A head for fishing heights
In a year that’s seen some eventful fishing and a head wound in New Zealand, our correspondent finally breaks his duck on the River Oykel
David Profumo succeeds at last on the River Oykel after an eventful year
AFAIR bit of the deep pleasure angling affords is rooted in reminiscence. My year got off to a memorable start when I went down to New Zealand in late January, for a spot of wild trout fishing.
After a fortifying breakfast of Black Doris plums and poached eggs at the lodge, my laconic guide Tim trucked me down to the mighty Tongariro River where, the previous day, we had caught a dozen sprightly rainbows during a float trip. We yomped towards Cattle Rustler’s Pool, where he reckoned a few brownies might be lying up on their way from Lake Taupo to the spawning grounds.
This was public water, but all day we saw just one other angler, although it was peak holiday season—‘camper-van hatch,’ Tim called it, disdainfully.
On a gravel ledge, seemingly way beyond my optimal casting distance, we espied five impressively long shapes. Conditions weren’t auspicious: overcast, with rain about and a chill upstream wind. The current looked as thick as glycerine.
I was toting a six-weight with a very long leader and two tungsten nymphs; the back-cast was impeded by a mass of thorny shrubs. The first time Tim had to cut a hook from my scalp, he said glumly: ‘That operation’s free, but I’ll have to charge you after this.’ Eventually, my line went out, I made a mend and began feeding slack toward my quarry.
Behind the scenes in the Wellington Museum, I had learned about Hei-matau, the ancient Maori fish-hook symbol of serenity and prosperity and, that day, I was wearing a small jade one around my neck. The yarn tuft strike indicator dithered and I executed a mighty hook-set. With a noise like a starting pistol, the tip of my Scott rod snapped off mid-section, leaving me attached to an indignant trout with 4in of carbon fibre aggravating his face.
‘You’ll never get your rod-tip back if you lose this,’ observed my guide stonily, as the fish lunged away against the moiling stream and I struggled up the steep shingle to maintain a better angle with my attenuated tackle.
It was a while before I felt I’d established any kind of coercive relationship with the fish, but, at length, we drew him to the bank. ‘Camera time,’ announced Tim, smiling properly for the first time. At 5lb, this was, by no means, a Troutzilla by Kiwi standards, but, under the circumstances, it seemed a mighty triumph and it made my trip.
Tim once guided a client from Texas who declared he hadn’t enjoyed a day so much since the hogs had eaten his mother-in-law.
Although, in real life (‘offline’, as it were), I’m notably impatient, when it comes to angling, I’m perseverance incarnate. However, even my dedication was sorely tested by the dismal drought of our Scottish summer and its general dearth of salmon.
The American humorist Ed Zern parodied the sportsman’s insistence that he can still enjoy fishing when nothing is being caught: ‘You say well, where are the fish, ha ha, they say look, bub, can’t you get it through your thick skull there’s more to fishing than catching fish.’ But, by September, even I was starting to wonder.
I had one final day on the glorious Oykel, where I have never yet met with success. There had been a modicum of recent rain and the river had taken delivery of many salmon that had been skulking in the Kyle of Sutherland throughout the summer. Despite covering Beat Three assiduously, however, and the height being encouraging, we couldn’t shift a fin.
There were fish showing, but my hunch was they were running hard—even my habitual standby, the stripped Sunray, was paid about as much attention as a Full Monty stripper in a hall full of Carmelite nuns. It seemed my Maori amulet was losing its power.
The following morning, I arrived at Lower Island to learn my host, Todd, had just grassed his first ever Oykel salmon and had also lost an astonishingly large one at the gillie’s net. At the top of my pool, the water boiled around a sizeable boulder and, in the backwater, a back showed.
By now, I was, I confess, in a state of medium pique (unforgivable in a sportsman). Petulantly, I flung my Cascade tube straight across and, as the current lugged it away, there was a sharp take. It proved a slightly tarnished cock fish weighing about 7lb and I released him to propagate his tribe. A high note on which to end my salmon season.
‘This was, by no means, a Troutzilla by Kiwi standards
David Profumo caught his first fish at the age of five and is still trying to get the hang of it. When he’s not travelling with rod and reel, he lives up a Perthshire glen with Pompey, a spaniel that only speaks dog Latin