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Been there, done that It was an exploration day. There was no firm fishing plan or early rise. We would just go for a walk on a wild part of the coast we hadn't fished before. Google Earth had been consulted heavily. Vague lines in the bush suggested there might be old walking tracks or ancient fence lines. In the end we simply had to go in there and look for ourselves. Satellite imagery cannot compensate for what eyes can easily see. The walk in was easy by Bay of Islands standards. Most of the walks we normally go on are killers that take two hours or more. This one had us looking up the coast within an hour and quite a number of likely looking spots could be seen. It looked like hot fishing territory. We wondered why we had never heard of anyone else getting into this part of the coastline. And then we found out why - cliffs! Although not immediately apparent from our high vantage point on the hill, they were there nonetheless; a coast-wide continuation of short, shale-laced cliffs that had 'death wish' written all over them. We marched on hoping to find a way down. Prospects didn't get much better the further on we went. Then we spied a possibility a kilometre back from where we'd been. We needed to descend a huge slope of tangled vegetation to get to this possibility - only to find there was still a cliff - but at least it was just a small one. Given that the old fella had less life to lose than the boy, I volunteered to try it, and dumped the pack for the abseil down. It was pretty hairy. Firmly-rooted flax bushes stood between me and a nice new coffin. I slid down the final greasy rock face with the last flax leaf on the last flax bush supporting all my weight at full stretch. Firm beach sand under my feet felt really good, and I danced off up the rocks to check out some of the ledges. They looked good. So I came back to the cliff, scaled up another spot that looked better, but was actually a whole lot worse, and by the time I finally managed to clamber back onto the grass, a fair portion of my life had flashed before my eyes. We walked another two kilometres up hill and down flax-lined valley to find a descent that was safer and, finally, after what seemed like a couple of hours of bush-bashing, made it to the ledge we wanted to fish. Phew! By this time it was midday and the early August sun was actually shining. Such brightness would put off many snapper fishers, but the sea had weathered a serial bashing by a continuous rotation of winter storms. Its colour was somewhere between green and grey, and the underwater visibility would be no more than a metre - perfect snapper water. So we started fishing, using a tactic that has become instinctive: hunkered down flat to the rocks, sitting very still, using the rocks as our cover and flicking small portions of pilchard into the water. It's all about stealth and stalking. When big snapper are spooked they don't just get a fright, they totally get nervous and leave. The importance of proper stalking techniques is huge in relation to the number of big fish you will catch, and escalate in importance the clearer the water. For a flyfisher like yours truly, limited by the shorter length of line a fly rod casts, snapper stalking is the only way to go. It brings the fish within range and puts me in with a real chance. I actually longed to catch a really big snapper on fly off the rocks. My personal best off the shore still sat with a fish that was just on five kilos, while several encounters with big fly-eating monsters had me shaking for more. These big fish are hugely powerful and seemingly unstoppable on their first run. I'd seen people using stand-up fifteen-kilo tackle with heavy-set drags absolutely smoked by big snapper. Trying to stop them on puny fly rods almost seemed laughable, but I wasn't about to go out and construct a mega-flyrod capable of doing the job. The number of bust-offs I had seen on conventional tackle convinced me that trying to fight a big snapper on a one-to-one basis around the rocks was a lost cause. Better to use a flyrod within the accepted weight ranges, let the fish run, and hope. After all, a big snapper is pretty much stuffed after its first big run, and the bigger the first run, the more stuffed it will be. So we started fishing with the hope of raising a few snapper. Kahawai were first on the scene, as they often are, but this time we got excited, as one was absolutely huge, looking double the length of the others. We badly wanted to catch it! I tied on the biggest fly I had, a huge bulky creation constructed from the remains of one of our roosters. It did the job of slowing down the smaller kahawai and staying in the water long enough for the big guy to have a go. It did, I struck, a moment too late, and the fly hooked the fish lightly on the bottom edge of the jaw. The fish powered off, and as I put some pressure on the hook pulled free. Damn! I was still cursing the loss of the kahawai when Josh said, "Get down! Get down!" so eased back into a sitting position as slowly as I could. "Big snapper, right at your feet..." I peered over the ledge and caught sight of a huge, rusty-red body as it swirled around just under the kelp. I rolled the big rooster fly into the water, and the fish immediately shot up and pushed it on its nose. I waited for the big gulp and crunch, but it didn't happen. Something had put the fish off. We were sitting right above it, and even though we both sat at still as possible, I think it got wind of our presence. Then it glided off into the depths and we wondered aloud whether we'd spooked it. We settled back down, and shortly after I hooked something big and white that powered off on a very strong run, only to have the hook pull free again. That was annoying. I called it for a big trevally, while Josh reckoned it was a snapper, but whatever it was got free. The hook seemed okay, but given the double loss, plus the snapper rejection, I put down the twelve-weight and the rooster fly and picked up the ten-weight instead. It also had a fairly big fly on it: a brighter white, yellow, orange and pearl creation I call an 'FBI'. It was a fly I thought would stand out more in these murky conditions. Given the fact that a number of large kelp covered bombies were starting to appear as the tide dropped, I crept along the rocks a little and carefully repositioned myself in an area that looked a little cleaner. If there were trevally about I didn't fancy connecting to them in amongst the boulders. And in keeping with our stalking mode of fishing, I slipped over to the edge of the water and sat down. Movement, or lack of it, is what it is all about. Stay low, sit down and don't move. I flopped the fly out on a short cast with my arms tucked into my sides and watched it sink. It hadn't gone very far before I lost sight of it completely. This was dirty water. I made a guess as to how deep the water was and concentrated on drifting the fly gently over the bottom. My unconscious reaction to any touch on the fly is always to take a wrap on the line and pull back sharply. With kahawai and trevally the flyline moves instantly. If it goes to the side it is a trevally; if it comes up it is a kahawai. I felt a touch on the fly, whammed my hand back, but the line did not slice to the side or come up, it just pointed straight down and shuddered. Then it started to move. Underwater a gear change occurred, a turbo kicked in, and all hell broke loose. By this stage I was shouting something at Josh, I'm not sure what. The drag on the ten-weight reel was turned up to full and did nothing to stop this thing on its massive seaward run. The drag absolutely screamed and screamed and screamed. My guess was that I lost two hundred metres. Then the fish stopped and I had to put as much pressure on as possible; it was over at least two kelp-covered bombies and could easily just sink down into the weed. I did all the things that the books tell you not to: I held the rod as high as I could (in order to hold the fish's head out of the kelp) and used my poor little fly reel like a winch. Josh muttered something about "big snapper" and then wandered off. He had every confidence in his father's ability to be blitzed by big fish. I was more hopeful. The fish rubbed against kelp momentarily, but then pulled free. I was winching as hard as I could go and could clearly feel a fish of considerable size rolling and twisting from side to side. Luckily it moved a little bit to the left, slightly away from the two bombies, and I managed to pull it all the way back to my feet. That massive run obviously took a lot out of it. It came in close and I caught a flash of colour from a very large snapper, only to have it power away down deep. It lugged along the rocks, nodding its head and rolling about as I panicked on the shore and held that fish as hard as I could. The leader was a single length of 11.3kg (25lb) fluorocarbon straight through. I had confidence in my knots, but knew that one touch on the rocks would see the fish gone. Then it turned and I felt I was in with a chance. I yelled to Josh, and then yelled some more. A great big slab of glistening red snapper came rolling up out of the depths. Now normally I like to release big snapper. I haven't killed a big snapper in seventeen years, but the sight of this gargantuan thing boiling on the surface with my fly in its mouth had me squealing for the gaff like a baby. Josh did the job. We had it! I did it! We got it! It was ours! Forty years of fishing compressed into one wild moment. Totally, completely and utterly unbelievable - one of those rare moments where you wondered whether it was all really happening. Having your life flash past your eyes while sliding backwards down a coastal cliff is insignificant by comparison! The rest of the day was a walk in the park after that. Josh and I lay on our bellies and teased up some more monster snapper. Josh had a fish easily as big as my ten-kilo trophy chewing on a big slab of kahawai. But it seemed to want a smaller bait or was somehow aware of the hooks. It played with the bait and fluffed around. You could see it shaking its head and fooling with the bait, but not eating it properly. This happened three times. Then it swam away. Josh went to re-rig, while I casually flicked in the FBI fly on the twelve-weight - and immediately hooked into a beautiful six-kilo snapper. It powered off and thundered along the edge, but paled into insignificance beside the other fish. We carefully admired the thick gleaming flanks before returning it to Tangaroa. You've got be thankful for days like that.
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