Adventure #238

AFTER DARK
THE ART OF WINTER FISHING
Words and images by Ben Henton
It’s early May. Icey mornings, days are short. The sun
seems to rise just in time to set. By early afternoon
your breath is again visible as it hangs in the air like a
momentary fog. The familiar smell of fires burning in
homes across New Zealand fills the air, all in preparation
for the cold night ahead. The sky has opened, and rain
is coming down in sheets, hitting the roof of the car with
such force that you need to raise your voice to be heard.
While most will be tucked inside by the fire tonight, you’ll
find me gearing up and heading out into the darkness.
The winter shoreline fishing season is upon us, and for
me, this deluge is cause for celebration.
I’ve always had a passion for fishing. I would go so far as
to say it’s an obsession. My parents love to tell the story
of using a picture of a fish to calm me down as a baby if
I was ever upset (which I’m sure was hardly ever). As a
young fella, I would be out in my grandparent’s garden for
hours trying to catch their goldfish with a stick and some
twine.
Once I mastered walking, I graduated from the goldfish
pond to my first proper spinning rod. My dad is a keen fly
fisherman, so I would tag along with him any chance I got.
Unfortunately for me, some of his favourite haunts were
fly fishing only, so I’d have to watch with bated breath from
the shore, rugged up in warm clothes and gum boots on,
as a handful of anglers would roll the dice for a monster.
But in no time, the light would fade, and I’d have to try
and make sense of the distant noises: the elegant sound
of a line being cast, the noise of a reel peeling into its
backing, the splash of a trout breaking the surface. On a
good night, dad would be in a few times every hour with
some monster trout, then eventually, once he had a bin
full, would take a break to warm up with a hot cuppa and
try to get the feeling back in his fingers. I’d sit in awe as he
recounted every minute detail of how he landed each fish.
This was more than just a hobby; this was an art form. On
a bad night, we’d head back to the car at midnight, emptyhanded,
hoping to catch a few hours sleep before we
kicked off again at 5am. The thrill of it all was intoxicating,
and over time my hunger for fly fishing grew. By the age of
10, I finally converted. From that night on I never looked
back - it was fly or die. This is why night fishing holds such
a special place in my heart. This is where my fly-fishing
journey first began. Night time.
Here in New Zealand, and in particular, where I live In the
Bay Of Plenty, we’re absolutely spoiled for choice when
it comes to fishing. An hour in any direction will land you
in the heart of world-class trout fishing all year round.
While overseas anglers might be hanging up their gear
for the winter, for us this is prime time. Our winter fishery
transforms, as all the elusive large rainbow trout that
usually hide out in the depths, finally leave the abyss and
make their way to a stream, river or sandy gravel shore to
spawn. Schools of massive trout line the shoreline, driven
by instinct to carry on their lineage, besieged by a handful
of anglers crazy enough to brave the elements in the hope
of bagging a trophy, dinner, or sometimes just anything.
Day or night, winter shoreline fishing is second to none.
Starting your fly-fishing journey at nighttime has its
disadvantages. You can’t really see what you’re doing,
so learning to cast can be difficult. I would spend hours
practising my cast after school and on weekends in the
paddock across the road from my house. Aiming for
different patches of dirt with each flick, desperately trying
to improve my accuracy and distance, or at the very
least to not blind one of the resident cattle looking on
from the side. Somehow, I got a hold of a pair of secondhand
waders. Way too big, leaky, but surely better than
the shorts I had been wearing. I eventually resorted to
tying bread bags to my feet to keep my socks dry, which
seemed to help a bit but didn’t do much for the cold.
Big rainbows like this are a common sight for those willing to brave the elements and head out into the night!
26//WHERE ACTIONS SPEAK LOUDER THAN WORDS/#238