Category: Fishing & Trip Reports

There’s a moment most experienced anglers eventually recognise.

It usually arrives quietly.

Not with a trophy fish or a perfect cast, but somewhere in the middle of an ordinary day on the water. The sort of day where the light changes unexpectedly, the wind swings upstream, the hatch never really develops, and the fish stop behaving the way they were “supposed” to.

That’s when experience begins to reveal itself.

Not as ego.
Not as bravado.
Not as stories about the past.

But as judgement.

Over the last three decades, I’ve spent thousands of days on rivers; most of them from the oars of a drift boat on the Goulburn. Long enough to watch floods reshape entire bends. Long enough to remember pools before they filled with gravel, and willow lines before they collapsed into the current. Long enough to guide fathers, then years later guide their sons.

And somewhere along the way, I realised that the real value of experience has very little to do with knowing where fish sit.

Most competent anglers eventually learn that.

The deeper lessons are slower.

They involve timing.
Pacing.
Observation.
Restraint.

Knowing when to push on and when to stop early.
Knowing when a client needs technical advice — and when they simply need confidence.
Knowing that a river can look perfect and fish terribly, while another that appears lifeless might suddenly come alive in the final hour of daylight.

The river teaches patience to those willing to stay long enough.

Modern fly fishing moves quickly now. Images travel instantly. A single good season can create the appearance of long familiarity. Social media compresses time in strange ways.

But rivers still resist shortcuts.

A tailwater in perfect condition may fish beautifully for a week. Learning how it behaves across droughts, floods, heatwaves, irrigation changes, insect cycles, angling pressure and shifting seasons takes years. Sometimes decades.

The same applies to guiding people.

After enough seasons, you begin to understand that every angler arrives carrying something different onto the river. Some are there to learn. Some to escape pressure at work. Some are quietly grieving. Some simply want one good day outdoors before age or health begins closing doors.

The fishing matters enormously.
But it’s rarely the only thing happening.

That understanding changes the way you guide.

In my younger years I probably measured success too narrowly. Fish numbers. Big days. Happy photos at the boat ramp. Over time, the work became more about creating an experience that felt calm, generous and memorable — even when conditions were difficult.

Some of the best days I can remember involved surprisingly few fish.

A mayfly hatch drifting through evening light.
A father watching his son row a drift boat for the first time.
A quiet lunch beside a river after rain.
An eagle lifting from a red gum downstream.
The shared silence that sometimes settles over a boat late in the afternoon when everybody realises they’re exactly where they want to be.

Those moments are harder to market than bent rods and grip-and-grin photographs.
Yet they’re often the memories people carry longest.

The drift boat itself has shaped much of how I see rivers.

From the oars, you learn to think ahead constantly. To read currents before you reach them. To notice subtle seams and pressure lines. To anticipate where problems may emerge before they become visible to others. Over years, that habit extends beyond rowing. It changes the way you observe water, weather and people alike.

Experience, in that sense, becomes less about accumulated information and more about accumulated perspective.

And perhaps that’s why many anglers seem to change as they grow older.

The obsession with proving oneself gradually softens.
The need to catch the most fish fades slightly.
The appreciation for atmosphere deepens.

You begin noticing things that younger anglers often rush past:
the smell of rain on river grass,
the sound of oars against current,
steam lifting from cold water at dawn,
the strange comfort of returning to familiar rivers year after year.

These days I find myself increasingly grateful for continuity.

For old clients who still call every season.
For rivers that continue to surprise me despite decades spent on them.
For the privilege of making a life outdoors.
And for the understanding that fly fishing, at its best, has always been about far more than trout.

Rivers change.
People do too.

The older I get, the less this work feels about proving expertise and the more it feels about helping others experience these places properly; perhaps for the first time, perhaps for the last.

Experience, in the end, is not simply about years spent on the water.

It is about learning to notice what matters.

Ant

Notes from New Zealand After the Silence

By the time we crossed the Tasman again, New Zealand had started to feel almost mythical.

Not because the rivers had changed, or the mountains had somehow become grander during the years we were locked away, but because absence has a way of sharpening memory. The last season we completed before the world closed down was 2019–2020. Back then, news reports played constantly in the background while we guided. Every few days another border tightened somewhere. Another restriction emerged. Another flight route vanished.

We finished that season with an uneasy sense that something larger was approaching.

Then suddenly the world stopped moving.

Like most people, we assumed normality would return far sooner than it did. Instead, seasons passed. Summers disappeared. Rivers we had walked for decades became unreachable. Clients postponed trips repeatedly, uncertain whether international travel would ever truly feel simple again.

For many anglers, New Zealand slowly drifted from “next season” into something resembling a memory.

So when the opportunity finally arrived to return for the 2022–2023 season, it felt significant in ways that had very little to do with fishing alone.

The timing itself was strange.

Back home, the Goulburn Valley was flooded. Water managers had allowed Lake Eildon to rise too high and the consequences flowed downstream through our local system. Familiar stretches of river disappeared beneath heavy discoloured water while roads closed and uncertainty lingered over much of the region.

At the same time, reports filtering across from the South Island spoke of stable weather and unusually warm early-season conditions.

Eventually the decision became obvious.

We loaded the gear, pointed ourselves toward New Zealand and left.

At one level it was simply a fishing trip before the main hosted season began.

But privately, I think we all understood it was something else too.

A reset.

A chance to breathe again after several strange years.

There is something psychologically restorative about arriving in the South Island after time away. The scale of the country immediately alters your thinking. The open valleys. The cold rivers. The long spaces between towns. Even the quality of the light feels different there.

For the first few days we based ourselves out of Te Anau rather than our usual farmhouse at Dunrobin, which was still undergoing renovation work. Accommodation throughout Southland had become surprisingly difficult after the pandemic. Many operators had closed permanently, and the region — already limited for lodging — was still recovering from the absence of international tourism.

It didn’t matter much to us.

We were simply happy to be back.

The Eglinton, Waiau and Whitestone greeted us with excellent conditions. Dry flies drifted through clear current again. Brown trout slid from undercut banks to inspect presentations. The rhythm of river life, dormant for years, returned almost immediately.

And perhaps that was the strangest part of all.

How quickly it came back.

The feel of cold current pushing against your legs.
The sound of gravel beneath wading boots.
The instinctive scanning of seams and current lines.
The quiet concentration required to stalk visible trout properly.

After years dominated by lockdowns, restrictions and uncertainty, standing in clear New Zealand water again felt deeply restorative.

Not triumphant.
Just quietly right.

One afternoon in the Eglinton Valley we encountered a wounded deer attempting to cross the river. Its pelvis appeared badly broken and we assumed the current would sweep it away almost immediately. Instead, against all logic, it fought through the flow and somehow reached the far bank.

I still remember all of us standing there silently watching it disappear into the grass.

Rivers have a way of reminding you how small human concerns can become out there.

Eventually we returned south toward Dunrobin, the farm that has become our seasonal home in New Zealand over so many years. There is always a particular feeling driving back into that valley after time away. Familiar fences. Familiar hills. The Aparima winding quietly through the flats below the house.

Some places slowly become woven into your life whether you realise it at the time or not.

The fishing itself reflected the conditions of the year. Southland was dry. Water levels dropped steadily as summer progressed and by late season the rivers had become exceptionally clear and technical. On larger, more famous systems like the Mataura and Oreti, anglers congregated heavily around the limited sections still fishing well.

That is the nature of New Zealand now. Information travels quickly. Angling pressure concentrates rapidly. Rivers once considered remote no longer remain hidden for long.

Yet Southland still rewards those willing to move differently.

Again and again during that season, it was the smaller rivers and anonymous creeks that produced the most memorable fishing. Narrow streams winding quietly through farmland or tucked beneath distant hills. Water too insignificant-looking for most travelling anglers to notice while driving past.

Those rivers suited the season perfectly.

The fish were spaced carefully through long shallow glides, often occupying only the best pieces of structure in miles of water. You had to slow down properly. Rushing accomplished very little. Presentation mattered enormously. So did patience.

By late summer many of the better trout required near-perfect drifts to move confidently.

That challenge is part of what continues drawing us back.

New Zealand trout fishing at its best is not random. It demands thoughtfulness. Observation. Restraint. The fish are rarely difficult because of intelligence alone, but because the clarity of the environment exposes every careless movement and every rushed decision.

There is nowhere to hide from poor presentation in clear Southland water.

Some evenings we fished the Waiau well into darkness beneath heavy caddis and mayfly hatches. Those sessions became a favourite part of the season for many clients. Early dinners in Te Anau followed by twilight fishing beneath fading light while trout rose steadily through long slick tailwater currents.

Not everybody chose those late sessions. Some preferred whisky beside the fire back at the farmhouse, which is understandable too. But many embraced the opportunity, and those evenings often became the memories people spoke about long after individual fish blurred together.

That is something I’ve noticed repeatedly over the years.

The moments people remember most clearly are rarely just about fish.

They remember atmosphere.
Fatigue.
Weather.
Conversation.
Silence.
Shared experiences.

One particularly memorable day involved Cameron and several clients on the Oreti. One angler was managing an old knee injury, so the group split and adjusted plans accordingly. Flexibility has always been central to how we operate in New Zealand. The goal is never simply to move people mechanically through an itinerary. Different anglers need different things physically and emotionally throughout a week.

That day eventually unfolded into one of those rare sessions where everything aligns. Good fish. Good company. An early dinner in town followed by evening dry-fly fishing on the Waiau until almost dark.

The clients were exhausted by the time they returned.

Completely happy too.

Looking back now, what stays with me most strongly about that season is not any individual trout or river.

It is the feeling of movement returning.

Cars loaded again before daylight.
Clients arriving excited at Queenstown Airport.
Guides discussing weather and river levels over breakfast.
Wet waders hanging outside the farmhouse at dusk.
The simple rhythm of travelling, fishing and sharing rivers together after several years where none of it seemed guaranteed.

Perhaps that is why the season carried such emotional weight for many people involved.

The pandemic reminded us that experiences we assume permanent can disappear remarkably quickly.

Travel.
Friendship.
Gathering together.
Standing beside rivers in distant countries.

None of it should be taken entirely for granted.

As our final week approached, the atmosphere became quieter. Only two anglers remained: a long-time regular now living locally in Alexandra and an enthusiastic fly fisher from Germany. Small groups often create the best rhythm in New Zealand. Less noise. More flexibility. More room for weather, conversation and spontaneity to shape the week naturally.

By then autumn was already beginning to edge slowly into the valleys.

The season had come full circle.

And once again, the South Island had reminded us why we continue returning year after year.

Not simply because the fishing remains exceptional, though it certainly does.

But because certain places eventually become intertwined with memory, friendship and identity itself.

After enough seasons, New Zealand stops feeling like somewhere you visit.

It starts feeling like somewhere that quietly becomes part of your life.