The seed was planted by a sentence that concluded a paragraph in a fly-fishing guidebook. After detailing the holes, riffles, runs, and flies to use in them, the author mentioned that most anglers access these holy waters by helicopter. They mentioned that the river is accessible by foot but described it as "a struggle only for a fit and experienced tramper angler."
Upon further research, we found an account of previous tramper-anglers’ journeys to these fabled waters. In Into the Wider World, A Back Country Miscellany, Brian Turner details the story of three young university students, driving out from Dunedin to the same river we sought after. Their adventure quickly turned south when a notorious West Coast storm left them stranded in the hut for a few days as they waited for the creeks to subside. Fortunately, they found a copy of a Playboy magazine under a mattress to help them pass the time. We quickly fell in love with the writing of Brian Turner. The way he so poetically captures the art of fly fishing, as well as the brash enthusiasm of being a young university student keen to cut their teeth in the bush - both of which we could relate to. As we drove over Haast Pass, we felt the spirits of Brian and his mates making the same journey many years ago. We hoped this time we’d get better weather than they did, but we also secretly hoped the Playboy magazine was still to be found in the hut.
Loaded down with freshly tied flies, rods, and enough tucker to last a while in the bush, we set off on our journey. The “struggle” was immediate. The West Coast bush was thick with supplejack that reached out, grabbing our feet, packs, and protruding rod tubes. Our progress slowed from a walk to a shuffle, to a crawl until we were tangled up like a fly in a spider's web, half expecting the spider to crawl down to see what it had caught. We looked at the map, disappointed to see that in two hours of struggle, we had made it a measly two kilometers. In the first half-kilometer, someone had come through and flagged a path, but the pink tape in the trees had run out. We assumed the track cutter gave up, and considered if we should do the same.
Hours later, as we pushed through the dense bush, we stumbled upon a bearded bushman staring inquisitively at us, just as surprised to see us as we were to see him. Theo was his name, and he was a retired biologist, living in the local town. He spent years employed by DOC, working to protect the land he loved. He was a part of the first successful island eradication of mice and was currently involved in implementing New Zealand’s carbon cap and trade system. These days Theo is enjoying retirement and spends his time fishing in the rivers and hunting in the hills, living off the land with the help of his "thumping veggie garden." On this fine spring evening, he took his jet boat up the river to check on how the deer were feeding before we stumbled out of the bush upon him. He took sympathy for us, as he intimately knew the struggles of this area. The loose track we followed was cut by him for his night-hunting escapades. He was shocked at how far we had made it and gave us his details to contact him after the trip for a shuttle across the river, to forgo an arduous bush bash on the way out. We thanked him for the offer and continued on our way.
After spending the night on the riverbed, the next morning we woke and continued our trek. The day began with a climb, but we were rewarded with a descent into the mouth of the river. The deep blue pools sparkled like glass as the gin-clear water flowed over the shale stone below. Another glorious day on the West Coast indeed. We pressed on, steadily making our way up the river valley for a few hours. The silence was broken when Nathaniel suddenly exclaimed, “Guys, there’s someone cutting track ahead!” Matt and I exchanged skeptical glances, half-convinced that exhaustion had got the better of him and he was hallucinating. To our surprise, a man with a pair of loppers came into view, methodically clearing the bush as he worked his way up the track.
He introduced himself as Andrew Buglass. Andrew grew up on the West Coast and spent his teenage years exploring old deer cullers' huts. As time went on, he watched them slowly deteriorate. Realizing no one else was going to save them, as DOC had little interest in investing in them, he took it upon himself. He founded remotehuts.co.nz, which detailed each hut, its access, and provided a space to organise the repairs it needed.
Remote Huts had long been our bible, guide, and pornographic indulgence. Oftentimes, we zoned out during lectures and pursued his website, daydreaming of trips up to whatever slice of heaven we found. Andrew's website served as an invaluable resource on our last tramper-angler adventure, to a remote mountain stream full of rainbow trout that hadn't seen a fly in years. We often wondered who ran the website; it was only fitting to finally meet them at a remote hut itself.
More than just a website, Remote Huts allowed Andrew to connect with the names he had often seen left-in intention books from the most remote of huts. These huts were so remote, they had only been visited every couple of years. He kept seeing names like Geoff Spearpoint, Sven Brabyn, and Hugh Van Noorden. Through his website, they met and planned volunteer work trips to fix the huts they all loved so dearly. Eventually, they formed a group called Permolat, which dedicates itself to repairing and maintaining the remote huts that DOC had left behind. They often spend their weekends on repair trips together, bringing paint, materials, and track cutting gear. Unbeknownst to us, we stumbled upon one of these work trips.
This hut was a standard deer cullers' hut from the 1930s with an open fire pit and six bunks. It was the type of hut that made you feel as if you were one of Barry Crump’s mates in A Good Keen Man. The hut was a relic full of character but also provided shelter from the harshest of storms. The intentions book was full of fishermen, hunters, and trampers who had been stranded at the hut for days on end, taking shelter from the rain. The hut had to be moved by hand when one of these storms flooded the river so badly, the eroded bank threatened to drop the hut into the river.
Such floods created what we dubbed the fishbowl, a fly fisherman's dream. The fishbowl was a section of river choked by fallen trees that slowed the powerful river momentarily before it rushed down the gorge below. Such deep and slow water provided the perfect place for trout to sit and gorge themselves on the insects floating by. The clear water allowed the angler to sit on the bank right outside the hut and watch the numerous trout rise to hatches, chase each other, and cruise up and down the pool, feeding on the nymphs below. The shrubs provided perfect cover to mask ourselves from the gaze of the easily spooked trout. It was like a duck blind, allowing us to watch for hours and plan how to trick the fish. Once a trout was within casting distance, one of us rushed down to float our fly over it, while the others directed the angler from the top. The men took breaks from their repair work to watch what we were up to. They teased us saying, we'd have to sleep outside if we failed to catch them a fish for dinner.
On a previous trip, I read an article in a copy of the OUTC Antics that left an impression on me. The author wrote about how she loved the outdoors and identified as a kayaker, climber, skier, and runner, but above all else, a tramper. She suggested that at the end of the day, all you have is your feet. Anyone who can walk can tramp, whether you're young, old, rich, or poor. Other activities can require hundreds or thousands of dollars in gear to participate, but not tramping. As long as you have a few basic pieces of gear, you can tramp.
Fly fishing has become a sport of the elitist. Oftentimes, anglers spend hundreds of dollars on helicopter access remote backcountry rivers. Tramper-angling makes fly fishing more accessible for all, with less financial barrier, so long as you are willing to walk. The phrase, “Do the mahi, get the treats” comes to mind. Fly fishing is much sweeter when it's followed by hours or even days of strenuous walking with a heavy pack. Putting in effort makes the flow of the river, the sounds of the birds, and the rhythm of casting more rewarding. The act of fishing becomes the goal, rather than the means to the end of catching a fish.
This introduces another issue with helicopter-assisted angling. Not only the negative impacts of emissions from the helicopters but the negative impacts on the fishery, too. Reading through the hut book, even 30 years ago, people were discussing the deterioration of the fishery due to overpressure from the arrival of the helicopter guiding company. The rich have the ability to overindulge, thus harming the fishery for everyone else. A classic case of the tragedy of the commons. Tramper angling levels out the playing field and reduces the strain on the fishery.
Interacting with the land in a low impact way, such as through tramper-angling, rather than other forms of fly-fishing access, ensures the whenua stays happy, and future generations can enjoy what we have been so blessed to experience in Aotearoa’s outdoors. This trip provided many thought-provoking reflections for the three of us and the chance to learn from some outdoors legends. We want to extend heartfelt thanks to FMC for sponsoring this trip.
The past couple of weeks were spent on the Midwest leg of the tour. I’ll admit, I’d never fished east of the Mississippi—nor had I heard much about it. Especially against the backdrop of the legendary Montana rivers we’ve been floating, or the days spent swinging for giant steelhead in the Pacific Northwest, I had no idea what to expect.
The country road wound through the cornfields and rolling hills of rural Wisconsin. For the first time all tour, it was warm enough to drive with the windows down, hand outstretched to soak up the sun and surf the wind rushing past the car.
We spent a glorious spring day wading from pool to pool, casting 4-weights to small browns and rainbows. We didn’t see another angler all day.
That night, we crashed in a tiny Wisconsin town. After the ritual post-fishing beers at a local bar, we celebrated the first true evening of spring with a barbecue on the porch. We lost track of rounds-of cards, of beers, and brats.
Midwest fishing caught me off guard—in the best way. It brought me back to what fishing is really about: time outside, good friends, simple joys. Everyone we met at the shows and fly shops was proud—fiercely proud—of their home waters. I’ve never met a group of anglers more passionate about their local fisheries.
At the show in Minneapolis, we debuted Backyard Bronze—a film about bass fishing the upper Mississippi. Before the film rolled, filmmaker Mike Thienes said something that stuck with me. I’m paraphrasing, but it went something like this:
"This film is about finding beauty in your own backyard. You don’t need to spend thousands of dollars to fly halfway around the world to some exotic country chasing exotic fish".
Sometimes, the best days involve a small rural Wisconsin stream, six-inch brown trout, warm sun, cold beers, and good company.
The West Coast is a region of New Zealand’s South Island that is sparsely populated with a rough climate and rugged terrain. In the late 1800s deer were first introduced to New Zealand from England and Scotland. With no predators on the island, their populations exploded. This new invasive species decimated native bush and threatened species of endemic bird populations. To control this invasive species, the New Zealand government began employing deer cullers to roam the hills and manage their population through hunting. Through the program, networks of tracks were cut, and huts were erected to provide deer cullers with shelter from the harsh West Coast storms. The huts were simple shelters with a few bunk beds and a fireplace. Such an environment was the perfect breeding ground for keen outdoorsmen.
Andrew Buglass grew up on the West Coast and spent his teenage years cruising around these tracks and taking shelter in these huts, many of them quite difficult to access. Such experiences were magical and formative for the development of a young man. Andrew eventually left the West Coast to attend university and travel overseas, but he never lost his connection with the mountains and the huts he called home within them. In the late 90’s the newly formed Department of Conservation (DOC) was handed over management of these deer culler huts and all of the other huts in New Zealand. DOC’s priorities were heavily focused on maintaining the high-use tourist infrastructure.
For example, The Routeburn Falls hut provides shelter for the over 10,000 visitors each year that walk the popular Routeburn Track. This hut has 48 bunks, lighting, and flushing toilets (a true luxury in the backcountry) to accommodate all of its visitors. This is a stark difference to the old deer cullers' huts, some of which only saw a visitor every couple of years. With DOC’s focus on tourist infrastructure, these remote huts received less attention. Tracks became overgrown and the huts began to fall apart without constant upkeep and maintenance. With a new accounting system that charged asset taxes on all government structures, DOC was keen to let these backcountry huts go. The huts that were so formidable in Andrew’s development were falling apart and slowly being reclaimed by the bush.
Andrew realized if they were to be saved, he would have to set the gears into motion himself. Andrew hoped he could create enough awareness to save just one of these huts. He created a small website called RemoteHuts.co.nz to profile each hut and which included photos and information about how to access it. In every hut, there is a notebook called an intentions book that every hut user records their information in order to aid in any possible rescue Andrew began to see names on the website that he recognized from these intentions books from the remote huts. He created an online group to connect those with similar interests. As this group grew, it turned into a working collective and took on the name, ‘Permolot’, named after the material they used to mark tracks with. Permolot capitalized on the decades of experience its members had to quickly organize work trips to perform maintenance on the huts. The group relied on an empowerment model that gave these experienced trampers (called backpackers elsewhere) the ability to do work on their own, rather than relying on a government agency to do it for them.
For example, The Routeburn Falls hut provides shelter for the over 10,000 visitors each year that walk the popular Routeburn Track. This hut has 48 bunks, lighting, and flushing toilets (a true luxury in the backcountry) to accommodate all of its visitors. This is a stark difference to the old deer cullers' huts, some of which only saw a visitor every couple of years. With DOC’s focus on tourist infrastructure, these remote huts received less attention. Tracks became overgrown and the huts began to fall apart without constant upkeep and maintenance. With a new accounting system that charged asset taxes on all government structures, DOC was keen to let these backcountry huts go. The huts that were so formidable in Andrew’s development were falling apart and slowly being reclaimed by the bush.
Andrew realized if they were to be saved, he would have to set the gears into motion himself. Andrew hoped he could create enough awareness to save just one of these huts. He created a small website called RemoteHuts.co.nz to profile each hut and which included photos and information about how to access it. In every hut, there is a notebook called an intentions book that every hut user records their information in order to aid in any possible rescue Andrew began to see names on the website that he recognized from these intentions books from the remote huts. He created an online group to connect those with similar interests. As this group grew, it turned into a working collective and took on the name, ‘Permolot’, named after the material they used to mark tracks with. Permolot capitalized on the decades of experience its members had to quickly organize work trips to perform maintenance on the huts. The group relied on an empowerment model that gave these experienced trampers (called backpackers elsewhere) the ability to do work on their own, rather than relying on a government agency to do it for them.
When Andrew started RemoteHuts.co.nz, he hoped to save a few huts. With all the work that Permolat has achieved, they've done much more than that. Dozens of huts have been restored to working condition, tracks have been cut and thousands of people inspired. With the huts in good condition, they've shifted their focus to empowering trampers to work on track themselves. Many hut users complain about the condition of the tracks, but fail to realize they can fix it themselves. Actions as simple as carrying in some tools for a bit of maintenance, or dedicating a weekend every few months for track work would greatly improve access to these huts. Permolat has achieved a sort of a “mythical status”, but in reality, its achievement relies solely on the power of the individual people. For Andrew, the entire process has been a rewarding one. He’s spent his entire life taking advantage of any time he could to get out into the hills. His work with Permolat has been duly rewarding, not only for the impact he's making, but he also gets to do the things he loves, in places he loves to be in.
The goal of the ESP is to showcase stories of entrepreneurs, innovators, and changemakers who are making progress on the United Nations Sustainable Development Goals. Andrew's work exemplifies this, weaving together multiple goals such as “Climate Action”, “Life Below Water”, “Life on Land”, “Good Health and Wellbeing”, and “Partnership for the Goals”. Protecting wilderness benefits both the life within it and the climate as a whole. Ensuring access to wild spaces allows future generations to form intimate connections with the natural world, inspiring them to continue the fight to protect it. Preserving these backcountry huts not only preserves the environments they’re in and protects the history of them, but it also creates opportunities for others to have their own relationships with the wilderness, and continue to fight for our planet.