FFLYLYLLIFEIFE^9797t all started on Christmas Day
in 1994 when my sister and I
were asked to open one of our
Christmas presents simultaneously. We
were confused, as normally we would
take turns in creating a confetti storm of
brightly coloured paper as we hurried
to see what Santa had left under our
tree. So there we were, slowly opening
the same-coloured, same-shaped pres-
ent, not wanting to go too fast or too
slow. After a countdown from ten,
we both enthusiastically revealed a
ticket to New Zealand. Just imagine,
two young Aussie girls (aged nine and
eight) who had never been on a plane,
never had a passport and, most impor-
tantly, never seen snow, were going on
the adventure of a lifetime.
After trailing Dad as he looked at
expensive whiskeys in the duty-free
shops and annoying Mum and Grand-
ma asking how much longer the flight
would take, we arrived in the Land of
the Long White Cloud. From the Auck-
land airport we travelled over lush,
verdant hills dotted with sheep, and
drove across bridges where the riv-
ers lay hidden in their deep, secretive
gorges. After listening to Dad recount
his fishing expeditions in England, we
stopped at a place called Turangi.
I can remember Dad bribing me
with a hokey-pokey ice-cream (still my
favourite) to walk from Creel Lodge
(Mrs Simpson was the name of our
cabin) to talk to a local fisherman
known as ‘Louie the Fish’. Having dis-
cussed the evening rise and what flies
were being taken, Dad set up his fly rod
and organised his fly vest while Mum
and Grandma prepared dinner and my
sister and I played in the cubby house.
I
At dusk we set off to find the ‘Hydro
Pool’ where we watched a line of fish-
ermen casting out near the flying fox.
I was astounded that they didn’t get
tangled in each other’s lines. I also
remember seeing big black and choco-
late dogs, which I later found out were
Labradors (I still want one), and finally,
I remember the swing bridge.
My sister was the first to cross with
Dad, leaving Mum, Grandma and me
at the other side. Mum refused to try,
which left Grandma in charge of cross-
ing with me. Unbeknown to us, my
father and sister planned to start the
bridge swaying.
Grandma had never learnt how to
swim and did not take travelling over
water lightly. I could see Dad smiling
(not easy, as he has quite a moustache)
and my sister’s little innocent face try-
ing not to split into a grin. As Grandma
and I walked towards them, the glint in
my sister’s eye became more evident
and the swaying began.CROSSING THE BRIDGE
Samantha WrightMy poor Grandma went into ninja
mode with her little legs locked into
place either side of a wooden plank and
her arms like taut wires hanging on to
the sides of the bridge. Of course, want-
ing to be part of the fun, I ran across
and joined my father and sister to help
sway the bridge until Grandma’s threats
became too malicious and she backed
up along the bridge until she reached
my mother. From the sign language we
took the hint that they were going back
to the cabin to drink wine.
After a walk along the bank beneath
beautiful native trees, we made it to
the pool recommended by Louie the
Fish. This is where my love for rivers,
fly fishing, entomology and the sights,
sounds and smells of the riverbank
began. Watching my father cast a dry
fly (the Royal Wulff being a favourite)
using a steeple cast to avoid getting
tangled in the blackberry, amazed me.
Later, when I asked how he could see
where his cast was going, he claimed
that he used the reflection of street-
lights from across the river.
This adventure became a tradition,
with us all going to New Zealand to
fish. We went every second year all
through my school days, until one year
we couldn’t go because my Grandma
was no longer able to travel.
I am now in my thirties and when-
ever I cross that same swing bridge
over the mighty Tongariro River, car-
rying my own fly rod, I still walk from
side to side creating a little sway for
Grandma. ■This story was prompted by Samantha’s
entry in FlyLife’s 2017 photo competition.completion. Wrap more thread around
the fly and try to finish with whip fin-
ish tool. Doesn’t work. Hurl whip finish
tool across room.
Tie half hitches by hand. Make note
to sell whip finish tool.
Brush head cement over head of fly.
Spill bottle just as wife walks into room.
Sees glue all over carpet. Does lolly.
Make note to sell wife.
Remove fly from vice, show mate.
Ignore guffaws of disbelief. Make note
to get new mate.
Test fly for flotation in fish tank.
Watch goldfish flee in terror. Inspect fly
for visible faults. Find none significant.
Decide wife, mate, goldfish have poor
sense of values.
Go fishing. Catch nothing. Blame
weather. Return home. Sell book. ■