BEECHCREEK : Yellowstone, Eat Your Heart Out: Fly Fishing for Trout in New Zealand Is Out of This World

It was as if the helicopter was a space ship and it had just touched down on another, uninhabited planet.

Surely, this couldn’t be Earth. Surely, this place was out of this world. Surely, there are no longer places on Earth this pristine, this untouched by the hand of man.

Surely . . . except in New Zealand.

Imagine visiting the Sierra Nevada about 20,000 years ago. No pavement, no campgrounds, no towns, no trails, no footprints.

That’s what it’s like at Beech Creek. And at a lot of other mountain trout streams on New Zealand’s South Island.

The prop on Dick Fraser’s Hughes 500 jet helicopter was still slowly spinning when he stepped onto flat brushland, a quarter-mile from the creek. He’d brought three people to a long, sprawling valley to show them one of New Zealand’s famed trout streams.

Rigging up a fly rod, Fraser pointed to the high Alpine peaks surrounding the quiet valley.

“You could backpack into here from several directions, but it’d take you a full day,” he said. “There are no roads, of course. Without one of these (he pointed to his helicopter), you could live your whole life in New Zealand and not see this place.”

From Queenstown, in the south-central of New Zealand’s South Island, Fraser had flown about 30 minutes over vivid green sheeplands. Then, through a pass, he’d flown into a range New Zealanders call the Southern Alps. He’d landed near where Beech Creek was joined by another, smaller stream that gurgled out of another pass to the south, hidden by groves of beech trees.

Both Beech Creek and the little tributary flowed from distant, snowy peaks. Immediately above the creek confluence, old avalanche scars ran down steep, brown slopes. Higher up, snow clung to granite. One visitor, a Californian, detected a vague resemblance in the landscape to McGee Creek Canyon, in the Eastern Sierra.

As the visitors approached the stream’s high, grassy banks, huge skinny hares bounded away. Clear, icy water rushed by, splashing over smooth rocks and an occasional gray, flood-washed log. Close inspection showed the water to have almost glass-like clarity. In calm-water areas, one could see all the way across the stream’s bottom--provided one wasn’t distracted by two-foot-long shadowy creatures, tails gently waggling.

Yes, they do grow that big in New Zealand.

“See,” Fraser said to the Californian, “you had to come all the way down here from California to see how big California rainbow trout really get.”

(Many of New Zealand’s trout streams were stocked a century or so ago by rainbow trout from the McCloud and Russian rivers in Northern California. Some stocks went from California first to Tasmania, then to New Zealand.)

Colin Cowie, a neighbor of Fraser’s in nearby Cromwell, had come along for an afternoon’s fishing. Walking softly on the treeless streamside, in the green grass, he positioned himself for a few fly casts.

“Fly fishing down here isn’t quite like working the Yellowstone (Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming) streams,” Fraser said, watching Cowie flick an Adams pattern at the quiet pool’s edge.

“You need a much more delicate presentation down here,” Fraser said. “These trout are very spooky. You need to stalk them, to be quiet. If Colin were to turn over one of those rocks he’s standing on, all those trout would run for 50 yards. Anywhere around Yellowstone, they’d ignore it. They’re used to seeing people standing along the stream.

“When fishermen call me from the States, and ask me how many trout in a day they would catch down here, I tell them if numbers are what they’re interested in, they shouldn’t come. This is what we call quality trout fishing, where you have a good chance to catch several trophy-size rainbows in one day, but not dozens. They’re simply hard to catch.”

One of the long, dark shadows couldn’t stand it any longer. With several hard thrusts of its powerful tail, it shot upstream and engulfed Cowie’s Adams fly. There was only a slight ripple of surface water, but the fish was solidly hooked. And once solidly hooked, a Beech Creek rainbow, assuming tackle connections are first rate, is a long shot to escape. There are no tree roots to seek shelter, nor do any of the stream’s smooth rocks have sharp edges.

In short order, Cowie had a gorgeous, squirming trout filling up both his hands. He removed the hook from the fish’s jaw. The full-bodied rainbow, perhaps 4 1/2 pounds, was in spawning regalia, with long, rose-orange slashes of color running the length of both sides of its body. Its gill plates, too, reflected bright color in the bright, overhead sun.

Eat your heart out, Yellowstone.

Cowie released the suddenly wiser trout. As it entered the water, it again became a dark, cylindrical torpedo. It disappeared, streaking downstream like a dark flash.

The fishing party, walking upstream, came to the confluence where the little creek from the mountain pass to the east gurgled into Beech Creek. For the last several hundred yards of its journey, as it passed over a jumble-land of broken rocks, the little tributary broke off into four fingers.

Fraser pointed to the lush birch forest about a mile away, from where the tributary emerged.

“See how dense that beech grove is?” Fraser asked.

“Most of New Zealand used to look like that. Beech forests were everywhere. Then the Brits, about a hundred years ago, began missing their stag hunts in England. So in the 1870s, they had deer shipped over.

“Within a half-century, most of the beech forests were gone because the deer ate new leaves on young trees. Then, in the last few decades, the excess deer were shot out or rounded up and incorporated into livestock operations . . . most of the canned deer meat you get in the States is from New Zealand.

“That grove up there, 20 years ago, had 100 to 150 deer in it, and the beech trees were about down to nothing. Now, the deer have been shot out or rounded up and the beech growth you see there now is five times what it was 20 years ago. Maybe there are still a dozen or so deer in there, but they’d be hard to find. The beech forests are coming back.”

Two more long-legged hares bounded away.

“The Brits also brought those over,” Fraser said.

New Zealand wildlife isn’t what it was designed to be, he said.

“The only mammals that evolved in New Zealand were a rat and a bat,” he said. “That’s why kiwis and several other flightless birds evolved here--there were no predators. Then the Europeans started bringing in other animals and everything was changed, forever.”

Closer to the beech forest, the little creek looked like a postcard come to life. From the darkness of the forest, there it was, a splashing, foamy little creek, headed toward Beech Creek. Behind and above the beech forest, a delicate bridal veil of water rolled over a precipice, and down onto the forest’s edge.

The sound of birds from inside the forest was the only other sound, other than the rushing water of the two creeks. Above it all, a harrier hawk circled, no doubt examining the spooked hares, gauging their size and strength.

Fraser and Cowie walked upstream along Beech Creek’s banks, stopping occasionally to flick Adams, Humpy or Wulff fly patterns across quiet pools.

They were too far from the little beech forest to hear the hidden songbirds. So only the sound of the creek accompanied them on their upstream walk . . . until two paradise ducks decided the fishing party was getting too close to their nest. The two black ducks took to the air and flew high, wide circles around Cowie and Fraser, honking.

But as the two fishermen ignored them, and they walked closer to the nest, the circles grew lower and smaller. And the honks grew noisier. The two fishermen got the message, and retreated. Besides, it was time to fire up the helicopter . . . time to fly away and visit another planet.

It was like being in “Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.”

The helicopter dropped quickly into a narrow, river-carved canyon. It dropped down to several hundred feet above the river and zoomed along at about 150 m.p.h., just above the tips of the huge beech trees but well below the granite, snowy peaks atop both canyon sides.

Below, the river looked like a cellophane ribbon, rolling slowly, gently over a cobbled streambed that could be clearly seen from several hundred feet above.

Again, it was an enchanting, out-of-this-world feeling. Nothing looks this good. At several points along the journey, a half-dozen high, slender waterfalls could be seen, on both sides of the canyon. An occasional granite ridge jutted out into the river’s path. In front of the helicopter, it would suddenly appear, then disappear in a flash, under the helicopter.

Far ahead, what looked like a sandbar appeared, at river’s edge. The chopper’s engine was too loud to allow conversation, but by gesture, Fraser pointed to the flat, sand-colored area, and indicated: “That’s where we’re going.”

The sandbar turned out to be a rockbar. For eons, high-water periods in the river’s life had worn the baseball-size rocks glassy smooth. Gently but noisily, the helicopter touched down on the seemingly new planet. After the prop had stopped and the engine’s whine had died away, another blanket-like silence descended on the little fishing party.

It was the rocky shore of the Ngtau River (pronounced Na-tau), in a setting more stunning than the previous stop. Where Beech Creek flowed through a sprawling, wide valley, the Ngtau rolled through a deeply cut canyon, where granite walls ascended to the skies and from where a dozen thin, delicate waterfalls fell.

“Can you imagine a more beautiful valley, anywhere in the world?” Fraser asked, pulling the fly rods from the helicopter.

Of course, the first-time visitors weren’t entirely convinced this was still Earth. There was still a suspicion that Fraser himself might be from another world, that he had somehow revved up that helicopter faster than anyone suspected. If this was Earth, then it had to at least be Switzerland, not New Zealand.

Wherever it was, the clarity and occupants of the stream seemed the same. Again, standing on the river bank, you could see shore-to-shore, underwater. And the same arm-long dark shadows could be seen, patiently facing upstream, waiting for the river to bring them an insect.

A hundred yards from where Fraser had set the helicopter down, another stream, one born in violence, joined the Ngtau.

From up on high, it began to fall, from just below where the snow and ice clung to the range’s jagged spine. It was a violent, concussive waterfall. Several thousand feet up, the stream was dozens of tiny streams. But they all came together several hundred feet above the river and produced an explosive torrent of water that pounded its way violently, down to the river.

As waterfalls go, this one was a sledgehammer. The air was filled with an icy mist, and large ferns were abundant in dense undergrowth next to the stream. The fishermen visited the base of the falls, or as close as they could without becoming soaked, and had to shout to be heard over the water. But a few hundred yards from the base of the falls, nature, in an instant, turned chaos into a dream-like tranquility. Through the blowing mist and the ferns, the group came upon a calm, cold pool, almost completely hidden from view. It was perhaps 60 feet long, 15 feet across and 12 feet deep.

Some sunlight from overhead penetrated the tree canopy, and revealed, partly in the shadows, several enormous trout--larger than anything seen on this day.

Fraser saw the fish first, then backed away slowly, quietly. He whispered in Cowie’s ear: “Walk downstream 50 feet or so, cross it, then throw that Adams to the far end of the pool . . . there are some really big fish there.”

A few minutes later, with the rest of the group on its knees and watching from the other side of the pool, Cowie sent the little fly hissing through the moist air. It came up short, perhaps 10 feet from the fish. Nevertheless, one of the big rainbows darted halfway to the fly . . . then stopped, and retreated to darkness.

Again the fly was sent across the pool and this time the big trout didn’t hesitate. Wham! Cowie was fully engaged with a very surprised, and very angry, rainbow trout. His graphite rod was bent nearly double, and he half-stumbled along the poolside, to keep the fish in sight.

Oddly, the trout quickly left the darkness of the deep water and raced downstream. There, over the lip of the pool’s downstream end, it made its stand in foot-deep water, in the open.

In short order, Cowie had the trout at his feet, and removed the hook from its jaw. It was a massive rainbow, in the 7- to 8-pound class. The spawning colors were the same as in the first stream, but in slightly different hues of rose and orange. In the sunlight, the trout’s colors seemed to pulsate.

Almost with reverence, Cowie released the fish unharmed and watch it scuttle quickly across the shallow bottom, back to the dark pool.

“It makes you think . . . that rainbow trout is about as big as they get,” Cowie said. “It’s almost an honor to catch one, particularly in a beautiful place like this.”

Fraser: “That’s what I mean about quality trout fishing, as opposed to quantity trout fishing. There are places where you could catch fish a third that size all day long and 10 years later you wouldn’t be able to remember one of them. Colin’s going to remember that big guy all his life.”

Returning downstream to the Ngtau, Cowie and Fraser caught several more fast, powerful rainbows, all in the 4- to 5-pound class.

It was startling to learn 2 1/2 hours had gone by. Fraser looked at his watch, then at the falling sun, and said: “OK, gents, sorry to say we’d better lift ourselves out of here.”

Standing at the helicopter, checking it out before putting everyone aboard, he pointed to the noisy waterfall hidden behind the trees and the mountain peaks towering above the little river, and said: “I brought a fisherman in here last season and left him all day, and as soon as he saw this place, he said: ‘I don’t care if I don’t catch a fish all day.’ ”

Dick Fraser sat on a sofa in his fishing lodge, Cedar Lodge, a couple of hours after bringing his fishing party from the Ngtau River. Outside, the helicopter sat on his front lawn, where he’d landed.

“What you saw today was 2 of about 15 rivers I use the chopper to take people to,” he said. “Sometimes, depending on how many people I’m taking fishing, I’ll stay with them all day. And sometimes I’ll just leave them, and pick them up at the end of the day.”

Comfortable Cedar Lodge is located in Makarora Vallley, an agricultural region, and is surrounded by sheep, which is redundant. In New Zealand, everything is surrounded by sheep. The country has 3.3 million people and 72 million sheep.

Cedar Lodge has four guest rooms, can accommodate eight fly fishermen at a time, wines and dines them, and offers a panoramic view of the Southern Alps, rising from the green valley, from the living room window. Each morning, fly fishermen depart from the front yard on Fraser’s chopper, destined for other worlds.

“About 95% of the people who fish with me are Americans,” he said. “We work it out so they fly into Wanaka or Queenstown. I can pick them up in my Cessna, and it’s a short hop over to here.”

Fraser also offers an activity he calls “helihiking,” or choppering clients to remote, mountain trails where they can hike at their pace all day, then be picked up late in the day at a predetermined site.

The cost of all this, excluding air fare to Queenstown or Wanaka, works out to roughly $350 per day. The booking agents are two fishing travel agencies, Fishing International of Santa Rosa, Calif., and Frontiers Fishing of Wexford, Pa. According to Fraser, the prime dry fly fishing months are November through March.

There is no dearth of places to fish for big rainbow and brown trout in New Zealand. The North Island, drier than South Island, is known for lake wet fly fishing. South Island, wetter and more lush, is stream dry fly fishing country.

And of course, there is no shortage of trout fishing lodges and guides, either. But Fraser has something that few others have. A helicopter. And in New Zealand, as Fraser demonstrates every fishing season, a helicopter can take you right out of this world.