27/05/2020
A Story...
I wrote this story a few years back and never published it. The images were published in the form of a photo essay in New Zealand Bay Fisher magazine.
White Gold.
It isn’t really white and it isn’t really gold… but it might as well be. When we buy it, we buy it by the gram and we seem to be willing to pay exorbitant prices for it. It isn’t easy to come by and like gold once was, it is sieved, strained and by various methods, inventive and intriguing, wrestled from the waterways of New Zealand. But none of that makes it all that comparable to gold. I think what really puts it up there alongside gold is the effect it has on people. You might have observed or felt gold fever… well, whitebait, when it’s running, has the same obsessive influence over those who fish for it and those who crave its sweet and mildly fishy flavour. Nothing brings a distant and wistful look to the eyes of the whitebait infected, as the thought of a patty fresh from the pan, brimming with fresh “bait” and roughly stuck together with egg, served on a slice of bread.
So often you will find, with the fickle nature of spring runs of whitebait, it is either a case of “no bait today but you should have been here yesterday,” or… “It’s OK today but there probably won’t be any here tomorrow.” As much as anything I think those sorts of comments are about limiting competing baiters on a riverbank rather than any real understanding of what actually drives the runs of returning juvenile galaxiids from the sea into river and stream systems around New Zealand.
On a mid-September Monday brimming with promise I decided to head to Fortrose where the Mataura River enters the sea close to the southernmost point of mainland New Zealand. The sea had been uncharacteristically calm following almost a week of mild spring days and the river had reached its lowest levels since May. The previous week had seen the river still above normal and an outing on the estuary to target sea run brown trout had ended with a tactical retreat due to a high concentration of silt in the water. My guess was that it looked like the vestiges of upcountry snow melt still being carried in a robust flow into the estuary and sea. That Monday outing was, as much as anything, about assessing the water clarity for another attempt at sea run trout and perhaps a few flounders for dinner. Adam had already indicated that we had to at least try again while he was staying with us in Invercargill.
Being a pleasant afternoon; sunshine, blue sky, still conditions, birds singing, green grass, lambs… I thought a look at the Titiroa weir to check on the status of spring run whitebait was in order, along with some nice images for a story about whitebait. The word on the riverbank, was, as expected, little to show for a lot of effort; there had been only small catches since the first few weeks of the season which opens in most places in mid-August. (The West Coast season opens later at the beginning of September while in the Chatham Islands the season is from December through to the end of February.) As I continued towards Fortrose and the outflow of the river and estuary into the sea, I continued to ponder the age old question of what induces the shoals of whitebait to “run.”
There are plenty of theories and every “baiter” possesses a wealth of anecdotal
evidence to support each hypothesis but an exact scientific explanation and understanding is still much akin to nailing down jelly. Some suggest that it is in fact related to water temperature and that snow melt plays a part… who knows, that may well be the case, (the water in the estuary was only 10 °C while we fished for trout and flounders.) It may be the phases of the moon, the size of the tides, the air pressure, the length of the days or a combination of any or all of the above which kick into gear the whitebait’s urge to fight the current and enter our waterways.
Whitebait is really a collective generic label given to the biomass of the juvenile form of five species of native freshwater fish all of which are galaxiids. The bait return to the particular part of the waterway in which they respectively live their life cycle until they spawn, laying their eggs in streamside vegetation. Those eggs subsequently hatch when they are re-immersed as a result of fresh’s and floods or spring tides and the larvae are then washed into the sea. The developed juveniles gather in the sea at their respective stream and river mouths having wintered at sea and await the “moment” when they make their upstream move in what are sometimes vast shoals of millions of individuals. In New Zealand these tiny transparent fish of just 50 mm are comprised of giant kōkopu, banded kōkopu, shortjaw kōkopu, inanga, and kōaro. At maturity when they spawn the giants among them may have reached 580 mm while others will only ever reach 150 mm.
I pulled in at the boat ramp just inside the Tois Tois harbour, otherwise known as the Fortrose estuary, eager to find out whether there were any catches from those who are content to tow a small drag net, a pair of fishermen or women in unison catching a cup or less in each drag of twenty to fifty metres in just a foot of water along the sheltered gravel beach where dribs and drabs creep up the shoreline towards the Titiroa river. Occasionally a more enterprising and patient individual will assemble a frame or box net and screens to avoid the back break and time spent in the water. On this Monday the two ladies working their drag net were rewarded at the end of each drag with bait numbering from just single digits to a few tablespoons worth. “Enough for a couple of patties for tea,” I was told. The gentleman with his frame net was making harder work of it.
There are a number of net types and designs in common use in New Zealand which range from fairly simple, lightweight and very “fold up and carry away,” through to positively industrial, requiring a winch and derrick to effectively operate. Each has its own application and locality of preference. For those who fish in the river mouths and even in the surf a “scoop net” is usually the design which is employed, some have a trap sewn into the tail and all have an open end at the tail which is tied off with a webbing strip which is easily released for emptying the catch. Scoop nets are also used by fishermen and women who use a sight board to detect shoals of bait swimming upstream in tidal water, close to the bank. The sight board is painted white and laid out a little below the surface perpendicular to the bank. When a shoal is detected the net is used to scoop the bait up from behind. Needless to say a good deal of skill is required, first to see the bait and then to scoop them up without scaring and dispersing the shoal. It’s great entertainment to watch.
Also used in estuary systems are drag nets which are a mini version of a flounder drag net up to 3.5 metres across and up to a metre deep. They work the same way as a flounder net and require two to operate. The big difference, apart from their overall size, is the mesh size… all whitebait nets use either wire or fabric netting with a mesh resembling mosquito netting, for obvious reason given the relative size of the target fish species. Sock nets with either one or sometimes two traps sewn into them and formed with metal hoops to create a conical shape are often referred to as set nets. In many cases they are fished from a stand which is actually a wharf structure which is limited in size by regulation, registered with the appropriate regional council, limited in number and traded for the equivalent of the gross domestic product of a small developing nation. The nets are set out into the waterway with screens of mesh which deflect bait travelling up the river edges, out and into the net opening.
Another type of set net is the frame or box net ranging from the small collapsible car boot size right up to heavy duty “you’re going to need a crane to lift that,” west coast models. They can either be fished in estuaries from the edge or bank or from a structure in a similar fashion to a sock net. Any other variation you can imagine is probably in existence somewhere in a tidal waterway just down the road.
It was time to move on from the boat ramp within the Fortrose estuary to the headland at the estuary mouth. Parking on the cliff top I could see five wetsuited men working scoop nets in the surf outside of the mouth in a sort of slack water corner as the tide began its push into the estuary while just inside another half dozen were scooping along the channel edge.
Each had a 20 litre bucket with a lid placed well up the gravel beach. None of these men were moving, they were stationary and just scooping into the push of the tide. Some, after 4 of five scoops were making a bee line to their respective buckets many tended by longsuffering but more than likely similarly whitebait affected spouses and partners who were engaged, sieves in hand, sorting and cleaning the catch. It became obvious that something was happening, something quite significant. I took some photos, I talked to a busy women sorting her man’s catch and found that it was on, the bait had started to run.
When a white baiter “lifts” his or her net it is called just that, a lift and the quantity of bait in the net is the measure of the productivity of a tide or a stand. The amount of bait in a lift is seriously something to be hidden, disguised and lied about. There is no such thing as common knowledge, baiters in their shelters and huts all have binoculars and are ace speculators. Information is never shared except with your tight knit and most trusted partners in crime. There is such a thing as white baiting etiquette and lore. Unwritten rules. Of course everyone will break them if they think they can without being detected. Outsiders are treated with suspicion and a camera wielded by a stranger is simply a signal to close ranks. Challenge on. I was going to get inside this “run” of bait and document it.
On a mid-September Tuesday brimming with promise I decided to head to the “Big Bend” on the lower Mataura River about four kilometres upstream from the mouth of the estuary to see what might happen there. It is the one place in Southland where way over half the whitebait stands are located and it supports a semi-permanent springtime community of often cranky, always secretive, sometimes opinionated and sometimes sage and wise fishers of the white gold delicacy. I knew the bait were running. Did they?
I stopped at the padlocked gate and met Robin back from a run into town for essential supplies and groceries. Most stands at Big Bend have accompanying “huts” which like Topsy have grown from once basic and unassuming shelters into what amount to batches accommodating the seasonal community of the whitebait afflicted. I chatted with Robin and passed on the information gathered the previous day and by the time I left him 15 minutes later he was excited and filled with anticipation, perhaps tomorrow would be the day, the morning high tide. I talked to Blue, I caught up with Chris I broke the ice with suspicious strangers, re kindled old acquaintances and bumped into people who looked familiar but to whom I could not attach a name. I was invited to share cups of coffee with biscuits and a beer or two and it was obvious, given the building anticipation that I would be back tomorrow to watch the unfolding quest for white gold. “Be here early and can you bring the newspaper with you. Here take this for your Mrs. if you are going to steal her newspaper for me.” James promised to show me how to cook a real whitebait patty and I thought he should know being the “world famous in Southland” Jimmy, of Jimmy’s seafood chowder and proprietor of South Coast Catering. I headed home, now also excited and full of anticipation and… with a packet of whitebait in my pocket; a 250gram packet of bait looks suspiciously like some sort of gastronomic “deal bag.”
The mid–September Wednesday was even more pregnant with promise than the last ewe left to lamb out the back at home and I headed of in the Landrover, paper in hand, a dozen fresh free range eggs and a dozen 330ml refreshments to acknowledge the hospitality and kindness shown to me the previous day. That’s how it works on the riverbank.
The bait were running and lifts of 2 and three kilos had been secured before I arrived at the Bend. Whitebait, however, are strange and fickle fish and while one net would catch a good lift the next would remain empty, a section of river where the breeze blew toward the bank would fire up and then go completely quiet, no rhyme or reason. It was exciting, there was relieved, albeit subdued celebration in some places, bewilderment and speculation mixed with disappointment in others and always that stoic and secretive demeanour when asked “how much did you get that lift?” I’m no idiot though… it was going very well and I did the maths like every other whitebaiter on the riverbank.
Among the highlights of that memorable morning two stand out. James did show me how to cook the perfect whitebait patty, it contained just a couple of eggs, a splash of cream salt, pepper and half a cup of white gold. They were still wriggling as the patty was prepared and the cooking began, it was a delicate process, it took time and care and the result was outstanding. I replicated it that night for Mrs. D and she agreed; that is what a whitebait patty should be like, soft and slowly cooked, sweet and chocka-block full of very small succulent fish.
An even bigger impression was yet to be made. Shortly after enjoying that magnificent whitebait patty there was yelling 100 metres down the bank from Blue on his stand. He had hit the mother-load of white gold with a once in every few years lift for the Mataura fishery where there are 400 hundred other fishers to compete with. In response to the commotion people appeared to help wrestle the tail of the net to the bank, out of the water and up the bank. Those words are still ringing in my ears… “We are going to need a bigger bucket… and Tony, bring your camera.”
20 kilograms of whitebait in a bucket do make a satisfying and quite unique susurration. It also imparts a kind of fever among the afflicted… a bit like gold fever.
Can our rivers sustain catches like this, is there enough biomass to allow for the removal of whitebait such as takes place in our waterways each spring? I think the biggest threat to the fishery is not how much we catch or how we catch it but how we treat our waterways. Rules limit the hours in which white gold can be won from the water as do restrictions on nets and how they are used. There will never be any more stands than are already registered here on Southland’s rivers. We need to realise the enemies of those succulent little fish, those galaxiids, are declining water quality and habitat destruction.
The gold may be gone from our rivers and the hills but the white gold from the rivers still captivates thousands of whitebaiters each spring and may well do into the future, if we can just moderate our greed and look after the world and the waterways we have.
© Tony Dawson and New Zealand Bay Fisher Magazine
