With The Rod.

Taranaki Daily News, 18 December 1920, Page 8 (Supplement)

With The Rod.

IN TARANAKI STREAMS AND RIVERS. -SOME REMINISCENCES. By "Ripple". "We may say of angling, as Dr. Boteley said of strawberries: 'Doubtless God could have made a better berry, but doubtless God never did'; and so, if I might judge, God never did make a more calm, quiet, inno- . cent recreation than angling." —lsaao Walton. Given decent weather—and there are some breaks of sunshine in Taranaki— I can recommend angling as one of the most wholesome of pastimes that will keep one in good health and afford one an abiding pleasure, as fresh at fifty as at fifteen. Nature has given to the Taranaki angler much to be grateful for. Bountiful rivers, fed by the everlasting snows of Egmont, meander over fine be.ds of, stone.and pebbles, audit is in these waters that the- brown and rainbow trout lurk and grow lusty. To the angler who studies the habits of the fish and finds out what particular fly or lure the fish most appreciate, there is always the. chance of a catch of half a dozen, or even a dozen, good specimens during the day, and at the close, as the sportsman wends his peaceful way homeward, he is, or should be, a better man physically, mentally, and morally, for his sojourn amongst Nature's surroundings. Our streams afford the angler varied interests. If trout are not on the feed, there are the wooded and verdure-clad cliffs and gorges, draped to the water's edge with bush, with its beautiful tints. Then there is the bird life, as well as many curious winged and creeping insects to study, horrible-looking spiders, scorpions and wetas under the rotting logs, and so on. Anon the angler may step round a bend of the stream and flush a mother duck with her brood of pretty ducklings, or perhaps disturb a' water rat on the bank and see him swim away with just the tip of his finepointed nose above the surface. To the tired business marr a week amid sucli surroundings is particularly restful and refreshing, and will strengthen or rebuild his nervous system much more quickly than by taking a holiday in the city, or tearing around the country in a high-powered motor car.

The ■ present season in Taranaki' has opened well. Nearly every stream has yielded good baskets of well-conditioned fish. AH the calmer weather ■comes along, and the streams get down to normal size, both early morning and evening fishing are sure to be good. The pastime is certainly becoming increasingly popular, more licenses being taken out in the various districts than In previous years. . AN EVENING'S FISHING. What a gladsome experience it is to the angler to have a successful evening on a good trout river! You get down to a favorite pool. The rod seems to join itself. Tn a few moments you have made your first cast, and the flies drop like 'a breath on the molten silver. In the swift leaping water, at the smooth back of an eddy, in the white foam, under the cliff shadow, here, there and all around the bright flies drop softly. And then a swirl of water, and a .broad, lazy tail shows, and your "Peyeril of

£hc Peak" iS fast into a three-pounder. How carefully yen handle hini until he is safely creeled, and you go on to the next likely water. You proceed with your casting until you are startled by a noble fish rising on the feed just a few yards off. You see a broad side and get a glimpse of glimmering color, Y'ou shorten your line, and ten seconds later your flics fall skilfully just upstream whence you saw that break in the water. For an instant the flies drift downstream, to be floated here and there, to be sucked down and spat out of tiny suction holes. Then, cautiously, you draw them across the surface of the current. Vour heart thumps and slows up, and your disappointment is keen. Then,' rnysterior.fly, the surface water- breaks, and the "Peveril of the Peak" quietly disappears. The moment you have waited for has arrived, and you stiffen your arm and strike. An answering'strain, and your rod-tip halfcircles as the line rips off the reel. Then the fight. Knee-deep, waist-deep, swift water, ■ slack water, downstream, upstream, your eyes straining into the dimness. Time and again he breaks water, an apparition from the depths. His rushes shorten just as daylight, is dying. • The sullen fish yields. With great gentleness you float him into the net. Then carefully you wade ashore and over the beach to a grassy bank. There you lay your six-pounder down and lift up your heart in rejoicing. You fold away the gear, and step along the bank to where your mates are. "Any i luck, Skellum?" you call out. "Not so i bad," comes the joyful response, and in a moment "Skellum" shows you a couple of royal four-pounders. "Roa" steps around from a bend in the stream, and you senfie by his glad step that he has "killed". One by one he counts out five even two-and-a-half-pound beauties. They both look towards my creel, and silently and slowly T produce my threepounder. "Good luck!, old Shetland," they exclaim simultaneously. Then with both hands I tenderly lift out the sixi pounder, and as his lordly proportions are exhibited over a boulder their eyes start out from admiration. With such a splendid display of trout on view there is only one thing needed to complete the evening. Out comes the flask, and we each in turn sip a silent toast, and, gathering up our gear and bags, - steal off home, too full of happiness to enter into any discussion. It's a glad time, brother. '•

ANGLING A BULL: A TRUE STORY. There is a' peace that the world knows not. It is jiot the calm peace after international strife, nor the domestic peace of the home. Neither is it the hum-drum peace of the commercial life of the town. It is that wonderful state of peaceful mind that envelops tlie angler when he has a full creel of fish, and is Wending his homeward way in the hush of the evening calm. 1 was in such a mood'not so long-ago. Then a terrific roar near by electrified my whole being. Without stopping 1 glanced back, and saw a savage-looking bull making towards me, tail up and •'at the chaTge". The only hope of escape was a blind swamp at my side, and without hesitation I dashed into the soft mush and was quickly up to my thighs, and made for a tussock, and this gave me support. I turned round to see what had become of my bovine acquaintance, He stood at the brink of the swamp, vigorously tearing up Die turf. I could see that he had but one desire in life just then—to ccme to close quarters with me, but the brute knew that if he entered the swamp he would speedily become bogged. For a quarter of an hour we glared at each other, and the battle-lust in his eye was not good to see. Then I commenced to speak kindly in the hope of pacifying hk feelings. He made remarks iu reply that would not bear repetition. However, night was coming on, and a cold wind suggested that my present position would hardly be comfortable night quarters. But how to get out—that was the question. My only weapon of defence was my slim fishing rod, of which I had fortunately retained possession. It was while looking at the rod that inspiration came. I would angle the bulU And this is how I did it. Hastily detaching the frail silken cast from the end of my fishing line, I opened my minnow-box and took out the largest minnow in my possession. It wae a heavy metal one,' known as a "Devon", three inches long, and armed with three double sets of triple hooks. Adjusting- the minnow to the line on the rod, I paid out a few yards, and commenced to cast towards the bull. The second east swung the minnow round his body, and, giving the rod a jerk, I found that one of the hooks had caught the animal around tlie flank. With a kick and a jump the bull twisted, and the shank of the hook broke. Although I made several m»re casts I could not get a hook into him. Shifting from my cramped position a little to continue the game made the bull imagine I was going to escape. He. oame up again to the edge of the swamp, ripped more turf, and said a lot of nasty things. While his head was lowered I made several shots to hook the brute about the head. Luck at last was with me. I dragged the minnow across his face. One of the hooks caught and held. To say that the bull was surprised was to put it mildly. His tail, .which a minute before had been lashing from side to side, dropped down, and he commenced to back away. While his head was lowered I 'could see that the hook was well embedded in his eyelid. He backed about twenty yards, but evidently the pain was too acute for even a bovine. He came to a dead halt, and commenced to turn his head slowly from side to side, in an endeavor to dislodge the object that was cafising him such acute agony, I began to regain a little confidence. Seeing that the hook was causing so much pain, I decided to tighten the lino, and, sure enough, as I reeled in. the animal gave to the strain, and I hauled him right up to the edge of the swamp in front of me. I now gave the rod and line several vicious tugs, and-the bull opened his month and bellowed with pain. I decided to five him a few more goofl prods, and then break the gear and see if he would let mc out of my uncomfortable quarters. With an extra vigorous pull I broke the hook away from the hold on the bull's face. I .had not long to wait to see what my foe would do. Relieved of the thing that had given him such a smarting, he wheeled .around, and for about fifty seconds there was just a streak of bull going one way up the paddock, and a fairly fleet etrenk of angler moving in the opposite direction. (This story sounds like a real fish story, but our contributor vouches for its authenticity.—Ed. Christmas' Number.) MY BEST FISH. , It was a glorious stretch of water, with an eddy just at the lieac*. of a mighty pool, with a cliff of brown and j jr'iy sjtrata for a backing. Giving tlw

rod two or three quick passes through the air to dry the Hies, 1 made an accurate cast, the ''GreenweU's Glory" just touching on a bubble thrown up by the spray. There was a swirl that broke the witter and a flash of color as u majestic trout engulfed the lure. Depressing the butt of the rod to drive the hook home, there was a responsive jar, and I knew by the pressure that I was angling "my best fish". The scream of the reel told nie that here was no ordinary four or six-pounder, but a fish that would go down in tradition. These wns plenty of water, and no snags to worry about, and the first torpedo-like rush' reeled off a full sixty yards of line. Then came the greatest thrill as the spotted beauty leaped four feet out of the water. 1 had hooked into the daddy fish of the river. Around and across the pool, down and up stream, this veteran of many fights took me, ever and anon breaking water and trying, to disgorge the hook that held him. For twenty minutes his wild rushes never ceased. Then he slacked lip a bit and enabled me to recover all except some dozen feet of line. I unshipped the landing net, and advanced to try to'secure. I was prepared for further rushes from such a lusty specimen, but he lay gasping quietly in about two feet of wattr. At this moment my attention was taken by a commotion a yard further out in the stream, and my vision just sensed by the streak of color that another .fish was present. Momentarily there was a tightening of the rod, the reel sang out its merry note, and the line tore off faster than before. The second fish had taken the "dropper" fly. Here was an awkward predicament. Two mighty trout with all their splendid united vigor attached to one rod, and only a thin strand of gut to hold them. Bracing myself for the fray I had my skill taxed to the utmost. Seconds ' seemed minutes, and minutes appeared to be drawn out to hours. Every move of these beauties T. countered successfully, until in all the pride and thankfulness of heart that belongs only to the true angler I stepped out to a grassy bank with the two fish in the landing net. I had just time to take out my weighing scales, and found that the fish weighed exactly 1.81b3 each. Then tt awakened with a start. I had been dozing under a karaka tree after a hearty lunch topped off with a bottle of "Beacon Light 1"

A TRYING SITUATION. Every man has his awkward moments, when he feels he would like to be telescopic in. structure aYid able to shrink ir to oblivion, or be blotted out like a hailstone failing on a hot stove. Of the varying difficult situations 1 have had to face there is one that stands out. Although. it happened years ago, I still have an uncomfortable "creep" when memory reveals the details in all their wretched nudity, I had angled a nice three-pound brown trout, under a country road bridge', and in his final struggles he got my line snagged on an overhanging -tutu-bush. ■ The water was about five feet deep, and I could not bear to weak the gear and' lose my wellearned fbii. I decided to strip off my clothes and wade in to unfasten the line from t.'ie snag. I cast a hasty glance up and down the road t-> Tiiake sure no one was about. In a minr.te I had disrobed and clad only in my fishing boots I waded across to the tutu-bush. I had just disentangled the gear when I heard a horse's footsteps coining. Here was a nice predicament. Crouching under the bush as fur as possible, I vainly endeavored to hide mystlf. I looked up to the_ bridge, and there war, a double buggy lout cf people (mostly ladies) watching my antics. It was a pitiful position—for me, anyhow. Holding my rod high, I turned my back on the bridge and proceeded hastily upstream. Here I found the water deeper and deeper as I proceeded, and I had to return. The good folk were so interested in my mode of angling that they had pulled up on the middle of the bridge, and I could see that their intentions were to see the game out to the end. I did some rapid thinking, but could see no way out of the difficulty. Downstream the water ran into a dark, deep pool, and my heavy fishing brogues made swimming impossible. I put up hand to them and called, requesting them to go away. The rush of the water drowned my voice, and the folk shook their heads, plainly denoting that they could not hear me. What could I do? My clothes lay in a heap on the bank, and I verily believe I saw my old fishing coat reefing itself into smiles of derisive laughter at the situation, Then' I remembered that in the Garden of Eden the fashionable dress was of fig-leaves. I gazed along the bank to see if a fig-tree grew there, but the only vegetation in sight were Scotch thistles and blackberry bushes. I was baffled,, and felt nil done i\p—and the water was cold, too. I decided on a bold move. I would wade out towards my clothes, and see if the spectators would take the hint and move on. I started and got along until the water was only three; feet* deep. I felt hot and embarrassed, and looked defiantly at my audience. Not a move out of them. I was forced to face the music and wade ashore. Clad 6nly in my boots and my sweetest smile, I stepped out. One, two, three, steps I "made! There was a startled "Oh!" and light little swams from two or three highpitched voices. Then the buggy whip got busy, and the old horse, which had been asleep, was flogged off that bridge and up the next hill in record time. Since that day, no matter how deep the water, I wade the rrvers with my clothes on.