We smash North Island, again: 2 days, 40 trout

Mike fishing a bank run on the Whanganui River

Words: MIKE GEE   Photos: MIKE GEE and GEORGINA SWAN   Video: GEORGINA SWAN

"We outfished the 2008 French World Fly Fishing Championships team, 11-0"

It's becoming a pleasant habit. Fly into Auckland on North Island, New Zealand, at Easter, drive to Turangi, stay at Sportsman's Lodge, hit the mighty Tongariro River and the superb Whanganui River, add in the beautiful Tauranga-Taupo (TT) River, catch a lot of fish, drop a whole lot more, and have some of the best trout fishing you'll ever experience.

• Check out the full gallery of 40 photos

This time it was a flying visit over Easter; two-and-a-bit-days, five hours on the Tongariro, three hours on the Tauranga-Taupo and a day on the Whanganui with our mate and guide, Ken Drummond. The weather stayed perfect - 21C days, a little cloud, the odd drizzle over night. And the fish? Over the years we've always asked 'where do the small trout go in New Zealand rivers?' The answer in 2015 is all over the place.

The rivers were literally teeming with little tykes starting at around 10-12cm. They were everywhere: small, crazy hyped-up rainbows. In one hour on the TT, we cast small size 16 dry flies into every possible river scenario: riffles, pools, currents, flat patches, under banks, and no matter where we cast one of these little trout would have a go at the fly. If we had dropped to size 20 or smaller, we could have caught 60 in an hour.

A typical 'tyke' taken from the Tongariro River; they were everywhere in the region

A day later, standing on the banks of the Whanganui, we watched them skipping downstream, hopping out of the water at anything they could imagine might be edible. Even the Tongariro, that most esteemed and difficult of rivers, was full of the little beasts, and amongst them on all the rivers were what Australian fly fishers would call "pannies"- 30-40cm pan-sized trout. It doesn't get much more fun. And, of course, lurking here and there were much bigger fish.

Our first hour hour on the Tongariro was a late afternoon burst just up from the Judges Pool after driving down from Auckland in Easter Friday traffic (tip: leave early to avoid the worst of it). First cast I had a 20cm rainbow on a hare and copper gold beadhead nymph, the top fly in my two nymph set-up - with a pheasant-tail nymph as the dropper. To be honest, the little bugger scoffed the fly on the swing, thus reducing the skill level involved in catching it to not much at all. However, I'll always take it!

It should be said that this weekend there was plenty of 'picket fencing' on the Tongariro in the more popular spots, yet strangely if you walked and bush bashed for 300-400m you had a lengthy section of water to yourself. When we left on Monday morning around 8am there were six fly fishers in the water just down from the highway bridge which crosses the river in about 200 metres. Not our idea of fun.

Nearing dusk on the Tongariro River

Anyway, that first day it got cold as the sun disappeared behind the volcanoes and Georgina remembered as her toes began to freeze that she had holes in the neoprene feet on her waders which hadn't been fixed (tip 2: remember to check your gear well before you leave; you've heard that one before haven't you!).

Easter Saturday dawned as near perfect as days get. It was market day in Turangi which means cake, fairy floss, more cake, stuff, and more cake stalls. We ventured into Sporting Life to see if they could help with Georgina's wader problem. While they didn't have the right size in women's waders they did spend 25 minutes finding a pair of men's waders that would fit her well and then took her damaged waders away to repair. When we came back two days later the holes had been fixed and there was no charge!

Founded by Graham and Cathy Whyman 30 years ago - the nicest couple you could meet - and run with the assistance of an all-star team including arch blogger and fly fishing fanatic, Jared Goedhart, Sporting Life not only looks after all the needs of the fly fisher hoping to nail a Tongariro monster but is a real part of the legend of fly fishing in the region. And what these people don't know about fly-fishing probably hasn't been discovered. So a big hats off and thank you to everybody at Sporting Life.

Georgina pulled six rainbows in as many casts
from this corner pool on the Tongariro

Back to the river in her borrowed waders, Georgina wasted no time in hooking up. In one pool just up upstream from the famous Blue Pool she pulled out six rainbows to 35cm in as many casts. I, meanwhile, hooked a couple as well and had that ultimate frustration of watching a nice 3.5-4lb fish follow my nymphs along for a good 15 metres, its head never more than a few centimetres away from the hare and copper gold beadhead. Ten for the morning - Georgina already had a couple of small ones before she hit the pool of plenty - was a good outcome for two hours fishing.

With the river beginning to fill up around us - there were at least three flyfishers in the Blue Pool  - we decided to take lunch and then head for somewhere a little less crowded.

A nice feisty rainbow from the Tauranga-Taupo river

Mid-afternoon found us on a sweeping bend - with pools at the both ends - of the Tauranga-Taupo (TT). Perhaps 15 minutes from Turangi, it is a world apart from the boisterous Tongariro, yet it is no less a major trout stream. The TT is a classic fly fishing river - never big and broad and hard to handle, it is a sleek small to medium beauty that according to our guide of the next day, Ken Drummond, fills with spawners a little later in the year. But for now it was filled with little fish - as mentioned above. Little fish that would hit any dry fly you presented to them. Talk about fun. And to cap it off Georgina hooked a lovely 35-40cm fish that did the classic dry approach and nailed it with gusto. Fabulous.

Wading upstream at this time of the year is easy - none of those large, slippery boulders that dominate the Tongariro and Whanganui, just a nice sandy bottom with plenty of crossing points. But like all impossibly attractive fly streams, the TT has a sting in its tail: timber.  Many of the best pools and runs have some associated wood - and that, of course, is where the bigger fish tend to sit, and we saw at least three or four nice specimens that refused to budge. The question was if they did, could we keep them out of the timber once hooked. Hopefully, we'll answer that in future trips.

It doesn't get much better than this: Fishing the TT
 as the sun sets

All in all we caught three more rainbows each and dropped another 5 between us. That meant 16 for the day with 6 dropped.

Easter Sunday promised some rain but dawned a little cloudy before giving way to the sun as the day progressed. We had a date with our mate Ken Drummond, who has been guiding in this region for years. It was our third time out with Ken following three previously memorable days that featured 'the submarine' and a fishing orgy on the Whanganui that saw us catch 41 and drop 12 trout over two days.

This time round Ken decided we should revisit the scene of that exciting - although very wet - first trip and see what damage we could do on a fine day. The Whanganui is one of my favourite three New Zealand rivers. Classic back country fishing through pools, runs and rapids it's broad sweep carries more than a hint of difficulty and danger but the promise of plenty of fish. And, once again, it didn't disappoint.

On this section which runs through private property, the Whanganui is about a perfect trout river as you can find. As we stood on the rock laden banks, small trout hurled themselves out of the water close to the far bank where the water ran still and fast, their targets so small they could hardly be seen.

This Whanganui rainbow weighed in at 4.25lb

Ken headed us off downstream so we could access the back end of a 60-metre section that featured a lot of ripples running off some small rapids with nice lines of flat water between the chopped up faster water. It was in this flatter water, he had us cast. Two hours later George had four rainbows to 4.25lb and had dropped another two, while I had three rainbows including a nice 5lb pound fish and had also dropped three more fish around the 3-5lb mark, the first of which had Ken scratching his head.

When I hooked into it - on a purple caddis that matched what Ken showed was attached to many of the rocks - it didn't go left, it didn't go right, it didn't go upstream, it just took off at breakneck speed straight at me. Now as I hooked it no more than four metres in front of me, this meant by the time it passed over my boot I had a wall of line and leader in my face. a section of leader snagged the reel handle and 'snap' the fish was gone. Ken, who was watching from a few metres away reckons he's never seen a fish do anything like that before. It did mean I got a close and personal look at it in the crystal clear water as it went by though.

Five pounds of Whanganui rainbow

The five-pounder was a beauty. A typical Whanganui rainbow on steroids. As we've mentioned previously in this blog, Whanganui rainbows are brutes. They bend your arms, your rod, your muscles, your mind, like no other trout. They are as unpredictable as they are unbowed. Even the smaller fish come with super strength. This one took about 10 minutes to subdue. It's weight was in its girth: one fat fish. Likewise, Georgina's 4.25lb fish gave her a good work out, heading upstream, downstream, across stream, back downstream, upstream and around behind her, before finally succumbing.

The afternoon session was spent fishing longer runs in deeper water. Georgina pulled out a couple of nice fish in the 2.5-3.5lb range while I landed a couple of those feisty smaller fish and dropped a nice 3.5-4lb fish that hopped out of the water five times before finally managing to throw the hooks.

Georgina and Ken shared the credit for this fish

As a finale, while walking Georgina out of the water, Ken was idly casting around with her Sage - he makes it look ridiculously easy - and hooked into a good three-pound fish which he left Georgina to land. So they shared it.

But a word of warning: never underestimate the dangers associated with big New Zealand rivers like the Tongariro and Whanganui: Ken went over despite using a wading stick and got a soaking from head to foot while I ended the day by sliding down a high bank, hitting a flat rock which was wet and very slippery, meaning there was no grip for my boots which went out from underneath me and I slammed back down into the surface. A week later the bruising on my arms is beginning to fade, the internal soft tissue damage in my back is beginning to heal and the fractured rib is a little less painful. It could have a been a lot worse. According to my doctor 3cm to the right and the bole on the rock that slammed into back would have slammed into my spine; 5cm south it would have hit a kidney. I was lucky. I walked out of there.

Selfie with Whanganui trout

So tread very carefully when you fish these rivers. The Whanganui is very slippery - in and out of the water - and there are deep holes where you least expect them so a walking stick is very necessary. On several occasions I could have easily taken one or two steps left or right and dropped from water that was just above my waist to water that would have been well above my head (and I'm 186cm).

All up the day delivered 12 rainbows with another six dropped. For the trip, we came away with 29 fish landed and 12 dropped in just over two days - about 14 hours - of fishing.

To Ken Drummond - you're a legend!, the folk at Sporting Life, Sportman's Lodge, and the people of Turangi and its surrounds, our thanks. You make these trips so special. And, of course, we will be back.

Oh, and one final thing, we would like to state for the record that we outfished the 2008 French World Fly Fishing Championships team which were revisiting the Whanganui the day we took it on and fished upstream from us. End result: Australia/New Zealand 11, France 0!!!!!



The beauty of a release from Georgina Swan on Vimeo.

Mike fished with an Orvis Helios Tip Flex 7-weight rod and Orvis Battkenkill Large Arbor IV reel. George fished with a Sage One 6-weight rod and Grey's G-Tec 350 reel.

The lodge that Felix built

Owen River Lodge

Part 1 – the Owen River

Continuing their journeys in search of New Zealand's finest trout, MIKE GEE and GEORGINA SWAN spent seven days at the near legendary Owen River Lodge on South Island. Our special three-part report begins with a day on the Owen River.

• GALLERY 1: Flyfishing the Owen River (38 photos)
• GALLERY 2: Owen River Lodge (16 photos)

Owen River Lodge lies a mere two kilometres of dusty road (if it hasn’t rained) off State Highway 6 as it curls down to the town of Murchison, some 20 kilometres distant on New Zealand’s South Island. It lives in a valley with its namesake a literal breathe away. In the close distance the peaks and ranges that fill the Kahurangi National Park press down, at times almost to the river’s verdant banks.

This is the lodge that Felix built. And it’s one of the big four New Zealand luxury flyfishing lodges – Stonefly, nearby south of Nelson, and Tongariro and Poronui on the North Island are its main competitors.

Felix Borenstein (left) and Mike Gee

Felix Borenstein is one of us – more than one of us, in fact. He’s a flyfishing trailblazer, starting in Australia 18 years ago in his native Victoria.  When he bought Owen River Lodge some 10 years ago, it wasn’t the lodge it is today. No chalets, no spa, no lush gardens, no killer chef named Ryan (his food is seriously good). Since then Felix has put a lot money, time and effort into making Owen River Lodge a mecca for the sport’s tragics and not-so-tragics worldwide, and perhaps, a little curiously, a destination for honeymooners.

The majority of its patrons come from the US and Australia with about 10 per cent trickling in from the rest of the globe.

Felix’s big drawcard is, of course, the region’s brown trout. This is big browns country – and I do mean big. Double-figure fish are plucked out each year and 6lb-plus trout are plentiful – but you have to be good enough to catch them. These are wild, canny, trout; trout with years of experience in driving flyfishers slightly mad.

It is a challenge and that is part of the attraction. These browns don’t commit suicide as readily as do the rambunctious rainbows that dominate many North Island rivers.

What Felix offers is sight fishing for some of the finest salmonids you will ever cast a fly to.  And he has the guides to back him up. He needs them. These are men with the eyes of a hawk, knotted muscular loins, skinny as a rake, with thousands of kilometres in their legs, capable of walking up and down dale, all day, lugging a large pack full of food, drinks, supplies, on their back.

It is outlandishly hard work and on top of that they have to sort out the errant casting techniques of many their clientele. Deal with their moods. And try and ensure they do actually catch a trout. Not catching many fish – or even a fish – sometimes does not go down well.

And don’t forget: the weather is about as variable as it gets; the trout are moody buggers prone to not giving a sip for at least half the time you are fishing; finding the right fly can be a needle in a haystack job. And even if the guide does, the client actually gets the cast in and the fish cooperates and engorges the fly, then the fish has to be landed. The conversion rate is around 33 per cent.

Mike Gee with our guide, Paul van de Loo, and Mike's
 third trout of the day, a 3.75lb 'old man' brown

Who would be a guide? Well, Paul van de Loo, for one. For 23 years, in fact. He’s pretty damn good at what he does. It is no secret – in fact, on these trips it’s declared well in advance, that while my wife, Georgina Swan (George to her friends and you, the reader), can cast a fly line with admirable adeptness, I have a cast that has a mind of its own. The good, the band and the ugly – and that’s only the first three casts.

Paul inherited this ongoing, oft disaster, and made it his business to get it – if not right – a lot better. So, on one day when the casting yips set in, I was banished to a “practice pool” on the Maruia River while George and Paul set off upstream to hunt browns. I was only allowed to follow them 20 minutes later.

After three days, Paul had beaten enough knowledge and technique into me that I caught a PB brown in the Owen River, challenged George for the most hook ups and could bang a cast into the teeth of a gale blowing down the Hope River the day after we left the lodge, drift it over a brown I spotted sitting in the water column, hook and land.

So Mr van de Loo knows his stuff. He managed to do what at least three other top guides have failed to do: get my cast into reasonable shape.

He can also see trout where these ageing eyeballs could only see, well to be honest, bugger all.

Flyfishing the Owen River

In three days of fishing the Matakitaki, Maruia, and Owen Rivers, George and I hooked 18 fish and landed 11 – George also notching a PB brown in the Owen River.

So let’s start with that day on the Owen River. Felix and Paul say the average catch per couple for a good day on the Owen is three fish. Georgina and I hooked eight browns and landed six.  They weighed, in descending order: 7.25lb, 6.75lb, 5.75lb, 5.25lb, 3.75lb, 2.25lb.

In terms of quality fishing it’s hard to beat. This is, for us, the perfect river, the perfect fishery. The Owen never really sprawls like so many South Island rivers do – a few kilometres away, often parallel to State Highway 6, the Buller River runs, a broad silver swathe, scything through the countryside; sometimes braided sometimes not.

The Buller is the trout highway for the region; virtually every river runs into it and the trout use it to move around. It used to be a mighty river to fish but they say that didymo, that scourge of trout waters, has so affected it that fish stocks have dwindled significantly and it is the feeder rivers that hold the best – and most - trout.

But the Owen – it’s a flyfisher’s dream stream. Unlike many South Island rivers it isn’t braided and, as the photos on this page and in the slideshow indicate, it can sometimes be just three or four metres from bank to bank.

It is a mighty test of skill. The water is gin clear; the cast needs to be all the things that make up a good cast: accurate, straight, turns the fly over, and as a simple as possible – false casts need to be kept to a minimum.  Distance is not generally a problem.

Like the best trout streams, it mixes runs and riffles with pools and deepwater edges; fast water, slow water, flat and chop, it has the lot. Over it all, preside sheep dotted hills and pastures, willows line its edges, blackberry bushes usually appear least when you least want them too, constantly foiling an over-exuberant attempt to plop the fly two metres in front of the trout’s nose.

George plays out her third trout of the day - the Owen
 is a mere three metres wide here

You don’t wade much: sometimes to cross over to get a better angle to a lie; others a few metres in from shore to a trout virtually dead ahead. As George found out you may need to cast around a bush; at other times with blackberries blossoming behind you.

At the beginning of the day, the tall grass - it is chest high in places -  ensnared my back cast as I stopped it way too late. It is such technicalities that, on the Owen, will see you spend more time unwrapping and untangling your fly than using it to fish with.

The first fish of the day should have been mine. However, George having cast to a couple of seriously spooky trout in the first pool was lagging behind as Paul called me up to tackle a fine specimen in the next pool up, 40 metres or so from where Georgina had drifted a nymph over a brown’s nose, had it look at it and declare it was fine piece of fly tying. Just as we settled to cast, the trout decided feeding downstream was in order and swum off in Georgina’s direction.

She paused, Paul moved down, they hatched a plan, her cast went out once, twice, and it struck. So did George – using a technique Paul had imparted. Rather than striking straight up when nymphing, strike downstream, keeping the rod down; if the trout is past you then strike upstream, rod down. It works.

Ten minutes later, Paul netted a beautiful 7.25lb brown trout – a PB for Georgina. It is fish like this that drag us back to New Zealand time and time again. It is an honour to be able to chase and catch such foe in these green clad ranges, redolent of hobbits and magic. The spell is such it is hard to want to go anywhere else.

Georgina with her PB 7.25lb brown trout  

Hold a big trout in your hands, as the cold clear water runs down its mottled flanks and the sublety of its colours play in the sun; look it in the eyes – its stare won’t waver; feel it glide gently and serenely away at the point of release. Do these things and you feel life’s bright emotion well and surge.

George’s second trout was only another 20 metres away. The great thing about flyfishing with your partner is that their success is as fulfilling as your own. And they can bail you out when you have a ‘moment’. I had a ‘moment’ (five bad casts in a row), called George in. Two casts later she was on to a 5.75lb fish, that threw itself around with such abandon the rainbows in the Whanganui River would have been applauding.

Top to bottom: Georgina's 5.75lb trout;
 Mike's first fish - 2.25lb brown;
George casting in an awkward situation

At this stage I felt like spitting the dummy, packing up my fly rod and taking it home. I’m sure many of you know the feeling – when it all seems too hard. “It should be fun,” Paul said to me, then. “So just stop your backcast early, relax and enjoy yourself.” So I did. And had a 2.25lb trout flapping at my feet within 20 minutes.  The little blighter actually knocked off the nymph from under the nose of a much bigger fellow we were chasing.

This kind of trout play didn’t help George when she ended up casting to three trout with a blackberry bush behind her, the wind beginning to blow from her left to right. Three times a fish came for the fly, then baulked. But still they fed and still George persevered. A lovely 40 metre cast, drifted perfectly downstream, over a big fellow’s nose, surely he would strike! No. Paul cursed.

Then, a fourth, smaller trout, just three or four pounds came rushing into our group, spilling the beans about the folk downstream and telling all sorts of nasty lies. The adults became suspicious and didn’t like this spritely newcomer. We moved on.

A perfect little lie contained my next target. The river rushed down from the right, dropping 30cm or so over rocks before cornering into a more tranquil, deeper stretch. On that corner, tucked behind a rock, sat a large feeding trout. My job? Cast 20 metres or so, landing the nymph just to the right of the trout and let it drift past/over him.

It was virtually a straight cast. The first cast was too long, the second too left, the third too right, the fourth too short by a whisper, the fifth and sixth, left and right of the target, the seventh was perfect: the indicator sank like a stone, I saw a flash of flank as the trout moved, and I struck – downstream. It was on!

It fought with all the strength that legend has these South Island browns possess. My arms began to hurt as it peeled off line, once, twice, three times. It hurled itself skywards – to no avail. I’d lost a trout that shook the hook free with that trick the day before and knew to drop the rod tip. Slowly it tired. One last surge and, after what seemed like an eternity but was more like 12 minutes, it was done. Paul got the net around its splendid flanks and lifted it from the water, eyed the measure, and looked at me.  He paused. He always pauses.  Bastard. Then smiled, “6.75 pounds.” We hugged. A personal best brown.

Mike with his PB 6.75lb brown trout

All those moments of self-doubt, the casting phobias, were washed away with the adrenalin of accomplishment. A surge of pride. The beginning of self belief. And if that all sounds a little too heady, so be it. Every sportsperson experiences such highs should they reach their goal. I run half marathons sometimes and the sense of accomplishment on finishing is similar; but for me this was even greater. I know I can run. I didn’t know if I could ever begin to master the mysteries of the fly – at least, well enough to catch such a fish in one of the toughest, most technical rivers in New Zealand. This fish was five years in the making.

It is something that lives with me and makes me itch to get back there.

George and Paul celebrate her final trout of the day - 5.25lb

George, who really did get the thin end of the casting stick, was next up and found that Paul had spotted a fish midstream, only 30 metres away, where the Owen is no more than four metres wide, if that. Only problem was she would have to cast to her left from behind a bush - with a gale blowing for her right to left. For 20 minutes she flipped that fly around that bush and that fish. The conditions were difficult;  tall grass danced in the wind behind her. I don’t know how many casts she made but she eventually made the right cast and had a 5.25lb brown running hard downstream. She and Paul celebrated righteously when it made the net.

The final fish of the day turned out to be an old man trout – on his last legs but with enough spirit to take the nymph I floated over his head as he lay no more than a few centimetres from the shore, tucked behind a rock in the riffles. He fought with all the strength he could muster and, in his heyday, would have been a monster. Now, at 3.75lb, his body scarred from the floods a few months earlier, his head so much larger than the rest of him, he was waiting for his time to come. Perhaps, this was his last battle. If it was, it was honourable. We returned him to the water rapidly, hoping he would see out a few more weeks in these timeless waters where the big fish lie.

As the clouds flew by, the wind gusted, rain sped bullet-like parallel to the ground, not hard but thin and temporary, Paul offered one last pool. George and I looked at each other. No. This was perfect.  Three fish each. A personal best each. In conditions we might normally dismiss as too difficult. The Owen had thrown down its challenge and, with the help of Paul, we’d found a way to not only answer, but to feel like victors.

And when we returned to the Lodge, got out of our gear, and went to join Felix and Paul for the traditional afternoon beer, only to find them looking at Paul’s photos of our fish, and videos of their return to the wild, with Felix grinning from ear-to-ear and offering the heartiest of congratulations and explaining how much we had accomplished, we felt like we had just climbed New Zealand’s mightiest peak, Mt Cook. Perhaps we had.

The view from our cottage at Owen River Lodge

The Thredbo, Part 1: The Pool

Georgina Swan with a trout
from the pool ... oddly we 
have never taken a photo 
of the pool itself

By MIKE GEE

There is a pool in the Thredbo River, not in the hustle and the bustle of the gorges and rocky flows that characterise its grand escape from the ski resort of Thredbo, but on the ankle of the township itself where it becomes little more than a stream idling gently amidst tourists, holidaymakers, mountain bikers, skiiers, and fisherman of unknown quality.

Here it is almost quiescent; its falls are no more than the distance from fingertip to elbow, its crystalline essence home to stubborn and rotund ducks which plonk themselves at the feet of those that come to eat at the tables that dot its banks and then act the beggar. Only their plumpness gives them away.

And if the ducks were to look at their feet on the occasions they get wet they would sometimes find that even here in the busiest kilometre in the region they have company. For here live suburban trout. Mostly browns, perfectly camouflaged against the brown rock and sand, they move with the leisure of those at home in such a relatively cramped abode.

And while they aren't quite the length and girth of their larger brethren a few kilometres downstream they lack little in attitude. One fisher mesmerised by these little balls of muscle spent an hour floating black midges over them. Several obliged and tried to run away with the prize and when they tired of this game, the fisher switched to a spin rod and flipped small black celtas upstream. This was fun. Some more ended up with stories to tell their less aggressive mates.

Not far away, where the road finally curves up to the village, a bridge sits to the right, crossing the stream. Straight ahead is a church to the right, a golf course to the left. To the immediate left at bridge end runs a path that snakes through the native bush which absorbs the stream. For the next four or five kilometres it is a constant, heard but not seen, friend.

Ready for release back into the pool

A mere 20 metres down this path, lies the pool. It begins with a shallow flat of crenelated rock in which the trout like to sun themselves on those splendid alpine dawns when the early rays take the pinch from the air and melt the frost from the bushes and trees that line the Thredbo, turning the ground into a sea of tiny trickles each seemingly intent on making it to the big stream. With such simple clarity nature endlessly refreshes the waters.

Within metres the rock slips away to the main body of the pool - no more than eight metres at any given point, it stretches just 20 metres upstream. In its depths dash the city worker trout. Not just a few, but dozens, sprinting hither and thither; business on some days has never seemed better in the branch brushed depths. Yet on others, even those when the temperature is a single digit, the late afternoon hatch full and lasting, and the sky an ever deepening hue that eventually ends a radiant gold as the sun sinks below the mountain tops, even then there is nary a ripple. Perhaps, it is a  public holiday in the pool or perhaps the barometer is falling. Who knows? Trout are moody beasts, at best.

But on the days when the urban conurbation is in full tilt, browns and rainbows alike send streamers across the pool as they chase down a flailing victim. And everywhere there is the splish and splosh of trout on the rise. Small, medium, very occasionally large, they compete with gusto to quench appetites that verge on the insatiable.

Mike holds up a brown trout from the Thredbo several kilometres downstream from the pool

Yet despite the madness - the party continues well into the night - these are not feckless or reckless salmonids. They are smart, at the top of their game, able to spot an imitation fly, no matter how perfect it may be, and snub it for what it is.

Thus one majestic afternoon when dusk began to extend a nail, then a finger or two, and beckon, we made our way to the pool. Hatches drifted, small gatherings - here, there, everywhere along both banks. The trout were rocking and rolling. For 90 minutes we cast fly after changed fly into that jukebox.  Many we're summarily ignored. A white caddis, almost identical to those fluttering a few centimetres away, evoked not a ripple of interest. Small hopper patterns were inspected, sometimes at length, from below, and then spurned. Black midges, mayflys, Greenwell's Glory, all either failed the test or at best would evoke a pop, a splash of excitement or a nudge.

Finally, as night crept in and the last light outlined the restaurant perched perhaps 15 metres back from and above the far shore, one overly exuberant rainbow launched itself at a Parachute Adams, missed completely, but moments later, joy o joy, discovered the black beadhead nymph suspended 60 centimetres below. It would eat yet! The Adams sank, I struck, and it ran, wrestled, flipped and flew.

And from above applause rang loud and clear, like the Gods themselves were unified in their approval. The trout didn't care. I was momentarily flummoxed until I realised that the restaurant's clientele had been watching the title fight with passing interest. The feisty fish in hand I took a bow. How strange this flyfishing game can be!

The manager of the restaurant came to the edge of its decking and declared that in two years he had seen many a fly and spin fisherman come to this pool but all had walked away empty handed. It was indeed a glorious victory, of sorts, for fly fishermankind. Or so it seems.

A classic Thredbo pool and run between the two camping areas downstream from the pool

Over the next few days we spent each dusk and the odd dawn tempting the city trout. Another four, two of each kind, fell but none were taken to that mostly grisly of outcomes, the pan, despite their stocky build and perfect 25-30cm length. There are pannies a plenty for the smoker, elsewhere in the Thredbo.

And a word in the wise to our spinning friends - look elsewhere. I have seen lures of all shape and size tossed at the city trout and they react not a twitch. There are much better waters downstream where celtas, soft plastics and, closer to Lake Jindabyne, even Tassie devils come into their own. Here the fly bests all.

Upstream from the pool, the Thredbo wanders kilometre upon narrow, mostly unfishable, kilometre to its source well past Deadhorse Gap. But there is one last abode, not far from the pool. It is almost humble, a few metres that - after the carpark of kids and suburban trout, the city salmonids in their Atlantis - belongs to the elders, the retirees, big fish of perhaps three or four pounds, living a more sedentary existence. Occasionally, a callow youth will visit, get cuffed, and depart whence it came. They can be watched from another bridge, even targeted with a small rod and little back cast. But all this they have seen before. Many times.

And so we keep revisiting the pool. It has been two years and three trips since we last became better acquainted with a resident but it doesn't matter. There is a greater reflection here, even more than that which sparkles on those still summer mornings and evenings. Life is mirrored endlessly, you see. And no more so than in this kilometre where a hierarchy as obvious as that which governs our own restless lives, exists in a community of trout who must all, at sometime, pass through the pool.

Snowy Mountains mystery: Where did the trout go?

Georgina Swan with one of only two trout caught on a season's end trip - both in Nariel Creek, Victoria

The trout that usually fill the rivers in the Snowy Mountains region of NSW, seemingly disappeared for days - if not weeks - on end, during the last half of the 2012/13 trout fishing season.  MIKE GEE investigates the case of the missing fish.

The refrain was as common as the sometimes mystifyingly empty streams and rivers of the Snowy Mountains and Victorian border country: where have the trout gone, everybody asked, although nobody seemed to want to say it too loud. The whisper was almost deafening at times.

After all, season 2011/12 was blessed by the proverbial abundance, perhaps the best season in five years, although one river, the imperturbable Indi, continued its downward spiral in some areas, a spiral that began up to three years ago. 

But 2012/13, that was a different matter. Some days there were trout; a lot of days there weren't. Take the Swampy Plains River up around Geehi, about 40km down the mountain on the way to Khancoban. It has suffered from heavy recreational fishing and alleged poaching by illegal baiting - dozens of lines attached to a single line strung across the river - for years now. 

We've had several fishermen tell us about a van with Victorian number plates arriving in off-peak periods when the camp grounds are largely deserted and its owners proceeding to commit this atrocity unhindered.

Now whether it, along with the associated recreational pressures on this appealing stretch, has dramatically affected the trout population for the surrounding 15 kilometres is hard to tell but what is concerning is the complete lack of fish in the river both over the Anzac Day long weekend and the season ending Queen's birthday weekend.

No fish: Georgina drifts a run on the Swampy Plains River near Geehi

Over those two periods we tramped the back waters of the Swampy for more than five kilometres and didn't see a fish. To put that in perspective, the previous season on the same weekends we caught a dozen or so and saw many more.

Just as concerning is the slow decline of the Indi from a river where we caught 8 fish in one two-hour morning high country session five years ago, to a river where in that same stretch we have caught 2 fish in the past three years. Even the locals have noticed a changing picture. 

The view from the middle of the
Swampy Plains River

In Corryong, just across the Murray River border in Victoria, one of the region's 40-year flyfishing veterans spent three days tramping the Swampy Plains River in the Geehi area for no fish at all. He simply couldn't believe it. And down at the bottom of the mountain in Khancoban, one of the area's most knowledgeable trout men reported that the salmonids  simply disappeared out of the Indi from below the Spillway right down the run through to Bringenbrong following a warm spell in May. 

Over the top of the mountain, the beautiful Thredbo River fished hot and cold all season - although I enjoyed a six fish purple patch in an early January trip - while 70 kilometres away along the Snowy Mountains Highway and down any number of back roads and trails, the Eucumbene River fished so poorly that three fly men we caught up with over Easter in New Zealand had flown in for 7 days on the Tongariro, Lake Taupo and some of that area's streams so desperate were they to catch fish. This followed what many - including the afore-mentioned trio - regard as one of the best seasons ever on the Eucumbene in 2011/12.

A farmer just outside Khancoban with a property that backs on to the Swampy Plains River just before it runs into Khancoban Pondage - itself the victim of severe draining by the Snowy Mountains Authority this year - told us he hadn't seen a fish in several months, whereas in previous years the stretch had teemed with little trout. He also noted a significant increase in the number of cormorants on the river and the massive rise in the number of Redfin, particularly in the Pondage but also in the Swampy.

Below the Spillway we have noted an increase in the number of introduced Carp in the Indi and watched one young fisherman play a huge specimen on a lure for 15 minutes before losing it.

One of the trout caught on the Swampy Plains River below Khancoban
during the dusk hatch in November 2012

Their presence along with the Redfin certainly threatens the stability of trout in the river. That said we enjoyed a fabulous dusk hatch in November 2012 when hundreds of fish were literally dancing on the water surface for just half an hour. Two platypus swirled and curled amongst them, keen observers of this almost mystical experience. Georgina virtually had a take a cast on a white caddis with a black beadhead nymph dropper and landed three in 15 minutes. The caddis doing the damage. And leading fly fishing guru, Philip Weigal, went to print about a couple of excellent days on the Indi early in the season. 

We've also seen plenty of photos online of big trout caught throughout the fishery in 2012/13 but they are best of the year and don't reflect what so many flyfolks have told us. Finding fish this season was hard. So where did all the fish go? The 2013/14 season will tell a story. If the fish aren't back then there will be cause for concern about the state of this outstanding fishery. And what has happened to dull these once sparkling waters.

It doesn't get much prettier than this  - the Swampy below Geehi ... 
but no fish for kilometres