Chile: Rainbows in Paradise

Chile:

Rainbows in Paradise

Suddenly, the thick white veil of cloud parted, and through the dense curtain of gnarly old Lengua trees, a sight that all but took my breath away. Up ahead, Jorge, our gaucho guide, reined in and allowed our privileged little band to survey the mesmerizing vista.

By MATT HARRIS

There it was. The River of Dreams.

Far below, the rushing waters of the Rio Blanco carved a serpentine path through a pristine valley of broad lush meadows and dense, ancient forests. With impassable canyons at either end, this enchanted place is accessible only by horseback, and then only if you know the way in, and have access to it. As a result, this valley has seen perhaps fewer than a hundred fishermen. Imagine that!

How many places are left in the world where you can fish for such inno cent, virgin trout, in such impossibly beautiful surroundings? Sometimes you know the fishing will be special. So it proved.

Heading Upstream

Rising early the following morning, I enjoyed an excellent and lively breakfast with my companions, Lindsey Flexner and his likeable bunch of fellow trout fanatics from Oregon. Then, well-fortified for the long day ahead, we clambered impa tiently into our waders, and I helped pack the raft with my excellent young guide, Hayden Dale.

We headed upstream. Weaving through the tumbling riffles and logstrewn pools, we watched the clouds slowly lift to reveal the spectacular Andean peaks soaring all around. Fully two and a half hours later, we finally reached the impassable can yon that guards the upstream end of the valley.

“Big articulated streamers, huge dry foam beetles and, best of all, skated mouse patterns are all attacked with rare and voracious abandon”

After a delicious pot of coffee and a good stretch in the morning sunlight, we set about our task. Drifting back downstream, Hayden held the boat expertly while I tossed big dries and articulated streamers back to the bank. At first, I drew any number of follows, but in the frigid waters of the early autumn morning, the fish seemed lazy and non-committal. Hayden suggested I try his own beau tifully tied take on Kelly Galloup’s appallingly named but devastatingly effective “Sex Dungeon” pattern, tied in a natural and unobtrusive tan, and the change was immediate and as tonishing. Now every fish attacked the fly with savage abandon.

There were a few feisty rainbows in the mix, but the browns stole the show. Sleek, scarlet-speckled trout to twenty inches and more that fought like tigers and sparkled in the autumn sunlight for the few brief mo ments that we lifted them clear of the water to admire them.

All through that beautiful morning, we caught fish, and when we pulled in to have lunch, I realized that we hadn’t seen another living soul. Looking at the light playing on the vast ramparts of the valley, it was hard to believe there could be a more beautiful spot to fish for trout any where in the world.

“Truchas” in the torrents

Chilean Patagonia isn’t really designed to har bour trout. Her rivers are, in the main, fast and formidable torrents that tumble down from the Andes and crash headlong into the Pacific, invar iably just a few short miles away. Yet this stun ningly beautiful country has bred a race of ag gressive opportunistic “truchas” that are a joy to fish for. Forget your fussy little “carpet-fluff” upwing emergers and suchlike...these fish want seri ous protein. Rushing from their hidey-holes into the tumultuous, boiling currents of most Chilean rivers means expending valuable calories, so give these big brutes something worth the effort. Big articulated streamers, huge dry foam beetles and, best of all, skated mouse patterns are all attacked with rare and voracious abandon.

Eduardo Barrueto owns and runs Magic Waters Lodge. He is a lovely guy – a warm, quick-wit ted and infectiously enthusiastic trout fisherman. His lodge is situated in an enchanted spot, on the outskirts of the fly-fishing Mecca of Coyaique, in Southern Chile. Perched above a beautiful, troutfilled lake, the lodge fully justifies its name, access ing a multitude of beguiling trout waters. As well as the “River of Dreams“-Basecamp on the Blanco, there’s everything from broad rivers like the legendary Rio Simpson to tiny streams and spring creeks, to prolific lakes large and small. Everyone is worthy of the avid trout fisherman’s attention.

Hero or Zero - A place of monsters

One night as we sat up late, sharing a de licious bottle of Chilean Carmenére and occasionally glancing up at the Southern Cross, sparkling overhead, Eduardo told me of another special place. A place where real monsters - trout of eight, nine, even ten pounds and more reside.

The water that he described has earned the melodramatic soubriquet “Hero or Zero” Lake. It is notoriously tough water, not big but deep and dark and heartbreakingly fickle. The very biggest fish featured in the images adorning the walls of Magic Waters have all come from “Hero or Zero”.

However, beware. As my host cautioned, the vast majority of anglers that sally forth to tackle this lake of dreams return as a Zero, not a Hero. “Want to give it a try?” Eduardo asked with a mischievous grin. He already knew the answer.

Wolly Buggers og mouse patterns?

I rose early the next morning. Very ear ly. It was changeover day, and due to my extended stay, I was the only angler at the lodge.

Noah, another excellent young guide and son of my friend and fellow Kola salmon addict Bryan Sohl joined Hayden and I. As we loaded the truck in the pitch dark, I knew the lads might well be cursing my zealous enthusiasm and thinking of a well-earned Sunday morning in bed, but I was sure that a dawn raid might just be the medicine for these big, cunning old bruisers. Hayden con firmed that the lake was never fished at dawn and as we launched the raft, I felt a strong premonition that my plan was a good one.

I encouraged Hayden and Noah to take turns rowing while the oth er fished - it was their day off after all. Despite my constant questions, no one seemed to know what the semi-mythical monsters of “Hero” enjoyed as their staple diet. “There’s a lot of caddis” offered Noah without conviction. Fish of ten pounds and more don’t grow to that size eating caddis flies. Do they?

Hayden tied on a woolly bugger, and to the lads’ surprise, I rigged up a big, home-tied mouse pattern, reasoning that in the low, blurry light of the dawn, a big surface silhouette might prove irresistible to the big, carniv orous beasts that lurked in the deep dark waters.

“A huge black shape burst through the surface and jack-knifed over the skittering mouse pattern, before disappearing below the surface”

At first, the water looked bleak and forbidding, and our casts were fruitless. However, as the first pink hues crept into the eastern skies, a gentle warm breeze rippled the water.

“Now is the time” I prophesied con fidently to Hayden, and the words were barely out of my mouth when a huge black shape burst through the surface and jack-knifed over the skittering mouse pattern, before dis appearing below the surface.

Huge. Ten pounds? Twelve? Various incredulous expletives pollut ed the early morning air. So near. And yet so far.

A chill wind got up out of the East, and I knew our moment had been and gone. As our enthusi asm waned, we fell into reliving the moment and pontificating on the size of the fish. I returned to the lodge a zero. As so many oth ers have done.

All through the following week, Eduardo showed me endless won derful spots. Vast, spectacular fishfilled lakes, intimate, ultra-techni cal fishing on tiny creeks and the wonderful Rio Simpson, where the stunning and innumerable trout had to vie for our attention with monstrous chinook salmon that skulked in the deepest pools, black and stale and utterly impos sible to tempt. At least for me.

I enjoyed every minute, but my thoughts were never far from that vast trout that had shattered the dawn at “Hero or Zero”.

One evening we came back to the lodge late to hear that another angler, Loyd Wilson had caught a big fish from “Hero”. I tracked Loyd down to congratulate him, and as he showed me a video of the big, beautiful fish coming to the net, I saw the fish dis gorging a clutch of tiny baitfish. I knew I was looking at part of the puzzle. I had to go back one last time.

Eduardo read my thoughts.

The return

On my penultimate evening at the lodge, we enjoyed a raucous party. The season was drawing to a close. After a delicious “Asado” of butterflied local lamb, we listened to a talented local band that captivated us all with an ir resistible, tight set of bewitching Chil ean folk songs. As the band packed away their intriguing array of guitars and charangos, we thanked them for a great evening and repaired to the outdoors, where we drank yet more excellent Malbec and Carmenere and told increasingly tall tales under the stars. Laughter echoed across the lake until late into the night. Then, after the other guests had shuffled off to bed, Eduardo and I sat out under the Southern Cross once again. My host took a long draft on his “tinto” and asked with his trademark grin what I would like to do with my last day. He already knew the answer.

I woke late - 8.15 am. My head was thumping with the absurd gallons of Malbec, the countless Pisco sours and the late, late night. I’d forgotten to set my alarm. Bright, brassy sun shine streamed into my lovely room. I squinted through the blinds and a bright, bluebird day greeted my eyes. Not a cloud in the sky. Lousy weather for big sullen trout. Surely, I’d missed my chance.

I stumbled into the shower and dragged myself off to find some cof fee, cursing all the while.

Hayden and Noah had both packed their bags and I had bid them both a fond farewell the previous night. Great guys both of them, hard-working, excellent company and utterly passionate about their work. I’d miss them and wondered if my guide for my last day could match them.

Eduardo looked bafflingly brighteyed and fresh, and he grinned at my bleary-eyed attempts at casual morning banter. I was clearly a lit tle the worse for wear. He told me that my guide was Christian. Eduardo and I had fished with him a few days before: a local man who natu rally and effortlessly exudes a calm confidence. I liked him immensely, and a faint flush of optimism lifted my mood. I swallowed the last of my coffee and we loaded the truck.

Fry patterns for the win?

“Hero or Zero” shimmered in the bright, mid-morning sun. Utterly beautiful. And surely hopeless for trophy trout fishing.

Christian suggested a big beetle pat tern but I had already formulated my plan. I fished out a box of fry patterns from back home in England. I tied in a dropper eight feet from the end of my eighteen-foot leader, made from a level length of strong, supple fluo rocarbon in 10lb breaking strain. I tied two “Mylar Fry” patterns, simple floating imitations that mimic small dead fish. The flies were pretty much the size of the fish that I’d seen Loyd’s fish disgorge. I felt a small burst of confidence when Christian confirmed that he’d never seen any thing like them.

I doubt whether the trout of ”Hero or Zero” had either.

For two hours, Christian rode me around the lake in the little pontoon boat. I pitched those little fry patterns back to the shore, into every little bay and every gap in the reeds. One spot kept drawing me back. Most of the lake is impenetrably black and deep, but one small corner shelves more gently into shallower water, where the bottom is just visible.

On our second circuit of the lake, we were just approaching the spot when a huge head broke gently through the surface. Blink and I’d have missed it. But I saw it. And so did Christian. A rainbow trout from beyond my wild est dreams. My guide gently implored me to swap out my strange English flies for the classic Chilean staple - a big foam beetle - but I politely de clined. I had such a strong hunch.

Hadn’t these fish seen a million big foam beetles? And besides, wasn’t Loyd’s fish full of those little fry not so different from my flies. We covered that little bay exhaustively for fully forty-five minutes. Nothing. Fi nally, I allowed Christian to talk me into trying the big beetle. I pitched it across the bay, but I knew it wasn’t the answer. These fish had surely seen the same pattern a million times. As we slowly drifted on round the lake, I thought about another approach.

The Minkie Snake

My good friend Martin Webster runs Selectafly, a fly company back in the UK. Martin is a talented lake fisherman and I’ve learnt much from him over the years. One of his patterns is known as a Minkie Snake, a simple but devastating tie that is essentially a simple two-inch silver/grey mink fur zonker strip tied on a tiny shank with a small trailer hook. Once wet, it slithers seductively and quietly through the water, and it has lured many unsuspecting trophy rainbow and brown trout for both Martin and myself from our English reservoirs. Big burly fish of three, four and oc

casionally five and even six pounds. But stocked fish. And nothing to compare with the huge wild fish that we’d seen an hour or so ago.

I fished a couple out. Christian wasn’t convinced, but once they were at tached to my leader and swimming in the clean, clear water, he seemed to reconsider. “Muy Bueno” he con ceded. We fished around the lake but in truth, we were just resting the spot where we had seen the fish. Finally, we were making our way back to wards it. I saw that the sun was start ing to slide into the west, and the tall stand of the Coihue trees that skirted the little bay was now throwing the water into shadow.

I tossed the flies into the bay and inched them gently back. Nothing. We worked our way around to the exact spot where we had seen the big fish rise. A big dead tree extended out from the bank, and its branches stretched down into the depths be low. It was a classic ambush spot for a big trout.

I cast my flies to the sunken tree, and as often happens, the flies hung for a few seconds in the surface film. A sharp pull on the line will normally sink them and get them swim ming sub-surface, and yet something about their vulnerable half-drowned appearance made me resist my usual practice and instead leave them static in the surface film.

The take

In a magical instant, what was surely that same huge head we’d seen hours earlier broke tantalizingly through the surface and oh so gently inhaled the point fly. I resisted the urge to strike and instead let the huge fish disappear back beneath the inky wa ters before lifting the rod smartly.

In that special moment that all anglers know, I felt the solid resistance of the fish. It surged irresistibly down into the depths. Unlike anything I’d hooked in eight wonderful days. A big powerful brute of a thing. The adrenaline shot through me and as the line fizzed up through the rings, I prayed that no awful tangle in the running line would jam in the rod rings.

My heart leapt as the line cleared the rings and I had the fish on the reel.

It leapt again as the big trout skyrocketed into the warm Patagonian sun shine, and then skipped a beat alto gether as the fish dove down for the tree roots, and for a few awful moments was stuck fast. And then, suddenly, magically, he was clear and out in the open water.

I could see the fish down deep, raging wildly, but I was starting to get the upper hand. Finally, after a long battle, I had the fish up in the surface, and although it wasn’t really beaten, Christian shot his big landing net underneath it and lifted it skywards. It was ours.

Christian rowed us into the shore, and I took a first real look at the fish. It was magnificent. Broad, brassy magenta flanks, peppered with black spots and with that special iridescent sheen that rainbows -especially big rainbows- possess. Its beady, indom itable eye seemed to glare up at me, and its huge spade of a tail barely fit ted into the outsized net.

I wondered if the fish might make the coveted ten-pound mark. We’ll never know. We had no weighing scales. Chris tian estimated eleven to twelve pounds, although in truth I suspect the fish was just a shade under double figures. No matter. It was a magnificent fish, and it was the perfect end to a magical ‘tour de force’ of really special Patagonian trout fishing.

When we drove back into the camp, Eduardo was waiting for us with a cou ple of icy pisco sours. “Well,” he asked with that same charismatic grin, “Hero or Zero?” I didn’t have to say a word. One look at my face and yet again, my new friend already knew the answer. We both exploded with laughter.

If you love your trout fishing, beg, borrow or steal your way to Magic Waters Lodge. You simply have to go there. When you speak to Eduardo, ask him if you can fit the “River of Dreams” base camp into your itinerary. And do your best to fit in a trip to “Hero or Zero” too.This is trout fishing from beyond your wildest dreams.

http://magicwaterspatagonia.com/