The Colombian fly

The Mapuche guide and the author (click image for detail)

 

 

 

Excitement is always an understatement on the first day of a week long fishing trip. This time it was happening at the headwaters of the Chimehuin River, a few miles from Junin de los Andes in the Argentinean Patagonia. I was looking avidly at vodka clear water running over black volcanic boulders and scooting around willows, forming runs and pools that my imagination filled with huge and hungry trout. No bugs in the air and no white winks of trout feeding on nymphs, so naturally I decided on a streamer that would swim tantalizingly through those magnificent deep holes and behind the many boulders bringing those monsters out of their secluded lairs. I sat staring at my streamer box trying to decide upon the champion that I would cast into battle. This trip had been organized by Martin Carranza, of Andes Fly Fishing Adventures, a good friend and reliable enemy. He leads a team of extraordinary guides who have lived and fished in this region all of their lives. They grew up here, fishing at the side of their fathers and grandfathers since early childhood and have, over the years, developed a unique relationship with this magnificent environment which they tenaciously and reverently protect.  My reliably, Martin, true to his nature, decided that he would fish with paying guests (I pay him less) and set me up with Oswaldo who is a true native of this land. As a matter of fact he is a full blooded Mapuche Indian who, when not guiding, is a Park Ranger and wildlife protection officer. He’s about 5’5” tall and has enough muscles to shame Schwarzenegger. He is also a stubborn, competitive, knowledgeable and passionate fly fisher with whom I unknowingly was about to do battle.  I had chosen a wonderful streamer pattern that I had taken out of some old fly fishing magazine eons ago but that has never, in all my travels throughout the world, let me down. It’s called a Blood Muddler. The original pattern had a Mylar body with red deer hair tail and beard and a wing built with four opposed grizzly neck feathers and the traditional dear hair muddler head. I had tied and fished with great success the original pattern, but as things go, I had made some changes over time; the main one was replacing the grizzly wing with a strip of rabbit because I like the action. To keep with the original idea of imitating a rainbow par, I sometimes paint black stripes on the rabbit strip. That was what I took out of the box and proceeded to tie onto my 6’ 1X leader. (No subtle presentation needed) I tie it on with an Orvis loop to assure free movement and add a hefty weight to get it down fast. Satisfied I turned to Oswaldo who instantly dampened my mood with a woeful look and a sad shaking of his head. “That fly won’t work here” he said. “It’s too bright, too red and doesn’t have legs.” The big browns, they like lots of legs”I wasn’t going to give in that easily. I wasn’t going to betray my favorite streamer with which I had caught innumerable fish in far and distant lands. I have fished the Blood Muddler with success in Montana, Wyoming, Washington, Oregon, Alaska, Chile, Ecuador, Colombia and New Zealand, just to mention a few of the places this irrepressible passion has taken me. And so I told him in no minced words.Oswaldo’s reaction was to give me the saddest look I have yet to see even from my pooch when I fail to take him for a walk. It was literally heart breaking. He pulled out his own box and from it he took a big bullet head green woolly bugger with lots of legs and a sparkly tail.“Please fish this. You will catch big browns.” He said as he offered me the fly with a hopeful smile. “This guy really wants me to catch the big brown” I said to myself and reluctantly, to his brightening countenance, I accepted the offer and tied it on, replacing my streamer to his place next to many like it.  Off we went into a fast moving but even water that promised ample opportunity to cast into those places that deep in our hearts we know hold lurkers with hooked jaws and palm wide bodies. I placed my first few casts of the day deep into pockets behind trees and huge boulders. I stripped fast, I stripped slowly, I let it dead drift and…nothing. Not a touch, not a follow, nothing. “It’s a little early” said Oswaldo. “Too cold still, you wait and see.” “Now hold on because it is a little rough just ahead.” Holy S____T! The next thing I knew we were galloping over 6 to 8 foot waves in what had to be, at least, category 3 white water. Oswaldo didn’t even change pace. He calmly and surely rowed us through 15 minutes of hell until the water settled to a tame and castable pace. I looked at Oswaldo who didn’t appear to have noticed that we had beat the odds so I stood against the bar and cast diligently to every plausible spot along the river. In front of clumps of willows that dammed the water to 1/2’ above the current, an ideal location for big fish; I dropped the streamer into deep, clear holes behind rocks and drifted it through eddies and whirl pools. But nothing moved.“Last week my cousin caught an 6 kilo (14 pound) brown with that same fly.” (Last week being the two dirtiest four letter words in fish speak, like in “You should have been here last week”) I gave him a sour look and kept on casting. After about an hour of unsuccessful fishing I decided it was time for a change. I had to try something else. I had to go to a nymph, which is my least favorite kind of fishing, or change to another streamer. I chose the second option and started to tie on the Blood Muddler. Oswaldo gave me the sad look (I think he practiced in front of a mirror because he’s got it down to an art form) and said “That Colombian fly won’t work here in Argentina.” He had decided it was the “Colombian Fly” because that is the only place he could remember of the ones I had mentioned. I smiled innocently and proceeded to tie it on, pinch a lead bead just in front of the loop and readied myself to cast. Oswaldo deflated into a “now this guy is so not going to catch a thing” attitude. I could almost see him sink into his seat and crowd the oars in infinite patience while he waited for me to come to my senses. I have practiced the stiff upper lip with many a guide so that’s what Oswaldo got. I chose my target, a nice little eddy coming off a sunken tree and cast my fly about a foot over it and held the line to let the streamer drift downstream along the inner edge of the eddy. I could see the fly swimming about a foot or two under the surface in the clear water. It looked serene, a little fish cruising along a feed line. Suddenly and from the deep came a German torpedo and in a flash caught up to and took the fly. I struck lightly and had fish on. It fought like the wild animal it was and demanded skill and patience for every foot it yielded. It repented and took off with my line and breath in tow. It yielded a little bit more and then again shot away in a flash of light.  Oswaldo in the meantime edged the raft to a vantage point where it would be easier to land the fish and readied himself with a big rubber net. The beast finally gave up and came to the net filling it with some six pounds of gold and silver edged with white in the belly and deep green on its back. Oswaldo deftly removed the hook from the fish’s lower jaw and held the fly in front of his eyes for a second and then said “It must have hit him on the head” and let it go. He released the fish into it’s domain a we watched it swim away in two graceful movements of the tail.Oswaldo avoided my smirk and rowed us into casting position. Two minutes later I was onto another fish; smaller but just as feisty. An hour and five fish later Oswaldo kept his silence. We had hooked and landed thee browns in the 20’s and a couple of spawned out rainbows that were long but skinny. I forgot to mention that this was late November and springtime in Argentina. The water is high and the Rainbows are spawning in all these rivers. Twice I had changed three feet of frayed leader and once I had lost a reasonable fish because I had been too greedy and didn’t change it a third time. Finally I couldn’t resist it and said to Oswaldo “This fly sure doesn’t work here. Imagine what would happen if it did.” Mapuche Indians are not known for there humor; all I got was a nonchalant look and a finger pointing to a spot where I should cast. We fished through a very successful day in which we caught fish on streamers and dry flies and closed with a big brook trout that was deep gold with red and white fins. Yes, you guessed right, I caught it on that silly Colombian fly that has no legs!     This was a week of wonderful fishing followed by moments of contemplation inspired by the beauty of this heavenly place. I was well guided, well fed and well cared for by a group of competent and friendly professionals that made it their goal to have my fishing companions and I have a unique and rewarding experience that added texture and beauty to this old fly fisher’s life.