Stony River

an extract from Catch That Trout - North Island

The near perpendicular slopes of the old volcano, Mount Taranaki (formerly Mount Egmont), produce the torrent that is the Stony River. The river tumbles and stumbles its way down a bouldery bed from mountain to sea. It is a relatively short course down the steep slopes of the typical cone-shaped volcano to the sea at Okato, just south of New Plymouth. The Stony River was the first river in the country to receive a Local Conservation Order, thanks to its scenic beauty and wild trout. It is the pick of the Taranaki Ringplain fisheries that surround Mt Taranaki and is considered one of the best rivers in the North Island.
The river is easily-accessed from farm roads off SH45 which crosses the river near Okato. Below the highway bridge, the river is braided with an unstable bed resulting from the flash floods that the waterway regularly receives. Accordingly fish populations are not high in this stretch except when the sea-run browns invade the river at the start of the spawning season. There is the occasional large pool and when these are stable for a year or two, large browns will usually be found in residence but they are normally only caught in lowlight hours.
The best fishing is generally from the highway bridge up to the bridge on Mangatete Road as there are some deep pools in this stretch. Note that there are catch and release regulations for the Stony River. These were created in 1994 to give the river some relief from the heavy angling pressure. Drift dives have counted between 5 and 10 large brown trout per kilometre in this section although the numbers vary greatly from year to year depending on the severity of floods that season. Browns up to 4 kg (9 lb) have been taken but they are now getting very wary, having been caught a few times before. Anglers need to keep a low profile as the water is very clear and despite the turbulent water, the fish are able to see anglers wandering along the high bank trying to spot trout. Such incaution will be rewarded only by the glimpse of a shadow moving away from the bank to the cover of the main current.
There is good fishing above the Mangatete Bridge all the way up to the bush stretches of the Blue Rata Reserve, accessible only from a DOC walking track. The fish in these upper reaches are likely to be wild rainbows. They only average around 1.2 kg (2.5 lb) but give a good account of themselves in the boisterous water. The pools are fewer here so it is essential to fish the pockets of quieter water. The upper river is very unstable and the fishing is not reliable.
Thanks to the regular floods, the quality of the fishing on the Stony River varies greatly from year to year and it pays to check with local sources as to how well it is fishing prior to your visit.

Angling Approach
Upside Down Nymphing

There will be many visitors to the Taranaki region that will be surprised to learn that there are more than fifty trout streams pouring from the slopes of Mt Taranaki to the sea. Their surprise is usually because they never knew there was a mountain there. The old volcano is so often shrouded in cloud or rain that many visitors never get to see it. But all this precipitation produces those multitudinous streams of cold, clear water that ensure perfect trout habitat. Unfortunately the regular heavy downpours also mean that the streams and rivers are often in flood. This makes it difficult for flyfishers and some different techniques may be necessary to cope with the high river levels commonly encountered.
My last visit to the area was rather typical. Hearing that bad weather was due to hit the area late in the day, I rose unusually early for me and was on the road at 6 am. That meant I was on the waters of the Stony late in the morning, hopefully with many hours’ fishing to come, as it would not be dark till late on this December day. That was also about when the bad weather was forecast to descend on the Taranaki area. I had only fished a couple of pools when I noticed that Mt Taranaki had disappeared. There was time only for a few more casts before the first raindrops fell. They are not your typical latte-drinker-scattering city raindrops, those Taranaki ones. When they clatter against your parka, you know you are in for a drenching. At first I thought it might just be a shower preceding the front but after an hour, I conceded that if I wanted to continue fishing, I was going to get very wet. Already the water was greying up and the volume increasing rather alarmingly; considering I was in a rather confined gorge. It did not take much deliberation to wind in the line and clamber up the cliff to the safety of the farm above.
The rain continued all night but the weather had cleared by the next morning. Knowing the Stony River would be unfishable, I decided to try a small stream around the southern side of the mountain. I had noticed last time, in similar circumstances, that it had remained clear when most other rivers in the region were dirty, thanks to its bush-covered upper reaches. The only problem is that all the small mountain stream are very overgrown and fly casting is virtually impossible due to the all-encompassing canopy of bush overhead. As a result, I decided I would try the age-old lark of bait fishing.
The rivers running off Mount Taranaki are rather unique in that the practice of fishing for trout with live bait is not only permitted but actively encouraged. Most of us that grew up with trout streams nearby will have surreptitiously tried to tempt a trout with wriggling worm or struggling cricket when we were young enough to be ignorant of things like fishing regulations. But the Taranaki area is the only trout fishing district that allows such a practice on a wide scale. The reasons for this are rather obscure but seem to have to do with the early styles of fishing in this particular area.
I knew a little bit about live bait fishing as a good French mate of mine had given me a few tips when he took me out on a fishing expedition in France many years ago. Jean lived for his trout fishing and any Sunday in summer, he could be found plying his trade on the numerous small streams in the wooded hills behind Lyon. He had asked if I would be interested in accompanying him the next day. Silly question. As my dearly-beloved would testify – it is not in my make up to ever refuse a fishing trip.
We set off the next day for the 45 minute trip up into the hills. It was a beautiful autumn day, crisp but clear and sunny; reminiscent of Central Otago in March.
‘So what sort of fish are we trying to catch?’ I asked Jean as we drove through the forest.
‘Truit, of course – trout to you,’ he replied with a grin.
‘Oh, I didn’t know you had trout here – the streams don’t look big enough. That last one we passed over was only about a metre wide.’
‘Well, of course they are the right size for that water,’ replied Jean with a Gallic shrug.
There was no time to pursue that rather cryptic comment as we pulled up at a clearing beside a delightful stream. It was a wee bit bigger, maybe two metres wide across the biggest of perfect-looking but miniature pools. Jean unloaded two rods from the back of the wagon. They were what we would call light spinning rods, about 1.5 m long and equipped with small, open face spinning reels. Kneeling down on the bank, Jean fossicked around between the rocks for a while. He soon rose brandishing a wriggling aquatic insect. I asked him what it was but Jean did not know the name in English. It was not too dissimilar to our own Dobsonfly or toe-biter although the French version was a bit smaller. Jean slid the insect onto a hook that looked about a size 10.
‘OK, let me show how we fish,’ said Jean, advancing to the nearest pool. Standing near the tail, he let out about a metre of line and then lobbed the wriggling insect into the centre current at the head of the pool. Halfway down the pool, the line stopped and Jean raised the rod.
‘Voila!’ he exclaimed. A little silver fish leapt 10 cm in the air and splashed down noisily into the petite pool. It was not long before Jean hoisted it onto the bank and we admired the beautifully-spotted, golden-sided fish. It looked like a brown trout to me and it was absolutely exquisite, even though it was only about 15 cm long. Easing it back into the water, Jean went searching for another bait; the trout having chewed up his original offering. The next pool up was rather overgrown so Jean eased himself through the brush to the top and simply lowered the insect into the current. Following the path of the bait through the pool with the rod he was rewarded with a take towards the tail of the pool. A few minutes later we were admiring a twin of the first fish as it lay flapping on the bank. Jean signalled for me to do the honours and I carefully slid her back into the bubbling brook.
‘Your turn now,’ said Jean, baiting up my rod with yet another wriggling insect. It took a while to get the hang of lobbing the insect through the air without dislodging it from the hook. Half an hour’s perseverance finally paid off and I landed my first French trout. I had joined the live baiting club!
Remembering these experiences, I made my way up to the first pool on the overgrown Taranaki creek hoping for the same success. I eased into the water and started overturning the rocks at the edge. It took a while but eventually I found a juicy-looking toe-biter. Grabbing it in the middle of the long body, I tried to avoid the ferocious-looking pincers at the head. I didn’t know if a nip from them would hurt but wasn’t keen on finding out.
On it went, threaded onto a size 10 Hamills Killer that I had stripped down to the bare body the night before. I thought that the floss body might help to keep the insect on the hook better than just using a bare hook shank. I advanced to the first pool with the insect wriggling away impressively. He was still wriggling as he disappeared sans the hook into the depths of the pool after my first overly-enthusiastic roll cast. Obviously the power of my 2.5 m fly rod was a bit much for this sort of work. Finding another toe-biter, I resolved to be more delicate with the casting and just lob the bait into the current.
The more gentle approach paid off two pools later and a one kg trout intercepted my tasty morsel. It fought strongly in the confined water but I kept it on a short leash, not wanting to see it escape from the pool down the rapids below. A short while later it lay beached on the rocks – a beautiful specimen and certainly considerably bigger than my French conquest. This was great fun. A couple more fish followed that day in water that one would have really struggled to flyfish due to the canopy of vegetation overhead. It might have been possible to adopt the same tactics using a weighted nymph but the live bait technique certainly suited this type of water.
For those purists who feel live bait-fishing is not ‘proper fishing’, they might ponder on the words of Ernest Hemingway in ‘Big Two-hearted River’:
Nick leaned back against the current and took a hopper from the bottle. He threaded the hopper on the hook and spat on him for good luck. Then he pulled several yards of line from the reel and tossed the hopper out ahead on to the fast, dark water. It floated down towards the logs, then the weight of the line pulled the bait under the surface. Nick held the rod in his right hand, letting the line run out through his fingers.
There was a long tug. Nick struck and the rod came alive and dangerous, bent double, the line tightening, all in a heavy, dangerous, steady pull.
As this story is recognised as being essentially autobiographical, then it seems live bait fishing was considered a legitimate technique by this famous angling author.
I also found that one of New Zealand’s best known fishing authors, W.H. Spackman, recommended the use of live cicadas in his book ‘Trout in New Zealand’:
Cicada-fishing in Otago and Southland in January, February, and March gives first-rate sport. A medium-sized hook should be used. Put the hook through the cicada and try its point on your finger before using it. Throw it out like an ordinary fly, keeping ready to strike the moment you see or feel it taken; then look out for squalls, as the biggest fish take it greedily.
Regulations prevent the use of this technique on the Stony River so when I fished the river the next day, it was necessary to resort to the usual double nymph rig. It needed a heavy sinker fly to get the small tail nymph down to the bottom of the short, deep and turbulent pockets of water that typify the middle section of the Stony River. This is particularly so at times of high flows where the trout are hugging the bottom. Three lost fly rigs later, I was not so sure if the heavy sinker nymph was such a good scheme. The boulders seemed have a myriad of sharp crevices that trapped the sinker fly and resisted all attempts to free the rig. I ended the day short on both flies and fish.
When I later visited the local tackle shop to replenish my supplies, I told the guy serving of my problems fishing the Stony River.
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘what you need to do is to fish upside down’. I was trying to visualise how standing on my head would resolve that problem when he continued.
‘What you do is to reverse the sinker fly. Tie the tippet to the bend of the upside down hook and the tail fly is then tied to the eye of the sinker fly hook’.
‘That’s pretty cunning,’ I said. ‘Where did you get that one from?’
‘Some guys were using it on the Tongariro last year,’ he replied. ‘They even went to the extent of flattening the bend of the hook so that there was no chance of the hook snagging a rock.’
I thought that was a bit pointless (excuse the pun) but did not say so. I could see the benefits of this innocuous hook when fishing snaggy rivers but fishing with it to spawning rainbows might well cost you a few fish. Plenty of silly rainbows had taken my sinker fly over the years and Frank always reckoned he caught more Waitahanui rainbows on a large Bug Eye than on whatever tail fly he had on.
Back on the Stony the next day, the new rig worked beautifully. The only loss of terminal tackle was on a backcast when a tree moved at least a metre to grab my flies. Certainly none were lost snagged on rocks and boulders which was a drastic improvement over the previous day. The only thing you had to be careful about was not to snip the tippet off at the eye of the sinker fly as you might normally do. With this upside down rig, that manoeuvre left you with an unattached tail fly.
A further downside was revealed when I fished the Kapuni Stream the next day. The friendly tackle shop owner had said that the stream was fishing well with good numbers of browns having moved up into the middle reaches recently. I had fished the stream previously but only in the upper bush-clad reaches. This time I decided to start lower down in the middle reaches where it was at least possible to have the occasional backcast. It was early December and the recent rainfall had left a high but clear stream. I was hopeful that the dropping water level would bring the fish on the feed.
After one hour’s fishing, this theory seemed a little thin as no trout had shown any interest in my nymphs. I had put on a couple of nymphs that the tackle shop man had said should go well on the stream. Sitting down on a boulder, I reviewed my approach to date to see where I was going wrong. Six weight line, small indicator, 2 kg tippet, indicator same depth as water, recommended flies – hang on, I thought, what month is it? December! What fly do we always start with in December? Green Beetle, dummy! The tackle shop had in fact suggested my buying a Green Beetle or two but as I had plenty, I had declined.
Very belatedly, on went a size 14 Green Beetle. It looked a little bushy for the gentle riffle in front so out came the scissors and the all round hackle became a beard instead. Tossing the new rig into the half metre deep riffle, I concentrated rather more than I had been for the past hour. Which was lucky as half way down the riffle, the indicator stopped. Raising the rod produced a solid take and a solid brown started looking for some obstacle on which to deposit my Green Beetle. Fortunately, there were no such options and a fine 1.75 kg richly speckled brown lay flapping in the shallows ten minutes later. While I was happy with my success, I was berating myself for not trying the Green Beetle earlier. You would think one would be getting a bit smarter after thirty years of fishing but it seemed not.
Moving up to the next pool, I noted that it was rather deep and fast in the centre. A good time to experiment with the new upside down rig I thought. I put on a heavier sinker nymph and attached it in reverse. With a Green Beetle tail fly of course. I slowly worked my way up the pool and then froze. A good-sized brown was feeding near the edge of the pool just in front of me. Slinking back a couple of metres, I lobbed the reverse rig a metre ahead of the trout. As the flies approached, it moved over to intercept the tasty morsel. I saw the flash of its jaw opening and lifted the rod. To find nothing solid to impede its upward motion. The stupid fish had gone for the reverse-facing sinker nymph!
One would have never thought that a wily brown would have gone for a size 12 beadhead in such water. I guess it was just hungry after a couple of days dodging the latest flood. At least it was a lesson that the upside down nymphing technique did have a downside - it should not be used when there was a chance that the fish might take the sinker nymph. But it is a useful technique to have up one’s sleeve when you are down to your last weighted nymph and the hungry rocks of the Stony River are waiting.