I’ve been thinking some about mortality lately, in part due to venturing into my fifties. In vehicular terms, you’ve just passed the 100,000 mile mark. All manufacturer’s bets are off, and the needle on the tank shows closer to empty than full. In part it’s the season, the sun low and fleeting, nights long and cold, nature stripped bare. In part, the sudden passing of a family member, and realizing the folly of believing there will always be a tomorrow to finish whatever is put off today.
When my time comes, there’s a river in New Zealand I wouldn’t mind having a few ashes scattered on. It’s called the Mohaka, and it flows out of the Ahimanawa mountains in the east-central North Island. In twenty five years of river running, its has given me moments of elation and anguish, inspiration and fear. I’ve had my best day of fly fishing ever on its waters – no camera to record it, no other soul to witness it, just me and the river. I’ve stood on its banks knees weak, insides knotted with dread, a crew member from my raft missing in its raging waters for over an hour, and felt the waves of relief when he was found, safe and sound. It has been the scene of my most challenging guide trip – three days for no fish – and also the provider of my biggest tips.
When a recent family event necessitated an impromptu trip back to New Zealand, a day on the Mohaka was my number one recreational priority. I managed to hook up with Steve, a friend who’s been fishing and hunting the central North Island for the best part of three decades. In that time of guiding the rich and famous he’s walked away from helicopter crashes, dodged the slings and arrows of outraged husbands, caught more fish than is decent, and like most guides probably drank enough to kill several small elephants in the process.
It had been over five years since I’d had oars and feet planted in a New Zealand river, and in terms of my fishing technique, it showed. Despite knowing better, it always seems to take a while to reintroduce myself to the realities of New Zealand fishing. You tend to not get too many opportunities, so a fish missed as the result of a clumsy cast or mistimed hook set or too tight a rein always leaves you pondering, wondering: will the river will give you another chance, or has she shut the door on your face and turned the key? Gentle Colorado-style hook sets get treated with head shaking disdain, while attempting to arrest that first charging run with a drag set too tight results in bent hooks and the kind of language that would make a sailor blush.
Fortunately this day, the Mohaka was a patient mistress. My first fumblings were tolerated, and after taking a break for lunch and a beer, I got my mojo working at last. The reward for me was a couple of lovely fish, a rainbow and a brown, a day spent on a special river in perfect company, and the commitment to ensure that it is not another five years hence before I again get to immerse myself in the sights, sounds and smells of one of the most special places on Earth.
