By Sorrel Hoskin

Drive north on State Highway 3 to the seaside village of Mōkau, just over the curving  sweep of the bridge that spans the mighty Mōkau River turn right - and keep going.

Travel the thin gravel road snaking along the riverside, past the overpriced holiday homes perched on hillsides, and buttercup-covered banks littered with logs from the last big flood. Stop at the gate.

Pull on a pair of gumboots, grab a packed lunch, sunhat, sunscreen, umbrella, thermos of coffee… and head off up the farm track to the little weather beaten stands perched precariously on the river's bank.

More than 250 of these stands line the Mōkau and the nearby Awakino rivers. Beaten paths lead to little "DOC green" long drop-like corrugated iron sheds, and on down to jetties jutting out into the murky brown waters of the Mōkau - little posse's hidden among long grass, flax and toi toi. Some stands are rickety and falling down, wobbly looking piles and loose boards with flood logs teetering on their tops. Others are the height of luxury - sheds with windows, built in bunks and primus stoves, radios and easy chairs.

Whitebait wonderland

But they're all there for one reason - to catch whitebait. Every year from August to the end of November the Mōkau River turns into whitebait wonderland. The little silver delicacy becomes the word on everyone's lips - or not.

Whitebaiters are cagey about just how much they catch and where they catch them.

There's an unspoken rule on the river - don't ask - they won't tell you. It's hard to understand the secrecy surrounding a little silver fish but it's apparently because then fellow whitebaiters would learn the river's hot spots and could move in on your territory.

So it's a pleasant surprise to come across whitebaiting aficionados Sylvia and Lionel  Haldane.

More than whitebait

Every whitebait season for decades they have hooked their caravan up behind the car and headed north to the special spot at Seaview motorcamp, where the grandchildren could play on the long stretch of black sand and Sylvia can peek through the kitchen window and see the sun setting over Mt Taranaki. Where at the end of a long day's whitebaiting they can put their feet up and watch the sea rush back and forth. Because - in Sylvia's words - why would you go to stay at the beach if you couldn't see the sea? 

Sylvia and Lionel first caught whitebait on the Awakino River using a little fold up scoop net and graduated onto a stand up the Mōkau. That was back when whitebaiters had to pay a sub to have a stand, and any sheds they built on "their" little rectangle of land had to be removed at season's end. Nowadays scores of sheds dot the river's edge including two with their names on them.

Their little green sheds provide a welcome shelter from a shower of rain, there's a fold up chair in each (for the occasional afternoon snooze,) a flounder net carefully packed away, a jar containing a bar of soap for hand washing, a hand towel, innovatively designed buckets that let the water out but not the whitebait, and a special flounder table that attaches to a fencepost outside… plus a giant whitebait net. Little boardwalks lead down to the jetties and a complex set up of ropes and pulleys for setting and raising the nets.

Tranquil: It's scene's like this that keep the Haldane's coming back to the Mokau. Image: Puke Ariki.

Across the river birds warble in the bush - wood pigeons, tūi and native parrots flit among the nikau palms and kahikatea. The rising waters of the Mōkau lap gently against the little jetty. It's this tranquillity that keeps the Haldane's coming back. That, and the anticipation of the next catch.

The days of early morning rises to get the first run of whitebait are over - but it's nothing for the couple to stay out all day and catch the rise and ebb of the tide. "When you're here by yourself it's never boring," says Sylvia. "There's always something to see, the water's never the same - it's always changing."

The whitebait dog

Ron Herbert has seen a few changes on the river. He's king of the river in these parts - known as the Barry Crump of Mōkau. He grew up over the hill along the stretch of highway known as the Lady's Mile and knows the region and its history like the back of his hand.

When he was a kid, he would eat whitebait for breakfast. There was always enough to feed his family of eight. "Mum would fill one of those big meat dishes with fritters - there'd be none left by the time we walked out to work again. You could feed 'em to the chooks in those days. You couldn't get rid of them. The whitebait are still here, you've just got more catching it."

The wait: Ron Herbert on his stand. Image: Puke Ariki.

He reveals his biggest catch - a day when he hauled over five gallons (about 25 litres) of whitebait in one go. That was a few years ago now. These days he's after "just enough to give the family a taste for our 50th wedding anniversary get together." 

Every day Ron and Alli, "the whitebait dog", cruise up river in his little aluminium boat to go fishing. If there's anything to know about the secret of whitebaiting - Ron is the one to ask. He's got eyes like a hawk and can spot whitebait at a dozen paces, even in the murky Mōkau water. "See that 'V' back there in the water?" he says, pointing to a faint ripple in the water, "they're heading our way." There's an old saying on the river "you can smell them coming!"

A screen guides the little fish into the net, a rectangular apparatus with a "V" shaped trap so, once in the whitebait can't escape. The little fish jump against the front of the net in a miniature frenzy. Ron hauls the net out of the water, revealing a flashing silver and grey. Alli rushes excitedly up and down the river bank.

Not all whitebait are what they seem. The ones with silver tummies are called "cucumbers" - smell them and you'll know why. Really they're baby smelt. Alli gets the cucumbers - snapping them in her small jaws before they fall to the ground. Other fish - cockabullies and an occasional eel - are returned to the river. A flounder is
set aside for later.

Ron Herbert empties the whitebait net while Alli the Jack Russell waits for the "cucumbers".  Image: Puke Ariki.

Patience required

Whitebaiting is a waiting game - it's not for the impatient. Sometimes the wait is for nothing - an empty net. In between times is for relaxing on the river bank and telling yarns to passing journalists.

Today Ron's hauled in around three cups - a reasonable catch. But Sylvia and Lionel get just five whitebait. It's all about being in the right place at the right time. A game of skill and chance. If the catch is large it's shared out among friends and relatives - perhaps those that can no longer get to the river to fish for themselves.

But not everyone is in it for the fun - whitebait have been fetching up to $150kg in local shops this year - a good little earner for someone wanting to top up their income.  It's a game of chance - a whitebaiter could wait years for that "big" catch. Usually it's just enough to pay their expenses.

The catch: whitebait ready to be turned into fritters. Image: Puke Ariki.

Today's whitebait catch will be taken home and turned into fritters - a little egg, some salt and pepper and a good dollop of whitebait. Drizzle the fritter with lemon juice and slap it between two pieces of bread - divine!