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No matter how far a person can go the horizon is still way beyond you - Zora Neale Hurston.

It is widely accepted New Zealand is the global mecca of trout fishing. It is a benchmark declared so frequently it feels impossible to escape. During the formative stages of the typical Australian fly fishing journey, you are generally peppered with a multitude of tales and anecdotes from the promised land. Everything is referenced and compared to New Zealand. The trout fishery that rightfully nests atop the world’s fishing destinations. You can’t evade it. Those who have experienced the wonders of Aotearoa are forever talking about it. And you know what? They are justified in doing so. New Zealand accommodates a fly-fishing community rivalled by none, cherished by all. It is a country whose landscapes were carved out with beauty in mind. The fishery, whilst in the context of the setting may seem like a bonus, is first class. And, as mentioned, purported by many as the best there is.

My university years saw fly fishing return to the scene. The perpetual parameters of a uni student, namely budget, ego, and ignorance, shaped my fly fishing journey more than I care to detail. I naturally (and perhaps necessarily) favoured the comparatively accessible water of Tasmania. An $80 Jetstar trip hopping across Bass Strait was more in my wheelhouse than a $500 flight across the Tasman. Notwithstanding the risk of delays and lost baggage, I often found myself in the island of Cascade ales, devils and brown trout. After all, time as a careless uni student fish bum, was nothing but cheap. Four consecutive years hot footing around the central plateau, coupled with a decade worth of weekend missions (compressed into the same four years) on my home waters of the Snowy Mountains well and truly gave me my fly fishing fix. This however, was occurring in spite of the constant beckoning from our friends across the ditch with the promise of beautiful landscapes, pints of (non-Cascade) ale, good company and big trout. I soon turned my mind to the fabled New Zealand trip. 

COVID pulled the handbrake on my aspirations to get over and experience the marvel of New Zealand. I was forced to explore the waters of Canberra (and surrounds) with a fine tooth comb, only to be left pleasantly surprised with the quality of the fishery. But still, the nagging presence of New Zealand had taken out a mortgage on my imagination. As the dust settled on a tumultuous period, I was sure to have my dates marked, tickets booked and logistics lined up. The trip across the ditch was on. 

Prudence or short cut: Why mutually exclusive?  

Slugging my pack onto the luggage carrier at Sydney Airport International check in, something about a tortoise and hare came to mind. As my pack shot off down the race I realised gear wasn’t the only luggage accompanying me across the Tasman. A decade’s worth of anticipation, distilled into hope, was coming in my carry-on. Or rather, my internal monologue. Finally, the fly-fishing pathway, as it eventually does for most, had led me here. I was en route to New Zealand with my old man for what we hoped would be an epic week.

A significant part of the preparation was absorbing every bit of fly fishing related information I could. Articles, films, books, whatever medium it came in, I soaked it up. Through all the stories, it was made obvious that fly fishing in New Zealand had its difficulties. Technical in nature, and generally applied in testing conditions. There is only so much time practising on your local waters you can do to prepare yourself for New Zealand angling. Anytime setting foot on any new water, none more so than in New Zealand, getting the help of an expert is always beneficial. These New Zealand guides are built differently as well. Their attention to detail is staggering. From the shade of brown your size 18 pheasant tail needs to be, right down to the client’s coffee order, they have got tabs on it all. Forgive the weather beaten brows creased against the wary grin when first meeting them. Their experience brings you up to speed on New Zealand's idiosyncrasies that otherwise would take precious time to learn. Fast tracking that understanding and capability opens up the ability to fish solo. As a bonus, you’re generally on for a pretty fun day of exceptional fishing with those who know best.

Jeff Forsee, Aotearoa Anglers, operating out of the Wanaka and Queenstown regions, came highly recommended from fellow Aussies who had been lucky enough to spend time fishing with him. The two days Dad and I had were quite literally the best fishing experiences of our lives. Yes, the fishing itself was as good as we’d seen, but it was the experience, getting out to the farthest corners of New Zealand's fishing landscape, that resonated most. These spots didn't register a glance in my own research, and undoubtedly don't attract much of a look from those more in the know either. To fish and hike for two days without seeing a soul, fully immersing yourself into the landscape, is an incredibly unique and memorable experience.

The trip was bookended with the fish of our lives for both of us. Giving Dad the first pool on Day 1, he proceeded to lock down on a 5lb brown trout, unfortunately forgetting that the forgiving grace of a 2lb Tumut River rainbow doesn't follow you through Queenstown customs and onto NZ waters. No, when you hook into a good New Zealand fish it has to be respected, and unfortunately for Dad, this thing didn’t take kindly to being permitted fewer than two cartwheels upstream. The fish fast decided he was better off without a hook in the mouth, and busted Dad off savagely. “I might have gone a little hard on him there…” was followed by raucous laughter to mask the dreaded feeling that a fish in the first pool of the day can often mean no more from then on. But not to be. Swinging around the bend into the next run we were privileged enough to come up on a lazy 6 pounder feeding actively in the broken flow behind a boulder. On went one of Jeff’s favourite dry flies, and my first cast in New Zealand resulted in this beautiful brown, tricked off the top. You could have pinched me and I wouldn't have felt it. I was away in the clouds, and blacked out for a time. Why had it taken so long for me to get myself over here? God it was good. 

Without wanting to ham it up too much, the fishing was lights out good for the next two days. Plenty of memorable, well fed fish that required a focused application of technical fly fishing to be enticed, came to the net. In the last run before the ‘exit point’ on the final day, in the dying moments of our time with Jeff, he spotted what he immediately christened a “mondo trout”. This was a term we hadn’t heard yet from Jeff, and in light of the fish we had accounted for already, all of which I would have happily labelled mondo, we realised this thing must have been a brute. Dad was up and granted the last cast of the trip. Anticipation was rife. 1, 2, 3 … 4 casts came and went without a reaction. All pretty good from our perspective, and so dawned the sinking feeling that this fish wasn't prepared to play ball. Dad offered Jeff the rod as it would be great to see how an expert gets it done. But Jeff flat out refused, convinced in the trout’s eventual willingness and Dad’s ability to catch the fish. A little unconvinced Dad gave it another cast, a little further upstream with a more exaggerated mend. Well, true to Jeff’s prediction, the trout engaged, down went the indicator and Dad was into the fish of his life. Perhaps haunted by his first experience of Day 1 busting off the first trout, he let this guy run. And boy did it take some line. It’s one thing to see line stripped off a reel, another thing entirely to hear it. Zzzzzzzzzzzzz. I don't know what the audible equivalent to a mind's eye is, but that noise is burnt into my psyche. The fly reel manufacturer should get this fish on the stress test production line, considering the blatant disregard it had for the presumably well engineered drag system. As the classic, albeit extended, to and fro between fish and angler ensued, Dad soon ended up with lashings of line at his feet. Testament to how much this trout ripped off the reel. But an excess of fly line wasn’t all Dad was left with, a picturesque brown trout cradled in the mesh of the net was the perfect crescendo to an unforgettable first trip to NZ. 

Despite my standards of what constitutes ‘good fishing’ being blown out of the water, others in the know still infer that it does get better. How? I don’t know, and can’t really conceive at the moment. New Zealand’s fishing, the experience, the landscape, the people, it is all beautiful. The only question that remains is, where? Well I like to think this holy grail is simply coming up over the next horizon. Get on your tip toes and have a peek.