The final fish

2026-03-10 - 16:09

The last time I fished with Brian Turner was likely the last time he held a fly rod. Alzheimer’s had stripped him of most of his recent memories, and he had resisted going south to make a final trip to fish the streams of his youth and catch up with some of his closest friends, needing instead the security of his home in the Ida Valley. He was, however, keen to fish a little creek in the Manuherikia Valley, a place he knew and loved, and which was a short drive from his home. We drove west, over the low saddle beyond Hills Creek, crossed the Manuherikia River and eventually arrived at a ford on the creek we planned to fish. We set up our rods and began the slow search upstream. Brian wearing a hand knitted wool jersey I recall appearing in a photograph of us fishing around thirty years ago, a battered brown hat and worn work pants that looked like they would fall from his bony hips if he sneezed. Appearances have mattered less to him than the words he writes and says. “You’ve fished this water a lot, Brian.” “Yea, I think so,” he said, looking upstream, where the water jostled towards us through an avenue of willows. I waded in chill water that pushed and tugged at my legs while Brian left the creek and momentarily disappeared in a copse of willow. I waited and watched, hoping he wasn’t going to stray far beyond the stream. When he appeared again, looking uncertain about where he was, I called out, “It’s easier going in the water.” Two rainbows hung in the current of the first good-sized pool we found. “What beauties,” said Brian. “Your shot,” I said. “I’m happy watching them,” he said, his face captivated by the trout that hovered mid-current, periodically darting to the side, showing the quick flash of their inner mouths as they grabbed passing nymphs. Eventually we moved on, leaving the trout undisturbed. Further upstream, beyond the dense willows, in a deep pool on a sharp bend in the creek, we spotted two trout rising to mayfly duns which floated towards us like tiny vessels, gossamer sails extended, on a journey their forebears have taken for aeons. The trout lay under a line of foam that snaked across the surface and every few seconds one pushed its snout through the foam to take a fly. “This time, Brian. They’re yours.” “I want to see you catch one. I can get back anytime.” Knowing that was unlikely, I said, “I want to watch you cast. Try for the back one. The drift should be good.” * For a moment he looked unsure about what to do, but soon he had his line in the air, and the fly went towards its target as though his old skills had returned. The trout reacted to the fly as soon as it landed, and sipped it from the slick surface as though it was the real thing. Brian stood, transfixed, for a second longer than he should, and by the time he lifted his rod-tip to set the hook the big brown had ejected the fly. “You cast at the other one,” said Brian. He insisted, so I made the cast. It wasn’t as good as his effort, and the fish quickly ran for deep water. “Bugger,” said Brian. We walked on, but there was a reluctance in his stride. Eventually he stopped and looked towards the dry hills to the west. “Where are we?” “On the Dunstan. Not far from your mate Syd’s house.” He looked about, his face anxious for the first time this sunny afternoon. “Probably time to go. Where’s the car? Not sure if Jillian’s home today.” I could see that it was time, that his memory of this little creek had left him, and he was a stranger in this place he’d loved. * The walk to the car was longer than usual. Brian, who had waded the wildest rivers, and climbed our highest mountain had lost his memory of how to walk in water, about where to cross the creek, and where to place his feet on the slippery bottom. Back at his cottage in Oturehua, I asked Brian if he’d like to join me for a meal at the pub. “I’m pretty sure Jillian’s away. Sounds good.” “I’ll get changed. How about I pick you up in half an hour?” Fifteen minutes later Jillian called from Queenstown. Said Brian had called. Thought he was going out for dinner but wasn’t sure who he was going with. “I guessed it was you.” “It was. I’m on my way to pick him up.” Eventually I found him, sitting in the Railway Hotel, wondering who he was there to meet. He had forgotten about our afternoon on the Dunstan, but in the couple of hours we spent over a meal, he recounted stories of a number of the trips we shared going back decades. * Around the middle of January 2025, I called to see Brian in the Aspiring Dementia Care unit in Wanaka. It had been a few weeks since we last met, and I soon realised he had little idea who I was. He wasn’t sure where he was, and why he was there. He smiled though, as he had much of the time since his diagnosis. I tried to tell him something about where he was—that the peak beyond his window was Mount Alpha. I mentioned the Matukituki River, not far away, thinking this closeness to moving water might help him feel more at home. It didn’t, and a short time later he asked where he was. In the end though, it was rivers that connected us. Before I left, he looked at me, his head cocked to the side, and said—“You and I, we’ve cared about rivers for a long time.” “We have Brian. For as long as we’ve known each other,” I said.