Beneath the Southern Cross ~ Part II

The Chimehuin River flows beneath the overhanging willows until it joins the Collón Curá in a more open and arid landscape. Some of our guests floated the Chimehuin to the confluence while Jennifer and I traveled overland to a put-in near a bridge that, according to our guide Nico, has been under constant reconstruction for decades. Floating beneath this collection of steel, concrete, and 2x4s did not instill confidence that it would remain standing much beyond its completion date. I will admit to being slightly concerned when, at the end of our adventure, we waited in line to cross in a bus that I was sure would put undue strain on the aforementioned 2x4s.

Nevertheless, in the shadow of the bridge, we began our introduction to the Collón Curá (Co-jun Cur-a) and the big Trout that call it home. It wasn't long before I spotted a log lying on the bottom in shallow water that started to move. The large Brown was finning his way towards us, and Jennifer was in position in the stern to make a cast. Her big dry fly landed within the fish's eyesight, and our guide suggested a slight "twitch." The movement brought the fish to the surface, and he opened his cavernous mouth, only to miss the business end of the fly as he submerged. Subsequent casts were ignored, so we floated downstream away from the construction noise and into a totally different experience.

The Collón Curá is a larger river that cuts its high-water channels through a more open plain. Trees and rootballs torn from the banks during run-off continue to grow midstream, temporarily nourished by the flow, but destined to relinquish their fibers to the land. Occasionally, the river encounters sandstone cliffs that tower above, redirecting the rushing water and offering homes to Eagles and Condors on ledges cut by wind and rain. Looking into the depths, you can see large chunks of the mountainside that are slowly becoming gravel as time and water work their magic. High banks show exposed river rock, confirming that this process has been going on since the beginning of time and will continue far beyond our brief history.

Willows and a few native trees frame the river, offering lunchtime shade and a splash of green in an otherwise dry topography reminiscent of Oregon's east side, where scub brush and grass stop the blowing sand—a landscape in constant evolution, eerily familiar yet somehow exotic. Lunch stops provided time to relax and observe the multitude of birdlife that sang and cackled overhead. Naps in hammocks recharged our casting arms, preparing us for the long days on the water.

Like many Rios in Patagonia, the Collón Curá is a combination of other streams. The Chimehuin and Aluminé come together near the town of Junín de los Andes to form the Collón Curá briefly before it joins the Limay. Since these rivers are connected, they share very similar fisheries, yet they do have their differences. Like the Chimehuin, the Collón Curá has a healthy Rainbow and Brown Trout population, each with a preferred habitat within the river's banks. Rainbows seemed to prefer the faster flows and current seams, while Brown Trout liked the warmer shallows and, occasionally, the classic log jam cover that allows the ambushing of prey. Still, there is plenty of prey in open water as shoals of small minnows hide in the rocky edges or tumbling currents of drop-offs as channels rejoin the main flow.

We witnessed marauding Rainbows crashing these schools of minnows like a Tuna Blitz, and Nico had us change our big dry flies for dainty little minnow patterns presented on our floating lines with long leaders. The grabs were jolting, and the feisty Rainbows fought well above their weight class. Jennifer and I were amazed at their power and ability to put a significant bend in a six-weight rod. There were many 20-inch fish that shrunk to 16" by the time they hit the net. Nevertheless, each day provided several trophy fish for each of us. Some by size alone, while others gained notoriety by the challenge they presented.

One evening, as we worked our flies against a collapsed bank, I spotted a likely hiding spot beneath a log barely hanging on by its roots in the soil. I worked the fly close, lifting and dropping the tip of my rod to feed the big dry fly between the branches and currents running past the tangled wood. Suddenly, a nose appeared beneath the log, and a very respectable Brown darted out and crushed my fly. Clamping down on the reel and straining to keep the fish from regaining his hiding spot, I implored Nico to pull for the far bank. It seemed like the fish would win this one, as the heavy current was in his favor, but finally, the boat pulled across a seam, and I found myself fighting the fish in slack water. The net flashed, photos were taken, and we continued down the river. More fish and more memories added to a fantastic trip, but one river remained, the Limay (La-My,) and I looked forward to fishing its waters.

To be continued...