Tag: Waiau River

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

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

We finished that season with the uneasy feeling 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 inaccessible. Clients postponed trips repeatedly, unsure whether international travel would ever truly feel straightforward again. For many anglers, New Zealand slowly drifted from being a destination on next year’s calendar into something that felt more like a memory.

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.

Back home, much of Victoria was dealing with floods. Familiar stretches of the Goulburn sat beneath heavy discoloured water. Roads were closed. Riverbanks had disappeared. Uncertainty lingered over much of the region. At the same time, reports filtering across from Southland spoke of stable weather, clear rivers and an unusually warm start to summer.

Eventually the decision became obvious.

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

Officially it was a fishing trip before the main hosted season began. Unofficially, I suspect most of us understood it was something else as well.

A reset.

A chance to breathe again.

There is something psychologically restorative about arriving in New Zealand after a long absence. The scale of the country immediately alters your thinking. The valleys seem wider. The rivers colder. The distances between places somehow larger. Even the quality of the light feels different.

For the first few days we based ourselves in Te Anau while our usual accommodation at Dunrobin continued undergoing renovations. It hardly mattered. We were simply happy to be back. The Eglinton, Waiau and Whitestone greeted us with excellent conditions. Dry flies drifted through clear currents once again. Brown trout slid from undercut banks to inspect presentations. Familiar routines, dormant for years, returned almost immediately.

That was perhaps the strangest part of all.

How quickly it came back.

The feel of cold water pressing against your legs. The crunch 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 restrictions, uncertainty and cancelled plans, 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.

Out there, moments like that tend to linger longer than fish.

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.

I first began guiding in New Zealand more than two decades ago. Over the years we’ve watched clients become friends, friends become regulars, and regulars become part of the extended family that forms around any long-running operation. The fishing remains important, of course, but after enough seasons the rivers become connected to something larger than trout.

They become connected to people.

The fishing itself reflected the conditions of the year. Southland was dry. Water levels dropped steadily as summer progressed and by late season many rivers had become exceptionally clear and technical. On famous systems such as the Mataura and Oreti, angling pressure concentrated around the sections still producing consistently.

That is the nature of modern New Zealand.

Information travels quickly. Social media accelerates everything. Rivers once considered remote no longer remain hidden for long.

Yet Southland still rewards anglers 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. 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. Success demanded patience. Presentation mattered enormously. Rushing achieved very little. By late summer many trout required near-perfect drifts before moving confidently to a fly.

That challenge remains one of the great attractions of New Zealand fishing.

At its best, New Zealand rewards thoughtfulness. Observation. Restraint. The fish are not difficult because they are unusually intelligent. They are difficult because the environment is so honest. Clear water exposes every careless movement and every rushed decision. There is nowhere to hide from poor presentation in Southland.

Some evenings we fished the Waiau until darkness beneath heavy caddis and mayfly hatches. Those sessions became a highlight for many clients. Early dinners in Te Anau followed by twilight fishing beneath fading light while trout rose steadily through long slick currents. Not everybody chose those late evenings. Some preferred a whisky beside the fire back at the farmhouse, which is understandable too. But those who stayed often spoke about those sessions long after individual fish had blurred together.

That is something I have noticed repeatedly over the years.

People rarely remember trips purely because of fish.

They remember atmosphere.

They remember fatigue.

They remember weather, conversation, shared meals and unexpected moments.

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.

Vehicles loaded 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 when none of it seemed guaranteed.

Perhaps that is why the season carried such emotional weight.

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 the final weeks approached, autumn began edging slowly into the valleys. The season had come full circle.

And once again, the South Island 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.

Ant