Sight-casting or blind-casting: A New Zealand take | Hatch Magazine

The bright-white yarn indicator dipped just as it passed over what my guide, Doug Corbett, said was a 5-pound brown trout swimming and feeding happily in an idyllic South Island stream. It was quintessential New Zealand trout fishing, with the guide gazing into the deep, green water and spotting the big trout, while I — the erstwhile “client” in the scenario — worked to put an impossibly tiny nymph in front of one of these notoriously finicky fish. It’s exactly as I imagined it would be.

The stream, an out-of-the-way, oft-overlooked river (more of a creek, really) situated about a 40-minute drive from the lodge that served as home base, plunged through a stunning, fern-lined and canopied gorge, where Doug, a 15-year guiding veteran, managed to find this single, beefy brown finning in the soft water in something of a transition area between deep and shallow. This, I’ve learned, is where a lot of New Zealand’s browns hang out — close enough to shallow water to pick off hapless aquatic insects pushed high into the water column, while still being near the “security” that deep water offers.

“This is probably what most people think of when they think of New Zealand, isn’t it?” Doug remarked a few minutes before I watched that indicator dip. I nodded, taking in the unique microclimate in this little canyon. The stream was shaded by a mighty beech on one side and steep, fern-lined bluff on the other. It tumbled over light quartz rocks and tailed out just right.

This was certainly what I had in mind before I visited. As Doug kept an eye on the fish — and it took me a bit longer to see it — I slowly and carefully made my way below the trout and pulled out the line I thought I’d need to make the right cast.

“Can you still see the fish?” I asked Doug, who had occupied an elevated position, perched behind the trunk of a beech tree. He nodded, and told me to go ahead. I pulled line from the reel, and let it stretch out below me, knowing it would be much easier to water-load the 18-foot leader — a fairly standard rig for New Zealand (anglers not accustomed to this set-up should absolutely put in some practice time before flying halfway around the world to see and fish this incredible place) — than to make half a dozen false casts before launching the nymph and indicator and hoping the whole concoction lands in front of the fish.

My cast was, as Doug described it from his perch above, “lovely,” and I watched the indicator as it floated the little mayfly nymph over the edge of the pool’s deeper water. The yarn dipped suddenly and, as meticulously coached, I lifted my rod, anticipating the heavy weight of five pounds of brown trout.

Nothing.

And that’s the way it goes sometimes. Even as Doug reassured me that I’d “done everything right” as we moved away from the pool and worked our way upstream for what we hoped was another sight-casting chance (and, with these fish, there really is only one chance), lots of little factors have to come together to end up with the fish in the guide’s net. But, as Doug is fond of saying, even under an indicator, it’s all about the take.

“I just love to watch them eat,” he said. “It’s the best part. And if you can get some of these fish to eat, you’ve done everything you can do. The hooks don’t always set. Sometimes they break off. But if you can get them to eat … that’s the win.”

Blind casting for South Island trout

While sight-casting for big browns has become a South Island art form, particularly in the roaded front-country in the island’s northern reaches, at least one guide has a preference that might be a bit surprising.

Chris Williams, a longtime fly-fishing guide who lives near the town of Murchison, New Zealand, engages whole-heartedly in the sight-casting tradition the country’s guides are famous for. But, he said, if he had his choice, he’d spend more time blind-casting.

“I get tremendous satisfaction from blind casting a pool or a run that I know holds trout. I enjoy solving the puzzle, and finding the right line, the right drift, and the right fly.”

It might seem like an unusual perspective, but consider the source: a guide who’ll put in strings of weeks at a time working to find fish so his clients — both appreciative and unappreciative — can try and put flies over them. Approaching a run that looks fishy is one thing. Spotting the fish is something else altogether.

It’s also a worthwhile approach, even on the South Island, where the rivers and streams can be incredibly clear and cold — ideal for the browns that have become wonderfully naturalized in this small country that’s about as far away from their native range as it could possibly be. Because, as Chris pointed out, there are situations where even New Zealand’s trout can be hard to come by. A dropping barometer, for instance, is usually a bad sign. When it’s accompanied by cloudy skies, maybe a bit of rain and meteorological bluster, the chances for sight-casting diminish greatly.

“It very much helps to be able to find fish for clients,” the guide said, only half in jest. And he’s obviously right — most of his clients arrive on the South Island after 15-hour flights (or longer) from points all over the globe. Their time is limited. Their dates are not flexible. Finding fish — whether by pointing them out to eager anglers hoping to partake of the New Zealand staple that is sight-casting to massive brown trout or by helping anglers solve the blind-casting puzzle — is a virtual requirement, especially if he hopes to guide them again one day.

“When I know there’s fish there,” Williams said, “it’s very rewarding to find them.” As a client on one of those poor-weather days, I can tell you that it’s also very much appreciated.

It’s all still fishing

The New Zealand experience shouldn’t be shaded by the occasional need to prospect for trout with frequent fly changes, depth changes, and, very often, more walking. Not every day is a sight-casting day, which, I think, really makes those bluebird mornings and afternoons spent in the New Zealand backcountry hunting for trout all the more worthwhile. Regardless of how anglers (or their guides) fish a South Island trout stream, the chance to do it should never be frowned upon.

Yes, it’s a long flight, particularly for travelers who only have enough cash to afford a coach seat, but not enough to warrant a bump up to business class. But the jetlag fades quickly once fly fishers lay eyes on the waters they’ll fish over the next week or two (and, honestly, why go for one week if going for two is doable?). The stunning scenery, warm and welcoming people, and the guides who’ll do their best to put their clients on fish — either by finding fish and giving their clients the chance to sight-cast to them, or by helping them blind-cast into likely runs — make this experience worthy of anyone’s bucket list.

And when that patented New Zealand indicator dips, sometimes there’s five pounds (or more) of brown trout on the other end. And that’s what it’s all about.