Malleo Mornings

Some of you will be going to Patagonia for the first time. For a few of you, it is your first time fishing for trout. I hope you all find these few words helpful in whetting your appetite and visualizing fishing the Malleo River.



A lonely monkey-puzzle tree in the vast expanse of the valley marked the turn of the road. From this point, Ruta 60 climbs steadily on the shoulders of the dormant Lanín volcano toward Tromen Pass on the border between Argentina and Chile. On its north slope, nestled in a deep pine forest where blooming fuchsias and dwarf bamboo fight for every bit of available light, Lake Tromen spills its gin-clear waters to form the Río Malleo. We turned north descending deeper into the valley on a rough gravel road. The line of green willows at the base of the hill now facing us marked the course of the river that flows east along the valley to its union with the Aluminé some 30 miles downstream. A yellow iron bridge crosses the river at this point providing access to the cattle grazing grounds of the upper valley of its tributary, the Huaca Mammuil, a spring brook that carried little water this late in the season.

It had rained steadily for some time the night before, helping placate the dust of the road and bringing an additional chill to the crisp fall morning air. The enhanced transparency brought into sharp focus the beauty of the valley and surrounding hills.

There were no cars parked by the bridge. The old metal structure, painted yellow a long time ago, provided the only public access to the waters on the upper reaches of the Malleo. The whine of the engine increased, the van straining to negotiate the sharp climb as we left the riverbed and continued north on the far side over bluffs and gullies shouldering the mountain. Dark green pines crowned the three rocky outcroppings that capped the heights and gave the hill and area its name: Tres Picos. Our destination was the higher pools of the river as it meanders placidly through a portion of the vale before entering the shallow gorges that we were now passing to our left.

Jet lag, plane schedules and cramped legs from the long flight were all behind now as my pulsed quickened in anticipation of fishing this special river once again.

I was not born near a river. Except for a brief spell while at college in the North East of the US I have not lived near a stream. Since I now make my residence in the tropics, fishing for trout has been a planned pilgrimage to far away places. I first came to fish the Malleo some 25 years ago as a result of an invitation from a very dear friend. The river was everything I had imagined the perfect trout stream would be. It was love at first cast. I was taken by the stark beauty of its valley, the gay singing of its rapids, the quiet stillness of its pools, the generosity of its waters, the fish and the people that make their living fishing and guiding this incredible place. I am lucky that those same friends are still around and continue to come with me to pay our yearly homage to the river. I have been fortunate enough to have traveled and fished many choice waters. The Malleo still holds my heart and preferences. I cannot think of a better river on which to teach someone special what trout fishing is all about. Several of my closest and most fortunate friends caught their first trout (some their first fish) somewhere on this bountiful river. All of them were also caught by the enchantment of the Malleo and are still yearly visitors as well as avid fishermen.

Trout fishing’s witching hour has always been dusk. But for me, there is nothing that compares to a crisp fall morning, blue skies highlighted by wispy cottony clouds and the faint rush of wind on the poplars and willows on the upper reaches of the Malleo. A very special place. To be shared and enjoyed with really special people.


Hurried breakfast. Tackle talk. Cold boots over still-damp waders. Hasty repairs of casting knots, fly exchange, lunch boxes, casting practice on the lawn as you wait for someone looking for their misplaced fly box, loading gear into the van, the rumble as you cross the cattle guard at the gate. Falcons and hawks seeking worms on the dew covered lawn. They are all the essence of a Malleo morning.

The road climbed slowly to the upper valley. The ruts of the track of rustic vehicles marked deep on the damp earth. From the higher bluffs we were treated to a spectacular view of the Lanín, majestically guarding the broad expanses of the almost barren country. Vegetation was scruffy and mostly confined to the gullies and ravines that sustain moisture year round. Wind-swept pines and shrubs formed clusters of greenery over a tan, gray and pale-yellow ground cover. The river’s course was highlighted by the vivid green of the willows and riparian vegetation. The cattle fields were bordered by long lines of tall Lombardy poplars used as windbreakers and fence posts.

A grove of pale birches and white silvery poplars hides a white cottage with blooming flowerpots, clean glass windows and white picket fence. Here, relatives and special guests of the Olsen family, owners of the Estancia San Huberto traversed by the Malleo from its origin for some 11 miles, spend the short austral summer enjoying the solitude and beauty of the valley. From this point, the trail turns left following the course of the river bordering some of its most famous pools: Barranca Corrales, Lechuza, Barranca Andino, Isla de Chivos and Medidor before the confluence of the Mamuil Malal creek.

The ground is flat, sandy, covered with low grass and clumps of shrubs, wild roses and raspberry tangles. The river flows lazily forming wide pools and pebble-covered runs gathering strength for its journey through the boulder lined beds of the lower pools. Caracara hawks observed from the fence posts as flocks of Magellan geese took flight complaining loudly of our presence. We came to a stop near the edge of the river below the Medidor. Here an old river flow-measuring station gives its name to a section of the river that is broad and slow, running lazily over a clean gravel bottom.

Gustavo Olsen, my good friend and owner of Safaris Especiales, our outfitter, is the eldest son of the Olsen’s. Gustavo was born and has lived most of his life by the river. He knows its moods and swings. I was very fortunate to have him for my guide on this occasion.

Wind is the only curse of the fishermen in Patagonia. Today, mercifully, there was very little of it. This section of the Malleo is perfect dry fly water. A very slow action #2 Bamboo rod that had been presented to me by the Olsens two years earlier was made ready. We both agree that we had the right conditions to enjoy the romanticism and delicate presentation of a fine wood rod. A #18 Parachute Adams was tied and doped and we headed for the river.

We started fishing from the shore. The near side was a run of slightly faster water flowing over a smooth bottom. I cast upstream and the fly rode high on the current.

There were no fish rising. Gustavo’s experience eye roamed the shallow water looking for activity. On his instruction I changed my fly to an emerger nymph, which he doped so it would ride the film and I cast quartering upstream. The fly had barely traveled two feet before it disappeared with a splash. The little rod arched and twisted under the heavy pull of a fish. It ran first up and then downstream. The current added to the strain on the rod as I carefully played the fish walking downstream to release it, a nice 14” fat Malleo rainbow. Three more fish were taken in similar fashion on the next 15 minutes as we waded into the river, my casts covering the near water. Several smaller fish entertained us as we neared the far side, all on flies riding the surface film: Hare’ Ear, Prince and Pheasant Tail nymphs. They all seemed to work equally well.

The bank of the river stands some 4 to 6 feet over the water on the far shore. Several clumps of half submerged evergreens provided plenty of cover for bigger fish. We spotted a nice fish rising steadily on the very tip of a floating branch on the edge of the current. My cast landed softly two feet above the feeding fish and the fly disappeared as it passed the feeding station. The fish bore deep into the cover and I could feel every headshake on the slender rod. It sulked and throbbed not moving an inch. There was little I could do except keep a steady pressure on the light tippet.
It pulled, I prayed.
It sulked, I worried.

But today luck was on my side. The trout suddenly left the safety of its root heaven and bolted downstream toward open water. A tug of wills followed, the little rod proving its worth as the constant pressure took its toll. Soon a bright 17” rainbow finned softly on its side on the mid-thigh deep water, where I released it. The morning continued with constant activity as we fished upstream toward the weather station.

Higher up the river and well past the confluence of the Mamuil Malal, the water flows very shallow over broad gravel bars and troughs where the occasional bigger rocks form pools of slower water. The deeper waters shift to the north side of the river against a low, wild-rose covered bank. I approached one of these deeper areas from the south side of the river, walking over barely wet sand. The pool was short and lined on the far side with a smooth polished rocky ledge covered with green trailing vegetation. At the head of the pool a fast water feed flowed next to a barely protruding flat rock from which more dark green weeds trailed into the center of the pool. On the near side, the shallow gravel streambed ended on a green floating mass several feet thick that edged the main current. Downstream of the trailing weeds, just off the feeding current and almost in the center of the forty-foot length of deeper water, two dark shadows held station moving occasionally as they rose to take naturals from the water surface. One of the dark shapes was much larger than the other. It moved faster and more often. My heart raced and pulse quickened. Casting was not difficult as I stood in almost dry land on the open riverbed. I was trying to anticipate the problem of how to deal with the fish, if hooked, in the weeds that practically lined the perimeter of the pool. I looked down to my hand and doubted if my light outfit could manage the task at hand.

Very small light grayish mayflies had been coming off the water with increasing regularity. I changed my fly to a small Parachute Adams, checked the leader for casting knots and obvious abrasion and finding none cast quartering upstream toward the head of the pool. The fly landed right next to the flat rock and floated high on the faster water along the very edge of the trailing greenery. Not a foot behind the end of the last string of weeds, the smaller shape engulfed the fly with gusto in a simple and purposeful rise.

The fish immediately bolted for the far side of the pool, the larger shape following in obvious fright. The confined spaces of the pools imposed severe constraints on the fight. Weeds caught on the fine leader and my heart skipped several beats. Gustavo, at my side, pulled his hat over his eyes.

It was frightening, but he leader held. The little rod bent beyond normal limits. The heavy fish held its position under the rocks and the weed. The even larger fish crisscrossed the pool and finally disappeared as by magic. The fish at the end of my leader just shook his head and went deeper into his hole in the weeds. I applied what little pressure I could with the light rod.

The pool was not very deep so there was little place to hide. We decided to approach closer to get a better angle of vision and try to determine what to do. As we approached the fish bolted and ran downstream and into the shallow weed infected riffle that signaled the end of the pool. Pushing a wake in front of his head he turned around as he ran out of water and returned to the head of the pool, by the flat rock. Here the current was more defined and the fish sulked near the bottom, ignoring the pressure and our presence. I moved downstream and momentarily let go of all tension on the line. This had the effect of making him bolt again and circle the pool followed by the leader cutting the surface as if a knife. He bolted again, this time heading straight for the thick vegetation on our side of the river. Here he buried himself and I thought all was lost. We could see his tail angling downstream undulating slowly. It gave me time to think about the situation.

Looking again at the pool we noticed a narrow gap at the head of the weed mass where a side channel funneled water coming over the shallow pebbled bar at the head of the pool. Chances of being able to direct him toward this exit were dim, but as we were running out of other alternatives we decided to go for it. The fish, perhaps tired or suffering oxygen depletion from having his head buried in the green stuff, backed out of his position and slowly turned on its side near the surface. The wet bamboo noodle on my hand strained to its full as I slowly directed him toward the narrow channel. As he entered it I was able to lift his head partially out of the water to reduce the increased pull of the accelerating current of the chute. He came ever so slowly over to the shallow gravel beach out of the pool. I knew I had him then. He turned sideways and finned slowly as Gustavo tailed him and lifted him clear of the water. We admired his crimson and black spots over bright yellow and ochre sides. A quick measure pegged him at just over 20” of brown beauty. We jumped with joy, slapping ourselves silly as we quickly put him back on the water to revive and release him.

The Malleo had been generous once again.

As it was time for lunch we headed back toward the van and on to the lodge for an outdoor feast under the birches and firs of the front lawn. The wind picked up considerably, darker clouds moving fast up the valley making for difficult fishing during the afternoon.

It started to rain as we were enjoying dinner of asado at the quincho, a specially built hall for this important part of Argentinean cuisine and socializing. Beef, lamb and pork was slow roasted on a fire pit while deep fried empanadas cooked on heavy iron caldrons hung over the same fire delighted the guest waiting for the meat fest. At San Huberto in the Malleo, the asado takes place on Sundays and is a very special occasion indeed. Much wine and many a story retold took us late into de night. Heavy clouds, lit briefly by fiery lighting accompanied us as we walked the short distance that separated the quincho from the comfort of our warm beds. The valley slept under a constant drizzle and the low rumble of distant thunder.

Morning found us in a somber mood as one of our party had to leave early to return to the US. During breakfast, a phone call came in informing another member of the group of some relative passing away. Within an hour, both of our dear friends departed on a 3 ½ hour taxi ride to Bariloche to catch the next plane out of Patagonia. We lingered sipping tea and eating too many scones laden with a homemade jelly of wild rose hips. The atmosphere was heavy, the air cold and oppressive. No one seemed in a hurry to suit up and head for the stream.

The cloud cover started to break slowly as flashes of sunshine pierced the heavy clouds first occasionally and then more frequently.

As Malleo mornings go, this one did not start well but as it often happens in these latitudes, conditions changed rapidly and, by the time we left around 10:00 am it was cold and breezy with an occasional peek at promising blue skies.

This time I was to fish the Cañón Chico (lesser canyon) a portion of the river lined with bowling ball size slippery boulders running through six feet high parallel banks of a narrow canyon located still in the upper Malleo area of Tres Picos but downstream of the placid pools fished the day before. As the river enters a steeper gradient, the water flow accelerates as the gorge narrows and the river runs deeper into a rocky and boulder-strewn area of the valley.

The pool is about a quarter of a mile long, the water flows powerful but smoothly, broken occasionally by protruding boulders and ledges of time-polished limestone. After a long summer with less than average water flow, weeds and vegetation covered the already slippery boulders making for challenging wading. At very low water conditions the area becomes typical pocket fishing waters.

Today the water flowed dark and ominous with a sluggishness and density resembling gin out of the freezer.

Silence prevailed.

The joyful singing of the river was hushed, the river hesitant to wake. The usual bird songs quieted as if in respect of the powerful mood. The rush of the wind on the willows… absent.

Very much like us, it was as if the river did not want to face an already half spent new day.

We rigged a trusty #5 Winston rod that would be able to handle the occasional gusts of wind likely to appear later on the day and walked down to the lower portion of the run about ¾ of the way down. We entered the river quietly so as not to disturb the stillness or the fish. The rain and wind during the night had lowered the temperature of the river noticeably as evidenced by the icy toes within my boots. There was no evidence of trout feeding activity, the river flowing through the boulders and ledges creating a myriad of current and eddies, seams and countercurrents dark and mysterious, withholding promises of secrets to be found.

Nano (Eduardo) Acuña, a very good friend and guide and companion of many years of Patagonian river trampling was with me for the day. An excellent person and a truly professional guide, fishing with Nano is a learning experience worth the long trek to Patagonia. Based on the previous day experience discussed over breakfast with Gustavo, he tied a doped Pheasant Tail nymph on my tippet and advised me to begin with short slightly upstream casts at the seams of the current behind the protruding boulders and over the deeper pockets within short reach. On my second cast an almost invisible but powerful take surprised me in spite of my concentration. Without breaking the surface, the fish bored forcefully onto the main current and downstream, my screaming reel breaking the shroud of silence. The rod throbbed and the tight line vibrated carrying the fish’s energy into my hands. Up current and then down again, never disturbing the uneven mirror of the surface, the fish fought nobly finally surrendering to the constant pressure. A bright colorful male rainbow of 17 inches was our reward. Two casts later and almost on the same rivulet of dark water a carbon copy of the first fish materialized, fought and lost its own battle much to our delight. The river, not showing any signs of being disturbed or even aware of our presence was benevolent and kind. We took two more large fish from the near water before we began moving upstream, prying fish out of the pockets and seams of smooth currents and glassy areas of slower water.

As the morning aged, the sun seemed undecided, piercing brightly through the cloud and cover one minute, shying away the next. The river began to come alive with fish rising to small slate-gray mayflies that began emerging over the faster waters in the troughs and currents. Switching to a small parachute dry, the fishing went from good to incredible as we progressed upstream probing the pockets, eddies and seams of the current.

A great or memorable fishing day is not only measured by the number of fish caught but by the time we quit at around 1:00 pm to return to the lodge for lunch, the tally was at 31 fish over 15 inches out of which 15 exceeded 17 inches. The rainbows of the upper Malleo and the occasional deep-bellied brown had regaled us with another spectacular Malleo experience, one that I will remember and treasure forever.

As I write these lines, my thoughts and my heart, my memories and my wishes fuse in an overwhelming need to feel the caress of the gentle breeze, smell the clean air and hear the whispers of the willows and a fly line cutting through the crispness of another Malleo morning.

RM
May 2002
rmorillo@unitechsite.com

Ernest Schwiebert, Who'd Rather Be Fishing, Dies at 74 - New York Times

Ernest Schwiebert, Who'd Rather Be Fishing, Dies at 74 - New York Times

The Rainbows of Pichi Traful

(From the late Ernest Schwiebert, “Remembrances of Rivers Past”, (1972), The MacMillan Company, NY)


The river dropped through the steep jungle-looking mountains, pausing in pools that were deep and emerald green. Its currents eddied and tumbled through pale moss-covered boulders and strange looking pines. Scissortails and parakeets darted through the tree-fern thickets. Our campamento was in a sheltered meadow of copper beeches and cypresses, where the river slowed and large trout dimpled softly in the twilight.

It was a strange and exotic landscape. Flocks of bandurrias rose shrilly from the river when I waded out into the current. It was my first experience on a Patagonian river, and the cane-thickets and exotic conifers seemed strange and eerily unfamiliar.

“Dinosaurs would love it!” I thought.

The rainbows averaged eighteen inches until I reached the deep run in the bamboo tree ferns. It was getting dark and only the fish seemed familiar. The narrow pool was smooth flowing and dark under the trailing vines. Pale caddisflies fluttered off the water and into the brush. Deep in the gathering shadows a big fish porpoised and his rise disturbed the entire pool. There was a big Donnelly Variant in my fly-boxes. The cast fell right and the trout took it softly, and it stripped line angrily when the leader tightened and it felt the hook.

It jumped six times. It was infighting after that, all writhing and bright-silver rolling on the bottom. The jumps and reel-stuttering runs were finished. It bored stubbornly in the shallows until its muscled six pounds surrendered in a violent net-splash that showered me with water.

“Rainbow!” my shout echoed downstream.

Parakeets protested from the coihue thickets. Flocks of geese and flamingoes were startled and rose flapping from the shallows. Exultation exploded in another wild shout, half in triumph and half in tribute to Patagonia and its swift little Pichi Traful.

It was a beautiful fish, its sides and gill-covers pink and sheathed in silver. Its strong fight had frightened the others.

The rises in the tree-fern shadows had stopped. The rainbow lay gleaming on the gravel. Flocks of parakeets and checau birds threaded and wheeled through the twilight, and I filled my pipe to smoke and rest the pool. It was twenty minutes before the rises began again.

Two fish were working softly under the vines. The big straw-colored caddisflies were still hatching. It was almost dark when the first cast settled the variant over the bottom fish, and it disappeared in a heavy swirl. The rainbow jumped and bolted into the swift shallows below the pool, cartwheel-
ing water in showers of spray.

The fight lasted two hundred yards. It threatened to break off several times in brush-piles and deadfalls, and twice the rainbow almost beached itself. It lasted thirty minutes.

The fight threshed and churned in a shallow flat below the campamento meadows. Finally it was over and the second fish hung writhing in the meshes. It was exactly like the first, deep-bellied and silver in the darkness. The cookfire of the campamento flickered through the cypresses.

It seemed a shame to kill the second fish. “No puedo esta
trucha matar!” I thought happily.

The fish gasped and shuddered in the net, and I stroked its sides until the ragged gill-workings steadied and slowed. The big rainbow held exhausted in my hands. Finally it shook itself and torpedoed back into the river, spreading a huge wake across the gravel shallows.

Guy Dawson was waiting in the firelight. “Any luck?” he
said. “That was a pretty good hatch!”

“Fantastico!” I agreed.

The cookfires of the gaucho encampment upriver glowed in the darkness, and the smell of their herb tea drifted on the wind. Dawson admired the six-pound rainbow and gutted it for grilling over the fire.

“Fish course”, he explained.

“Took two rainbows just like that one!” I grinned and
sighed happily. “Just like peas in a pod!”

“It was a good beginning”, nodded Dawson.

“Perfect!” I agreed.

“There's a bottle of wine chilling under the big cypress”,
Dawson pointed. “Quieres tinto?”

“Siempre!” I hung my waders on the tent.

It was already cold along the river, and the stars glittered behind the mountains. The starlight danced on the bottle as I pulled it dripping from the shallows. The wind was cool and the fire was welcome.

Dawson pulled the cork and filled my cup. “Ah!” I sipped
the wine and sighed. “It's perfect!”

“It's a good Argentine tinto”, he agreed. The bright-red slabs of trout were ready and Dawson forked huge pieces on my plate.

“That's great fish!” I said. “That’s the best trout I've ever eaten!”

“t's not trout you're eating”, he laughed. “Its crabmeat”.

“Crabs?” I said. “You're putting me on!”

Dawson shook his head. “It's true!” he said. “That red meat comes from eating the cangrejos”.

“What are cangrejos?” I asked.

Dawson explained that Patagonian trout feed primarily on the plentiful freshwater crabs that inhabit the cold watersheds of the Andes. “They're called pancoras on the Chilean side”, he added.

“Taste good too!” I took another helping.

Thick steaks grilled over the coals finished our supper, with fresh bread and sliced sweet Rio Negro onions. It was cold now and moonlight glittered on the river. We threw more wood on the coals and the fire caught quickly. My baptism on the rivers of Patagonia had been perfect.

It felt a little strange tonight, I lit my pipe with a glowing stick. The bamboo thickets and trees were a little unsettling.

“You expect cobras and crocodiles?”

“It seemed possible”, I admitted sheepishly. “Dinosaurs could take a bath in that river and feel at home!”

Dawson smiled. “You re right!”

He poured the last of the wine into our cups. “Lets drink to the Pichi Traful!” I said. “My favorite river!”

“You haven't seen anything yet!”

“I'll drink to that too”, I laughed. “Patagonia!”

Several gauchos came down through the cypresses into our firelight. They were carrying herb-tea gourds and silver bombillas that caught the moonlight, and the headman carried a sack of herb tea.

“They watched you fish”, Dawson explained, “and they're offering us their mate”.

“Mate?” I asked.

“It's an herb tea the gauchos drink”, he said. “Its legend says anyone who drinks mate will return to Patagonia”.

“I'll drink to that!”, I said.

Dawson rummaged in his cooking gear and produced a mate gourd and a silver drinking-tube. He filled the gourd with the dark mossy-green herbs, tamping them carefully with his thumb. The gourd was steeped in sugar and river water
and then he added boiling water from the tea-kettle. The rich odor of the dried herbs filled the darkness, and he handed me the ritual mate that would bring me back to Patagonia.

“Gracias”, I said gratefully.

La Fiebre de las Bocas

(From Remembrances of Rivers Past by Ernest Schwiebert, The Macmillan Company, New York, 1972.
This book is a must for any fly-fisherman’s bedside reading. It also contains: The River of the Spirits and The Rainbows of Pichi Traful that relate experiences fishing in Patagonia. I highly recommend this book)













The storm gathered on the broken escarpment at Chapelco, and sheets of rain lashed across the truck. There were two riders above the Quilquihue crossing. They hunched low on their ponies, their flat brimmed hats and heavy ponchos turned against the wind.

It was still raining and the wind was cold when we reached Junin de los Andes. The village was dark and silent. Its adobe houses were shuttered and huddled against the wind like the gauchos we had passed in the road. There were lights in the Hosteria Chimehuin, flickering through the tall poplars that sheltered it from the wind. Below the inn, the river wound across the open valley past the cattle pens and the poplar-lined Señoritas, the famous pool named for the camp followers who live there and offer comfort to the cavalry post above the town. Its channels split and merge again, flowing toward the smooth foothills that force the Chimehuin south into the barren pampas.

The lights were warm inside the Hosteria, and the windows were smoky with cold. The storm lashed across the valley for hours, cutting the power lines from the north, and candles guttered and glowed on the tables. Fishermen were eating beef and thick vegetable soup and drinking red wine, and the light flickered in their faces like a painting strangely transplanted from the stories of Dickens.

Jose Julian is the proprietor of the simple Hosteria Chimehuin, and his little inn at Junin de los Andes has sheltered an impressive log of famous anglers. Their mecca is the storied Chimehuin, which flows fifty miles between its alpine birthplace in Lago Huechulaufquen to its junction with the Collon Cura in the treeless pampas. The entire river is good, and a twelve-pound trout is possible anywhere in its mileage, but the famous fly-casters who journey each winter from both Europe and America are drawn to the tumbling Boca Chimehuin, where the river flows full-blown from its wild wind-tossed lake.

There were two good friends in the dining room, and I smiled when I saw their faces through the windows. They are there each summer, fishing the three-mile reach of water below the Boca Chimehuin the entire month of March. Both are great fly-fishermen who know that reach of river in all its varied moods.

Prince Charles Radziwill is a Polish exile who lives in Buenos Aires, and has discovered a substitute for the shooting and fishing on his family estates in the partridge fields below Buenos Aires and the countless rivers of Patagonia. His best fish from the Boca Chimehuin is a fifteen-pound brown, taken on a big saltwater bucktail in the churning outlet.

Bebe Anchorena is a member of a famous Argentine family, with a sprawling estancia in the foothills at Tandil. Most of the year his skills are focused on the sheep and thoroughbreds in his township-sized pastures, but after Christmas his thoughts turn to Patagonia and Junin de los Andes. Anchorena held the world fly-record with a twenty-four-pound brown from Boca Chimehuin for several years, until it was displaced with an even bigger fish caught at Boca Correntoso.

Both men are addicts and spend their holidays fishing the Chimehuin outlet each summer. It's never boring, they explain. The fish are migratory and they are always dropping down from the lake

“We see new ones every morning. You'll see tomorrow”, they added.

It was clear in the morning. The storm had passed and the sun was bright in the garden. We drove west along the river after breakfast, passing the cavalry post that guards the valley and the mountain pass from Chile. Beyond the rolling foothills, there was a volcano rising Fujiyama-perfect in the distance, its snowfields glittering in the sun.

“Lanin!” said Bebe.”Lanin guards the Boca!”

Radziwill nodded.

“It's clear today”, he added, “but when the mountain wears a sombrero of clouds, fishing is good.”

“No sombrero today”, I said.

“It's still good!” laughed Anchorena.

Both men fell silent. The truck whined up the low hills at the head of the valley, where a grove of monkeypuzzle trees was dark against the ridge; and as we reached the summit and started down toward the river, the fifty-mile length of Lago Huechulaufquen was ahead. The volcano towered above the narrow fjord-like lake. The wind moved down the lake and its dark surface churned and rolled with whitecaps. Chile lies in the distance, lost in the squalls that often shroud the border.

Boca Chimehuin lies twelve thousand feet below the summit. Centuries ago some primordial earthquake opened a crevasse in the hills that enclosed the lake, and the river spilled gratefully into the gorge that the Patagonian settlers called the Garganta del Diablo. The river still flows through this outlet toward the sea, spilling through the lava ledges that block its currents. The winds blow down the fifty-mile length of lake, churning its surface into wild breakers that crash and roll into the mouth of the river. There are two black channels in the lava, churning with heavy surf and currents, before the river spreads into a deep riffle that reaches a hundred yards below the lake. The river turns in a deep smooth-flowing pool at the base of the hills and glides down a shallow, weedy reach of water toward the timber bridge.

Bebe stopped the truck. “Come on!” he said.

We walked along the bluffs above the river, carrying a pair of binoculars. The sun was high and we could see deep into the currents of the first pool below the lake.

“Look!” said Radziwill. “Look there!”

There are several huge boulders and ledges deep in the eddying currents, and a giant log is wedged among the rocks. Radziwill pointed and suddenly I saw them: six huge trout lying ahead of the ledges.

Bebe pointed downstream to a pocket above the weeds. “He's still there!” he whispered.

Radziwill nodded. “The rainbows are new!”

It was difficult to tell how large they were. The fish were lying too deep.
“How big are they?” I asked.

“The rainbows are three or four kilos”, guessed Bebe.

Radziwill agreed. “The one beside the ledge is much bigger”, he added. “Maybe six or seven”.

“Fifteen pounds?” 1 exhaled in disbelief.

They both laughed at my excitement.

“The brown lying above the weeds is even bigger still”, grinned Bebe.

“Let's fish!” I said weakly.

We crossed the trestle bridge, where the current gathered and dropped toward the rapids of the Garganta del Diablo, and drove down the beach to the sheltered meadow beside the river. The low hills sheltered our campfire site and its abandoned apple trees.

We rigged our tackle carefully. Charles and Bebe had talked so much about the huge fish in the Boca Chimehuin that I carefully checked my gear. The rod was a powerful 8 1/2- foot young parabolic, and I seated the big Hardy reel carefully. Running the fly-line between two cypresses, I stripped the dacron backing into the grass.

“You like it better than nylon?” asked Bebe.

“Yes”, I answered and reeled it back evenly on the spool.

“There's so much stretch in nylon lines that it can bind and damage the light alloy in a fine reel spool”.

The leader knot was seated firmly into the finish of the line and I tested it with several hard pulls. The nylon leader tapered to twelve-pound test, and I ran it painstakingly through the guides, pulling the nail-knot through carefully. The leader survived several nasty jerks and pulls, and when it seemed sound I knotted a big nymph to the tippet.

It was like surf-casting in the outlet. The wind howled down the lake and pounded the surf across the lava outcrop-pings that block the river. The current churned wildly through its deep chute in the lava, eddied in its fierce whirlpool below the rocks, and plunged over a huge slab of lava that lies in the main current tongue. The wind gusted and carried the spray fifty yards below the lake, and near the outlet, waves rolled and broke around my waist.

It seemed like it was raining horizontally under a cloud-less sky, and we wore light nylon raingear as protection from the spray. The wind was so fierce we all wore the Basque berets of the sheepherders, since our hats refused to stay in place. Double-hauling to shoot line into the wind, we cast directly across the current to drop our flies quartering down-stream. The lines whistled past our heads in the wind, and I was glad for the tempered sunglasses to protect my eyes.
Charles and Bebe gave me the best place. It is the first churning hole below the ledges, and I waded deep into the river. The fish were holding below the lake.

“They're a little like salmon”, explained Bebe. “They stop just below the lake, like a salmon stops above the rapids to rest”.

“How deep is that chute?” I asked.

“Maybe three meters”, said Bebe.

It seemed best to work our flies deep into the run below the lake, but the current was so fast that casting upstream was necessary. It was difficult to shoot line quartering upstream into the gusting wind, and it gave me trouble.

“I'm not getting deep enough!” I yelled.

Radziwill hooked a big fish in the tumbling riffle below the ledges, and we stopped fishing to watch. His reel protested with a shrill soprano when the trout bored deep into the main current. Twice the fish cartwheeled high into the sun, tumbling back clumsily into the river.

“It's silver!” I shouted above the wind.

“But it's still a brown!” answered Bebe.

The fish was finally beached in the shallows. It was colored like a salmon, except that its configuration spelled trout and there were dark cross-like markings on its sides.

“It doesn't look like a brown!” I studied the fish carefully. “It looks like a salmon”

“It's like a sea-run brown”, laughed Bebe.

“From the lake?” I asked.

“These lakes are volcanic and there are hot springs every-where”, explained Radziwill. “They're rich in crustaceans”.

“Shrimps?” I said.

“Crabs”, they answered. “They look like saltwater crabs, but they're about as big as a silver dollar”.

“Cangrejos”, added Radziwill. “They're out there by the thousands and they grow fish like crazy!”

Bebe lifted and weighed the trout.

“Six pounds!” we read on the scales. “Cangrejos or crabs or whatever—that's proof enough for me!”
“Buena suerte!” laughed Radziwill.

I waded back into the surf-like currents at the outlet where the river tumbled over the ledges into the churning rip below the lake. Finally I succeeded in shooting a long cast low into the wind, and the big nymph dropped across the run.

The fly sunk deep with the heavy current, until I tightened and worked it back slowly along the bottom. The line gathered with a patient hand-twist retrieve as it bellied past me, and suddenly the fly stopped deep in the current. It was a steady pull, strong and holding solid under the pressure of the rod, and for several minutes I thought the fly might be fouled on a ledge. Then the fish moved upstream through the heaviest currents, and its angry head shaking and rolling throbbed back into the rod.

Suddenly it jumped. “It's huge!” I yelled.

It looked like ten or twelve pounds. It jumped again and turned back into the swift-running currents downstream, gathering speed rapidly until the line sliced audibly through the water and the reel wailed in the wind. The fish jumped again and again, and the sun flashed on its wild acrobatics.

“Brown?” I yelled.

“It's a rainbow!” they laughed.

Finally it surrendered and I forced it from the strongest currents. Its bright sides and gun-colored back were clearly visible in the shallows. There were no spots and no trace of the red-striped flanks and gill covers typical of river rainbows.

“Looks like a steelhead! I yelled.

“It's been eating cangrejos!” answered Radziwill.

The fish jumped wildly again. It showered me with water and my glasses were covered and it jumped twice more. My arms were getting tired. My heart was pounding and the fish was close, and suddenly it rolled clumsily and the fly came sickeningly free.

“My God!” I yelled.

I plunged into the river. The fish drifted weakly into deeper water and was gone, and I waded unhappily ashore. My hands were shaking and I groaned.

“He's got the disease!” laughed Radziwill.

“Disease?” I grinned.

“La fiebre de las Bocas”, grinned Bebe. “We caught it years ago and it's incurable”.

Boca fever, Radziwill explained.
“I've got it!” I agreed.

The hook was slightly bent. My hands were still shaking so badly that I was unable to extract another nymph from my fly-box, and my fingers refused to make the knot when I finally worked another fly from its compartment.

“Look at him shaking”, grinned Radziwill.

Bebe shook his head mockingly. “Boca fever”, he laughed. “Worst case I've ever seen!”

“It's a sickness!” I smiled.

We took several big trout the next few days, but nothing like that big rainbow. Bebe and Charles both had several five and six pounders, and I took a brace of four-pound rainbows in the outlet. Charles lost a giant fish below the bridge, and in the smooth Rincon Pool below the bluffs, I watched a monster rise and follow my swinging fly and take it hard. The rod wrenched down and straightened, but the fish turned and was gone. The hook had been broken on the rocks, and when I recovered I replaced it angrily.

“That fish was over fifteen!” said Bebe.

“My fault!” I growled.

My first pilgrimage to the Boca Chimehuin was almost over, and I had failed to solve its secrets. Bebe and Charles were staying two more weeks; they have fished the river for years and they were sure their big-fish day would come.

“It takes patience”, said Bebe.

Radziwill poured another round of wine and the innkeeper served dinner.

“Some morning we'll find the volcano wearing its sombrero of ice-clouds”, said Charles, “and the fish will be taking”.

“It'll come”, said Bebe. “It'll come!”

It was still and cold outside when we finished our coffee. The stars glittered in the darkness. Their unfamiliar constellations were bright, and the Southern Cross hung high above the town. The valley was silent, and we could hear the river in the distance.

It's just not your trip, I thought when I settled deep in my blankets. You've only got one more day. Two hours before daylight, the wind gathered again and stirred across the dark surface of the lake. It riffled the quiet shallows of the Boca Paimun, moving in the rain forests on the high threshold of Chile. The wind rose and touched the snowfields and forest shoulders of the volcano. It gathered and forced the fjord-like surface of Huechlaufquen into rolling whitecaps that crashed across the lava outcroppings where the river leaves the lake.
Gusts lashed down the gathering currents, rattling stones across the beach and the timber bridge, and rose again in the steep road above the river crossing. There were silver pesos glittering beside the candles in the shrine at the river, and their light guttered out in the eddying wind. The coins had been left by a traveller walking to a lumber camp in Chile, and two young soldiers had left the candles.

Beyond the simple roadside shrine, where the road topped the rise and wound down past the monkeypuzzle trees, the wind scattered volcanic ash along the valley floor until it stirred in the poplar windbreaks above the town. It moved through the cavalry post and the sentries shivered in the darkness. The wind rose all through the night, moaning across the shuttered town and through the trees around the Hosteria Chimehuin. Dust eddied in the marketplace and the hides drying at the carniceria pens, and the wind crossed the river into the treeless hills beyond.

We reached the river early. The sheltered meadows were still in shadow, and the sun had still not reached the tumbling outlet below the monkeypuzzle trees.

“It looks good”, said Bebe.

Carola Anchorena had come with us that last morning and cooked breakfast beside the river. There were eggs and fried potatoes and small rare steaks and coffee, and we sprawled in the grass and ate and talked about fishing.

There were no ice-clouds on the volcano and the morning sun was bright on the Boca. We caught nothing that morning, although we studied the pools from the bluffs of monkey-puzzle trees, and they were filled with big trout that had dropped back from the lake in the night. We ate lunch in the meadows, savoring the lamb asado and wine chilled in the riffles, and afterwards we napped in the warm grass.

The shadows were getting long across the river when we wakened, and it was already twilight in the Garganta del Diablo. We had sandwiches and mate and walked down along the river into the canyon. Bebe led me along the trail to the huge pool at the mouth of the Garganta, where he took his record trout six years ago.

“It was quite a night”, he smiled.

Bebe pointed across the river, describing how he took the giant brown that held the world fly-record for several years. His long casts had worked down the pool, dropping the big saltwater bucktail clear across the river. Reaching the deep holding-water near the bottom of the pool, he worked the fly back into the main current. Suddenly there was a sailfish-size boil that showered water high on the downstream wind. The rise was a strong porpoise-roll, and the huge fish settled back and sulked. The rod held in a stubborn circle and Bebe waited.

“He's big”, he thought.

Bebe had no idea how big the trout really was. It turned and lunged downstream, wrenching the rod down toward the surface. The reel spun wildly and fouled the line, and Bebe stumbled downstream over the rocks. He tried to untangle the line as he scrambled after the fish. Once he fell hard, bruising his ribs and gouging both knees badly. Finally the line came free, and he quickly reeled it smoothly into place. The fish hung stubbornly at midstream.
“It was like I was fouled on the rocks”, he said.

His spirits sank and his bruises ached. Bebe walked downstream and pumped hard. Nothing happened and he tried alternating pressure and slack for ten minutes.

Just when I was sure he was gone, Bebe continued, the fish moved and stopped again.

It was not much, but it was the beginning of the end, and Bebe forced the fish slowly back from the main current. When the fish reached the surface, it rolled and bolted downstream again. The reel rattled and whimpered in protest. The huge trout stopped above a monstrous deadfall tangle of logs, fallen from the shoulder of the volcano and wedged into the rocks in high water.

“It was already dark”, said Bebe.

He kept working, forcing the trout off balance and chip-ping away at his strength. The moon was high enough in the last hour that its light illuminated the canyon. Finally the fish floundered on the surface, and the moonlight flashed on its belly. Bebe knew he could win when he saw the pale belly and felt the great fish shudder.

It surrendered slowly, giving ground inch by inch. Bebe forced it into the rocky shallows until its dark length lay at his feet. He reached anxiously with the gaff. The trout rolled and tried to reach the current, but Bebe forced it back patiently.

“My arms were shaking”, he laughed.

He reached out with the gaff and the huge tail fanned weakly. The gaff stuck and held. The fish threshed wildly, showering him with water. It wrenched violently and twisted free. Bebe floundered and almost went down in the river, but the fish was exhausted too. It rolled weakly in the shallows.

“And I gaffed it again!” grinned Bebe.

His daughters Carolina and Paola had come downstream in the darkness to find him. They saw the fish carried ashore and shouted questions across about its weight.

“Fifteen or twenty pounds!” he shouted back.

The girls laughed derisively at that estimate. They thought I was joking, said Bebe.

His scale stopped at twenty pounds. He hooked it into the gill covers and struggled to raise it in the darkness. The scale hit bottom.

“It's over twenty!” he yelled.

The girls stopped laughing and ran upstream to meet their father at the bridge.

“It went twenty-four at Junin!” he finished.
Radziwill was fishing the huge pool from the other bank and we watched his flawless casting for several minutes. The pool had produced the world fly-record and it seemed a little like a shrine. Finally we walked down into the high-walled canyon of the Garganta del Diablo.

Bebe stopped to fish the first deep pool. I walked farther down the canyon, clambering along the steep trail above the river past the cypresses and monkeypuzzle trees. The river churned far below until the trail dropped back sharply toward the water.

“Looks good”, I thought.

It was a big pool below a heavy chute of rapids. The Chimehuin danced down a tumbling riffle, turned against a huge outcropping of basalt, and churned like a spillway at flood water through its last hundred yards into the pool. The pool itself stilled the rapids in its depths, swelling smooth and deep for fifty yards, until its currents gathered again above the lava ledges and it tumbled back into another mile of rapids. It was really big-trout water.

The sky was darker now and I had taken a single fish of eighteen inches. It was an average river brown, bright ochre and orange on its flanks and belly, and covered with poppy-colored spots. It held softly in my hands while it recovered, and finally it bolted off into the darkness. It was almost time to climb out of the canyon. Later it would be too dark to see the trail up the rocks.

“It's over”, I muttered.

There had been no trophies for me at Boca Chimehuin. The week of fishing had passed, and my best fish was still a four-pound rainbow. But four pounds isn't bad, I thought wryly, thinking I had become pretty spoiled.

Suddenly there was a great salmon-sized boil behind the swinging bucktail. It engulfed the fly in a wild lunge, and the reel screeched out huge staccato lengths of line. The fish bored deep into the heavy current at the head of the pool. It was a mistake. I tightened and held a firm circle in the rod, without enough pressure to frighten the fish. It was fighting the cur-rents below the chute, and my pressure was just enough to force it off balance. It struggled to hold its position, and I nagged at its strength with the rod.

The tactics worked and the fish lost the edge of its power in those first fifteen minutes, and when it broached in the smooth twilight of the pool, it was already beaten.

“Careful!” I thought wildly. “Careful!”

There was a dangerous moment when it drifted back on the currents, threatening to slide into the rapids. It seemed impossible to hold even its weight in the quickening current, unless I tricked the fish into helping. Sometimes a fish will move away from the pressure of your tackle, so I stripped six yards of line off the reel without releasing the line under my fingers. Lowering the rod downstream, I let it all slip suddenly into the current until the line bellied down below the trout. It throbbed in the swift shallows at the lip of the pool and its pressure from below alarmed the fish. It moved quickly up-stream and sulked into deeper water.
The shallows were still and the bottom was good. The fish rolled weakly now, and I forced it close until it sensed me in the darkness, and bolted across the pool when I tried to pick it up across the shoulders. The run was half-hearted and I snubbed it short. It came back stubbornly and floundered until I seated my fingers around its head, pressing the gill covers, and carried it ashore. It was a powerful rainbow of fourteen pounds, and in the darkness it seemed huge.

It was difficult climbing out of the canyon, wrestling the big fish up the steep, rocky path in the dark.

Finally I reached the top and crossed the brushy plateau until I touched the road. The constellations were very bright, and I stood a moment in the road looking at the Southern Cross.

The mountains were purple against a cloudless twilight and the vast surface of the lake was still. It was quiet and I could hear the river tumbling below in the Garganta del Diablo. Bebe and Carola and Charles had already reached the trucks, and I could see their cookfire in the meadow below the Boca. My body ached and the tail of the great fish was dragging in the dust.

The wind stirred and moved in the monkeypuzzle trees, riffling the still surface of the lake. There was an Araucan woman resting with her children beside the shrine, and their candles flickered in the darkness.