Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 1511
Sunday morning at ten, January seventeenth, I sighted land. New Zealand! High pale cliffs rising to dark mountain ranges in the background swept along the western horizon as far as I could see.
While watching an albatross I was tremendously thrilled by the sight of an amazingly large broadbill swordfish. He was not over three hundred yards from the ship. His sickle fins stood up strikingly high, with the old rakish saber shape so wonderful to the sea angler. Tail and dorsal fins were fully ten feet apart. He was a monster. I yelled in my enthusiasm, and then ran for Captain Mitchell. But on my return I could not locate the fins. The fish had sounded or gone out of sight.
This was about fifteen miles offshore; and it was an event of importance. Swordfish do not travel alone.
Wellington, our port of debarkation, was a red-roofed city on hills surrounding a splendid bay. It had for me a distinctly foreign look, different from any city I had ever seen before; a clean, cold, tidy look, severe and substantial. From Wellington to Auckland was a long ride of fifteen hours, twelve of which were daylight. The country we traversed had been cut and burned over, and reminded me of the lumbered districts of Washington and Oregon. One snow-capped mountain, Tongariro, surrounded at the base by thick, green forests, was really superb; and the active cone-shaped volcano, Ngauruhoe, held my gaze as long as I could see it. A thick column of white and yellow steam or smoke rose from the crater and rolled away with the clouds.
Auckland appeared to be a more pretentious city than the capital; and it likewise was built upon hills. It is New Zealand’s hub of industry. From Auckland to Russell was another long day’s ride, over partly devastated country and part sylvan, which sustains well the sheep and cattle of the stations thereabout. Farms and villages were numerous. The names of the latter were for me unpronounceable and unrememberable. They were all Maori names. At Opua, the terminus of the railroad, we took a boat for Russell. We were soon among picturesque islands above which the green mountains showed against the sky.
Russell turned out to be a beautiful little hamlet, the oldest in the island, and one with which were connected many historical events. The bay resembled that of Avalon, having a crescent-shaped beach and a line of quaint white houses. It is a summer resort, and children and bobbed-haired girls were much in evidence. The advent of the Z.G. outfit was apparently one of moment, to judge from the youngsters. They were disappointed in me, however, for they frankly confessed they had expected to see me in sombrero, chaps, spurs and guns. Young ladies of the village, too, were disappointed, for they had shared with people all over the world the illusion that the author Zane Grey was a woman. I found there in the stores, as at Wellington and Auckland, the English editions of my books.
Alma Baker, the English sportsman, arrived that night with his family, from Sydney, Australia. There were a number of Auckland anglers at the hotel. We were pleased to hear that several Marlin swordfish and two mako had already been taken at Cape Brett. The paramount interest in my trip, of course, was in the fishing; and I exhausted both anglers and boatmen with my curiosity and enthusiasm. Tackle, fish, methods, boats — everything was entirely new in all my experience. Salt-water angling was a development of only a few years there, and had not progressed far. It was plain that their rods, reels, etc., had been an evolution from the English salmon tackle. The rods were either a native wood called tanekaha or split cane with a steel center, and from seven to eight feet in length. The reels were mostly the large single-action Nottingham style from England, and were mounted on the under side of the rods. Guides and tips were huge affairs, and few and far between. Leaders, or “traces”, as they were called, were heavy braided wire, twenty or thirty feet long, and the hooks were huge gangs, or three hooks in a triangle. The swivels were disproportionately small. Up to the year 1925 the anglers had used rod belts, but lately had developed swivel chairs, with a fixed rod seat. They used a short heavy gaff, which was hooked round the tail of the fish, and if it was a shark he was harpooned in addition. The harpoon was really a crude heavy tozzle, mounted on a four-foot club. One of the New Zealand anglers brought out his tackle for our edification. Captain Mitchell and I surely handled it with thoughtful curiosity. We had to admit that these New Zealand anglers had performed some mighty achievements landing three-, four- and five-hundred-pound fish on such rigs. It looked like most of the energy exerted would be wasted.
Both anglers and boatmen explained their methods of fishing. They used dead and live bait. Trolling had been attempted at times, and persistently by some anglers, but it was never successful. Their best method appeared to be drifting with tide or wind, with live bait sunk ten or fifteen fathoms. One boatman told me he had caught twenty-four Marlin, three mako shark, and one thresher shark, most of which had been foul hooked, during the season of 1925. It was my opinion that this circumstance could be laid to the three-hook gang, and the drifting method. I was especially curious about this drifting with bait down deep, which was something I had always wanted to try on broadbill swordfish.
We were two days at Russell, part of which time was taken up by a severe storm. When it cleared off the weather left nothing to be desired. Some one showed me a picture of New Bedford whaling ships at anchor in the bay. In the early days of whaling this place had been a favorite station for whalers, sometimes as many as thirty ships being anchored in the bay. What fishing days those must have been! Whaling had not entirely played out, and during our stay at Russell there was a small whaling steamer there. The captain had fished with the New Bedford and Nantucket whalers in those early days. He was most interesting. The season of 1925, just ended, had netted him some fifty-odd whales, mostly finbacks. What was of vastly more interest to me, he told of seeing schools of large round bullet-shaped fish lying on the surface offshore some fifteen or twenty miles. He said they had mackerel tails and silver bellies. That sounded decidedly like tuna. We were keen to learn more, but that was all the information available. The boatmen told of small tunny taken off Cape Brett. One of the scientific booklets on New Zealand fish mentioned long-fin albacore up to two hundred pounds caught by market fishermen. These were undoubtedly the Allison tuna. We listened to numerous stories about the hooking of great fish that never showed, and either broke away or had to be cut off after hours of fighting. Altogether the experiences and impressions of these anglers and boatmen proved the remarkable possibilities of a new and undeveloped fishing resort. The boats reserved for Captain Mitchell and me were quite different from any we had ever used. They were close to forty feet in length, and eleven or twelve feet in beam. The cockpits were deep; so deep that we had to build platforms upon which to mount the fishing chairs we had brought from Avalon. It looked to us then that we would have our troubles fighting fish from these wide cockpits. On the other hand, the boats promised to be very seaworthy and comfortable. The Marlin was the widest boat, with rather high deck, and I decided it would be best for the motion-picture man and his equipment. The launch I was to use had the name Alma G.
We had to get permission from the New Zealand government to take these boats out of their district adjacent to Russell. The marine laws, and all laws, for that matter, were very rigid. Colonel Allan Bell and the Minister of Marine came to Russell to do all in their power to help make my visit to New Zealand waters a success. The Minister, at the earnest solicitation of Colonel Bell, finally agreed to allow us the privilege of taking our boats anywhere, but declared he would not grant that permission again. We were fortunate indeed.
Deep Water Cove Camp, about fifteen miles from Russell, was the rendezvous where anglers stayed while fishing the waters adjacent to Cape Brett. It accommodated ten or twelve anglers. I decided to follow my usual plan of being independent of everyone and having a camp of my own. We had brought our own tents, and we bought blankets. What wonderful blankets they were, and cheap! I never saw their equal. We outfitted at Russell, and soon were ready to start for Urupukapuka, an island belonging to Mr. Charles F. Baker, one of the leading citizens of the town, and said to be the most beautiful of all the hundred and more in the Bay of Islands.
As we ran down the bay, which afforded views of many of the islands, I decided that if Urupukapuka turned out to be any more striking than some we passed, it was indeed rarely beautiful. Such proved to be the case. It was large, irregular, with a range of golden grassy hills fringed by dark-green thickets and copses, indented by many coves, and surrounded by channels of aquamarine water, so clear that the white sand shone through. We entered the largest bay, one with a narrow opening protected by another island so that it was almost completely landlocked. The beach of golden sand and colored sea shells stretched in graceful crescent shape. A soft rippling surge washed the strand, and multitudes of fish, some of them mullet, splashed and darkened the shallow waters. The hills came down to enclose a level valley green with grass and rushes, colorful with flags and reeds. A stream meandered across the wide space. On the right side were groves of crimson-flowering trees, the pohutukawa, in Maori. This tree was indeed magnificent, being thick, tall, widespreading, with massy clumps of dark-green foliage tipped by crimson blossoms. Beautiful as was this side of the bay, I decided to pitch camp on the other.
The hillside there was covered with a wonderful growth of the tree ferns, which plant has given New Zealand the name Fernland; a tall palmetto-like tree which the men called cabbage trees; and lastly tall marvelous titrees. These stood up above close-woven thickets of the same flora. The foliage was very fine, lacy, dark green, somewhat resembling hemlock, and having a fragrance that I can describe only as being somewhat like cedar and pine mingled. How exquisitely strange and sweet! Trees and their beauty and fragrance have always been dear to me. The hills back of the bay were mostly bare, graceful, high, covered with long golden grass that waved in the wind.
These were my first impressions of our camp site on Urupukapuka. How inadequate they were! But first impressions always are lasting. These of mine I gathered were to grow.
When Mr. Alma Baker arrived, he pitched his camp under the crimson-flowered pohutukawas across from our place at the edge of the titrees. We worked all day at this pleasant and never-wearying task of making a habitation in wilderness. Never am I any happier than when so engaged. This nomad life is in the blood of all of us, though many comfort-loving people do not know it.
After dinner we climbed the high hill on our side. Fine-looking woolly sheep baa-ed at us and trotted away. The summit was a grassy ridge, and afforded a most extraordinary view of islands and channels and bays, the mainland with its distant purple ranges, and the far blue band of the sea. It was all wonderful, and its striking feature was the difference from any other place I had ever seen. Seven thousand miles from California! What a long way to come, to camp out and to fish, and to invite my soul in strange environment! But it was worth the twenty-six days of continuous travel to get there. I gathered that I would not at once be able to grasp the details which made Urupukapuka such a contrast from other places I had seen. The very strangeness eluded me. The low sound of surf had a different note. The sun set in the wrong direction for me, because I could not grasp the points of the compass. Nevertheless, I was not slow to appreciate the beauty of the silver-edged clouds and the glory of golden blaze behind the purple ranges. Faint streaks or rays of blue, fan-shaped spread to the zenith. Channels of green water meandered everywhere, and islands on all sides took on the hues of the changing sunset.
I was too tired to walk farther, so I sat down on the grassy hill, and watched and listened and felt. I saw several sailing hawks, some white gulls, and a great wide-winged gannet. Then I heard an exquisite bird song, but could not locate the bird. The song seemed to be a combination of mocking-bird melody, song-sparrow and the sweet, wild, plaintive note of the canyon swift. Presently I discovered I was listening to more than one bird, all singing the same beautiful song. Larks! I knew it before I looked up. After a while I located three specks in the sky. One was floating down, wings spread, without an effort, like a feather. It was a wonderful thing to see. Down, down he floated, faster and faster, bursting his throat all the while, until he dropped like a plummet to the ground, where his song ended. The others circled round higher and higher, singing riotously, until they had attained a certain height; then they poised, and began to waft downwards, light as wisps of thistledown on the air. I had never before seen larks of this species. They were imported birds, as indeed many New Zealand birds are. They were small in size. The color I could not discern. What gentle, soft music! It was elevating, and I was reminded of Shakespeare’s sonnet: “Hark! hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings.”
They sang until after dark; and in the gray dawn, at four o’clock, they awoke me from sound slumber. I knew then I had found a name for this strange new camp. Camp of the Larks!
CHAPTER IV. HUNTING THE BIG GAME FISH
BOTH OF MY two boatmen were experienced at the New Zealand game of sea fishing. Arlidge was an engineer and Williams was a whaler. Both had been through the World War. In fact Captain Mitchell’s two men had also had that experience. They could tell some yarns about that fight. Warne had been a cripple on the deck of a hospital ship which was torpedoed by the Germans. He was one of the few to be saved out of hundreds of sick and wounded soldiers. Those Germans left a record no civilization can ever forget. Evolution, the progress of mankind, the development of soul were left entirely out of their reckoning. How could they ever do anything but fail?
A circumstance related by one of the boatmen fascinated me. He was watching a torpedo, like a graceful, gliding fish with a white wake, come straight for the ship upon which he stood. How terrible it must have been to see!
Williams, the whaler, was a man nearing middle age, a brawny, powerful fellow who looked as if he could gaff and hold a heavy fish. And it certainly turned out that he could.
These men were all bewildered with my array of fishing tackle. They had never dreamed of such gear, and were tremendously interested. Like all good fishermen, they were boys at heart.
The second morning after our arrival in camp I was up before five. The tranquil bay, the burst of melody from the larks, the soft rose and pearl of the sky, the bleating of sheep from the hills — these and the many other details of my environment were exceedingly heart-satisfying. At six-thirty we were off toward the fishing grounds. Mr. Baker’s boat had not arrived and he said he wanted to work around camp and overhaul his tackle. We ran among islands little and big, rocky and wooded, grassy and green, and on out the winding channel into the sea. Still we did not yet lose the land. A mountain range rose on our right, and terminated in Cape Brett, one of the great promontories of New Zealand. It was rugged and bold, showing the hard contact with wind and sea. A white lighthouse towered on the steep slope, a lonely sentinel, significant of the thoughtfulness of men.
We ran out to Bird Rock, which was a ragged black ledge rising a hundred feet or more above the thundering surge. This island was about even with the cape. Farther out was Piercy Island, a magnificent mountain of rock, begirt by a white wreath of foam.
Flocks of small white black-headed gulls were flying above a school of working fish that ruffled the water. Here and there were other patches, large as an acre. The place looked fishy, and here the boatmen began trolling with hand-lines for bait. They used a small gig, dark in color, shaped like a canoe, which they called a dummy. I rigged up a light tackle and put over a spoon, which the boatmen claimed would not be looked at by the kahawai. As luck would have it, however, I was the first to hook and land a kahawai. It was a lively fish, gray and green in color, shaped somewhat like a salmon. It had large scales. The mouth was small and delicate, which fact I soon saw accounted for the number of kahawai hooked and lost.
The fish were not biting well, so the boatmen ran out to Piercy Island, perhaps a matter of two miles. It towered just off the cape and was indeed an imposing spectacle. Black rock, green bush, wheeling gannets, white surf, roar and boom — all these thrilling things were old and familiar yet ever new.
When we ran under the looming shadow of this huge monument I laid aside my rod. That action was a considerable tribute for me to pay any place. I saw gray patches of fish on the surface, acres of kahawai. They all swam head out of the water, closely pressed together, and sending up little bursts of spray. Suddenly there was a white splash across the school, swift as light, and then a crash of water as thousands of kahawai leaped to escape some prowling enemy. This place did look fishy. My boatmen began to hook and haul away on kahawai but they lost three fish to one they landed. The hooks were too small and sharp, and the men pulled too hard.
As we ran closer under the rock, near the line of black shadow, the water showed beautifully clear. There was not any perceptible swell in this protected lee. Riding the surface were hundreds of fish of varying hues, most striking of all being a wonderful cerise. Then there were purple fish, yellow fish, and gray kahawai, all scattered everywhere. The boatmen gave me the Maori names of these fish, but these names were so similar and so long and strange that I could not remember them. Besides, they surely were not the proper names. Fish and birds in different places usually have local names but there is really only one correct name for any species. The boatmen called a shearwater, the kind I have seen all over the Pacific, a mutton bird.
