The door opened and needless to say, my heart nearly stopped. The chill of the air didn’t affect me physically, but mentally it made me a little uneasy. No backing out now. Roy tapped me on the shoulder and showed me his altitude watch, which read 12,000 ft. His eyes expanded two-fold and with a demon-possessed look, he mouthed the words “GO TIME!”

I must to admit I don’t remember much about the first 45 seconds (the time it took me to fall 8,000 feet). But I can tell you my eyes were open the entire free fall and I loved every second of it. I was temporarily living my reoccurring dream of flying. At 4,000 feet, the parachute was deployed and the contrast was dramatic. Immediately, the transition completed…from Mach 2 jet fighter to Sunday stroll in the park in less than five seconds.

Here’s the weird part. Instead of breathing deeply, gazing at the turquoise colored water filling Lake Taupo and preserving the glorious view to my memory, I was looking for the place I’d fished the day before. This should have been one event in my life in which I was not thinking about fishing. But then New Zealand trout fishing is addictive, mysterious, and has a way of seducing all of your thoughts. What else would you expect from a place known for its gin-clear water, big trout and near virgin wilderness?

When I was younger, I wasn’t the most patient of anglers. Yes, when there was a hatch, I would sit on the bank and take note of what was happening. And for the most part, I always tried to “read the river” before I jumped in and started casting. But, I can’t say I sat there too long making journal entries, meditating or sketching the landscape. As the old saying goes, you can’t catch a fish without a line in the water. That was my mantra. However, the older I get, the more patient an angler I become. I’m just not in a hurry like I once was. I walk slower and try to take it a little easier. No question, the more patience I practice, the happier I am.

The rains
The central region of the NZ’s North Island is normally very dry in February, just not in the February I decide to go. Driving from Auckland to Taupo, my wife and I noticed high water marks that were unreal. Rationalizations stirred in my thoughts: “I’m sure it didn’t rain that much in the Taupo region” and “this has to be from several weeks ago.”

Upon our arrival, Rob, the owner of Tauhara Sunrise Lodge , informed me that I have just missed several days of the worst rain the region has seen in 50 years. UGH! He shared with me a few headlines…mass flooding, homes swept away, rivers overflowing, and several others that usually accompany a flood of this caliber. When Rob said all the rivers were pretty much blown out, I seriously felt like crying. All these years, dreaming of New Zealand fishing and the bad news hits me like a right hook to the jaw. No backcountry fly outs, no fishing multiple rivers like I had hoped. Rob mentioned that the only prospect was the slight chance of fishing a spring feed stream. Little did I know what lay ahead over the next few days.

The following afternoon, Grant Bailey, my Kiwi guide for the next few days, picked me up with that look of “you should’ve been here two weeks ago,” the infamous look that so many guides are experts at giving. None-the-less, he offered a few words of hope and soon we headed off to inspect the condition of a nearby stream. Grant was noticeably disappointed that we couldn’t fish some of the more favorable rivers in the area, but sometimes you just have to take what you can get.

My first reaction when we arrived at the Waitahanui was: “This is what you call less-than-favorable?” It was like the perfect marriage between Idaho’s Silver Creek and a classic chalk stream in England. Within two minutes of walking, Grant had spotted a beautiful brown holding in the shallows, positioned perfectly for me to offer up my pheasant tail as a temporary gift. Flooding? Rivers washed out? No backcountry fly outs? Thoughts of the past! The sun was shining and the fish were tanning. It was the classic New Zealand scene I had always dreamed about.

Patience is a…
That first fish refused my hand-tied offering, as did the second, the third and the fourth. Matter of fact, the first day (half a day really) yielded exactly zero fish. I can honestly say it was the best zero fish day I have ever had…of which I have had plenty. Sight casting to monster bows and browns, formulating strategies with my new friend Grant, and making some excellent drifts… It was all so wonderful.

But do not despair, do not fret. Remember, I am a patient angler and a patient angler is often rewarded. After 10 hours of hard rain that night, we awoke the next day to see the sun trying to find its way through the leftover clouds of gray. Grant came early and said the rain may well have made things worse once again, but none-the-less we would go check it out. A good thing we did. For by the time we finished our 45 minute hike along the stream’s bank to the upper pools, the sun was out and the fish were too.

It seemed as if the rain had little or no affect on the water clarity. The first pool we fished was magnificent, secluded by foliage and visible only after a brief maze-like navigation through fairly dense brush. It was like a secret paradise, birds chirping and all. The kind of place that felt like no one had ever fished there before.

Guide in the sky
Grant immediately positioned himself 15 feet up a tree with virtually no branches (not quite sure how he was able to do this so regularly with such ease…maybe because he’s been doing it since he was 10). He whispered: “Bert, there are two nice rainbows at the end of the pool.” He then proceed to tell me where to land my fly, when to mend and when to expect the strike.

I was on my knees making cast after cast, mentally smiling when Grant would occasionally say “Nice cast, that’s what I’m looking for” in his delightful Kiwi accent. I must have made 30 to 40 drifts through this pool, and still no fish. Looking up at Grant expecting him to tell me we should move on, he instead motioned for me to keep casting He mouthed the word “patience” followed by a smile. Ah yes, the infamous P word. Hearing the word this time, I felt as if patience and I were becoming friends…feeling more comfortable together.

I could tell Grant was beginning to question my faith in him. He glanced down from his vantage point and said: “Trust me Bert, just trust me.” And I did, not a single thought went through my head to contradict or question anything Grant said. These were his waters and I was his student. When he said keep casting, I didn’t flinch, smirk or doubt. And then, as if he knew all along, the next cast was the magic one. Grant said “NOW” and I lifted the rod immediately, sensing that feeling all trout fisherman love, moving weight on the end of the line. Finally, I had a solid hook-up on my first New Zealand trout.

Earlier, when we had first arrived at the pool, I had told Grant how beautiful the setting was. But due to how the trees lined so closely along the banks and the shallow rapids were positioned five feet downstream from the holding fish, I didn’t see how in the world you could land a large trout here. Grant casually replied, like it was the norm: “Yeh…you have about a 10% chance of landing one here.”

So, I had the fish on, feelings of bliss consumed me, but had no idea how, where, and when I would try and land this fish But I was not in this alone, for I had two friends by my side, Grant and patience. With the help of both, I somehow kept the fish in the upper pool, out of the rapids, and after several failed attempts to land the fish, Grant was finally able to get a solid grip. Wow, what a beautiful rainbow, over five pounds and right at 24 inches. Not the biggest New Zealand trout, due to the conditions, but still, I was elated.

The epiphany
Grant and I fished until late afternoon and I caught fish all day. We established a routine I grew rather fond of. Catch a fish, wind up, walk to the next pool, spot fish, he gets in position, I get into position, he tells me where to cast, I cast, catch a fish, repeat the cycle. My favorite part of our trout tango wasn’t, believe it or not, the catching nor the casting. It was the time we actually took to spot fish, the strategy we carefully crafted and the whole setup process.

All of my trout expeditions before New Zealand were missing this element. And as it turns out, it resulted in an epiphany that is one of the top highlights in my personal novel of fishing experiences. Slowly walking up to a pool, patiently deciding the best vantage point to find the fish, mapping the optimal drift, and finally positioning. That’s it. Being rewarded with a large trout on the end of your line is a huge bonus and one that I enjoyed thoroughly. But, it isn’t this element of the experience that makes me want to go back to New Zealand. You can catch large trout in a lot of places, but the New Zealand experience is truly unique and that is exactly why I am already planning my next trip back.

So, not only was my trip to New Zealand a success, in spite of Mother Nature, but it also resulted in a trout fishing epiphany. An epiphany that marked a significant milestone for me, giving me a whole new perspective on everything. In a lifetime of fishing, our journeys are filled with unexpected turns. One way or another, our opinions, perspectives and attitudes change with every new experience. New Zealand is special place and I will forever remember it as the place that made me slow down a bit, take a look around and try and enjoy the subtle things in life.