Rooster fish: Last and Keep Your Fly Moving

Baja Rooster Fish

Garth, a small cute dog with dwarfism, laid calmly under our restaurant table while we ate outdoors under the palapa roof. The beautiful East Cape night sky was kicking in. It was silent and still. A few residents walked the village dirt road. A four wheeler (quad), the local transportation of choice, went by, and then an emaciated cow. It moved so slowly I had time to count it's ribs. Desert cattle have it rough. I understood why the waiter said there was no carne (meat) on the menu. We drank beers from an aged, scarred Styrofoam cooler that was far from its original white colour (think nicotine yellow). We had brought it along and filled it with several quart sized bottles. We had the place to ourselves. The tourist season was over. Most Gringos had returned north a month or so ago. The food was great. The price was great. The whole setting was great. Eating in a restaurant with a dog at you feet was the best. Where can you do that?

I was with Baja Phil a Gringo who lives in Mexico year round.  Think of a blend of Robert Duvall, the quiet grace of Ed Harris and a dash of Micky Rourke for flavor. In his best khaki guide shirt he popped the caps off of our beers and spoke about fly fishing for rooster fish. All season long Baja Phil prowls miles and miles of beach on his rumbling road warrior like four wheeler in search of monster rooster fish. He fishes with a two handed fly rod that touches the sky. He's an original; the real deal.

I have learnt a lot from Baja Phil the couple of times I fished with him as well as other regulars along the East Cape. I have several mantras burned in my brain: "Look for bait; are the bait balls moving fast, are they morphing, is a predator pushing them?; watch the beach troughs, especially the ones containing bait; scan the outer beach bar for dark objects crossing swiftly into the shallows; look for bait sprays or nervousness; watch and then watch more; if you see one go after it, go fast!; get your fly in front of it and strip; watch the response to the strip and modify if needed; keep the fly moving and you have a chance to dupe them; if the fly stops it is all over, bye bye rooster."

I had just completed twelve consecutive days of fly fishing on foot. It was my fifth season (spring time) back. It was my fourth staying at Baja Phil's place in the sand dunes just off of the rough washboard coastal dirt road. I had seen fewer fish this year but still managed to spot some large, jaw- dropping ones. I had landed a good one on my second to last day. This doesn't always happen, at least for me. I always expect that I may go home fish less. This is a long shot sport on foot. The odds are against you. I know that while I am here I have to completely commit to searching for fish and that I have to concentrate and always be alert. Opportunity is often brief...gone in seconds. You can go days without another shot. I have learnt that I have to put in my time. I am happy just to see fish. I'm thrilled when one chases my fly. I'm ecstatic with a hooked fish. I'm in disbelief when I land one. You have to be lucky. Everything has to go right. And many, many things often go wrong. Most of all you have to survive the heat and your feet. You have to hydrate even when you think you don't need water. And walking in the sand destroys your soft winter feet, even when you are in flats boots. If you can last out there you got a chance. Last and as Baja Phil says, "keep your fly moving".

Fly Fishing Patagonia, Antonio's, Part 9

When the Patagonia fishing season got rolling in early January I moved from Futaleufu to a fly fishing lodge in a rural area called, Valle des Escales, about an hour and one half walk from town. On transition day, when old clients were leaving the lodge and new ones we arriving, I'd have several free hours to myself. Mostly I fished. Sometimes I'd walk an old ox cart trail along the Caribbean coloured Futaleufu river to one of several corner stores in town to purchase some items. I rarely met anyone along the trail and if I did it was usually a local on horseback. One day I meet a British fellow on a mountain bike but it didn't seem too odd as experience has taught me Brits are everywhere.

As a child growing up in a Montreal suburb I had a small corner store that was a converted garage in a bungalow style home. It was called Tony's and my friends and I biked the short distance there most summer days or after school to get a soft drink or other treat. Tony's had every kind of candy imaginable behind a glass counter. It was a treasure chest of sugar: Sponge toffee; Popeye candy cigarettes; Eskimo pies; Candy necklaces; Licorice twists; etc. My dentist approved. Whatever you selected was put it in a brown paper bag. We would eat it all up before leaving Tony's parking lot.
Futaleufu had several small corner stores and on transition day I would make the long beautiful walk to town for supplies and several milk chocolate Golazo bars. Here is a picture of Tony's in Futaleufu, or what I called Antonio's. Fly fishing is not always about fishing. Often the best part is what happens along the way.

Futaleufu Corner Store

Lower Oldman River, April 15, 2012

I spent the afternoon on the Lower Oldman river. It snowed the night before and was cloudy when I first arrived there and just above 0 C. I was hoping some good fish would be up on dries mid-afternoon as there was little wind. No such luck. I walked a lot and only saw one decent fish and hooked it briefly. Midges were the main hatch. Some sporadic small fish rises here and there. The water was as low as I have ever seen it and silty/off colour but alright to fish. There was also an extremely low flow rate. The water temp. was 38F...still cold. Hopefully fish will become more active in the next week or so as late April and especially early May can offer some great dry fly angling prior to run-off and increased discharges from dam. Swallows were picking off midges on the water and provided some entertainment.

Crowsnest River Report, April 8, 2012

I spent 3 hours on the Crow today, from early afternoon to about 3:30 pm. I walked a quarter mile or so fishing with my eyes. At about 2:00 I spotted a fish bulging the surface in a very slow pool. I tried to get him to take a dry fly: size 20 midge. After several casts he responded. I spotted a larger fish just upstream and fished the same midge. This trout was subsurface feeding mainly but occasionally taking flies on the surface. I had no luck with the midge but fished a size 18 Blue Winged Olive and landed him. A great classic Crow trout.

crowsnest river rainbow

It was sunny day with absolutely no clouds. The river is very low and still cold. I took the temp. the other day in the shallows and it was 38F. I did not see a lot of fish activity. The main hatches were: Midges and Little Black Stones. I also spotted the odd Olive. This hatch is just starting. If we get some drizzle and overcast days in next week or so it will develop into something more significant. I will post a photo soon. The Rainbows are spawning so watch where you walk.

Crowsnest River Report, April 1, 2012

I spent a couple of hours mid afternoon on the Crowsnest river. I fished with my eyes. There were a lot of midges and some small black stones. I sat down and focused on a slack water area for an hour or so and watched midges collect. I was hoping a fish would move in from deeper water to surface feed. It looked promising but no luck. I checked out 3 or 4 other similar areas but no sippers and returned to the first spot for another look before heading home. It is still kind of early for surface stuff and today was windy. I couldn't find my thermometer to check the river temperature. The water was low and fairly clear...April conditions.

Fly Fishing Patagonia, Part 8, Street Chickens

I spent my first morning in Futaleufu walking around. I left Brooke off leash as most village dogs were. In the first half hour she had picked-off a chicken. I scolded her and removed it from her mouth. I had never held a dead chicken in my hand. It was warm. Brooke had snapped it's neck in a Milli-second. I looked around to see if anyone had noticed. Some children played nearby but weren't looking at me so I tossed the limp bird into a ditch and kicked it towards a culvert. Chickens were everywhere. They were like little street gangs. I leashed Brooke and assertively said "No" whenever she eyed and started leaning towards strutting feathers. Fortunately she learnt quickly. Soon after she was off leash again. In the whole five months I was there she killed only two other chickens. Pretty good for a bird dog genetically wired to pursue fowl. On the two other occasions I apologised and offered to compensate the owners. They refused any sort of payment even when I tried to insist. Patagonians were like that. I never had a bad experience with anyone the whole time I was there.
A couple of days later it was Christmas Eve. I attended a Mass at a tiny Catholic church. It was standing room only inside. It was a cold night and the wind battered the church. I found space along the side wall, warmed up and people watched. I don't remember anything about the Mass. I do remember feeling I was in a different place, a very rural place. The faces around me looked foreign and I felt I was immersed in a very different and distinct culture. The wind was howling at 100km, it was black outside and I was at the bottom of the world. Montreal seemed a million miles away, so did Santiago!


catholic church

Fly Fishing Patagonia, Part 7, Wind

Jim's Place Futaleufu

I had supper with Jim and his wife Celina. It was December a couple of days before Christmas, Patagonia's climatic equivalent to our June. His place was an old two story wood home with lots of windows and some character. It had a corrugated metal roof and a low fenced yard with river rafts in the back under a carport. It had been renovated, looked fresh and therefore stood out on his street where most homes looked weathered and tired. The inside was tastefully decorated. It had a definite urban touch. Celina was from Santiago. Their home was right across the street from the village plaza/park. This was a gathering place for families and kids, especially on weekends.

Futaleufu Park Square

Later that night, when it was dark, Jim walked me across town to a small home near the Espolon river valley. Stars were everywhere in the true darkness. There was little light pollution in Futaleufu. There was little light pollution in most of Patagonia. The night sky was wonderful entertainment and became part of my daily life: bright constellations; shooting stars from every direction. Jim pointed out the Southern Cross constellation. It was the first time I had ever seen it.

My Home Futaleufu

The little house was to be my place for the next four days. I ate all meals at Jim's and hung out there during the day but returned to my home in the evening. The house was under renovation. Planks were stacked everywhere inside and I enjoyed the smell of fresh sawed wood. It had one finished ascetically furnished bedroom with a single bed and window. There was a basic bathroom with a shower. When I arrived there I immediately went to bed. Brooke lied down next to the bed where I had laid a thick soft towel. I fell asleep quickly but woke up at some point in the night to a blast of wind that made my home shake and crack. The wind then subsided and it got quiet for a minute or so before I realised it was building again. It intensified to the point where I felt that if it continued my tiny house would probably blow away. It was the most aggressive, violent wind I'd ever experienced. It was an ominous living thing. In Patagonia this wind is called Zonda. All through the rest of the night it came in a predictable cycle. It gathering strength and speed as it raced down the eastern slopes of the Andes slamming into the town of Futaleufu and my tiny shelter. I imagined huge ocean waves rhythmically crashing on a beach on an incoming tide. Brooke was frightened and whimpered. I picked her up and placed her on the bed and eventually she settled down. Closeness calms us all down. It is comforting. The next thing I new my eyes opened and it was early morning, sunny and best of all very still. I heard songbirds and a rooster. The world was still intact after the big blow.

Futaleufu Valley

Typical Futaleufu Home

I got up and immediately went outside. Everything was just waking up. My home was on a little elevated area from where I could see most of the town. I saw aged wooden homes everywhere. Picket fences surrounded them and most were draped with bushes or vines. I would later realise these were wild roses. In the village nothing seemed straight or coiffed. There was no planned order. But there seemed to be an order in the disorder. It all worked. The streets were dirt. Chickens wandered everywhere. I saw horses and donkeys in back yards and a goat. Most homes had vegetable gardens. Laundry which survived the night hung on cloths lines. Young people today would describe the village scene as being organic. And it was just that. It was as far from suburban North America as you can get. The tall Andes rimed the town and they were still covered with white. I remember just standing there and looking in silence. Even Brooke eventually stopped her nose to the ground routine, sat down and simply took it all in. It was as if time had stood still. It was an idyllic scene. I have had only a handful of similar experiences or moments in my life and am always aware them. I knew my life at that moment had changed. I'm sure the enthusiasm of the new morning added to the experience as did the anticipation of having several months ahead of me to explore and fish Patagonia rivers. Several years later I would end up living in a very similar town but in southwestern Alberta. A town comprised of old wooden miner homes in a valley rimed not by the Andes but the Rockies. Instead of being close to the Futaleufu and Espolon rivers I'd fish the nearby Crowsnest, Oldman and Elk rivers. And wild roses would be everywhere. Instead of a Patagonia wind I'd have to endure Chinooks which would creek and crack my little home and seep through its walls in the cold of winter. It did change me.
So there I was in Futaleufu. My first morning. It was all new. It was all different. And what was so special is that it was all in Spanish. I looked at the donkey staring at me from the neighbour's yard and said, "Buenos Dias Eeyore"!
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