saw em' on the trail. Made it all right didya?" he asked, finally acknowledging us.

"Yeah, a bit wet but we made it!" Julie and Katie had since arrived, slowly pulling off their ponchos as they took in this strange new environment. Kevin just nodded, leaving the room in silence as he glanced quickly back and forth between us, eyes shifting each time contact was made. His gaze finally settled on the crackling wood stove. "'ope yer 'ungry, cause yer dinin' with us tonight."



The stoves roared to life as Kevin slammed down the leg of deer I had seen earlier and began slicing medallion-sized morsels of tender red deer while Katie and Von peeled carrots, potatos, and other veggies.

"I loik that yer all around, we don't have to sit here and just talk possum. All we ever seem to talk is possum, eh Von?" Kevin had taken a break and carefully but quickly rolled up a cigarette scarcely wider in diameter than a toothpick, seemingly lighting it with a flick of his fingers.

"Yee, we definitely talk our share of possum 'round 'ere!" Von's dominant voice blended with the crackle of frying venison.

"Yay we do." Kevin took a short puff off his cigarette and put it out. "It was nice to talk about some politics n' other things, I moight like to do it more often had I the chance." There was a long pause as Kevin looked lost in thought, re-lighting his cigarette. "See, the thing 'bout possums is they really is pests, they need killin' anyhow."

"And why not make some money on it?" Von chipped in. Kevin leaned forward putting his cigarette out and intently focusing, having become more talkative as the night progressed. "I mean it ain't easy out 'ere in the bush, but it ain't too bad either. You take all the people with these degrees who ain't ever 'ad a hard day n' they make things the way they are. But they don't 'ave a clue on life, nothin' practical anyhow, they just 'ave a degree n' that makes 'em right. Ain't that right Von?"

"Yee." Kevin re-lit his cigarette.

"Ain't nothin' against those people who get degrees, if they choose, but that just don't make 'em right. Ya can possum, ya get some other skills, ya can life like this 'ere n' there ain't nothin' wrong with this, at least not for a bit. Ya need a practical skill, that' it."

"And what do you do for fun out here, you have and music around or anything?" I asked. Von turned around with a big grin, deer bone in one hand and candles in the other. "We make our own, we sing eh Kevin? We're just a coupla 'appy possumers!" He roared in laughter while Kevin just nodded contently, relighting the nub of his cigarette. "Candlelight dinner anyone?!" Our oat-fed bodies just stared at the elaborate meal laid before us.

"It's a feast!" someone exclaimed.



"Yee, it is."



"Yay, it is."





We ate the best meal of our trip to date that night, sharing laughs with a strange but wonderful duo that just happened to have a radically different lifestyle. The next night we feasted again, paying them back with a few sea runner brown trout that I caught and cooked up. Aside from the great company, Martin's Bay was beautiful and we caught a full day of almost balmy weather. A large arm of sand hugs the mouth of the river dumping out of Lake McKerrow into the ocean, beyond which you can watch 10-meter breakers crash over each others' crests, causing a perpetual dull roar. Large slick boulders dominate the shore all the way out to a peninsula opposite the sand spit, where we were able to hang amidst a large colony of fur seals, getting within feet of a few. The only downfall was the volume of sandflies, which come at you in waves and are impossible to escape. The true pest of the Southland, they are far more numerous and harder to kill than possum, and thus more widely despised. However, all said it was a wonderful experience and a great introduction to this beautiful country. On our hike out we several nights with a slipper-toting foursome and one night with a large crowd of raucous jet boaters, all of whom we made fast freinds with. We already have invited to Auckland and one of the boater's pubs in Graymouth, an opportunity for chaos that we almost surely won't miss. As rigorous as the hike was (around 90 miles in nine days, much of it vertical), all ended well. The fine folks at Gunn's camp even picked us up a new alternator belt while they were in town, so we escaped with only one push start!

1. Tasman Sea at Martin's Bay Hut 2. A wee seal from a colony of hundreds

We're staying at a hostel in Te Anau tonight, plotting our next move further south towards Stewart Island. It's much more comfortable than our acommodation last night, which was quite sparse and simple-our van parked in the parking lot of The Moose bar. Anyways, I've been up far too long working on this blog (2:45am now, tomorrow America!). I'll keep posting as chances arise, and until then I hope you enjoyed this one, my first blog entry ever! Ciao!



Mike