Chasing Gold in Nelson’s Backcountry: A Trout Story You’ve Got to Live

Let me tell you about the kind of fishing that sticks to your ribs—the sort where you wake up at 3 AM smelling like river moss and coffee, and you’re happy about it. If you’ve ever dreamed of hooking into a Brown Trout so stubborn it feels like you’re reeling in a waterlogged boot (until it leaps and shatters the surface like liquid glass), then Nelson’s your place. And Mike? Well, he’s the guy who’ll get you there.

I first met Mike knee-deep in the Riuwaka River, muttering something about mayfly hatches and how the trout here are "spoiled rotten" by nature’s buffet. He’s got that quiet confidence of someone who’s spent more time reading rivers than books. Grew up hunting and fishing these backcountry veins—knows them like the cracks in his favorite wading boots. You won’t get a polished sales pitch from him, just a grin and maybe a story about that one time he face-planted in the Matakitaki chasing a trophy fish. (Spoiler: the fish won.)

Nelson’s got this magic about it—Mediterranean sun warming your neck, rivers so clear you’d swear they’re filtered by mountain gods. But here’s the thing: not all waters play fair. The West Coast’s tannin-stained currents hide trout like ninjas, while the Kahurangi headwaters? Crystal. Like fishing in an aquarium, if aquariums had 10-pound Browns judging your casting skills. Mike’s got a sixth sense for where they’ll be lurking, whether it’s some hidden braid near Murchison or a helicopter-drop spot so remote even the kea birds seem surprised to see you.

Oh, about those helicopters—yeah, Mike’s flexible like that. Want to spend half a day flicking flies near town? Done. Prefer a three-day slog through beech forest to reach water no one’s touched in weeks? He’ll pack the extra sandwiches. (Pro tip: bring your own chocolate. Learned that the hard way.) His trips feel less like guided tours and more like your crusty uncle finally showing you his spot—if your uncle had a NZPFGA membership and a knack for finding fish when even the ducks look stumped.

And look, I won’t lie—you might blank. I’ve stood in the Wangapeka at golden hour, perfect drift, nada. But then Mike’ll point at a seam you swore was empty, and suddenly your line’s singing. That’s the thing about these rivers: they humble you, then hand you glory when you least expect it.

So if you’re after glossy brochures and scripted itineraries, maybe try a golf resort. But if you want water-stained memories and the kind of trout that make you whisper holy— into the silence? Well. Mike’s got a spare rod with your name on it.