We had spent a few enjoyable days at this ranch on our last visit, a packaged trip put together by Hawkins Outfitters. We decided to create our own itinerary this time, one that would give us more flexibility and an opportunity to experience a greater slice of the landscape and its people, even if it meant less time fishing. This is not a knock on using an outfitter, it's just that when you are alone in a foreign land your senses are far more active without an outfitter to rely on.
Estancia Arroyo Verde
Our first stop is located along the Rio Traful between Traful Lake and the legendary Rio Limay. The Arroyo Verde offers a unique glimpse into Argentina's past when vast tracts of land were owned by single families, operated as large working ranches that controlled much of the pampas well into the eastern slopes of the Andes - families that now struggle to keep the ranches their government long ago encouraged to ward off those pesky Chilean invaders. In the case of the Rio Traful two brothers originally acquired the land for nearly the length of the river, establishing La Primavera on one side and Arroyo Verde on the other. La Primavera is now owned by Ted Turner, while the original family holds onto Arroyo Verde by operating it as a guest ranch. Our host Meme Lariviere and her daughters, the real life version of Ben Cartwright and his sons in the TV series Bonanza, watch over the ranch while treating their guests like family. Every destination has its memorable moments and Meme's ranch certainly delivered its share.As we rode up the valley toward the ranch it something seemed strangely different about the landscape. It was as if a grey filter had been placed over everything, as if that long flight from Miami had taken us to the moon instead of Argentina. Marcelo, our driver and fishing guide for the next 3 days, explained that volcanic ash had rained down on the area last year from nearby Chilean volcano Puyehue. To make matters even worse it has been unusually hot and dry ever since, with little snow and rain to wash away the ash. Dust storms are now menacing whenever the wind picks up, which on the eastern slopes of the Andes is nearly every day. How had this affected the fishing we wondered? Marcelo offered a somewhat guarded response. The Traful was running too low and warm for the trout that were no doubt escaping up into the deep headwaters of the glacial lake or to the deeper pools of the much larger Rio Limay downstream. There was concern that the ash sediment in the lakes would have a devastating effect on the always fragile ecosystem. With this troubling news we drove into the lush green ranch compound, mirage like compared to its surroundings. The Lariviere girls had worked harder than we could have imagined to keep their ranch open and presentable.
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| Late morning at La Boca in a dust storm. |
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| Tough fishing but we caught a few. |
I had two requests for this return trip. I wanted to go back to the picturesque boca, with the gin clear water of the river's source, Lago Traful. It was there three years ago with mid-morning sun shimmering over the rocky shallows that we site fished landlocked atlantic salmon. The fish were small but aggressive and a thrill to catch. This day started out much the same, but by mid-morning as we waded up the river to the headwater the winds picked up and the blue sky disappeared under a fog of ash. It felt like night fishing without the fish. Later when the dust settled and a beautiful sunny day reemerged our hosts took us to a guest cabin they maintain on the lake, but the view didn't compare to the vantage point at La Boca. There are few places on earth as beautiful.
My second request was to enjoy another traditional Argentine asado. There were not enough guests to warrant the considerable effort that goes into a barbecue so Meme decided to make it a family affair, inviting members from near and far in what became a celebration of the family and a well deserved respite from the turmoil created by Puyehue. Tom and I, along with two British journalists who were also guests, had not only a culinary treat but also a rare glimpse into a vanishing way of life. As the meal ends we share a cup of Yerba Mate with our host, served in a traditional gourd cup. Marcelo suggests that during our siesta he will walk the river hoping to site a large trout for us to try later.
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| Tom and Meme on the left deep in conversation. |
Marcelo returned later that afternoon with news that he had indeed located not one, but two very big trout holding in fast water. This was our chance at a lifetime fish. We drove to our beat, opening and closing gates while following the dusty two track to a lower downstream section of the river. Here the Traful charged through a canyon of large boulders as it raced toward its rendezvous with Rio Limay. Staring down from the cliff at the dark shadow of a trout well over 30 inches Tom and I immediately came to the same conclusion: there was no way to get a streamer in front of it. The canyon wall came straight down to the river on both sides. At the bottom was a minefield of strewn boulders, some too enormous to climb over. The only hope was a large flat stone protruding from the river some 20 yards or so upstream. It required a roll cast to the far side of the river, followed quickly by stripping line off the reel so the current would carry the fly down steam and at just the right moment bringing the line tight and letting it swing across current, hopefully in front of our quarry. With my longer rod and heavier line Tom suggested that I give it try. So standing on the rock with Marcello high above on the ridge I began the casting sequence. From where I stood I could see the fly as it moved through the water but not the trout as the sun reflected brightly off the turbulent water obscuring everything below surface. Marcello would bark out instruction telling me when to stop feeding line. Our first efforts failed. So I changed flies, selecting an orange and white Tarpon fly only because it was the heaviest weighted fly in my box. The fly behaved better this time, turning the curious trout as it sped by his lie. What happened on my next cast is still a bit of a blur. I remember Marcelo first yelling out that the drift was perfect and then screaming with excitement as he saw what I couldn't - the fish charging my fly. My rod tip snapped down, went limp, then snapped down again with a tremendous jerk, and then nothing. By now Marcelo was back down at the river's edge asking me what had happened. I just didn't know. Either I was late setting the hook, or hadn't set it at all, or had done everything right and still came up empty handed. We climbed back up the canyon and walked the ridge upstream looking for fish number 2, with me taking up the rear still scratching my head. Now it was Tom's turn.
We gathered ourselves and hiked a short way to our next target - another impressive brown with its broad shouldered frame moving effortlessly from side to side in a sliver of pocket water surrounded by turbulence. At first glance it appeared to be an easier reach, but looking downstream it became abundantly clear that actually landing a fish here would require a goodly amount of skill and luck. Particularly troubling were the array of boulders of all sizes just downstream from the lie. Tom did not have the advantage of casting off a rock, but by hugging the edge in chest high water he was able to get within a manageable roll cast. Again his fly of choice proved unsuccessful so I offered up my Tarpon fly (thanks to Ray Schmidt for giving me the fly). Within a few more casts Tom was into a lifetime fish and the chase was on. The burly brown headed straight down river, with Tom in hot pursuit as his reel screamed under the tension of peeling line. Needless to say, the fish moved a lot faster than Tom encumbered as he was by boulders. I'm talking boulders 8' tall in places, which at times required that Tom reluctantly hand his rod to Marcelo as he climbed and hurdled larger obstacles, only to find that Marcelo was just as reluctant to hand back the rod. With time Tom seemed to take control of his fish that was tiring and now settled in a depression of softer water. Marcelo readied his net and got into position as Tom applied a bit of pressure in an attempt to bring the fish to net, a maneuver that proved fateful as the trout came straight up out of the water, flipped over and broke off. Game over.
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| Tom in hot pursuit |
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| Anticipation, but trouble lurks. |
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