You’ve resolved to fly halfway around the globe like the magazines say you must, purchasing specialty “single use” terminal gear and flies worthy of your exotic foe, despite knowing you’ll never be able to use those flies or that gear at home …
… and after prostrating yourself numerous times and alienating spouse and progeny, you arrive many time zones distant with invasive species and jet lag, only to endure yet another cavity search and the impound of all your rubber soled shoes and any Scotch you brought …
… and rather than the bright cheerful smiles of indigenous natives you’re called “freeloader.”
The document noted that international anglers typically targeted remote backwaters more intensively and over longer periods than New Zealand anglers, but did no more to contribute to freshwater fisheries management.
Local anglers sometimes saw international anglers as freeloaders who were using an asset they have had no part in creating or maintaining, the report noted.
Seems to me they’ve omitted that part in all those travel articles espousing exotic locales and even rarer fish.
To add insult to injury, now that you’ve infested their island paradise with voracious man-eating diatoms, devalued their currency via wastrel economics and voodoo banking, insulted most of their womenfolk, and insisted on an umbrella on all your drinks, they’re going to jack up the cost of your fishing license as punishment.
Conservation Minister Kate Wilkinson today said she was considering a new fishing licence structure under which non-residents would pay higher licence fees than locals, as is common overseas.
I’d say you were lucky to get off so easily … if I was Minister of the Interior, I’d put you back on the plane after confiscating your fly rod, knowing you lacked the courtesy to wipe your feet before entering my country.
Screw tourism, if mitigating the after-effects of their fishing costs more than I can siphon from their wallet during their stay, they can dangle their unwashed footwear in my ocean, rather than my trout stream.


Firstly, with all the clothing manufacturers jettisoning olive drab, tan, and the muted tones in favor of shirts, waders, and fishing vests of Marigold, Puce, Cinnamon, and Bubblegum, we’ve got a better uniform than grubby Dakotan Oil frackers …
That last comment was innocent enough, but all the hellish labor, gnashing of teeth, and fits of cursing that go into a simple task like selecting final colors, are invisible to most .. as is the time spent sulking …
What’s complicating things is I’ve had my hard water softened compliments of Culligan, and the increased salt in the water has added a new wrinkle to old calculations.
The Good News is what we’re pissing into the creek isn’t killing fish outright, rather all that runoff from wastewater treatment containing our prescribed anti-anxiety, lowered cholesterol, blood- thinning stimulants, merely make them giggle watching Mom struggle with a faceful of your artificial …
Most are chum or pink salmon, and source from Southern Alaska, part of the the salmon rich area known as the “Tongass 77”, seventy-seven watersheds within Southeast Alaska that combine to produce nearly 28% of that state’s Pacific Salmon harvest.