It  had been raining quite a bit during the preceding week, but this morning was bright and sunny.  I thought it would be a great day for spotting trout, and so I packed up my stuff.  Also, my Dad had just been through for a visit so I hadn't fished for about a week.  He had brought my small stream rod with him, a 7.5 foot Granger Special, and I was keen to have a go with it on the Kaniwhaniwha, a lovely small stream near my home in Hamilton.

When I got to the parking lot, I was disappointed to see a car ahead of me.  Because this is small water I had low expectations, but as I said I was chomping at the bit, so off I went.  I strolled up to the first hole, and lo and behold, there was a decent trout in the tail feeding - quite actively.  I was hunkered down behind a blackberry bush, almost dead even with him, and I could see him very clearly.  He moved back and forth, and then tilted up and took something from the surface.  Aha! says I, this is one for a dry fly.  I tied on a coch-y-bondu, and snuck down stream thirty feet below the bush.  Then I eased into the water, moved out to midstream, and slowly moved up.  I had marked his position by a rock on the bank, and when I looked at what I thought was the position I couldn't see him.  I was about to curse my bad luck when I saw movement just a bit farther up.  Dummy!  The angle from downstream isn't the same as the angle from across stream.  He was in fact in exactly the same place, just as happy as a clam.  As I watched he grabbed one or two more items from the surface, and I hunkered down and moved up out of the tail-out, into the slow flow at the rear of the flat.  I stripped off what I thought was enough line, false cast a bit, and shot out my try.  It wasn't very good, landing three feet to the fish's left, but he swam right over and ate it.  Just like that.  I waited a bit for him to turn down, and set up.  FISH ON!  He jumped twice, quite spectacularly for the size of the water, and made some hard runs, towards the edge, towards a submerged rock shelf, towards the head of the hole.  I had a hard time reining him in, but eventually I did bring him to net.  About 15", surely 2 pounds, a decent fish most anywhere but a real prize in this little water.

In the next good hole, which had a solid, choppy run through its heart, I put in a few casts down the main line with no effect.  Then I landed a cast just out of the main flow, and it sunk straightaway.  In the relatively calmer water I saw a fish head materialize and then turn back.  I set up, and FISH ON again.  Good fish.  Really good fish.  Probably 18 to 20 inches, more like 4 pounds than 2.  It jumped, ran up, ran over, did all it could to tear away.  I turned it without thinking about the next step, and he swam down by me.  Had I been lightning fast I could have netted him, but he passed by.  It was then I realized I was standing right across from a willow tree whose branches were just into the current flow.  Guess where he went.  I tried hard to hold him but it was too close to prevent, and he was in against the branch, smelling his freedom.  That, together with the short line and awkward angle, were too much strain for the tippet.  Pop!  But I was happy to have had a big one on, and moved ahead.

A bit farther, after hooking a few smaller ones, I came to a delicious looking hole that I have never seen a fish in.  I tried to work it, but nothing doing.  Just then I passed the two chaps who were parked at the lot; they were on their way out.  We exchanged stories -- they had a few small ones -- and I moved ahead.  Within twenty feet of that delicious looking hole I dropped my fly, now a size 14 Royal Wulff, since I was sans coch-y-bondu, onto the end of a rather small pocket behind a nice looking choppy run.  It disappeared without any sign of fish presence, and the lie was in the shadows so I couldn't see well, but I set up out of instinct.  A nice fish, which turned out to be my first brown trout there, set off down stream.  I corralled him just above the nice hole, a plump 15" brownie.  I was thinking that life doesn't get much better than this.  I was wrong.  A bit farther up I was what looked like decent water, with an overhanging willow (see any common features here?) that blocked my view of the top.  I crossed the stream and flipped a cast towards the top of the riffle.  It sunk straightaway, and again I saw a hint of fish appear from the depths.  This guy also made for willows, and in fact got in under them, but I dropped the rod and pulled him out.  He turned into a 17 or 18 inch brown, quite probably 3 pounds, the best fish of the day.

Here's where the day took a weird turn.  I was thinking I'd walk the other bank up to the next hole, and was looking at this farmer's fence wondering if it would be ok for me to just duck it.  There were no barbs, so I thought it wouldn't be too tough.  Thinking it might be electric, I held my hand against it.  Nothing.  Getting cocky, I lay my hand on it for a second or two.  Big mistake.  The electric fences here operate on a pulse system -- they lie idle for a second or so, then send a shot of electricity along.  Current here is nearly the same strength as dryers in the US, about 220 volts.  The shock knocked me to my knees, and I rolled down the bank into the stream.  I was stunned, but I also felt this pain in my back for a few minutes, and decided I wouldn't do anything like that again soon.  Well, after I recovered I made my way up to what might be the best hole on the stream.  On my first visit, courtesy of a local I had befriended at a monthly angling club meeting, I spotted a good sized brown there.  But no fish this time.  Disappointed, I worked the smallish riffle just above the hole, with no luck.  (Though I should say that the next time I fished this spot I hooked a 16 " rainbow.)  Up another twenty feet, the water tumbled over a shallow run next to a good sized boulder.  I put the Royal Wulff up by the rock and a fish took.  I hooked him, but probably too quickly, and he threw the hook on the jump.  I reckoned it was about an 18" brown.  I'm nearly out of time for this trip, but not before I pick up one last memento.  On a rocky run that has no business holding a good fish I make a rather careless cast across current.  A good sized fish materializes from the head of the run and slashes at the fly, which I have lifted off the water.  He doesn't spook, though, and I watch him as he takes up a position closer to the tail of the run.  As he is in sight it's not too hard to fashion a cast to his precise location, and to hold the line in such a way that the fly doesn't drag.  He takes, and I play him down to the next hole, where I beach him.  A fine fish, 16 " brown, and a fitting way to end.

On my way back to the car I was smiling, thinking how much fun this fishing business can be on those lucky days when things go your way, when I passed a couple heading up with rods in hand.  They asked about my day, and after hearing that I'd caught a few they asked if I took the fish on a hare and copper (a popular local nymph).  The shock in their faces when I showed them the dry fly was well worth the price of admission.  There is a moral here, I think.  If you fish water that is heavily trod, seek out spots that get ignored, and use a fly or technique that most others don't think of.  And don't neglect small streams, which can often be the most fun of all.