Fishing: The compleat angler

New Zealand still has some outdoor types who don't need - and certainly don't want - everything laid out for them.

I met such a man this week at a Rotorua stream mouth, quietly fishing beside me on a dark night, and got to know him over the next two days.

He is undoubtedly one of those fishers who make up the 10 per cent of anglers who catch 80 per cent of the trout.

To talk to one of them is a privilege because with any luck, a little of them will rub off on you.

He is a typical Kiwi back-country, small-town bloke, worked for the same company for 30 years, and takes off in his ute on hunting and fishing trips when he gets a four-day break from his shift work.

He'll pull up at a stream mouth late afternoon, park somewhere handy, fish until midnight, return to the ute to sleep in the cab with a rolled-up towel behind his head against the window. He'll be back on the stream at 5am for the often-sensational early-morning catch, and continue fishing throughout the day, grabbing a sporadic rest for an hour or two in the ute, before resuming the serious night fishing until midnight.

He'll continue this pattern for three or four days eating out of a large hold-the-lot chilly bin in the ute. He might break the rhythm with a lake trip in a dinghy he's taken down from his roof-rack.

When I suggested the lack of sleep must affect him, he said that wasn't such a problem.

"It's the lack of a shower that eventually gets to me."

He keeps two rods rigged, one dismantled on the bank to comply with the law, and he'll switch techniques every half-hour or so depending on what is happening. He'll typically start by nymphing with a floating line, then switch rods to a sinking line with wet flies, then go back to the floating line using smelt patterns with a fast retrieve, then change to the floating line with a short trace to keep bug imitations drifting just below the surface.

His concentration is total. It is an aura that envelops him. It is palpable. You can feel it when you walk into his space, and you don't dare breathe for fear of interrupting him. In his hands the line, flies and strike-indicators become living things that tell him every nuance of what's happening below. He tries to make every strike count. He is the consummate angler.

So how many fish does this bloke catch? If you ask him he'll simply say, "A few."

The other morning, between five and eight o'clock, I saw him land 11 with hare and copper nymphs. He added about five with wet flies and nymphs in the slower period till 2pm (which included three hours' rest), then hit about six more with grey ghost smelts in mid-afternoon, and added two or three in the late afternoon with sub-surface willow grub imitations. That's 25 fish landed with the main night fishing still to come. And on a poor night you could guarantee him at least five, on a good night 10 or more.

That's at least 30 for a day. Many anglers would consider themselves lucky to get three or four a day.

He ties all his own flies - "I've never used bought flies" - and practises catch and release, keeping only the fat trout. He also goes snapper fishing, duckshooting and deer and pig hunting, butchers his own kills and keep them in a chiller-room he built himself.

He's a large chap, in his 50s, quietly spoken and of ruddy complexion. His name is Malcolm Dwight, and he comes from Te Aroha , where he works for Fonterra. If you meet him on the river bank, he certainly doesn't mind a chat.

But don't dare interrupt his concentration.