It’s early May. Icey mornings, days are short. The sun seems to rise just in time to set. By early afternoon your breath is again visible as it hangs in the air like a momentary fog. The familiar smell of fires burning in homes across New Zealand fills the air, all in preparation for the cold night ahead. The sky has opened, and rain is coming down in sheets, hitting the roof of the car with such force that you need to raise your voice to be heard. While most will be tucked inside by the fire tonight, you’ll find me gearing up and heading out into the darkness. The winter shoreline fishing season is upon us, and for me, this deluge is cause for celebration.
I’ve always had a passion for fishing. I would go so far as to say it’s an obsession. My parents love to tell the story of using a picture of a fish to calm me down as a baby if I was ever upset (which I’m sure was hardly ever). As a young fella, I would be out in my grandparent’s garden for hours trying to catch their goldfish with a stick and some twine.
Once I mastered walking, I graduated from the goldfish pond to my first proper spinning rod. My dad is a keen fly fisherman, so I would tag along with him any chance I got. Unfortunately for me, some of his favourite haunts were fly fishing only, so I’d have to watch with bated breath from the shore, rugged up in warm clothes and gum boots on, as a handful of anglers would roll the dice for a monster.
But in no time, the light would fade, and I’d have to try and make sense of the distant noises: the elegant sound of a line being cast, the noise of a reel peeling into its backing, the splash of a trout breaking the surface. On a good night, dad would be in a few times every hour with some monster trout, then eventually, once he had a bin full, would take a break to warm up with a hot cuppa and try to get the feeling back in his fingers. I’d sit in awe as he recounted every minute detail of how he landed each fish.
This was more than just a hobby; this was an art form. On a bad night, we’d head back to the car at midnight, empty-handed, hoping to catch a few hours sleep before we kicked off again at 5am. The thrill of it all was intoxicating, and over time my hunger for fly fishing grew. By the age of 10, I finally converted. From that night on I never looked back – it was fly or die. This is why night fishing holds such a special place in my heart. This is where my fly-fishing journey first began. Night time.
Here in New Zealand, and in particular, where I live In the Bay Of Plenty, we’re absolutely spoiled for choice when it comes to fishing. An hour in any direction will land you in the heart of world-class trout fishing all year round. While overseas anglers might be hanging up their gear for the winter, for us this is prime time. Our winter fishery transforms, as all the elusive large rainbow trout that usually hide out in the depths, finally leave the abyss and make their way to a stream, river or sandy gravel shore to spawn. Schools of massive trout line the shoreline, driven by instinct to carry on their lineage, besieged by a handful of anglers crazy enough to brave the elements in the hope of bagging a trophy, dinner, or sometimes just anything. Day or night, winter shoreline fishing is second to none.
Starting your fly-fishing journey at nighttime has its disadvantages. You can’t really see what you’re doing, so learning to cast can be difficult. I would spend hours practising my cast after school and on weekends in the paddock across the road from my house. Aiming for different patches of dirt with each flick, desperately trying to improve my accuracy and distance, or at the very least to not blind one of the resident cattle looking on from the side. Somehow, I got a hold of a pair of second-hand waders. Way too big, leaky, but surely better than the shorts I had been wearing. I eventually resorted to tying bread bags to my feet to keep my socks dry, which seemed to help a bit but didn’t do much for the cold. Leaky waders and no idea what I was doing in sub-zero temperatures, but absolutely driven to land some of the monsters I’d seen dad bringing in night after night. It took about two winters and many hours on the water before I finally landed my first fish on the fly. A moment I’ll never forget. I was hooked. Pretty soon, I was saving every dollar I could scrape together for my first fly rod, the Kilwell innovation, a rod I still use to this day, 23 years later.
For me the excitement of fishing after dark is second to none. Your senses completely change when you can no longer rely on sight. In the dead of night, touch and sound are all you have to figure out where to aim, your rhythm, and when to strike. I can often tell who’s fishing next to me just by the sound of their cast, and when the line goes tight, the chance of it being an 8lb plus fish is common. Night fishing is also one of the rare times I’ll catch for the table. Fish and Game do a great job managing the fishery and ensure a healthy stocking of fish every year. A fish will grow to about 8lb in just three years. Any wild fish or double digits that meet the end of my line will be returned to the water, in order to carry on its good genetics, but I’ll make an exception for one, a fish of a lifetime. A trophy that I’ll know when I see it, but I haven’t seen it yet. I came close not long ago. It was me, my dad and two other mates. The fishing was hard but in perfect conditions. Torrential downpours and no wind. We were fishing a favourite bush-clad local lake, the two mates had finally had enough and pulled the pin early. Just me and dad left to battle it out, the whole place to ourselves. Suddenly like a switch, the fishing was on! Multiple fish came to shore, including a trophy most people dream of catching – a beautiful 11.5lb rainbow jack. I took a few photos and let him go. He wasn’t destined for the wall, but what a moment to share with my old man. One we’ll never forget.
In recent years my focus has been on competitive fly fishing. I started with the goal to represent New Zealand and test myself against the best in the game. What I didn’t realise was the sheer skill needed to compete, and the benefit to my fishing that would come from battling it out, weekend after weekend, with some incredible anglers. Skills I now bring to night fishing. Though it’s a slower pace, night fishing feels like home. It’s far more relaxed than comp fishing and reminds me why I love this sport so much. It’s just me and my mate out there, losing track of time into the wee hours. Talking rubbish over a brew, unlike competition fly fishing which takes complete focus, endless work and constant refining the process. There are no medals in night fishing, just camaraderie and a box of beers at the end of the season for the mate who landed the biggest fish – it’s good for the soul!
With the arrival of my son a few years ago, the memories of night fishing with my dad come flooding back. Thankfully the young fella is pretty partial to a fish himself and often heads out with me in the backpack for a cheeky flick after work. Hopefully, with any luck in years to come, he’ll catch the bug, and be out fishing the night away, maybe even with his grandad too. I’ll just make sure he only needs a bread bag on one side for leaks – he can’t have it too easy. For those who aren’t mad, and prepared to get wet socks, todays gear is out of this world. I’m using the Orvis Pro jacket, which has stood up to some of the most torrential downpours you could imagine. Staying warm, dry and comfortable means I can focus on my fishing and stay out for longer. The guys at Killwell carry a good range of Orvis gear to cover all your bases and have the expert local knowledge to point you in the right direction. If you’ve ever wondered whether to give winter fishing a chance, I’d encourage it! Come out and join me in the picket line. Make sure you say ‘g-day’ when I’m having that half-time cuppa, I’m more than happy for a yarn or to offer some friendly advice.
Most people call me crazy when I tell them I love winter, but for me nothing beats the hunt. Standing out in the lake, rain falling, just you and your mates. Even better when everything goes your way, for me, the long nights are when time is inconsequential and nothing else matters.
This is my happy place.
Ben Henton
“if you have and questions or need some advice, I’m happy to help out. You can contact me on @hentonguiding
Words and text by Ben Hatton
