WITH THE ROD

Taranaki Daily News, 16 December 1921, Page 8 (Supplement)

WITH THE ROD

IN TARANAKI STREAMS. INCIDENTS OF RIVER LIFE. (By "Ripple ”) Oh! the gallant fisher’s life Is the best of any, ’Tis full of pleasure, void of strife And ’tis beloved by many. Other joys Are but toys, Only this Lawful is, For our skill Breeds no ill. But content and pleasure. —lzaac Walton. To the majority of folk the pastime of angling is really unknown. Their ideas are strictly limited respecting the true interests of the game, and usually they dismiss the subject with a shrug of the shoulder and the remark, “I could not have the patience to go and fish for trout and come home time and again without fish!" But to the born angler how diffe nt is the case! Every rodman knows what it is to leave his snug bed long before the sun makes its appearance on even a summer morning, pack up his gear, and go off to some stream to be in time for the early fishing. As the angling water comes into view every nerve in his system goes a-quiver and his movements are accelerated by his anxiety to get his gear in order and make his first cast. It matters not if his fishing clothes are sodden and cold from the previous night’s fishing. He pulls on the wet breeches, socks, and soggy boots without a twinge. Sometimes at this early hour the water is nippy, and a piercing wind be whistling up the river bed. But the angler does not feel it, or, if he does, he takes no heed, but steps boldly forth into the stream, and in a few moments has made his first few casts on the water. He may not see a rise or “get a touch” for an hour, but he is thrilled with the expectation of a good fighting fish in the next pool or rapid, and his tense expectation blots out every other thought. He is content, and as he halts and lids his old briar pipe and puffs out wreaths of blue tobacco smoke, which curl away into the clear atmosphere, a peaceful happiness steals o’er him, and he becorned attuned to nature’s surroundings. The run rises and warms up the. cool atmosphere, from the trees comes the twitter of birds, and high above the adjacent meadow land the blythe song of the skylark is heard trilling in all its mellow sweetness.

Angling has been described as “idle time not idly spent.” I have known good anglers to fish most dilligently for eight hours and not see a fish, and still be happy and contented because of the interests that have come their way from association with nature’s many charms, at the river side and in the adjacent woods. Should you lure’ from some secluded haunt some big six-pound monarch of a mighty pool, and take him onThe Bradshaw’s Fancy or some other favorite fly, the gods are with you, and VOU will have done a noteworthy deed that remains evergreen in your memory. If, on the other hand, the trout are too cunning and clever for you, the true spirit of philosophy comes to soften vour disappointment, and you have the wonders of nature all around you to absorb your attention.

“THE LAUGHING RIVER.” A TALK WITH AN ANCIENT MAORI. The call of the river had taken possession of me one hot summer day last Christmas tide, and just after mid-day 1 decided Vo cease angling and stretch my tired limbs under the shade of some friendly trees situated in one of the prettv* miniature gorges of the bed o' the Waiwakaiho river. It was quite a beautiful spot and I began to wonder how often the Maoris in the old days had trod the same bank and wandered through the ferny glades in their search for karaka. tawa and other berries, snared pigeons and tuis from the leafj trees, or hunted tuna (eels) and koura (crayfish) under the stones in the slack waters of the river bed. In my fancy I saw a hoary-headed old chief with his finelv-tatooed face directing the vounger braves to the best runs m the river for setting the stake nets for the peharau (lampry eels) and also the most likely spots for* capturing the upokororo (native grayling), which at one time visited these waters each year in teeming thousands. And then the thought came to my mind that I would like to know the Maori meaning of the river’s name — Waiwakaiho. As though in answer to my wish, my gaze was attracted down the stream, and there, sure enough, was an old Maori lifting up stones in the river, jagging with hook and stick the eels from their lairs and pitching the squirming creatures on to the bank, where his wahine gathered them into a large flax kit. After watching the successful and clever manner of capturing the wily tuna for some time. 1 .sauntered down to the dusky pair and passed the salute of the dav,’ They were quite friendly, and after* we ha*d each inspected the other’s catch, I asked the native if he could tell me why his ancestors had given the Waiwakaiho its decidedly pretty-sounding, but —to the stranger—bewildering name. For a time the native said nothing. Then he explained that the waters received their name because of the musical gurgling sound they made as they meandered over their stone and pebbly bed. In fact, the name meant “laughing waters, waters that laughed over tne whole surface of the stream.” 1 thanked my informant anil he. evidently thinking he had pleased me well, requested a fill of tobacco for his pipe. Mv pouch was well stocked, and the old boy’s eyes glistened as he helped himself and iambed the bowl of the pipe to its utmost' capacity. His wahine produced a caverous looking old pipe rom one of the mysterious pockets that most native ladies have in their attire, and with a bonnie smile on her matronly face, remarked: “Ehoe. pakeha me like ti raurau too.” I gladly allowed the dame to help herself. “ ml after our adieus in the Maori fashion, we each went our respective waysi to thinking how very appropriate y I e stream had been named, ami «> 1 ’ «1 to the tinkle ami the rippling of the wstezs it was conceivable that the Maori should so name it. " 1 ‘‘" 1 breeze MWral down the river the swill and fall of the mM«ic Was an excellent imitation of bright and laughter. And then 1 speculated on how vigorously the waters laughed dm•„7 flXl time. How as the turbulent stream rose I he laughter swelled until it shrined with disdain, and roared as

!it flung tree trunks floating in its grip and -rolled and smashed asunder huge I boulders in its maddened career. And in the height of its flood all the little streamlets in the bed became one huge swirling monster that laughed with the screech of a thousand demons as it pvtched its potent power on to the sands of the seashore and tore its way, laden with sand, mud, and debris, into the great green depths of the ocean, i where its violence was dissipated. And now, no matter how frequently I visit the old river in quest of trout, as I work my way up rapid and skirt the pools. I always listen for the joyful peals* of laughter that may be heard by any angler who will take the trouble to listen.

A TROUT, A DOG, AND A CAT. A TRUE FISH STORY. For many jolly fishing seasons my boon companion on the river was a dog. He was of the sporting type—at least, he had great sporting instincts. Expert dog fanciers would look him over and remark : “Say, Ripple, what breed do you call that pup?” He was a queer nondescript affair, I know, and I could not classify him so I always gave (the one answer: “Just Dog!” His parentage was obscure like into that of the average Kuri (dog) to be found at a Maori village. However, “you cannot tell the flavor of a sausage by its skin/’ and despite the dogs unfavorable appearance he was possessed of a merry disposition and a great warm heart. He was a born fighter, and the first year I owned him he had what he reckoned was a. glorious fight, and had lost half an ear and torn out a couple of teeth. And when 1 complained to him about his appearance he would swagger and dance in front of me, and remark, as plainly as a dog can, “You think me an awful looking guy, I know, but you should see the other tyke!”

He was never friendly with any person but myself, but his loyalty to me or any of my belongings was staunch m the extreme. If the day were too hot, and I tool! off my coat and laid it down on the bank, the dog would lie beside it, and pretend to be asleep. But let a wandering cow come within a chain of him and he would be at her heels a shot, and a few nips of his sharp teeth would speedily convince the bovine that she had business at the top end of the paddock.

One sultry .afternoon I left my coat an<l fishing bag on a branch of a tree, and taking only my rod and gaff set off up a rapid. In a few minutes I haa angled and secured a nice trout, and having no bag with me I laid the fish by a stone, and informed the tyke it was his business to guard it. As usual, he lay down beside his charge, and in a few minutes was sound asleep. Whether he had a dream or not I cannot tell, but looking down stream I saw the tyke walking around with his nose in the air, and questing all quarters of the compass. Evidently he reckoned there was game about somewhere, as he set off steadily up tire bank, and was soon out of sight in search of pheasant, quail, hare, or perhaps a stray woodhen. A few minutes later I looked down stream to where my fish lay. There was no dog in sight, but my surprise may be guessed when I saw a big grey and white cat skipping across the stones with my trout in its mouth. I let out a roar that would scare several of the nine lives out of any ordinary cat, but this feline only clapped on the pace, and before I could get close enough to heave a stone the cat and trout had disappeared into a blackberry and gorse brake.

Hearing the commotion the dog reappeared and made straight for the stone, where he knew he should be on guard. His distress at nbt finding the fish was very real, and he came cringing up to me to take the hiding he knew he so richly deserved. He got off with a few sharp remarks, and some threats, as to what would happen if ever he was again false to the trust reposed in him. Suddenly his keen nose sensed that a cat ha<l been around, and with a rush he took up the scent and dived into the blackberry brake. In thirty seconds) there was a pretty large sized upheaval in the undergrowth, accompanied by a yowling and spitting that proclaimed that the two animals were leading a real and dog life. Ordinarily the tyke was a match for any town or domesticated cat. He would dive straight into the scrap and take the cat’s attack on his shoulder, and although he lost a few strips'of hide and much hair he generally piit the cat to flight. But here was a species of cat that had -a fighting instinct, which, living m a wild state, had developed. I waited with bated breath expecting to see the dog emerge with the cat. in his mouth. The tyke emerged alright, with wonderful vigor and haste, but with the cat on his back hanging on with her front paws and getting hi some great ripping work with her sharp hind claws. This was a class of'scrap that the dog had not met before, and as he yelled his fear he came' straight to me for assistance. 1 naturally had no wish to participate in the mix-up, and with one rush scrambled on top of a big boulder and kept the dog off with my gaff handle. /

Seeing that, he could not rely upon any help from myself the dog tore around the adjacent paddock, getting an amount of pace out of his crooked legs that was quite surprising. The cat was easily master of the situation and rode a great race. Every time she ripped the° dog’s hide he would leap like a motor car whose driver was jambing his foot hard on to the accelerator. The tvke'began to pant with the exertion, and was just about ‘“all in" when I observed that the great fear in his eyes had vanished. He was thinking, and in a trice must have evolved a great idea. He took his bearings, and in place of galloping madly and aimlessly around headed straight* for the river. In a score of leaps he was at the head of a deep pool of water, and, putting every halfounce of his remaining strength into his leap, sprang out into the river. He loved the water and could dive like a native of the Solomon Islands. Far down to the bottom of the river he plunged, gave his body a shake, and in a few seconds there appeared on the surface of the water the most bedraggled looking rat you ever saw. A few strokes brought the dog ashore, but the cat was in sore distress, and I had to give her assistance to land. I expected that the dog would want revenge, hut to my surprise, all the scrap had gone out of him, and he backed up the bank anil pretended he had no interest in the affair. The eat soon recovered sufficiently to climb a tree, where we left her, I have often wondered which of the fighters won the scrap, hut have never come to a. final decision. Brother angler, 1 leave it to you! [The remainder of “Ripple’s” veracious contributions will appear in'to morrow's paper—-squeezed out of this page.]