Fishing: Kiwiana calling

The boys were collecting kaimoana for a birthday bash. Photo / Geoff Thomas

When you drive through the Awakino Gorge, you notice the sparkling stream down in the bed of the valley. It tumbles and chuckles over riffles and dashes into green pools, and you wonder if a trout would rise to a dry fly drifted down a foam line.

The river widens into a tidal estuary and the whitebait stands dotted along the far bank raise another question: I wonder what it's like here in November?

The ocean reaches to the horizon and as you round a sweeping corner the Awakino Hotel beckons. You pull in and park, for there is no better source of directions to the fisherman than the local pub, and this one is no exception.

On the wall of the bar a mounted boar's head glares down, and under it a host of photos highlight memorable pig hunts. An honours board records the biggest snapper of the season.

Pig hunting and fishing - it is all here. The hotel fishing club meets monthly and the stories range from flounder in the river to hapuku and marlin way out off the coast. The special on the blackboard always includes whitebait fritters, no matter the season. Thank goodness for freezers.

Just along the road in Mokau, the tiny butcher's shop produces some of the best sausages to be found, offers to butcher a beast for you and, of course, you can buy whitebait there.

The whitebait stands on the Mokau River are well hidden up a road which heads into the bush. The place is full of history as the river was once the only highway into a wild country which defeated many who tried to beat back the bush and plant grass.

The cottages that line the main road are real baches, survivors of a culture that has disappeared from much of the North Island's east coast, but are filled with Kiwiana that trigger warm memories of childhood holidays spent at the beach or the lake more than five decades ago. Memories of cracked lino on the floor, of a sun which seemed much hotter, of the tang of Coppertone oil, of flies buzzing against the window while the mandatory afternoon nap seemed to drag on for hours. They are memories familiar to a generation of grandparents and great grand parents.

It is not just the pig hunting, the whitebait and the trout in the river which draw people to the area. The coast is a special place. It is typical west coast with burning black sand and roaring surf. But surfcasters and long-liners employing kites or torpedoes to drag their hooks 1000m out to sea take home rich catches. Large snapper run along the coast in October and November as they head north from Taranaki to the Waikato. But a kahawai, gurnard or snapper big enough to fill a pan can be pulled in at just about any time of year - so long as the surf is not too wild and the sun is diving into the Tasman or peeping over the hills behind.

While exploring up the beach, a wavering black line in the distance grows quickly and morphs into a pair of quad bikes adorned with figures clad in wetsuits. The bikes are weighed down with sacks. "It's Aunty's birthday," somebody explains. Aunty lives in Piopio, the last community on the road from the Waikato before entering the gorge, and the extended family has been busy gathering the kaimoana. The cheerful blokes pose for photos before pointing out where the kina can be found. Thanks, guys, we'll leave them for you. But crayfish? Now that's another story.

First, though, is an expedition out to sea to fish for snapper. While some of the team drag a net in the estuary for flounder, the 7m runabout slips into the tide on the boat ramp beside the main road bridge over the Mokau River. Crossing the bar is like any other river entrance, and you stop and watch to see how the waves are breaking.

You put on life jackets and call the Coastguard to advise them of your plans. When a lull in the waves appears you race out, across the shallows and meet the first rising breaker head-on.

Up and over, then race to the next one, throttling back to ride up and over it, and out into the calmer ocean where the successful bar-crossing is relayed back to Coastguard, to be repeated on the return trip. The first fish to the baits pulls hard, but when a blurred grey and yellow shape materialises into a shark the expletives fly. A barracouta is next and the language does not improve.

But a small snapper raises the quality of discussion and a 5kg red changes everything. The sea looks more welcoming and even the feathered bait-robbers tugging at your precious offering are tolerated.

The ticks on the list grow steadily - whitebaiting, floundering, snapper fishing, pig hunting - only surfcasting, dry-fly fishing and a cray dive to go.

The surfcasting is highly successful, with a fish hooked up after only five minutes. The trouble is it has only 20cm of the 27cm needed to satisfy the law, although 30cm is a better cut-off point in our book. If it is small enough to measure, it is too small to keep.

That's what we reckon. A few more of the same junior class in school go back, so it is time to throw the halfback into the tide and see if he can find a crayfish. Now, that is more successful. A pile of driftwood is reduced to ashes. The cray blushes in the heat and finishes up on fresh bread, dripping with butter.

The locals around here are actually quite happy when visitors stop for a beer and a whitebait fritter, pay the bill and then keep going down the road to New Plymouth. They like people who appreciate their little piece of paradise, but they also like their privacy. We can understand that.