My first North Island adventure came on a three day tramp into the back country around the drainage of the upper Mohaka.  This was a reasonable easy hike, or it would have been if I was fit, of roughly eight miles over fairly level terrain.  Still, it took me about four hours to accomplish, and I was more than a little tired at the end.

I started fishing about 9 am the next morning.  Water was cold when I first got in, no waders, but you get used to it.  Fifteen minutes after I started, and five minutes after I first spotted a fish that turned into a rock on closer inspection, I spotted a real live trout.  A big one.  But, after one or two casts, he felt queasy and slid by me on his way to the holding spot I had just worked so carefully.  Moral:  be sure it's a trout before you work the fish, and get in the correct position before you cast.

On I go.  Then, I spot a fish that must be nearly 28 inches, a true live monster.  I only get one cast here, which sad to say drops next to the fish.  He doesn't spook; rather, he turns and hunts my fly.  But as he follows it down river, he sees me and heads for Nebraska, or wherever huge trout go when they spook.  Moral here:  after you so carefully get in
correct position, make that first cast count.  Be accurate.

A bit farther upstream, I get things right.  Careful stalk, spot fish well before it sees me, get in correct position, down on my knees, good cast.  I'm using a two fly rig, dry fly and nymph on point.  No interest in cast.  Off goes the nymph, a hare and copper, on goes a hare's ear.  He takes it like it was meant for him alone.  I know he will take when I see him slide over; the dry going down is icing on the cake.  Or is it?  Because the dry is between me and him, I never really see that moment he takes, I set up when the dry goes down, and the timing is off by a split second.  There is a major splash at the surface, and the fish sprints for cover, but no hookup.  Even so, I am thrilled to have had a real chance, and now feel like I could actually catch one of these guys.  (Before this moment, I wasn't so sure I would get any fish in all the time I will be here.)

Upstream I spot two fish in a tail-out of a lovely hole.  The bottom one slides over into the perfect feeding lie -- no, I didn't spook it -- and starts feeding.  Well.  Including, on the surface.  So I put on a coch-y-bondu, a popular fly down here, sneak over into position, crawl up to casting position, and put the cast out.  He takes a look and ... no sale.  Off goes the cochy, on goes a LaFontaine Mohawk.  (Yes, they really do work).  The fish takes it on my first good cast.  This is a nice fish, probably well over 6 pounds.  I wait what seems an eternity and set up.  Explosion, no hook up.  Believe it or not, I set up too soon.  Moral here:  be REALLY patient on the strike.

Up a bit farther, the gods take pity.  I spot the fish from way back.  I stalk into position.  Down on one knee.  Ouch, the rocks are sharp.  Out goes the Mohawk.  Not quite close enough, or was it just wrong?  Either way, the fish starts towards the fly and rejects.  While this is going on, I hear 'whup whup whup' ... the sound of approaching chopper.  Helicopter access to fishing in New Zealand is becoming increasingly popular, as it affords the angler relatively quick (though not cheap!) access to remote waters.  It's also a major pain to those on the ground, especially when they have shed sweat to get there.  This particular chopper flies straight down the river course, passing by about fifty feet over my head.  I absolutely expected the trout to spook, and I was none too thrilled at the intrusion.  But to my great happiness, the fish is oblivious to the mechanical monster overhead.  After the chopper passes, I take off the Mohawk and tie the coch-y-bondu back on.  Next cast, fish takes.  I am saying one two three to myself like a mantra while I cast, but now that it really counts I can only react.  Happy days, I wait until the fish turns, though I can't say that was conscious.  FISH ON!  Short run, I turn the fish, he's in the shallows, I force him onto the rocks.  Just like that I am no longer fishless in New Zealand.  22 inch brown, probably five pounds.

That is the catching high point, but the best fishing part is yet to come.  In the next hole I see a good fish at the tail-out.  He is off the main flow just slightly, the current pinches into the next riffle about twenty feet below.  A tough stalk, which I get by with, and a tougher cast.  I blow it, inadvertently executing a perfect curve cast.  But I didn't want a curve cast here.  The problem is the fly comes down too close to the fish, and starts to drag soon thereafter.  Off he goes.  Cursing myself, I cross back over and stalk the pool.  Almost immediately I spot a fish.  While I'm think about the best way to approach him, he slides back to the tail-out and takes up feeding station again.  It's the same trout!  I slip quietly up the bank, get forty feet away from the water, duck-walk down below him, carefully wade over, back in position.  Now, I work this guy for thirty minutes at least.  He doesn't know I'm there, I hang one fly in the overhanging shrub along the way, get a false rise at one point, a handful of o.k. drifts, and change flies several times.  Ultimately I deduce that a floating nymph looks like my best shot.  But I am too jazzed.  I can't put this one cast in place, and he eventually gets leery and slips back upstream.  Though I muffed this trout, it was a fabulous fishing experience, full of excitement and challenge.

The next day I put in a few hours before hiking out.  The water seems colder, and I don't hook anything, but I did stalk a few good fish.  Two events occurred that I think are worth mentioning.  I spotted a very nice fish just below a logjam, in a pocket of quiet water.  He's moving about feeding rather actively.  The day before I had dropped a beadhead Hare 'n Copper near him, to which he came running - and then left in a hurry.  It seems these fish have learned that gold flash equals bad outcome, and now are prone to spooking from overbearing flies.  Today I was not going to blow my shot with a garish fly.  What I failed to consider was the (likely) event that I would blow my shot with a bad cast.  While I hung the fly in a flax plant, I don't think this was the real cause of the fish's departure.  I sacrificed the fly to the bush and was in the process of tying on a new pattern when I looked up and realized the fish had melted away.  Maybe a flash from my reel seat scared him; maybe he just decided to try elsewhere; maybe he saw me put on my glasses; maybe pulling the flax plant waved unnaturally when I pulled the line from it.  Anyway you slice it, he was gone and I was left wondering what to do.

The final fish of my first tramping trip was holding near a bush when I spotted him.  I was thinking about slipping behind him when he slid down-river and took up feeding more or less directly opposite me.  I was stuck.  I knew he'd see me if I tried to move, but the cover I had so carefully placed between us when he was upstream no longer offered me a place to hunker down.  I was right out there for him to see.  I held still for a few minutes, and when he started feeding I thought the time was right.  There was no question about casting -- he'd see the rod for sure -- so instead I sent out a roll cast.  Or should I say, a pathetic roll cast.  It hit the stream immediately opposite me, five feet down from where I wanted it, and five feet too close to my bank.  I let it float on by and then tried again.  Splat.  Again short and too close to me; apparently too close to him as well.  Off he went.  I draw two morals from this experience.  First, it pays to get behind these trout.  They don't see nearly as well straight down river (behind them) as they do in any other direction.  Second, practice those roll casts; they come in mighty handy in cramped quarters, of which there are many on kiwi streams.

The hike out went much faster than the hike in, perhaps because I was now closer to fit.  Or perhaps because my spirits were so much higher after breaking the ice.   My wife says I came back a much nicer person to be around.  Perhaps that means I can go back to New Zealand with the family's blessing, and soon?