Patagonia, Futaleufu River, Part 12

The Futaleufu is the biggest and most dangerous trout river I have ever been on. It is more aggressive and powerful river than the Bow, the Madison, the Elk, or the Yellowstone. It has a big push to it and a significant gradient in many sections. It rumbles and tumbles through the Patagonian Andes down to the Pacific. Its size is respected in Argentina where it is called the Rio Grande, not to be confused with the one much further south in Tierra Del Fuego. It has many class IV and V whitewater sections and deep gorges, especially in Chile. It is probably more well known in the daredevil kayaking community than in fly fishing circles. Jim warned on my first float, " Face your danger!" Not a bad mantra on a powerful river.

The Futaleufu is a tailwater river. It exits a huge reservoir in Argentina. It is the first tailwater river I fished consistently. It is diverse water with many features: runs; strong rapids; giant flats and pools; islands; side channels; shoals; huge sloughs; back eddies; foam lines, even a wonderful waterfall. Water with features is good when hunting for trout. Features mean opportunity.

The gradient on the section I floated was manageable. The river meandered quite a bit. It still had many hazards: thickly lined willow banks; many downed trees in the water; giant boulders; whirlpools, some the size of a baseball diamond; hard angle turns with hazardous sharp outer edges; etc. Make a mistake and the Futaleufu could gobble you up.

Three or four times a week I rowed a durable raft from the Argentine border into Chile. It was about a five mile float. We accessed the river through a barbed wired gate of a large Estancia where I cut my hands on more than one occasion on a rusty spur. Once on Estancia property we'd drive a dusty cattle trail a quarter mile down to the river. The Futaleufu would appear in the distance: broad, willow lined and aquamarine blue. On a steep embankment we used gravity to side the raft off the trailer into the cool flow; like a child descending a park slide.

The flow and water temperature on the Futaleufu was always excellent even though when I was there Patagonia went through a severe drought. There were forest fires on both sides of the border. It always seemed sunny and dry. I can only remember one or two days of rain in the five months I rowed the river. I liked the consistency: water flow and temperature, and the sun above. The fishing became predictable due to these consistencies. Almost as predictable as the Patagonian winds which kicked in everyday at around 1 pm.

The Futaleufu was dominated by rainbows but also had a fair amount of brown trout. In the Fall some Pacific salmon showed as did some Atlantic salmon. After a couple of floats I learnt several locations which became my bread and butter spots for consistently finding surface feeding trout. Being a tailwater river I learnt quickly that most of the insect life was small stuff. You could fish the river throughout most of the season quite successfully just with a Midge pattern, a small Adams or a tiny Caddis.

The big rivers of Chile, I learnt from afar, had the reputation of being streamer fisheries.You could throw streamers on the Futaleufu and some of the largest fish landed were caught this way. Large attractor dries with droppers could also be productive when fishing blind. However, day in and out if you wanted to consistently catch fish, small fly patterns were the way to go, especially if you liked sight fishing. Small stuff is what the fish sipped on.

On the slower parts of the river where bugs collected you could sight fish. The Futaleufu offered these opportunities all season long. Big and small back eddies, foam lines some 60 yards long, sloughs and a side channel provided a lot of sight fishing possibilities. If you check out the subtle current lines entering slow sections of the river and you'd see fish: there was a side channel we called Spring Creek, a slough section we called Bonefish Flats, a small eddy near the lodge we called Jamitos corner. All had cruising and sipping trout.

People who travel across the globe often expect fish to be everywhere and easy to catch but this was not the case on the rivers I fished in Patagonia. You had to fish well to catch consistently. And fly size often mattered especially with active surface feeders. Throw a bushy Wulff pattern to a 20 inch rainbow feeding in a bubble line line behind a dangling willow branches and you would get a cold shoulder....not always, but usually. Tailwater fish are tailwater fish. I'd often tell clients to fish smaller stuff when casting to sipping fish only to be ignored. After several casts and refusals they'd look at me and say, "Ok, what did you want me to tie on?" A size 18 midge would take that large rainbow.

Patagonia, The Horseman, Part 11

patriarch of rural chilean valley

 

At the lodge there was the Gaucho and the Horseman. The Gaucho was a middle aged gentleman solidly built and dark in complexion. To an outsider like me, he looked like the quintessential Chilean, if there is such a thing. He managed the farm, lassoed and slayed animals for the lodge, and operated the smoke house and barbecued all of the meat we ate. The Horseman, his assistant, was much younger. His complexion was fairer and he had a slight build. He looked like a Jockey. Maybe a little too tall for one. He had one front tooth that was slightly crooked. The Gaucho was good at many farm tasks but the Horseman was the much better rider. He was a magician in the saddle. He could turn his horse on spot 360 degrees, get it to kneel, and make it go backwards. He negotiated the many wooden farm gates with ease without ever having to get off of his horse to open and close them. No other rider could do that. There is no way I could describe the complexity of this task. His most remarkable riding skill however was not manoeuvrability or horse tricks. His prowess in my eyes, a non-rider, was his ability to deliver eggs. Every once in awhile the farm chickens weren't cooperative and the lodge ran short of eggs. The horseman would be summoned to travel to the next valley where he had relatives to get extra eggs. He'd be gone for a good part of the day but always returned with a least two dozen. None, and I emphasis none, were ever broken. These weren't supermarket eggs packaged in a cardboard or Styrofoam for protection. He'd collect the eggs and very carefully stack them in a a round can about the size of a large coffee or for reference sake about the size of a gallon paint can. One day when he returned with eggs I asked to look inside the can. The bottom eggs were place on their ends for strength, not on their sides. They were neatly packed in this way tight to the sides of the can. The next layer was placed once again end first in the space between the bottom eggs. This way there was little wasted space. And so it went, stacked layer on layer, until eggs reached the top of the can. He could pack what looked like two dozen in a can that way. Then he would ride 2 to 3 hours with them through the Andes, up and down, across arroyos, through numerous gates and arrive with all intact. I remember looking into the the can to see how he did it and smiling. In response a big smile grew on his face. He knew I recognised the specialness of what he could do.

the horseman

Patagonia, Carnegie Hall, Part 10

 

Most mornings Jim was up early casting with his Hexagraph fly rod on the range next to the lodge. When the line gracefully unfolded and landed he'd pause and look intently as if imagining a large trout was rising from the dew covered lawn. I'd be loading coolers with drinks and snacks for an all day float on the Futaleufu river. When he saw me he always said the same thing, " Hey Robert, how do you get to Carnegie Hall?" He had river rocks on the casting range marking off distances in 10 foot increments: 10, 20, 30, up to 90 feet. Jim often said with a smile that this was where 80 foot casters became 60 foot casters! The rocks don't lie. Often a visiting angler would join him on the range. Jim would politely give some pointers, joke a bit and talk about fly fishing and the promise of the day ahead. He was a talented host. The morning light would just be cresting the Andean peaks and flooding the valley. It warmed the large Monkey Puzzle tree in front of the lodge and the many flowers in the garden. Jose, a Gaucho, was usually around smoking a rollie or sipping Mate from a gourd. Majestic Chilean horses were always there grazing near the Bodega (barn). Chickens were also around. They were always around as was my dog, Brooke. The sheep in the corral would just be waking up. From the lodge kitchen came the smell of coffee, bacon and eggs. Fresh eggs. Mornings were always quiet. Just soft pastoral sounds. The sound of living things. The sound of the natural world waking up. Looking back some of the best mornings of my life were right there, witnessing it all: The horses; the chickens; the Monkey Puzzle tree; the garden; the Gaucho; the smell of coffee and breakfast; Jim throwing tight loop after tight loop in the warm morning light imagining large trout rising from the lawn. How do you get to Carnegie Hall? The answer was always the same, "practice".



chile fly fishing lodge

bodega

 

 

gaucho