Sea Trout at the End of the World

Text & Photo: Matt Hayes

After two days of being battered on the river by incessant downstream winds I was getting pretty used to going fishing in conditions that would send anglers from back home scurrying for the shelter of the fishing hut and a warm whiskey by the fire. Yet here, in the land of fire, a sixty kilometre-per-hour gale is seen as little more than a gentle breeze. So much for the Patagonian summer – and I thought Norwegian summers could be daunting! It wasn’t until I studied the map that I realised quite how remote Tierra del Fuego is: some 52 degrees south and nestling in the shadow of the snow-capped Andes, Southern Argentina is the furthest civilisation south before you reach the Antarctic. While Buenos Aires, a three and a half hour flight to the north, basks in temperatures in the thirties, the huge lowland plain through which the Rio Grande meanders struggles to reach the low teens and single figure temperatures are commonplace. Every morning, a glance outside the fishing lodge would reveal a bending flagpole and rain falling horizontally instead of vertically. Here, the summer weather is relentless and unforgiving. Yet, on the plain below, draped like a shiny ribbon across the pampas, the Rio Grande glints whenever the sun breaks through the cloud, imploring visitors to forsake the fireside in favour of one of angling’s truly raw experiences.

My initial concerns about the technical difficulties of fishing in such extreme conditions had been realised, though not in the way I had anticipated. Prior to the visit my concerns had revolved around fishing with the ‘wrong hand up’ the spey rod to cope with the incessant wind that blows hard into the right shoulder while fishing on the left bank facing downstream. Though a little rusty at first, I found this relatively easy to cope with: the wind tends to lift the cast and getting distance had not been a problem. In fact, I was casting pretty well in conditions that I would have considered hitherto challenging. No, the real problem had come in the form of unusually high water that had raised the level of the river way beyond the seasonal norm. Fishing in cold, high, coloured water meant getting down to the fish and presenting the fly slowly, especially in the critical taking area which, on most of the pools we fished was tight to the far bank. My first forty eight hours on the river had been dogged by three problems: firstly, I was not getting deep enough with the sink-tip lines that are usually recommended for the Rio Grande in summer; secondly I was not mending the line efficiently to keep the fly in the strike zone long enough to induce a take; thirdly, my flies were nowhere near big enough for the murky conditions that saw the river colour vary from weak coffee to well-stirred mud...

The incentive to get things right could not have been more clearly defined. While Steve, my fishing partner was struggling as much as I was for the most part, he had at least caught one fish on the first of our four sessions and that fish had weighed 21 pounds. It was, quite frankly, the most impressive cold-water game fish I had ever seen – caught in conditions that I would have considered a waste of time for seatrout back home. And whilst the rest of our party of twelve, most of whom were Rio Grande veterans, admitted that the fishing was dour, several fish into double-figures had been caught. These huge fish are built like silver-plated tanks and so big are they that it is hard to think of them as sea trout, not salmon. It is impossible not to be inspired by them especially when the biggest seatrout I had ever seen up to this point weighed eleven pounds! Seeing a twenty-one pound seatrout is like seeing a fifty pound pike, a four-pound roach or a six-pound perch... it was a fish that literally rocked my fishing soul. And since seatrout have become my favourite fish, I could not help thinking, as Steve lowered the leviathan gently back into the icy water, that I had indeed arrived in the Mecca of angling venues. Now all I had to do was sort my technique out... Tuesday night saw me changing the lines on my Guideline 13 foot LPXE rods from DDC Multi-tip lines to float/sink 5 and float/sink 7 heads. The knowledgeable fishing guides at Maria Behety favour extended sink tip lines over full sinkers for the reason that a floating belly allows the line to be mended several times during the cast, slowing the fly down as much as possible. In this respect the Guideline float/sink shooting heads are perfect, comprising a floating belly with a fast-sinking extended tip. A dream to cast on the 13 foot LPXE, I felt confident that my line dilemmas were over: with these lines I could get depth and yet enjoy the luxury of mending.

 

The flies

Sorting out the flies also turned out to be easier than expected. After borrowing a fly tying kit from one of the guides I set about ‘knocking something up’ to match the conditions. While small-to-medium size rubber leg nymphs are the usual choice for high summer on the Rio Grande (I had a boxful of them!), it was obvious that in the murky water the fish simply could not see anything smaller than a Tom Thumb cigar. Delving around in the materials box was rewarded by some long-shank size 1 hooks and a fistful of marabou in different colours, fritz chenille, some rabbit strip, bucktail and a few schlappen feathers that I was determined to hide from the other lads lest they exhaust the meagre supply.

I need not have worried: I ended up tying flies for several of the most likely offenders and whilst I would have given my right ‘nad’ for some tubes and a decent supply of arctic fox, needs are as needs must! The fly I came up with was a sort of a Willy Gunn: blended bucktail in yellow, orange and black were true to the original but the palmered and wound marabou plumes along with schlappen head hackles and a waving rabbit strip tail were somewhat deviant. In the end I called the fly ‘Son of a Gunn’ and hoped that my mutant creation would do the business – it was certainly big and ugly enough.

Click on image!

The third problem, keeping the fly in the strike zone, was the one that I struggled with the most. On the Rio Grande, most of the seatrout hug the far bank and all of the lads in our party agreed that the longer you could keep the fly tight to the far bank area the greater your chances of a take become. My salmon fishing experiences in Norway definitely worked against me in this regard: I found it very hard to break the habit of casting at forty-five degrees and getting the line stretched out to make the fly swim as soon as possible. On our very first session, Gianaro, one of the excellent guides from the lodge had shown me the technique favoured on the river: the cast is made square and then line is mended into the current by moving the rod in an upstream direction – the idea is to allow the fly to free fall in the strike zone. After paying out line, as the cast comes tight, a further mend is made and then the line is ‘jigged’ through the run by making short, sharp pulls with the stripping hand. All of which sounds easier than it actually is when the line is ripping into your right shoulder at almost hurricane force and trying to blow the line into a hopeless downstream loop.



As the week went on I simply got better at fishing the fly ‘Rio Grande’ style. I learned to cast square and at times upstream, feeding line in a smooth movement after touchdown and mending as soon as it straightened out. The jigging technique, though awkward at first, became second nature and by the time that I went into the third day with Fredrico as our guide, I felt that I had served my apprenticeship and was ready to catch a fish.

Thursday morning saw us fishing pool 17, Padulo. A typical pool for the middle part of the river it involved a twenty-five to thirty yard cast to hit the far bank with a brisk flow, nice wading and that constant howling ‘down streamer.’ At ten forty-five, having lost a fish earlier on, half-way down the pool, I had the first proper ‘honk down’ (an expression coined by Justin, one of our party and not surprisingly a citizen of the US) in a text-book capture. I had made the cast square and tight, mending upstream and paying line on touchdown. As the cast came tight I made one further mend and made the first short haul on the line. This time something pulled back – and how! The rod simply belted over (a classic ‘honk down‘ for those unfamiliar with the term) and the Quadra reel was spinning before I had chance to draw breath. To say that I was relieved to see that first explosion of silver at the tail of the pool was an understatement – the fish had been hooked by the son of a Gunn and now all I had to do was keep the son-of-a-gun on! When twelve pounds of cart-wheeling seatrout drops into the landing net it is always a time for celebration and though this fish, that would have been considered huge back home, would barely raise an eyebrow in Patagonia, it was my first from the river and I was elated, relieved and buzzing all at the same time.

Though the fish might have qualified as a flash-in-the-pan of fluke I now knew that all of the minor niggles that had set me back were out of the way and I could simply get on with the business of catching fish and enjoying myself...

So often the dividing line between success and failure in fishing is a fine one. Sometimes it can come down to a major problem, like not casting far enough, for instance, while at other times the difference is more subtle, the combination of several things that are not quite right. And whilst you might get away with not doing one thing quite right, your catches will surely be compromised and the culmination of doing two or three things not quite right is inevitably a blank. Thankfully, I’ve done plenty of fishing around the world over the years and whilst I cannot always immediately rectify my own mistakes, I am pretty good at spotting them.

The Tapas session at lunchtime back at the lodge was a lot happier for yours truly. For once I could stroll back into the lodge with my head held high to commiserate with those whom had not caught fish and indulge in a bit of smug mutual back-slapping with those that had been similarly fortunate. Thankfully, the tally of ‘heroes’ was outnumbered by the ‘zeroes,’ a fact that made lunch a great deal more digestible.

The routine at Maria Behety is slightly unusual but one that I thoroughly enjoyed. Clients rise at seven, have breakfast and head off to the river at eight for a four-hour session followed by a break for lunch and a siesta. Fishing resumes at six-thirty until ten-thirty followed by a light dinner and a few welcome hours kip before the cycle is repeated. I came to really enjoy the fishing and resting rhythm.

On Tuesday evening our sixth session took place under the watchful eye of Fredrico on pools 14 and 15. Buoyed by my success I really enjoyed it and for the first time on the trip I began to truly appreciate my surroundings. The river cuts its way across a vast plain, bending, dividing and coming together again like a giant serpent that snakes its way off to the distant snow-capped Andes on the horizon. The light is simply breathtaking and as a photographer I was amazed not only at its quality but also the way it shifted constantly, changing the look of the landscape by the hour. It was possible to be fishing under towering angry grey clouds one moment and the next to be marvelling at blue sky filled with fluffy white clouds that would not have been out of place in the title sequence of ‘The Simpsons.’ And though the flaming red sunsets for which the ‘Land of Fire’ is so famous had remained hitherto unrealised, I could not wait to see one.


Instead, on this night, I had to settle for catching fish. I had three pulls (known as ‘honks’), all on the float/sink 7 and three proper ‘honk downs,’ resulting in three fish, the largest ten and a half pounds. I was ‘cooking on gas’ in sea trout heaven and enjoying every second of it! Every fish had fallen to the ‘Son of a Gunn’ pattern and my return to the lodge was accompanied by an order for several of the new wonder fly...

On Wednesday, Steve and myself fished with head guide, Nick. Heavy overnight rain had taken its toll on the river and it had become swollen and angry, spilling over its banks, making finding good fishing zones difficult. Convinced that fishing would be a waste of time, I took time to study the landscape and its wildlife. Tierra del Fuego is a national park, and whilst at first glance the vast plains of the estancia seem rather barren and tundra-like, they hold a remarkable head of wildlife. Gunaco (a type of wild llama) can be seen everywhere and as we approached the pool for our morning session, two large males faced each other from opposite sides of the river, posturing and squaring off to each other. The sound of the approaching four-wheel drive as it splashed through puddles and recently formed pools, sent flocks of white geese airborne while hidden in the tufts of grass, a fawn-coloured fox eyed up its chances to steal and egg or two watched, in-turn by pair of huge condors that circled menacingly overhead...

The river was chocolate, with visibility limited to perhaps less than a foot. Nonetheless, we were forced to fish the far bank. Nick felt my best chances of success were to pitch the fly into a pocket of clear water where a far bank feeder stream flowed into the main pool. The cast was a hefty one with some tricky wading in a swift current thrown in to boot. By now, however, I was relaxed and the thirteen foot LPXE made light work of it, pitching the rabbit-strip fly into the target zone. After ten minutes without a pull, Nick suggested a change of fly to one of only a couple of home-tied black and silver templedogs that had been added to the fly box as an afterthought. Three casts later I found myself attached to a heavy weight as the first ‘honk down’ of the day pulled the line tight and made the reel buzz: thirteen pounds of silver perfection!

The evening session saw me fishing the ‘Son of a Gunn’ again, this time under the shadow of a towering sandstone cliff. A seven pound fish provided the only relief to an otherwise gloomy evening on a rising river. The news back at the lodge was not good – almost all of the lads had endured a dour day and I’ll confess to feeling quite pleased with myself. While the red wine flowed and the craic got into full-swing, outside the wind continued to howl and rain hammered on the roof like a thousand woodpeckers...

Thursday dawned clear and bright. A fiery sun beamed down from almost cloudless azure blue skies. Convinced that the river would be a swollen quagmire, the atmosphere in the wader room was one of nervousness but as it turned out, we need not have worried. Fishing with Andrew we made our way down to pool 12 for the morning session. Located on the upper part of the river, the pool was quite narrow and very fishable, especially considering that the visibility in the water had actually improved and was now up to perhaps a foot or even eighteen inches!

The morning fishing went well. Steve hooked a sixteen pounder followed by a smaller fish under the watchful gaze of a grazing Guanaco on the far bank. My only sea-run of the session was a freshly-minted seven pounder but I lost one of the big fellas. By now we were more than half-way through our trip with only three sessions remaining. I could not complain about what I had caught, especially in the conditions, but as I made my way back to the lodge for lunch I could not help thinking that it would be lovely to catch a fish of fifteen pounds or more.

The evening session on pool 9, located on the upper river, will remain a treasured memory for as long as I live. I had slept fitfully in the afternoon, my final dream being a vivid image of my grandmother sitting in a chair smiling at me. My grandmother, Alice Massey, passed away two years ago this May. She was a remarkable lady and almost a second mother. Her husband, my grandfather, David Massey, died many years ago when I was a teenager but not before he had passed onto me some of his fine angling skills built up in a lifetime spent coarse and game fishing. When the going gets tough and I need a special fish I often think of him – he rarely lets me down but I try not to abuse the gift. With the image of the smiling old lady still burnt into my consciousness I set forth into the wind tunnel once again.

‘I am going to put you in at the head of the pool...’ Andrew shouted into the wind before adding with a grimace ‘it’s a good place for a big fish but just about the hardest place to fish on the whole river.’ He wasn’t wrong. Wading into chest deep water with a high bank immediately behind me, the casting would have been difficult enough but with a facing gale force wind it was verging on impossible. The head of the pool, the river here cuts around a corner before racing into a straight, bringing the current into the near bank to scour out a gully. It was a promising spot alright, but a nightmare to fish.

With Steve enjoying the easy wading on the straight below, my first run down the wind tunnel resulted in resounding failure. The wind was howling and I simply knew that even when I got the line out, it was getting whipped downstream too quickly and the fly was motoring through too high and too fast. Andrew urged me to try again. ‘I know it’s asking a lot’ he said ‘but try to throw upstream and get an early mend in to fish the fly deeper.’ Torn between cursing him and heading back to the four-wheel drive for a sulk and a coffee, I gritted my teeth and set out on a second tour.

Third cast and I got the ‘honk down’ to end all ‘honk downs.’ Having made a better fist of throwing into the teeth of the gale, I could sense the fly fishing deeper and slower. The pull, when it came just stopped the rod and slammed it over. Line fizzed off the reel as a big, heavy weight moved midstream before taking to the air and, cart wheeling over and belly-flopping with all the grace of a crashing jumbo jet, crashed and smashed its way toward the sea. My hands shook as yet more line got dragged off the reel and, as I wobbled my way down the pool on jellified knees, the wind howling like a banshee through the rod guides, I prayed that the fish would stay on. Most of the time during the ten-minute fight I felt as if I had no control whatsoever: the roaring wind divorced my hands from any of the touch and feel that lets you know what is happening out in the river and on several occasions I felt the line lift only to hear the fish crash to the surface several meters away from where it felt like it should be. However, when the fish gods smile, they really smile on you and before I knew it Andrew was scooping the net under a submarine-like silver torpedo that rocked my existence. From the outset it was obvious that my fifteen pounds target had been blown away and in spades. ‘Twenty-one pounds!’ was my guide’s verdict as he hoisted the fish on the scales...

After that, I was fishing in a dream. I drank coffee, snapped a few pictures and casually fished the shallow run below the bend. An out-of-body experience, I was surprised to feel the line pull tight on two further occasions, adding a thirteen and an eight pounder to my tally. I scarcely cared – I had caught the fish of a lifetime – and when it came time to pack away I was relieved for the chance to sit back and take it all in.

Our last day on the river saw me intent on taking photographs. Catching further fish seemed largely unimportant and with the river the colour of liquid mud having finally given in to the torrential rain of two nights before, I figured that a photo session was the best way to spend my time. Though puzzled by my indifference to fishing, Diego, our guide for the day, seemed determined to overcome the diabolical conditions and get Steve into a fish. Had I not witnessed what happened I would not have believed it. The visibility in the water was less than six inches yet, in the calm water in the lee of a gravel island, an area normally only inches deep, Steve caught sea trout of sixteen and seventeen pounds in less than half an hour. My half-hearted attempts resulted in two foul-hooked fish, one of which cleared the water in a huge leap, giving away its colossal size. It was testimony, not only to Diego’s skill in finding fish in such conditions but also the sheer number of fish that were in the river. One can only dream how many we would have caught if the river had been in half-decent condition.

Our final session on a high, coloured river saw me stow the rods in favour of the camera. As if by magic, as the sun began to sink behind scattered cloud, the heavens began to turn to deep shades of orange, pink, red, mauve and purple; the sunset was going to be spectacular and I simply had to capture it. While Steve combed the water fruitlessly in the gathering gloom I enjoyed the spectacular scene, snapping shots of him casting against a riot of twilight colour, Diego waiting patiently by his side with the net, confident to the end. It was a great way to end a visit to Argentina’s Tierra del Fuego – the land of fire- with the sky raging to its own multi-coloured blaze and the atmosphere crackling with frost. We drove back across the plain toward the twinkling lights of the distant lodge, cold but warm inside; sad but very happy. I’ll be back...

Booking Maria Behety Lodge, Rio Grande

My trip was organised through Roxtons Worldwide whom have an exclusive arrangement for the UK with Maria Behety. I must say that the service I received from the very outset was nothing short of excellent with crisp communication and very efficient booking of flights, overnights and transfers.

Fishing is for six days (12 sessions). Flying to Buenos Aires on day one (15 hours!), the overnight is made at the Sofitel, Buenos Aires. We were met at the airport by Alex whom is Roxton’s agent in the city. Alex was superb, booking our seats on the internal flight, checking our baggage-in and generally avoiding any excess baggage complaints before escorting us to the hotel. The Sofitel is superb with fantastic service and a host of nearby restaurants for a first night celebratory dinner.
The transfer to the lodge is the following morning, involving collection by Alex from the Sofitel and a three and a half hour flight down to Rio Grande. We were met at the airport by the guides and driven directly to the lodge for lunch and an afternoon/evening spent preparing equipment for the following day.

The guides at Maria Behety are the most professional and knowledgeable fishing guides I have ever encountered anywhere in the world. Thanks lads! Those interested in booking the trip should contact Roxtons Worldwide on 01488 689701 or visiting their website www.roxtons.com