Story and pictures by Dizzy (Instagram @DIZZYFISHEN)
Dizzy continues the next leg of his fly fishing South America adventure in Rio Pico, Argentina. Join him as he shares his experience below.
November 14: On The Road Again
I’m up and on the road early, departing Futaleufú and reaching the border Paso between Chile & Argentina without any issues or delays. It’s a few hours’ drive to Esquel to see the car hire lady and arrange for tyres. This time, I’m taking two spare tyres/wheels.
Hitchhikers
About an hour out of Esquel, I pick up a chick hitchhiking. She’s about 24 years old, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, with no bags, car, or bike. Strange.
Anyway, she gets in, and we exchange “Hola.” Then I tell her, “I don’t speak Spanish!” She says, “That’s fine, I speak English.” Perfecto!! (I know some words.) I ask her why she’s out here hitchhiking in the middle of nowhere without any bags or anything.
She explains that she lives opposite where I picked her up, and there’s only one bus a day into Esquel, which is late, so she always tries to hitch. I ask if it’s dangerous for a single woman to be hitchhiking. She says, “Oh no, around here it’s very safe, but not up North.” We pass the time talking, and I drop her off in town.
Then I get the Hilux stuff sorted and drive around the corner, where I spot this mint Toyota 79 with a serious camper unit on it. They were just parking, so I got out and started talking to them about it. They were from Germany and shipped it over for a few grand. He showed me the unit, and we spoke for a bit. After that, I hit the road to Rio Pico.
Along the way, I pick up another hitchhiker who doesn’t speak English
I drive him for about an hour before I need to turn off. It’s a longish drive to Rio Pico, again through large open plains, very windy but with a great road. The Andes seem to wrap around me 300 degrees. In the middle of nowhere again, about 20km out of Rio Pico, I see two young fellas walking. I pull up (WILL, SHUT UP!!, there’s women reading this).
They don’t speak English but understand when I ask, “Rio Pico?” One hops in the front, and the other, with a lasso and bridle, can get in the tub as my back seat is full of gear. We’re on the road again, dropping off in town.
I wind my way on a dirt track into Lago 3, where I’ll be camping for the next two or so weeks. I come across the sign and drive in to the huts. A lady comes over and guides me to my camp cabin. Geez, it’s got everything! Not what I had envisioned. It’s like a good batch, with power, WiFi, a couple of beds, bedding, a bathroom with hot and cold water, a pot belly heater, gas cooker, and fridge. Anyway, it’s bloody great.
November 15: No Money
After a great sleep in a cozy cabin with the fire going, I make a brew. Now that I’ve established what’s here, I make up a shopping list and drive into Rio Pico to gather some supplies.
Woo, no debit cards accepted! “Go to the bank,” he says. I hit the ATM—no cash. So, I walk into the council office! Well, there’s a sign that says council. Anyway, I get talking to the chick there. Yes, no money—great. A young fella, no English, says, “You want cash?” We start yapping, and he offers me 8000 pesos for US $100. “No, I want 8800.” “OK.” Bang, deal done, and he walks out the door!
The girl looks at me and laughs. Anyway, a fella walks up to me and in broken English asks, “You fishing?” and waves his casting arm around. I nod. He grabs his mobile and shows me pics of bows, browns, and brooks. We communicate a bit.
I ask him how to get into Lake 2, as that’s a lake the guides in Brazil, Bolivia, and Strobel have told me about. He downloads maps for me on my Instagram. I look into them and say, “That’s not good enough,” as I know there are only a couple of tracks that may be possible to get in.
The maps are generic
We continue to yap. The door opens, and here comes the money fella. We do the money trade at the office counter, and the chick laughs a bit and says something. Anyway, I’m sorted and can pay for groceries and don’t need to drive over 2 hours to the next town, Gobernador Costa, Chubut Province, back up Route 40. I drive back to camp, then head out to do a recon of this lake and Lago 1.
I decide to set up and go for a fish at Lago 1. I take two rods and settle on using the #4 spay. The first fish—a very small bow—at 4:14 pm, I do a video of spay fishing on the lake. I put the phone away, and then at 4:15, another bow grabs the orange bugger. This time, a better fish, but bloody ugly with a stuffed jaw. I fish for another half hour, then head back to camp.
New Patagonia waders leaking at the seam!!! Serious, what, 6 or 7 days fishing, SERIOUS.
November 16: No Wind!?
Wake at 6:15, geez, 6:30. Realize there’s NO wind. WHAT, NO wind.
I open the door, some patchy blue sky, no snow or rain to the West. I move my arse. But what’s installed, is this the eye of a storm, is it a bad sign? I don’t know the weather here, but bugger it, I’ll take it.
I head back to Lago 1 as I want to fish deep water with the Spay. Set up and was fishing by 8 am, with heavy sink leader, I search the drop-offs best I can, learning Spay.
By 10 am, I have a freak-sized bow on the bank, some wormy looking marks on it and an ulcer too. By 11 am, the winds came in. I go for a coffee back at the Ute (no coffee van here).
I decide to go for a good walk to the North in high rocks and sun overhead, maybe see some fish. I give it a few hours and no joy, but great looking waters.
Anyway, head back to the drop-offs where I’d started and first cast, smash, the rod loads, hooked another fine bow, this one’s got a bit of spark and has a couple of really good runs, it took a very large brown zonker fly.
Continued to fish in solid rains and winds to no avail, but happy with the day and getting some more practice (or instilling bad habits) on the Spay.
Head back to camp for drying fire, beers, and dinner. Rains have certainly settled in and heavy. Sunday’s track to Lago 2 may be a write-off. Let’s see.
November 18-21: Rio Pico camping and exploring new waters.
There are a number of lakes in this vicinity. As I’ve mentioned, I’m holed up in a camp cabin at Lago 3. Fishing has been as tough as the weather, with a couple of days without seeing a fish or getting a knock.
I’m certainly putting in the time on the waters, rain, hail, or snow, and dealing with the consistent westerly winds. But geez, the scenery is just something.
Surrounded by the Andes is just breathtaking. The clear, ice-cold waters of the lakes—definitely no wet wading here. Even mate Donga might be chasing some waders.
Tuesday, 21st, I decided to fish the top end of Lake 3, up in weed beds and long channels with long peninsula-type fingers where birds nest and rest, and the geese and other animals graze.
These long spits of land have some big holes, warrens, and cave-ins. I wondered what caused the burrows. Wasn’t long before I saw what was causing this. I spotted them—beavers, was what I thought. Anyway, I took some pictures and vids and started fishing.
Fishing some buggers, I nailed some nice bows and lost some in the reedy channels as that’s where they head. The takes were soft, and I probably missed a few as fishing heavy weed you often get a touch. Was it weed or bite? Along with very windy rough waters and fishing heavy spay, perhaps the bite or take feels a lot lighter?
I cast over a long clay bank along the weed and got a solid smash and a ripper brown soars out of the water.
Bloody hell, he wasn’t mucking around.
A long run into the edge of the weed, pressure on. Standoff, he’s not going anywhere. More pressure, and he’s freed for some more head shakes and a little run. Again stuck in the weed.
The waters are about waist deep. I take in as much line as possible and grab the leader, pulling it up and freeing the fish. He’s off, but basically onto the clay.
No landing net, I start heading back into the grassy bank. He’s done, well almost. Some happy snaps, and he’s off back into the deep.
The day, fishing-wise, turned out great. Four on the bank and two gone in the reeds. Some swallows were about, but nothing to get excited about. And the typical four seasons, but a great day.
I had a German fella from up North (he’s actually a guide, it turns out) up for tea last night and I was saying about the big beavers and asked if that’s what’s digging burrows and said that I’d seen a couple.
He set me straight—they are giant water rats, WHAT!!! These things are as big as big cats, named Nutria. They can get as heavy as 9kg. Get a bloody lot of flies out of one of these critters. That’s what manicures the grass.
November 22: Icy morning
I decide to hit the water earlier and fish right up in the shallows.
I was telling Linda the dress code for me. I feel like the Michelin man in waders.
Not a lot of flesh showing with gloves, hoodies, balaclava. I walk into the waters at 7:30 and start to work the likely spots. Some blue skies to the East over the hills, snow to the West.
A few hours into the session and not a knock. The rains have come and gone, more blue skies above. See some condors gliding over the swamp areas and bush line.
You never see them swoop down but do get very low, within range you’d say. First, there were 3, then more come into view. Geez, 6 of them gliding up around the swamps to the east where I walk in along the fence lines & near my Hilux. I look up—bloody more.
There ended up being 20 of them circling up and overhead. They drifted to the East, then back overhead again. I grabbed some pictures and recounted—yes, 20 of them. Again, they drifted into the distance towards the rocky hills in the East, looking over the lake.
I fished non-stop till 3 pm and not a touch. I went back to camp, grabbed some lunch & coffee, and shot over to town, then dropped into Lago 1 for another 1.5 hrs of casting practice.
Home for dinner & beers. I’m taking a local fella out tomorrow for a fish.
November 23: Fair Amount of Snow and Wind
A lazy start to the day, blue sky and mild winds, no clouds, sensational looking morning. I head up the hill and decide to climb to a great vantage point to take some pics. A steep climb up from the road, about 25 minutes, but only carrying a camera. Bloody awesome views, new parts of the mountains that I have not seen in the past week, a fair amount of snow, very windy up top where I set the time lapse up, securely held in place by rock and wood. I leave it up there for the day, working away on the time lapse.
I head to camp and see the German fella, Heika. He has a mate who flew in yesterday. We have a good chat and head out. When I get to the lake, there are about 8 fishermen there, fishing the peninsula where I’ve been for the last couple of days. I decide to give that a miss and stay on the southeast shoreline that has the winds coming into it at a 45-degree angle.
Solid Bow
I hit the waters with a spray, a few hours of casting practice and watching the other fishers on the peninsulas, nobody getting a fish.
Clear blue skies, warmish. I’m using a large caddis nymph emerger in hope, but no luck. After a few fly changes and possibly 2 km of shoreline, I get a nip on the long zonker fly. Geez, that was a touch! I fish on for about 5 minutes, another nip, strike! Nothing.
I keep fishing the same spot, a few more casts and nip nip. A long slow strip & bang! The solid bow is pulling some string, not a lot of weed around this rocky deep section. Some nice runs and the nice buck is on the shore. A couple of shots & he takes off to play another day.
I push on and in the waves I reckon I spotted a rise, back of a fish or a wave. I stay put and search the rough waters for about 10 minutes but nothing. Then another splash, yep definitely a fish. I’m in the zone and a few more longish casts, cast, line in the air and the large bow breaches and bugger me, the running line comes down on the fish or just right behind it. Well, that’s the end of that.
I fish on for another hour and call it quits. I’ve been flooded with waves over my waders as the wind hits me. Trees and briar roses all the way to the water, so I have to be in the water. The spay skagit lines certainly come into play in these conditions with heavy winds in your face and bugger all room behind. Now soaking wet, I’ll head up the road, take my waders off, and climb to retrieve the camera from its time lapse position.
Tomorrow, another cracker day. I’m sure of that.
November 26: Another fishless day for me on land
Heiker and his mate Reinhardt were out in the boat, anchored beyond the weed beds. Reinhardt was fishing with a bloody Christmas tree fly and caught two fish with it 😳. You haven’t seen a fly like it, but it did the job with sink tip line and poly leader.
That night, I was down at their camp, having a beer with Heiker and Reinhardt as they were pulling out and heading to Lake Engano to chase brook trout.
Shag tried to call me a few times; this place has very bad reception. Anyway, around 10:30 pm, we went for a walk to the water to see some Caddis on the surface and an occasional rise on the calm waters. Bad luck it’s not legal to fish after sundown or the long twilight.
November 27: Late start to fishing
Bugger all wind. I grabbed my #5 single hand rod and got to the water at the west end. A few fishers were already on the water. I headed past them and stopped at a little bay with a light breeze—yes, a light breeze! Blowing westerly, the normal direction. I stood back from the water on the bank and watched for a few minutes. Ahh, fish breaking the surface and so close in. I watched a little longer and decided to put on a black buzzer.
I greased the leader up to 3X tippet. I crouched down and approached the water; these fish were in close. I got on my knees and shimmied out about 4 meters in shin-deep water. Fish sips surface; I put a short cast in. Bang! First cast, fish takes the #16 black buzzer. I lifted, fish on. I stood up and spooked a fish damn near under my feet. The fish threw the hook. I felt I didn’t strike hard enough on the lift. Anyway, we parted company. I knelt back down.
Multiple fish were sipping and proposing the rippled waters. More casts, but no takers. Some of these fish are huge and within 6 meters of the rod, some even closer. I’m still kneeling in shin-deep water. I spotted caddis hatching everywhere and drifting past. I changed to a small #16 Caddis dry. This did the job. Casting, I hooked and lost several fish.
A group of four guys came in far to my left (a long way), upwind. They just walked in and started casting their big wets out in the deep, talking so loud. They looked at me kneeling down in the shallows, 4 meters off the bank. One of them noticed, called his mate, and pointed behind them. A fish in the shallows! The two of them started talking quietly and minimally, pointing to the fish.
It’s amazing how voices carry downwind low on the water. Two of them walked out and stopped behind me, watching. I struck again, and the hook didn’t stick. Bugger.
They asked what I was fishing with, then moved on. I still had fish all around me. At 12:45 pm, game on again. This time, a fish took the fly. A short run, then it started to come in, but then it set off on a blistering bolt, and the backing was out. One of the guys grabbed his net and started to come over. This was a nice fish. I signaled to the bloke not to worry. I played the fish to the bank.
The sun was out, and it was only then that I saw how shallow most of the water was; you don’t see much kneeling down, though there was deep water where the tussocks are about 50 meters out. Anyway, the cracking brown was on the edges. I took some pics and released him.
I changed the soaked fly and crawled back into the water. I found caddis larvae floating past. Golly, birds and fish were having a field day and feasting. I was close to the end of the little bay. Birds were on the shore where the water ended, birds in the air.
Fresh fly, bang, another fish peeled line. I stood up; the fish was heading to my right and rolled in the shallow water. A great solid golden brown lit up in the sun. It bolted to the deeper water, and we parted company again. The little dry pulled again. Anyway, that was the last of my success. The day finished. What an unforgettable session with a hatch that just didn’t stop and fish under me in skinny water.
November 28, A morning fish.
Winds back to normal, forecast to gust at 33 knots. I headed out with the single hand #5 again, hoping to find some fish still mopping up, but no, it wasn’t to be. I started searching a spring creek for about half a kilometer, nothing spotted.
I went to a bit deeper bank and tied on one of Shag’s small Magoo flies, green with a gold bead. After a lot of casting with strip-stop-strip-stop retrieve, I produced a nice small bow. I decided to call it quits and head back to camp to explore other waters about an hour away.
November 30th. Rio Pico does not wake early
Hit the road by 8:30 as I needed fuel and Rio Pico does not wake early, so no rush. They work weird hours and most places (the handful of shops) close for a siesta from about 1 pm till 4:30 pm, with some even opening much later. Anyway, I hit Lake Vintter and had a bit of a snoop around. All private cabana entries again, so bugger all public access that I could find. I also passed the turn-off to where Heiker and Reinhard had gone to avoid the bad weather over the lakes area of Rio Pico.
Next stop was Lago Los Niños
Marcelo had told me brook trout could be caught. I spotted the lake turn-off earlier and viewed it from a higher hill, deciding that I wanted to fish the western banks. The wind was at my back and it seemed like there were good beaches with clearance to the beech forest behind. I wound my way off the gravel roads onto small tracks. Lucky I had the 4×4 as there were some spring creek/gutter crossings. I went through the scrub for about 8 km, picking forked tracks, always heading to what I thought would be the eastern shores of the lake, only to find heavily locked Estancia gates. Bugger. So I turned around and got back to the major low 4×4 muddy steep spring creek crossing and forded it. Just as I cleared it, two cowboys with five horses were on the track.
Anyway, I stopped and had a broken sign language conversation with them—an old fella and a teenager. They asked, “Ya pesca?” Fishing? Yep. The old fella laughed and pointed me in the right direction. Yep, I reckon I’d worked that out and should have stuck to the signposted route! I asked why they had three spare saddled horses. The young fella used Google Translate and texted back, “Because we take tourists out. We had three Germans this morning.” I texted back, “Any hot German chicks?” He laughed and then asked where I was staying. I said, “Camp Arcoiris Lago 3.” He turned to the old fella and told him. The old fella said, “Brenda, Brenda, that’s my daughter. She runs the joint.” Bloody hell, small world.
Anyway, we carried on for a bit longer. I took a couple of pics of the cowboys and horses and said, “See ya later.”
Arrived at Lago Los Niños to chase the possible brooks
I had never caught one before, and they are stunning looking fish and high on my radar. I didn’t know much about their behavior, though I knew they liked pink or yellow type flies. Reinhard also said, “Pink flies!” So I kitted up the Sage One #5 and a pink unweighted Magoo. I was on the north shore at 12:20 pm. The wind was howling down the lake from the west with gusts forecast at 30 knots—every bit of that for sure.
I waded towards the west to a large cane reed bed that wrapped the western shoreline (I had earlier thought they were beaches). I started to cast the pink Magoo around the reeds and saw a lot of large rocks out in the cleanish waters. Then, on my blind side, I heard a splash. I turned and saw the broken waters in the waves. Still retrieving, I twitched my rod around fully and saw this fish dart up and open its white mouth to take the fly. A little fight for a smallish fish. At 12:50 pm, I took some great pics of my first ever brook trout and released him into the depths again.
I waded back out, searching with the Magoo around the reeds and rocks. Nothing. Moved down and cast out again. Retrieve, stop, start, stop, start. Bang, rock solid stop. I lifted the rod to roll cast off the rock. It took off. No, it’s a fish on! Bloody hell, that was landed at 1:10 pm. Man, was I wrapped—two stunningly pretty brook trout. I stayed in that location. Bang, another brooky landed at 1:26 pm. Pics and released.
I kept moving down, fishing the same pink fly. I ended up in the beech forest where my car and the trees hit the water’s edge. A lot of fallen old beech logs in the clear waters. I searched deeper waters. Nothing. I flicked a fly along the shoreline about 30 ft. As it hit the water, an explosion as a fish rose and charged to grab the fly. Bang, game on. No jumping, just some nice runs in and around snags. We got together on the bank, and he was released at 3:42 pm.
I jumped out, grabbed a drink at the car, and decided to head back up to the canes where I’d started. A few swallows were working in the air—that’s a good sign. The winds seemed to be swinging and dropping a bit. I took another three brooks on the pink Magoo. It was now after 5 pm, a few rising fish, the midge were on the waters.
I hastily tied on that little #16 caddis
After about three casts, a small brook nailed it. Released, fly dressed, and casting. So many refusals. Geez, I knew what they wanted, and I needed to change the fly again. I cut the caddis off. A fella walked up behind me, up towards the end of the waters where reeds and bush meet. I was fumbling with the #20 midge. About 20 minutes went by with fish going crazy all around me. I finally got the fly tied and it was worth the effort as I nailed fish after fish after fish. The other fella was pulling wets and watching me. He said something in Spanish. Changing that fly reluctantly, due to my tying skills and how long it takes me to tie a fly on, was certainly worth the 20 minutes of downtime.
I nailed my 18th brook by 9:40 pm
With fish still rising, but it was just too dark in the twilight to see the fly, I pulled the pin and headed back to the car. Not far behind me was the older Spanish guy. I got my gear off and walked over to him, politely showing him the fly I was using. He was very new to fly fishing. I’d seen him earlier that day. Had a good broken chat with him and said I’d be coming back here tomorrow if he wanted to catch up. He said, “Yep.”
A bloody unreal day where I’d longed to catch a brook trout. Unreal. Got home about midnight, got the drying fire going, and shared a cold beer and a chat with a good mate on FaceTime.
DECEMBER 1
After a 2:30 am night last night and two big cans, it’s a slow start to the morning and no rush. I have a plan to take the spey rod out and see if I can nail a brookie on the spey. As I’m about to head out of the camp, two young fellas come walking up the track to their hut, dragging their float tubes U-boats. I have a chat with them. One fella got a bow. Good on ya. Man, it’s cold from the snow hills, and the wind is blowing bloody hard. It’s gusty but safe as it’s blowing onshore.
In the early afternoon, around 1:50 pm, I stop on the hills overlooking the lake. I can hardly open the Ute door; the wind is howling and honestly blowing onto the side of the Ute. One of the guides from Strobel warned me not to park my vehicle facing downwind as it will rip your door off.
The lake looks rough, but there are currently some blue skies over it and clouds beyond the hills. I drive down to the lake and park in the same location. There is my Gink lying on the ground from taking off my waders the night before. I thought I’d lost it in the lake that night in the dark, so I had lamb fat to use as I won’t get any more for some weeks if I’m lucky.
It’s bloody windy, so good thing I have the spey rod. I kit up and hit the waters. I wade up to the west, back to the honey hole near the cane reeds. I’m using a jig hook with an orange 2.5 bead to get down with the coral-colored Magoo, as I wanted to fish deeper and because of the bigger rocks and tree snags.
I start casting some short casts and dibbling the rod around to fish close, then increase the casts. A grab, bang, fish on at 2:42 pm. I land a sweet little brookie. Some underwater pics of this great-looking fish and he’s released back into the depths.
I carry on, casting more into the reed area with a slow stop-start retrieve. The jig hook is working as wanted, sliding over large rocks. I cast right into along the face of the reeds, bang, second brookie on at 3:09 pm.
I continue to fish all the way down past the Ute. I lose a fly in the beech forest behind me. The skies have closed in with serious snowfalls in the distance to the west and north, and I can no longer see the mountains. Some snow is drifting in here, and it’s bloody cold but plenty of swallows in the air and red spinners around.
Bugger, I tie another fly on and fish to the end of my beat, then head to the Ute for a cuppa and grab a bite. I swap rods to fish the hatch again with the #5 and midge. I tie the midge on in comfort at the Ute; it still took bloody five minutes.
The old fella from last night is here and ready to go. He comes over and proudly shows me his small dry fly—a small black spinner type fly. Ah, good on ya, thumbs up. He’s off to the honey hole. Good on him. (If I had flies to give him and no shortage of getting others, geez I’d give him some, but sadly I don’t have that luxury in this vast land of nothing.)
Anyway, with the bits of snow falling through the trees, I head up to the hole and see old mate casting and stripping the dry. I wave to him, put my rod under my arm, and walk into the waters to see him and start talking. I say, “Show me.” He puts a cast out. “Now stop. Ok, can you see the fly?” I get Google Translate out and give him an hour and explain about dry fly fishing—the distance and leaving the fly out there. I was very happy to let him fish while my rod was under my arm.
The poor drowned spinner from cast and retrieve needed to be dressed. I Ginked it up and said, “Now cast.” The fly is out about 5 meters. “Ok, see the fly?” “Si, si,” he says. Great, we are getting there.
Swallows galore are working the air, heavy snows in the not-too-far distance. Will it happen or not? I hope so, as I’d love to be teaching this fella a little and would be content not to fish and get him a fish.
The snowflakes are coming, the wind is picking up again, and the birds have gone back to the trees. He’s had enough and pulls out. “Adios, gracias,” he says. I stay put in hope for another hour. It’s bitter cold and snow is getting a little more. I head back, bloody wrapped with the fish on the spey.
As I get to the truck, the old fella is in his RV with the heater on. He walks over and says a bit, then gives me his details written on a serviette. I say to him, “I’m camping at Lago 3. Do you want to come over for a cast and fish tomorrow?” He nods, “Ok, mate.” He’s off and happy. As I wait for the jet boiler for a cuppa, the snow is getting heavier. I make a brew and hit the track. Later that night, the old fella says he’s not well and may not come tomorrow.
WARNING: NOT MUCH FISHING
4th December
A crap day here. I went exploring where Heiker had headed to, passing Los Ninos where I’d been getting the brooks, and continued to look at Lake Vinter, then Lago Augunya.
I found some remote tracks into the lake. The first track was no good, so after an hour, I turned around and headed out on another track. It was bloody rough and very bouldery, but I decided to keep going. Looking at Google Maps, it seemed sort of okay. I thought, “No way is Heiker going to tow his drift boat in here on this track.”
I went through a gate and pushed on to a clearing where I could see the lake, then continued to another clearing and sandy beach, signed that you could launch a boat. There was no sign of Heiker. I pushed on further into a heavily beech forested area. About an hour in, with wind and snow coming down, I looked around and saw so many beech trees laying on the ground, some cut clear of tracks.
I thought this was not a great idea by myself with no ropes, straps, chains, or chainsaw. What would happen if a tree fell across the track behind me?
I found a location to turn around and head out. A few hours later, I hit the main dirt Route 19. I arrived back at Lago Vintter, and it was blowing a gale, with waves up to 900 and extreme winds, very heavy snow storms up the lake towards Chile.
I parked up and went for a walk down the outlet river. It was roaring. I walked about a kilometer down looking for fish and spotted a great fish. I thought, “Yep, I’ll go get my rod and kit up.” I got back to see two fish. Fishing for them, I discovered they were in spawning mode and had no interest at all, so I did a bit of recon downstream, swinging some flies. It was great looking water. I pulled out and continued towards my camp a few hours away. I stopped at Lago Los Ninos and got a few brooks to have a bit of fun.
5th December A sensational dawn.
The sun coming onto the snow-capped mountains was stunning, with a glow of orange. There was not a breath of air. The place was still, dead calm, which made for some great pictures.
As I settled on the little island on the edge of the creek where I had picked up a cracking brown the morning before in the shin-deep waters amongst the tussocks, I kneeled into the waters and a great bow wave shot out of the shallows. “Oh gee,” I said 🤬🤬🤫. I laid out a dry fly onto the waters in hope that a fish would take it. The dead still morning and waters were just something, but also something was missing: no midge, no caddis, and not a fish in sight.
Kneeling quietly, I turned around to cast into the creek searching but found the huge water rats had come in behind me about 8 meters away and were facing east into the sun, warming themselves, with a younger one grazing on the grass. I made a few more casts; they were not worried about me at all, sleeping in the sun.
Still not a fish or anything for them to rise to, I thought I’d lay the rod down and shuffle across on my knees to get some good pics of these big fellas. As I got closer, their eyes closed, and they seemed disturbed, smelling the air. The young one slipped into the waters, the older pair saw me, fidgeted a bit, then settled. I kept getting closer and closer, taking more pics. Unreal. I backed out and got my GoPro from my pack, deciding to get in closer and closer. In the stillness, you could hear them breathing.
At one stage, they got up, and I was bloody close. The bigger one looked straight at me, within less than 2 meters. He seemed to get agitated, his huge orange teeth full on. I thought he was going to have a go, then she stirred, and they both ended up settling. I got a little closer, took more pics, then backed away, happy with the pics and videos I had gotten.
I grabbed my pack and headed off the island in search of a fish or two, but it was so dead. I went back to camp for a good breakfast and then headed into Rio Pico to find a money dealer as I was leaving camp and had to settle the account. With no credit card facility, they were happy to do a money transfer, but this is no good exchange, so I went looking for a blue dollar changer.
The evening blew up windy, so no fishing.
6th December
An earlier departure from the cabin to the lake this morning. I set up the camera, went in search of fish and insects on the waters, fished a cove for an hour, then headed over to the island and reeds.
As I arrived, the large rats were already settled in. This time, there were four of them. Again, the two younger ones slipped away while the others stayed put as I cast around them, searching with dry then nymph flies. No caddis, but plenty of other insects to feed on, but still not a fish to be seen or heard. I fished wets for a while but got bored with the outlook and headed back to camp to start the pack up and clean for my departure the next day.
Heiker and Reinhardt had arrived. We spoke for a while; they had a tough time in atrocious weather. They were in the heavy snow, winds, and rains that were around the Lake Vintter mountains that I was watching while fishing for brook trout. They had left this camp about 5 days ago chasing good weather but went straight into it.
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