After mixed fortunes fishing, Kerri Jackson decides River Birches luxury lodge is a better catch.
Fly fishing is like surfing. I am married to a fly fisherman. I am also married to a surfer (they are the same person, I hasten to add) and as the plus-one of such a sportsman it becomes apparent both involve a great deal of driving from place to place to test conditions, trying to find a spot nobody else knows about, then milling about for a very long time waiting for something to happen, all the while convinced conditions are perfect wherever you are not.
Fly fishing, however, does involve far less risk of shark interaction so I have relented and agreed to give it a try in the world-class waters of the Tongariro River where it meanders through Turangi. I am doing this under the tutelage of guide Bryce Curle, who kits me out in fetching armpit-high waders before leading me into the rushing waters of the Tongariro for a trout baptism.
After a lesson in casting, which Curle makes look impossibly easy, I am out there doing it myself, quickly discovering it is impossibly hard. Where his line shimmers out like a ribbon, elegantly soaring into the water, mine flops like month-old asparagus.
But, miracle of miracles, I almost immediately catch a trout - admittedly with Curle doing most of the leg-work while I flail the rod in a panic. But a fish is landed, admired and released. Job done.
