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Years ago my brother Malcolm, Damien Straw and I decided to go nightfishing at the mouth of Twelve Mile Creek, Wakatipu. Damien and I went independently, but missed the turn-off. So we made for the mouth from the bridge on the Glenorchy Highway, but didn't reckon on the difficult gorge that lay between us and the lake, so ended up going nowhere.
Later we called on Malcolm, discovering to our horror that he'd hooked twelve, landed six, and knocked off at 7.30 because the moon had come up. The following day, Damien and I were leaving for the Greenstone and wouldn't be able to fish Twelve Mile. But this October I got another chance. Vivienne and I did a recce in the daytime and found the turn-off. That night there was a moon, so prospects weren't great in the clear water. However, I landed a small brown, and photographed a beautiful sunset. Next day we visited Lake Moke. In changeable weather, conditions were difficult. I tried fishing a Woolly Bugger, a mayfly nymph, even a Tassie Devil. Having seen a brown skulking in the shallows a short while before, I started lengthening my cast. On the last back-cast I knew I had the distance, but something else had the nymph. And it wasn't the trout! That matagouri bush was big enough to climb. When I got down, I had the nymph but the trout was nowhere to be seen. The weather deteriorated. I made my way along the lake shore. A quick glance toward the road revealed the presence of a large hairy brown and white animal of the masculine gender. Not a problem when viewed from the safety of a large vehicle, but a different story on foot. I tried to keep a low profile. If I snuck along the lake edge perhaps it wouldn't notice me. I spotted a brown cruising the lake edge, and cast where the fish had gone, but the Woolly Bugger wasn't touched on the retrieve. More progress up the lake.
Furtive glances at the bull which seemed happy enough. What were those dark animals beyond the Hereford? When I thought I'd gone far enough to be clear, I pushed through scrub to the pasture. Good, no sign of animals. I made for the road, where I found myself eye to eye with one of the black animals which had testosterone written all over it. OK, it wasn't eye to eye, but enough to have me climbing into the scrub on the other side of the road, relieved not to find other animals lurking in the manuka. Back at the car, Vivienne was sorrier that she hadn't brought writing materials, than she was for my predicament. She has no fear of bulls. Next we went to Glenorchy to fish Diamond Creek, but the resident guide's wife told me it was closed, so we ate one of Glenorchy Cafe's home-made pies and went on a photographic rampage on Paradise Station. What a beautiful place! That night I rang the guide, discovering that Diamond Creek was open after all. Never mind, with rain about it mightn't have been very fishable. Next morning I got up early and went to Lake Johnson. There's almost an impression of being in a farmer's backyard at Johnson, but the lake is bigger than that. I was relieved to find the shores occupied by sheep rather than bulls. After fishing the WB at the farmhouse end, I skirted the lake toward the north, stopping to catch a small rainbow between willow trees on the way. With a bluff impeding progress, climbing was required. And in neoprene waders, that involved huffs and puffs that would have done the three pig's nemesis proud. At the northern end I continued catching fish, but had to work my dry line into a southerly wind to be successful. The size 8 Woolly Bugger was tied to a piece of 7¾ pound Deceiver. That was attached with nylon to a clear floating polyleader. Beyond that was the Airflo Clear Floater, but joining the two was the secret weapon. I wanted to use the stealth aspect of the clear line to maximise my hook-up rate, but needed to fish under the surface, not on it. Paul Burgess has invented a clear line called the 'Hover Line' which does that, but I didn't have one. The Kiwi solution was to use a nail-knotted length of sinking line to join the polyleader to the fly line. Not much sinking line is required to drag the floater down — just twenty inches. This rig had availed on four rainbow by the time I left Johnson, the biggest being 2 3/4 pounds. That night a short visit to Twelve Mile produced no joy, and after planning a trip to Lake Dispute for next day, I settled into bed. My wife had recently drawn my attention to a book entitled 'The Five Love Languages'! Now take it easy. This wasn't a version of the Karma Sutra for geriatrics! The subtitle is, 'How to Express Heartfelt Commitment to Your Mate'. In the subtle manner of women, she'd brought it along with us. Little did I know how much I'd need to follow its precepts after the following morning. Brother-in-law Alan hadn't told me how steep the track to Lake Dispute was. And I'd be surprised if it was as quagmiry when he went in. Nor was I aware just how poorly Vivienne was feeling. Needless to say, it took some time to reach the lake. Once there, she curled up under a matagouri bush while I made my way guiltily up the lake. Once again the weather was dull and windy. Two blokes on the other side seemed to be spinning. I stuck to the rig I'd used the day before. I'd walked some distance by the time I noticed a fish behind the WB. I saw it strike, and knew by the time it was in the net that I had just caught my first brook char. An angry little jack. I photographed it before putting it back. What a pretty fish. On the way back in the car, Vivienne told me what she thought of my dragging her there, and I realised I'd have to spend time with the book, and soon. That night we celebrated our anniversary at Roaring Meg's Restaurant while the rain bucketed down. Next day was fine and we took the grand old lady to Walter Peak where we ate a barbeque and I proved I wasn't really scared of bulls by sitting on a tame one — after I'd photographed Vivienne on its back. I don't believe this dread of bovine ungulates is an intergenerational curse. Malcolm insists that I have authority over them. However, Grandad Bell used to tell the story of the time he and his brother, Percy, were walking through the bull paddock, and a bull put its head down and started pawing the ground. The boys took to their heels, Leo making for the fence while Percy jumped behind a big West Coast blackberry bush. When Leo got through the fence, he yelled out, "Percy's behind the blackberry!" Whereupon Percy burst out of the blackberry, 'running like the devil' yelling, "Why did you tell the flamin' bull where I was?" On the second to last morning I headed up to the top of Johnson on the easy side of the lake. The fish came thick and fast. Seven rainbows up to 3¼lb, all caught on the size 8 WB, using the 'Kiwi Hover' technique. On the last evening, Vivienne and I walked along the Frankton foreshore. The approaching twilight was lovely, and the trout were rising close to shore. Fishing gear lay close at hand. I watched the lake, hoping for them to rise, yet not wanting them to. What to do? Tonight would be the night for fishing Twelve Mile. No moon to speak of. 'Should I stay or should I go?' When I was small, my mother used to motivate me to practice the piano, or whatever else had to be done by telling me, "Come on, son. Boss Johnson!" I've no idea where the expression comes from. But being the compliant chappie that I was, I took up the challenge and knuckled under. Was this another opportunity to 'boss Johnson'? "Come on, let's find another restaurant!" I said. That delighted Vivienne, and even surprised me. The chapter on spending quality time with your mate must have got to me. Or something.
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