As I grew up, my father (pic, below right), brothers, cousins and uncles all enjoyed fishing the areas around Christchurch, mostly for the table: mullet, garfish (piper) and occasionally some flounder, kahawhai or other assorted species. Preparing one's gear the night before, in anticipation of waking up at an early hour to start the adventure, was always one of life's great little experiences!
Salwater angling for these species was pretty much straight forward. But every so often we would encounter someone who was into the heady - or so it appeared to us - sport of trout angling. New Zealand has always been a trout angler's paradise and those fortunate enough to somehow have been initiated into the mysteries of this sport were indeed blessed. Being an immigrant family living in New Zealand, trout angling was not a pursuit we had any direct prospect of connection with. It seemed far from the world of mullet and garfish. But I lived in hope that one day I might be initiated into the inner sanctums of what I perceived to be a very select sport.
If I thought my university years might provide the discretionary time to find someone to induct me into the trout fishing fraternity, I was sadly mistaken. University life, women, sport and social activities all conspired to reduce the amount of time that one could spare for time-intensive pastimes such as the contemplative art of angling. Oh, and I forgot to mention study!
On graduating as a newly-fledged forester I was appointed to Karioi Forest, Ohakune, straight out of university, then to Ngaumu Forest in the Wairarapa as a newly-wed. After a short time there, it was off to the far south, Invercargill, where as District Forester for Eastern Southland/South East Otago, my duties focused on the Hokonuis (famous for its old illegal whisky industry) and the Catlins State Forest Park – which was just at the early stages of being set up.
I had heard of the famous Mataura, Oreti and other Southland rivers and my regular travel around my district took me past so many beautiful lowland streams. Overnighting at Owaka in the Catlins where the peat-stained Catlins River travels through beautiful beech forest to the sea simply whet my appetite even more. But having just bought our first house, a comfortable two bedroom place set on an overgrown section, the demands of landscaping the section, erecting a garage, laying a driveway, creating a vegetable garden, interior decorating soon soaked up any aspirations for trying to find someone who might be willing to be my trout fishing mentor.
And to make the story complete, in 1977 and 1979 our two beautiful girls were born and by the end of 1979, I had been transferred to NZ Forest Service Head Office, Wellington, where I would undertake my studies for my Master of Public Policy. This was a two-year course, the first year was part time while working full-time! Not recommended, and it was something I would definitely never recommend to anyone unless they just HAVE to do it.
By the end of the second year, I was pretty exhausted and after the final exam booked a place in Rotorua to go away for a week with my family and brother in law and his wife. Neither my brother in law nor I had ever fished for trout before, but he had been given a fly rod for Christmas and so we thought it was a great time to try it out. Thrashing the water of the Rotorua Lakes locality alternately with spinning gear and fly gear brought no results, so one day we decided to try the Waikato hydro lakes. I have no idea what took us there but we ended up sitting on a large boulder on the edge of Lake Whakamaru.
It was a stinking hot November afternoon and nothing seemed to be happening, so in boredom we periodically engaged in bouts of frenzied threshing with the fly rod so see if we could improve our form. No joy! However, after one such episode, my brother in law managed to somehow avoid the menacing fly-grabbing scrub behind us and actually land the fly on the water. That accomplished, we sat in awe at this astounding feat and wondered what would happen next.
As if on cue, a big brown trout slowly cruised into view, spotted the little dry fly sitting modestly on the surface and ever so gently climbed to the surface and sucked it in. We froze at this unscripted drama as inept novices are not meant to entice a brown trout to the dry fly – are they? John instinctively lifted the rod tip, there was a brief flurry and then the monster was gone.
With hearts palpitating we sat there, silently, reflecting on what we had just seen. If there is one defining moment that hooked me on trout angling, it was that one. Of course, in years to come as my experience levels and success rose, it became apparent to me that what we had been blessed with that day was a classic still-water cruising brown trout, on its regular beat, spotting a morsel and rising to gently sip it in. I can still see it now.
A sustained effort followed to master the art of flycasting without whipping the fly off. On one of my periodic work trips to Rotorua I had the good fortune to meet John Innes, an experienced flyfisher working at the Forest Research Institute who was willing to share some tips. On a trip late one night to the mouth of the Waiohewa Stream mouth, Lake Rotorua I landed my very first trout. And a good one it was, nearly 7 pounds of fat rainbow trout. I was thrilled.
But that trout on fly gear was to remain my solitary success on fly for some time, and it was with considerable excitement that I looked forward to my posting in October 1983 to Golden Downs Forest at Tapawera – about 50 minutes’ drive from the great little city of Nelson – right alongside the well-stocked Motueka River, and so close to many great rivers and streams of that picturesque district.
Being in the midst of such beautiful trout water was to be such a catalyst in trying to acquire and improve my flyfishing skills: reading the water, spotting trout, fly selection, stalking trout, casting gently, not spooking trout and so on.
But nothing in life comes easily to those who are not yet deserving. And so it would be that for virtually the whole of my first fishing season there I had totally unspectacular results with spinning gear (having given up on the fly gear). But as a persistent and dogged Taurean, I persevered, and one April day, shortly before the end of the trout season it suddenly all happened. For some reason, things just started making sense and I started catching fish.
What had happened? Months of unsuccessfully thrashing the water had not caught me many fish, but as a keen observer, it had provided me insights as to where they should be found within a stretch of river. And each success then bred success, ignited yet more enthusiasm and the positivity and confidence that I exuded, meant that my senses were attuned to success. By the start of the next fishing season, I was ready to seriously work on improving my fly fishing and that too happened.
But that is a yarn for another time!
All photos: Theo Simeonidis From the top: 1. My late father George Simeonidis, with some nice mullet, Stewart's Gully, Christchurch. 2. A Mataura River, Southland, brown trout comes to the net. 3. A calm, misty Lake Whakamaru, Waikato River. 4. Dove River, a small tributary of the Motueka River, near Tapawera, Nelson District. 5. A fat 3.5lb Dove River brown trout, taken on a size 16 black nymph.
Salwater angling for these species was pretty much straight forward. But every so often we would encounter someone who was into the heady - or so it appeared to us - sport of trout angling. New Zealand has always been a trout angler's paradise and those fortunate enough to somehow have been initiated into the mysteries of this sport were indeed blessed. Being an immigrant family living in New Zealand, trout angling was not a pursuit we had any direct prospect of connection with. It seemed far from the world of mullet and garfish. But I lived in hope that one day I might be initiated into the inner sanctums of what I perceived to be a very select sport.
I had heard of the famous Mataura, Oreti and other Southland rivers and my regular travel around my district took me past so many beautiful lowland streams. Overnighting at Owaka in the Catlins where the peat-stained Catlins River travels through beautiful beech forest to the sea simply whet my appetite even more. But having just bought our first house, a comfortable two bedroom place set on an overgrown section, the demands of landscaping the section, erecting a garage, laying a driveway, creating a vegetable garden, interior decorating soon soaked up any aspirations for trying to find someone who might be willing to be my trout fishing mentor.
By the end of the second year, I was pretty exhausted and after the final exam booked a place in Rotorua to go away for a week with my family and brother in law and his wife. Neither my brother in law nor I had ever fished for trout before, but he had been given a fly rod for Christmas and so we thought it was a great time to try it out. Thrashing the water of the Rotorua Lakes locality alternately with spinning gear and fly gear brought no results, so one day we decided to try the Waikato hydro lakes. I have no idea what took us there but we ended up sitting on a large boulder on the edge of Lake Whakamaru.
But that trout on fly gear was to remain my solitary success on fly for some time, and it was with considerable excitement that I looked forward to my posting in October 1983 to Golden Downs Forest at Tapawera – about 50 minutes’ drive from the great little city of Nelson – right alongside the well-stocked Motueka River, and so close to many great rivers and streams of that picturesque district. 
What had happened? Months of unsuccessfully thrashing the water had not caught me many fish, but as a keen observer, it had provided me insights as to where they should be found within a stretch of river. And each success then bred success, ignited yet more enthusiasm and the positivity and confidence that I exuded, meant that my senses were attuned to success. By the start of the next fishing season, I was ready to seriously work on improving my fly fishing and that too happened.
