From my reading of hunting stories, it appears that the word ‘trophy’ not only denotes an animal whose headgear exceeds certain dimensions. It also considers species targeted, where it was shot, tenure of land being hunted, difficulty of access and the weapon used. But in saying that, I seem to hear – from business class: “Adrian, stop rambling. Stick to a subject you know something about – something that grows fins and scales!” So, in order to meet that brief:

Trophy for an Angler

A trophy is not just a large fish in the absolute sense, but one that’s big for the stream or lake it was caught in. Case in point: a large trout caught in the canals, where it bulked up on pellets drifting through salmon nets, could ‘miss the cut’, while a smaller trout, large for the smaller waterway where it’s eaten a diet of natural trout tucker, might well deserve the label.

Trophy related to fishing method

I really enjoy reading bowhunting articles in this magazine and admire the level of expertise required to stalk and kill an animal at short range. ‘Trophy’ is also related to fishing method – either to the skill required to master a technique to catch a fish in a challenging situation, or to the idea that one method is inherently superior to another. With respect to the latter: is a kill achieved with a longbow considered more ‘trophy-worthy’ than one sustained with a compound bow? I couldn’t comment. However, flyfishers can be guilty of a form of triumphalism, with dysphemistic labels for threadliners being ‘winchers’ or ‘proponents of the dark side’ being cast in their direction. I’ve been accused by a flyfisher myself of crossing over to the dark side.

However, casting with threadline gear can require more skill than fly-fishing. It depends on context. For example, to cast a ‘drifting egg’ into the strike zone within millimetres of a salmon cage in the Ohau C Canal on a windy day requires more skill than to fly cast a nymph into the open water of the same canal. Anyone who’s done both will testify to that. However, if a trout caught on the nymph were considered a trophy while one just as large or larger, caught on the ‘egg’ in that same waterway missed the cut, it’s likely that someone was making his judgement about what he terms ‘the dark side’ from his ‘place in the sun’ – fly-fishing elitism true and proper!

In short, any method can present challenges. If the capture of a sizeable fish is secured despite significant difficulties, an angler has every right to consider that fish a trophy – regardless of the technique employed.

Trophy related to quarry

Trophy is also related to quarry: a brown being typically harder to catch than a rainbow. When using a dry-fly/nymph combination for rainbows in a Ruahine papa stream, I’ve taken more care when encountering a brown trout. That could involve tying on a smaller fly, a longer leader or a thinner line. However, a brown trout can test an angler’s efforts more than that. The story of a protracted campaign against a large and difficult brown trout will be recounted in a later issue.

Trophy in the Wadi

A wadi in New Zealand? C’mon now: isn’t a wadi “a watercourse in North Africa and Arabia, dry except in the rainy season?” So how could there be a wadi in Canterbury? Well, this stream runs out of water, just like a wadi does. The result of water being pumped from the local aquifers? Probably. After heavy rainfall, fishing mate Steve and I monitor the wadi’s flow from Environment Canterbury’s river flow data site, waiting for it to drop to an ideal 1 to 3 cumecs. Leave it too long and it drops to a trickle; trout retreat to their holes under willow roots and you’re left waiting till the next rain for them to get out and about.

On January 30th last year, its flow would be perfect, so a larrup was arranged. We’d go in separate vehicles as Steve had an appointment in town at 12. The plan? Meet at 7am at a certain bridge. Trouble is, I waited at the wrong bridge. After establishing phone contact, Steve led me to a beat closer to my location, rather than leading me back to the intended spot downstream.

Once kitted up, we trudged watchfully upstream, seeking water where braids converged, looking for runs, seams and riffles that could hold a feeding trout. Steve was armed with a blade spinner, and I with a softbait. A decent-sized brownie followed my Bait Science 3″ UV Bloodworm, mounted on a 1/12oz jighead, down one run, but that was the only fish showing by the time Steve had to leave. Before departing just after 10, he told me how to identify the top of the beat and the best way to return to my truck via a pathway through paddocks.

Trouble and Triumph

As if the false start to the morning wasn’t bad enough, I began having problems with break-offs – even when casting. Eventually, I’d remember this day for all the right reasons, but there was pain to endure in the meantime. It’s never great having to blood-knot a fluorocarbon leader to braid out in  the field, but I managed it. When it happened again, blaming the braid, I scrapped a fair chunk of it before tying on the leader and attaching a Bite Science 3″ UV Smelt softbait. That done, it was time to ‘calm my farm.’ Hopefully, all would go to plan now, wouldn’t it?

Well, I’d generated sufficient serenity to land the softbait near the top of the next riffle. Now I just had to monitor its progress as it drifted towards where I stood opposite a willow on the far bank. And there, following it down was a pale and chunky brownie – but it didn’t take. I could almost hear my brother say, “Change your softbait, change your softbait!” But instead, I dropped the softbait just above where I’d last seen the fish. Result? It came down again, staged, then … plucked the softbait from the tip of my rod as deftly as a child plucks a daisy for a daisy chain. The outrage! All I was left with? Tackle dangling in the flow! The sense of loss was extreme.

After all the stress I’d endured, there’d been this wondrous change in fortune … only to have it snatched away without my having the chance to even loosen the drag! It was time to express that emotion. I was by myself, with only the birds to hear. Out it came, full volume, passionately, with no holds barred: “God! What do I have to do?” A prayer or a rhetorical exclamation of frustration? Definitely the latter provided my audience was only the birds. The outburst was cathartic enough for me to tie on and cast another Kick Minnow. However, my klutzy internship had not yet run its course for, after securing my line from the retrieve, I found it had wound around the rotor of the reel instead of the spool! How did that happen? Never mind. That was fixed by casting downstream and winding the line onto the spool. Now, to continue my quest upstream.

Soon, I came across a laminar pool, to the true left of a willow. I aimed my cast at the centre, hoping the nor’easter wouldn’t blow loose braid into the tree. Down went the softbait, ‘plop!’ and the line was clear. Great. After starting the retrieve, I saw a huge swirl near the spot where the softbait had landed, followed by a tug on the line. And the fish was still there – hooked solid! The joy of it! The gratitude!

Surprisingly, I felt calm. Dropping the daypack, I unclipped the net. The task now? To keep the trout in the tail of the pool to stop it muscling downstream. Whenever pressure brought the fish towards the net, it kept sculling to the far side, like it was saying, “Not having any of that, thank you!” Eventually, it got so irritated that it stormed the net, angrily. Well, I could empathise with that. With the net job done courtesy of the trout, all I had to do was lift the net and weigh it – seven-pounds! That’s a big trout for a tiny stream that continually dries up – a trophy indeed! And a pound or so better than my previous trophy from the wadi:

That was caught further upstream on October 29, 2003 – twenty-two years earlier! It was a cloudy nor’wester afternoon. After presenting a bead-headed golden pheasant-tail nymph to a trout I’d spotted, there’d been no response until the wind blew my nymph to its left and the fish left its station to intercept it. When the line straightened, I struck. The fish weighed a tad under six pounds. That time I had a photographer, so got reasonable pics.

Challenge, success and celebration

Meanwhile, I was trying to get effective shots of the new trophy when my truck’s transponder slid from my breast pocket into the water – yet another hassle. After a quick scan of the shallows, I shelved the quest. After all, there was a fish to photograph and return safely to the water. Once the trout swam off, I was surprised to find the transponder further from the bank than anticipated.

Having earlier rung Steve to share my despair, I now rang him to celebrate my triumph.

Next cast, I had another follow, but that was the end of the action until I reached the top of the beat and took Steve’s advice on walking back through paddocks.

Perhaps my earlier outburst had been more than a rhetorical question, with the answer being just to “keep fishing”. Maybe. But the day wasn’t over yet. Within sight of my truck, I caught a 5.5-pound trout in a riffle we’d fished that morning. Then with the transponder working nicely despite the dunking, and two fish caught – one of which was a genuine trophy – I went home a happy man.