July 8, 1911.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
77 
WON THE 
HANDICAP 
THE HUHTER O^E-TRIGGER 
IS PERFECT 
WITH A DRY FLY IN NEW ZEALAND. 
In hot summer weather, when the sun shines 
scorchingly upon the dwindled stream, when the 
big trout lie out near the willows, black bars 
beneath the unruffled surface, their shadows 
stationary on the stones below—then is the op¬ 
portunity of the dry-fly man. The uninitiated 
speak of his doings in awestruck tones. “It was 
too bright for us, but X. caught a dozen 
beauties. Got ’em with dry fly.” And probably 
the listener accepts this news with a conviction 
that the matter has now gone far beyond his 
power, the dry fly is not such a dreadfully ex¬ 
clusive insect as we are sometimes led to be¬ 
lieve. We modify him a little to suit our 
southern streams, and having dispensed with 
the messy accessories of red deer fat and 
paraffin, we find that a few flicks in the air will 
dry feathers sufficiently for the purpose, and the 
famous lure becomes tractable in the hands of 
the average fisherman. 
Well known among Canterbury rivers, the 
Orari, as it approaches the sea, is particularly- 
adapted to the uses of dry fly. About Christmas 
time, when the spring freshes have become a 
part of the South Pacific, it is a succession of 
pools and ripples; here and there flowing 
through a gorse-grown, shingle waste; but near 
to the sea the Orari is shut in between culti¬ 
vated lands, and banks guarded by willows, 
which give secure shelter to many lusty trout. 
The fishing is worthy a journey, and after a 
drive of twenty miles in the early hours of a 
traditional summer day, I left my horse in a 
grove by the lowest bridge, and turned up¬ 
stream to explore. 
Early as the hour, the heat was something 
to remember,' and scores of trout could be seen 
lying motionless in their own places under the 
boughs, or close to the shingle at the opposite 
edge. At rare intervals a fly came drifting 
down, and after running the gauntlet of several 
satisfied or sluggish fish, a dark form tilted 
slowly endways, the fly vanished, and a lessen¬ 
ing circle from the rise widened out over the 
glassy surface. 
Having tried unsuccessfully to obtain a stray- 
fly for a guide to the pattern I should use, 1 
tied on a "hackled alder” as a likely lure. It 
was the season of the brown beetle pest, and an 
alder bears some resemblance, so with that I 
proceeded to tempt the nearest fish. He was 
in a rather open place, but by bending low I 
came unnoticed within casting range, and he 
accepted the alder with a steady, trustful rise. 
Following a previously-arranged plan, he was 
played hard down-stream, and soon a two- 
pounder was being put into the basket. 
A bigger fish lay half a chain above, in a 
little bay among the branches, and a moment 
later I managed to put the fly in front of him. 
To be correct, it fell a little on the outside of 
him, so that he had to turn after taking'it; and 
feeling the hook he continued the wheel, and 
before I could stop him, had plunged heavily 
through a mass of sunken boughs. Then I got 
back what was left of the cast, and tried to feel 
thankful that matters were no worse, while 
tying on a fresh fly. A pretty stout cast can be 
used in this style of angling, as the idea is that 
the fish are not to see any of it; but in case of 
accidents, a fine point about a foot or so long 
is tied at the end of the cast. Thus, if a smash 
should occur, the fisherman’s loss of tackle is 
probably only a gut point and a single fly—that 
is the rule. 
Damages repaired, the next nine were landed 
largely from the half-mile of water upstream, 
and t-he basket strap beginning to cut into my 
shoulder they were hidden under a bush, where 
they could be called for on the way back; a 
hint worth remembering is, never cover or pack 
trout with any of that hay-feverish smelling 
grass known as “sweet-scented vernal,” for it 
will taint and spoil a whole bagful within a few 
hours. 
The fish that should have been my fifteenth, 
was stationed below a snag, by a shingle bank; 
and in attempting to reach him with a long 
throw, I got the fly caught on a projecting piece 
of stick. It persisted in staying there, and if 
I waded over to free it I was sure to scare the 
fish, so tried the effect of a sudden jerk. The 
effect happened not to be the one wanted, but it 
was certainly curious. The fly was snapped off 
at the knot, and the jerk having almost 
wrenched it clear from the obstructing stick, it 
fell on the water and floated beautifully. Up 
came the trout, and down went my fly, and I 
think the word that I used was excusable under 
the circumstances. 
So onward, from sunlit ripple to shady pool, 
keeping carefully out of sight whenever that 
was possible, and at other times watching the 
trout rushing wildly to cover as they caught a 
view of the patient angler on the bank. Even 
in the ripples a wet flv was of no avail, except 
for a few half-pounders, which reduced the two 
pounds’ average of the rest. A long black fish 
that should have weighed eight pounds, ana 
probably did not, was hooked and lost, and 
when the total stood at twelve brace, I came to 
the conclusion that enough had been done. 
During the walk toward the starting place, I 
met another fisherman, who was seemingly out 
of luck, and evidently not in the most equable 
of tempers. “Might as well fish in a bucket,” 
he informed me, “they can see you a mile off.” 
I suggested dry fly, but he would have none of 
it. “Oh, I daresay,” he replied, “but I can't 
be bothered to creep and crawl about with a 
humbugging thing like that. I’m going home.” 
And he went. That was one view of dry fly 
doings. It was not mine at the moment, and if 
only as a scientific means to a desired end, I 
look upon a skilful stalk as adding greatly to 
the interest of any capture. Especially since I 
caught those trout.—Auckland News. 
ALL ITS FAULT. 
Kindly Old Gentleman—Well, Tommy, caught 
anything? 
Bright Little Boy—No, I don’t believe the silly 
worm was trying.—Punch. 
