Why do we continue to fly fish despite the effort, planning and money that is required to make a trip happen? Why not just go camping, or to a hotel or to a beach? Well… I’m glad you asked! I’d argue that there are few primitive experiences that are lacking in our modernized, motorized, materialized, sanitized and scheduled lives that can be fulfilled through fly fishing.
We advanced beyond the bridge to where the river forked in two. Nat made his way up the left fork and I prospected the right side. As I cast my way upstream, I saw a boulder that was half submerged and would have provided slack water for a big lazy trout, looking for an easy meal.
Being beckoned only by what we saw, read, and watched about New Zealand fly fishing – we began to construct an idealist picture of what our trip would pan out like. Blue bird skies, a puff of wind at our backs allowing some extra casting distance, and maybe… just maybe, a spotted, glistening double figure brown each – amongst many other fish landed of course.
Whilst boiling the kettle in our little cabin, we pulled out the maps and decided that we’ll give one of the nearby streams a go for the afternoon. We skulled our weak instant coffees and eagerly pilled into the Sunny to find this little stream and see what it had to offer. It was probably about 1pm by the time we found a place to get in and got our gear organized. This particular stream – or river by Australian standards – was about 2 – 3 meters wide with slightly discoloured water and didymo riddled throughout the farmland section that we found ourselves in.