Adventure Magazine

"Taking a closer look at the proposed
crossing, the water appeared no deeper
than usual, and although the smooth
surface showed movement, the volume
of water was difficult to predict. "
On the drive over, it quickly became evident
that the rivers were in a bad state. Every
bridge crossed was like driving over a
river of chocolate milkshake. The rivers
weren’t overly high, but they were dirty,
usually a sign of short, but isolated, heavy
downpours. The further I drove, the more
I began to worry that this was just going to
be a scenic flight rather than a 'once-in-alifetime'
fly fishing trip.
As I started driving down the coast to
where the rivers entered the ocean, I
crossed the river that we had planned to
fish that day. I expected it to be just another
raging torrent, but to my surprise, it wasn't
at all. Although it was higher than usual for
that time of year, the water was visibly clear
and fishable. To say I was delighted is an
understatement.
I carried on further south to meet my mate
at the helipad, and upon arrival, told him
of my discovery. He was excited, and
although I told him it’s still an 'unknown' of
what it’s like in the headwaters, we both
became quietly hopeful. The helicopter
roared into life, and we began to climb into
the mountains, crossing several swollen
brown river snakes along the way. I still
didn’t know what to expect, but as we came
up over the ridge, the valley opened up in
front of us to show off a crystal blue, clear
river that was truly a sight for sore eyes.
The odd thing about rivers is that they look
deceptively smaller from the air. It’s very
difficult to gauge water depth and volume,
and the clear water can make even the
biggest rivers look easily passable. We flew
low over the river, spotting a few trout as
we buzzed on by, and eventually came to
a nice flat landing spot on the grassy bank.
It was clear we had now made the decision
to fish here for the day, and the helicopter
would be leaving us alone in the valley until
our designated pickup time of 5 pm.
As the machine lifted and took off back
down the valley until it was no more than a
speck in the distance, silence enveloped us
as we stood there in an ambiance of light
drizzle and towering peaks. The overnight
rain had made the towering waterfalls
pound down the cliffs, shooting water
fountains out from the rock like a firehose.
We were content, to say the least.
After a quick moment to gear up, we
made our way over to the river. As I had
been here several times before, it was
immediately obvious that although the
water was clear, it was high and pushing
down some serious volume. It wasn’t an
immediate concern; however, as the high
flow often pushes the brown trout to the
edges, where they are easily targeted, so
we just launched into hunting down our first
target.
It wasn’t long until we found our first fish,
cruising around a backwater in an effort to
make life easy on itself. We managed to
tempt it with a big juicy dry fly, and we were
on the board for the day. As we released
the 5 lb brown trout back to the water, a
wave of relief washed over both of us.
Whatever happened from now on, the day
was a success.
We pushed on up the river, sticking to
the side where we had landed and were
rewarded with several more fish caught in
the net. The section we were fishing began
with open grassy flats before ascending
into a tighter valley carved by a glacier.
As we made our way upstream, around
midday we encountered our first hurdle
- a high bank pool flanked by thick forest
on one side and a nice open gravel bank
on the other. Unfortunately, we found
ourselves on the side with the bush. After
a quick assessment, it became clear that
crossing was not an option unless we
backtracked a fair distance to where the
river spread out. However, we spotted
another gravelly corner above the forested
section, which meant that we only needed
to traverse a short section of bush to reach
fishable water again. We broke down the
rod, put our heads down, and pushed
through the bush, making the more difficult
but correct decision.
We eventually emerged back into the open
and resumed our search for trout. By this
point, it was only 1 pm, and we had climbed
high into the valley where the river started
to terrace between huge, slow-moving
pools and steep, powerful rapids. Standing
at the end of one of these enormous, ginclear
pools, we looked up the river and
saw a towering rock wall on our side, with
the river flowing hard against it. On the
opposite side, there were open gravel and
grassy banks stretching as far as we could
see. It was evident that if we wanted to
continue, we would have to cross.
I had crossed the tail of this pool several
times in the past, and although it was
usually around waist-deep, the crossing
was never difficult. Taking a closer look at
the proposed crossing, the water appeared
no deeper than usual, and although the
smooth surface showed movement, the
volume of water was difficult to predict.
Normally, in these situations, I would wade
in to about thigh depth to test if the crossing
was possible, but on this day, I did not.
As the water was clearly going to be
swift, my mate and I stood side by side
and crossed our arms behind each
other's backs in a brace position. In these
situations, four legs are better than two.
We were crossing at the tailout of the
pool where it would be the most shallow
and started to make our way across. As
we reached waist-deep, the power of the
water became more apparent, although our
waterproof waders gave us a false sense of
confidence.
Then suddenly, everything went wrong.
We took one more step, and the river
suddenly got much deeper. In a panic to
regain control, my mate lost his footing, and
the water lifted him off the bottom. I tried
desperately to maintain my stance, but our
close brace meant that he also pulled me
off my feet. This was bad.
We instinctively let go of each other as
we began to get sucked downstream, and
our waders began to fill with water. Just
20 meters downstream from us was a
thunderous rapid that, if we entered, would
surely lead to our demise. As we were only
4-5 meters from the other side of the river,
there was no going back. So I screamed,
"Swim!" and we both frantically swung
our arms towards the shore. What felt like
an eternity must have only been a few
seconds, as we managed to grab the rocky
bank on the other side, clambering up to
safety.
Panicked, drenched, and exhausted, I
looked back at the river to get my bearings
and noticed we had been pushed far down
the river, only metres from going off the
edge of the tailout into the rapids. Realizing
we were just moments from death, we lay
back onto the grass, equally overwhelmed
and relieved.
The feeling didn't last long, though, as
we came to the realization that we were
both drenched and freezing. Supposedly
our waders had kept our legs dry, but our
torsos were wet through, and with the
drizzle still coming down, it was time to act.
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