Ah, the South Island – my backyard for over twenty years of chasing trout and telling tall tales. Truth be told, I still get goosebumps every time I see those gin-clear streams cutting through the beech forests, just like when I first wet a line here back in '03. You know the spot I mean – where the Rangitata River braids through the foothills and the rainbows stack up like cordwood behind those boulders the size of Mini Coopers.

Now, they call this place "Angler's El Dorado" (thanks Zane Grey), but between you and me, it's better than that time I fished Patagonia and spent three days untangling wind knots. Here, the browns grow shoulders like rugby props, and the rainbows? Well, let's just say I've seen more than one grown man do a little victory jig after landing a five-pounder.
Christchurch is our home base – not because we're city slickers (God forbid), but because it puts us within spitting distance of every kind of water you could dream of. Nelson way when the sun's baking the tar out of the roads and the trout are sipping cicadas like they're craft beers. The West Coast when it's raining sideways and the rivers run the color of builder's tea – that's when the big boys come out to play, by the way. And don't get me started on those alpine streams where you'll swear the fish have PHDs in fly rejection.
Hannah? She's been guiding these waters longer than some of our mayflies live (about 30 minutes, if you're lucky). The woman can spot a trout's shadow from 50 yards while simultaneously telling you about the time she rescued a Japanese tourist who mistook a possum for a "very angry kiwi." Her secret? Slow mornings. Most guides rush to the water at dawn, but Hannah knows our fish sleep in like teenagers – better to let the sun climb high enough to warm those cold-blooded buggers up.

As for me? I once spent three hours casting to what turned out to be a particularly realistic-looking rock. But that's Kiwi fishing for you – humbling as a hāngi pit in July, but when it clicks? Nothing like it.

We've got the browns that'll test your drag, rainbows that shine like a paua shell, and backcountry so quiet you can hear your own heartbeat. Oh, and between drifts, there's always time for a pie from the Fairlie Bakehouse (trust me) and a yarn about how the Mackenzie Country got its name from a sheep-stealing Scotsman.

Anyway, if you're keen to chase some fish that'll make your leader hand shake, you know where to find us. Just don't blame me when you start dreaming about our rivers instead of your day job.