Fishing: Hang proud

Sam's trophy was a big, old scarred rainbow trout; but to him it was perfect. Photo / Geoff Thomas

We were planning a trip into the headwaters of the Rangitikei River, in the Kaimanawa Ranges, to film a TV programme about the large rainbow trout that can be found there. While anticipating a return to old hunting grounds, it reminded me of the days when I used to take American fly fishermen there in the early 1970s. The basics of camp were ferried in by helicopter at the start of the summer and left hidden in the bush for three months.

Those were marvellous days and the fishing was out of this world. Today it gets a lot of pressure and I'm sure the fishing has suffered. Over many years we did not kill any trout except for one, which was destined for a law office in Missoula, Montana.

Sam Haddon was the fisherman, and like most of the visiting clients, he became a good friend. Sam particularly wanted a 10-pound-plus (4.48kg) trout for his office and the best place to find it was the Rangitikei.

After three days Sam had not beaten 4kg, and with one afternoon left the pressure was mounting. So I took him upriver to a pool I called The Big Pool. It is a hands-and-knees climb over a mini mountain and from up high you can watch dark shadows gliding through the unbelievably clear water, like small submarines. The river rushes over a stretch of wide rapids, gathering strength and energy before flinging itself urgently against solid rock. These bastions, only a few metres apart, direct the rushing water into a narrow chute where it churns and heaves for a full cast length into the head of the pool. There are always trout lying on the edge of the fierce, bubbling current, but it is impossible to get a line down to them before it is swept away by the current.

I placed Sam on a shelf halfway down the pool at its widest place. From here, a good caster can drop the fly under a sheer face and by mending coils of loose line on to the surface, obtain a good drift through the gentle, silent current. After a dozen attempts Sam had the angle and distance measured and his weighted size 14 black stonefly nymph was dropping nicely against the rock wall then drifting in a slow pirouette through the lower part of the pool. I sat high on a hill directing him.

The Rangitikei rainbows are usually quite favourably disposed towards my special black nymphs, however on this day they proved stubborn. Sam tried different patterns and sizes, to no avail. Whenever he became discouraged Sam would climb up the hill and together we sat watching a dozen trout cruising right where he had been casting. Then he would scramble down again, fired with enthusiasm.

I decided to take Sam's son, Steve, downstream to try another pool and Sam promised to return before dark.

Steve and I were enjoying the first river-cooled can of beer about an hour before dark when we heard a shout. Around the bend came Sam, sporting a huge grin, waders hanging upside down over his shoulders, soaked to the skin and clutching a long bundle wrapped in his shirt.

I poured him a drink as he warmed by the fire and the story came bubbling out. Part of the satisfaction of catching a good fish is sharing the experience with other fishermen. We listened avidly.

After trying everything in his fly box Sam finally hooked a trout on a tiny copper nymph. The fish fought well and as he drew it into a crack in the rocky ledge he could see it was a trophy. So he killed the great fish, cutting a slender branch to string through its gills to carry it. Sam then set off urgently to show off his catch.

As he reached the top of the steep hill the branch snapped and the trout fell, sliding almost to the bottom. So Sam left his rod at the top, clambered all the way down and restrung his fish - this time with two branches.

He reached the third river crossing on the way downstream and was halfway across when the trout slipped from his makeshift carrying loop. Sam watched in despair as it swirled downstream and he raced recklessly across the river, praying his trophy would slow down so he could intercept it before the current rushed it into a deep pool.

He was lucky. A big boulder had created a dead spot in the flow and his trout slipped into the backwash and settled on the bottom.

So Sam stripped off his waders and plunged into the icy water, fully clothed.

By holding his breath and ducking under he could just reach the fish with the tips of his fingers.

"Each time I grasped it the tail would squirt out of my fingers like a lemon pip," said Sam.

Afraid the current would suck the fish away again he threw himself into the water and managed to slip a finger into the gills.

On the bank Sam wrapped his prize in his sodden shirt and clutched it to his chest for the rest of the journey back to camp.

We marvelled at the big, old scarred trout, a chunk from its tail indicating battles with other trout or perhaps one of the many huge black eels which share the depths.

Sam had certainly earned his trophy. It weighed 4.7kg - just over 10 pounds - and I have seen it since in his office where it has pride of place on the wall.