Muddler proves no slouch on trout

Taupo Times, Volume 23, Issue 48, 18 June 1974, Page 7

Muddler proves no slouch on trout

"Funny thing!" shouted the little man. "I've fished the Tongariro for 25 years and never tried the Major Jones before! How do I fish it? Where are the lies?" "Well, just fish the pool down," I shouted back lamely. "Look, I haven't fished the Major Jones for three years and I've got two, so you'll be all right." He wasn't in any hurry. He stood in the quieter water below the rapids and talked about a day when he'd been fishing one of

the upper pools and hadn't taken a fish. So he'd consulted his fly box yet again, found a funny fly an American had given him, put it on in desperation, fished the pool through again and caught nine fish. I made a move to go. I had taken a 31b river jack and a fresh-run 4V2lb hen and wanted to give myself time to fish the mouth of the Waimarino on the way home. I was halfway up the bank, pushing my way

through the withered broom, when I heard a joyful shout, followed by the splash of a surprised fish. I turned round to watch him play it, then put rod and fish down to go back down and give The little man an audience. He'd started off his maiden voyage down the Major Jones very well. And it seemed a good fish, too. When he beached it it was perhaps a shade lanky, but it was, nevertheless, a

worthy Tongariro jack rainbow. That fish was the 16th to come out of the Major Jones between 10.30 a.m. and 1.30 p.m. One American went away with five, highly pleased with himself. Although it was a weekday I ought to have expected the crowd. Seven cars were parked by the swingbridge when I arrived. After all, it was June and a rare downpour had brought a run of fish upriver two days before. Apparently they were still coming. And the word had got around. The word was, too, that an orange malibu was doing all the damage. So I'd come with two, and two orange hairy dogs, and — against local advice, which stipulated that orange was the current answer — two small green orbits. Somehow those garish malibus talked themselves out of a job and I plumped for one of the green orbits. I would fish the pool down once with that, then once with the malibu. Reaching down into that interesting corner just below the rapids for the fourth time the green orbit found a fish. It wasn't anything to write home about, just a 31b jack which certainly hadn't come up on the last fresh. I was beaching him when a voice said: "Mind if I go in halfway down?" His friend was already getting into position at the head of the rapids behind me, the next man ddwn was a good 50 yards below, so the only logical place for the man beside me was indeed some 20 yards downstream from me. "Go for your life," I grinned, and got back in quickly in case his friend upstream of me was thinking of closing the gap. That's the trouble with popular places. But if everyone observes the rules no one suffers. We all proceeded slowly down. I was casting up and across, mending loose line upstream to get the green orbit well down. Ten minutes later the second fish stopped the lure in its tracks and stripped the reel almost clean of casting line. It was a strong fresh-run hen of 4i/2lb. "Hey, you're doing extra well," said the humorous 'character upstream. "What have you got on?" "Green orbit." "Green orbit!" he said,

astounded. He tied on a new fly and in 10 minutes was playing his first fish. His friend downstream of me hooked one at the same time. They continued to take fish after fish while I, the middle man, took just one snag, twice. Sometimes it's like that. You joke about it at the time, and try to puzzle out an answer later. I nearly fished the pool down again, but realised I wouldn't have time if I meant to try the Waimarino. Then the talkative little man arrived and proceeded to catch his first Major Jones' fish in record time. "Look," he said, "that's the fly I was telling you about. It's a muddler minnow, tied the original American way. The chap who gave it to me said we tie it wrong here. Seems to go down well on the Tongariro, eh? Here." He pulled out a box of flies. "Take one. I tied these up this morning." He handed me a replica of the genuine muddler minnow. "Well, thanks very much. Mind if I go in behind you and see whether it'll work for me too?" But although I was able to fish that first interesting pocket of water below the rapids for some minutes, the muddler brought no response. Pity. I went away from the Major Jones and headed south and, as usual, because I like to walk, took the track along the Waimarino instead of parking the car close to the mouth on the other side. I fished experimentally, not familiar with the new mouth and not greatly confident of the muddler, and half my mind on the tranquillity of that mild, dreamy, late autumn afternoon. So I wasn't really ready for the one fish that fancied the muddler, but I hooked him, watched backing sizzling alarmingly through the rings twice, and eventually landed a good 51b jack rainbow. He made rather a mess of the muddler. But I'm going to repair it, with great care, believe me.