Ah, the one that got away... no, really! Back in '98, I was knee-deep in some Czech river—Vltava maybe?—when this absolute tank of a brown trout rose for my nymph. Took me three runs down the rapids before I finally landed him, and that’s when it clicked for me. You know how some folks chase fish? I chase that feeling.

Name’s Rob. Grew up with Waikato mud between my toes, cut my teeth on those sneaky Central North Island trout—Taupō rainbows? Proper fighters. Spent more time untangling leaders than sleeping some seasons. But hey, that’s how you learn, right? One minute you’re face-planting in the Tongariro because you forgot to watch your backcast, next thing you know you’re repping NZ in comps with a Czech nymphing rig so dialed-in it’d make those old Czech masters nod approval.

Speaking of—ever tried euro nymphing before it was cool? I mean really tried it? Back when Kiwi anglers thought we were nuts for fishing without strike indicators? Ha! Took me two summers of getting skunked in alpine streams to figure out the drift. But when it works... oh man. Those subtle takes, the way the line just ticks—I’ll show you. Not some textbook junk either, the real dirt: how to read a seam like it’s gossip, when to go heavy on the tungsten, why some days the fish want their nymphs dancing like a drunk mayfly.
Look, I’ve guided bankers who’d never held a rod and competition anglers who could thread tippet blindfolded. Doesn’t matter. Long as you’ve got the stoke, I’ve got the spots—hidden spring creeks, braids where the big boys sulk, all of it. And yeah, I’m NZPGFA card-carrying or whatever, but forget the paperwork. You’ll know I’m legit when you’re hooked into your first solid rainbow and I’m knee-deep right beside you, hollering like a madman.

So. Waders on? Let’s go get you acquainted with some trout that’ll bend your rod—and maybe your ego. Just... maybe leave the fancy sunglasses at home. Rivers here have a way of claiming ’em.