Spring Creek

“Anything in that box will work”. Rance Rathe, co-owner of Patagonia River Guides, took one look at my fly box filled with beetle patterns before grabbing his two fly rods, his daughter, Julia and son, Ryan, before heading downstream.  “See you guys at the road in a couple hours”.

Agustín Bustos and I, in turn, grabbed our two 4-weight rods and took off on the opposite direction toward some large willow trees.  I had put together for this afternoon jaunt an Orvis fiberglass 7 1/2 foot rod purchased for the trip on eBay. Mounted to it was an Orvis CFO III fly reel that I has been with me since 1972.

“The last time I was here we caught some huge Browns” Agustin said. He had shown me a video clip of he and one of the guides of Patagonia River Guides holding up a brown trout that looked to be close to 30 inches. “We caught this one near those willow trees”.  

This seemed an unlikely creek to hold fish that size. It was 8 to 12 foot across on average. It had some undercut banks in a few deeper holes along with the few root jambs near the willow trees.  It was an artesian creek that flowed directly from the arid, dusty Patagonia desert maybe a couple hundred meters from where we stood.

Agustín and I took turns casting. One would hold his line while the other moved forward along the creek, casting to likely structure.  The agreement was catch a fish,  step out.  

Agustin, being the gentleman he is let me go first. Within two casts I had a brown trout.

The fish in the creek were very aggressive. On a couple stretches we could see small, juvenile trout airborne attempting to catch flying insects. We took turns catching mostly Rainbows between six and 12 inches through several pools and runs. Food for large Browns, I thought.   I hooked and landed one fat brown trout that was 18 inches and put the soft fiberglass rod into a giant hoop. The old CFO reel even got to give off a howl of its old click-pawl drag as the Brown took out some line. 

There were no 30 inch monsters.  

We went past the old Estancia house as we moved up the creek. It was made of Adobe brick with weathered, handmade doors and windows.  What remained of the front garden was decorated with a border made from liter wine bottles.  The house was shuttered and locked but we could see through by the cracks in the wood window shutters the simple furnishings and accessories of a gaucho.

“The old gaucho has cancer and is dying.” Rance said when we gathered at the truck. “Locals know he’s not here, and they’re coming out with worms and catching & killing the big fish.” 

We had actually surprised two men in a pickup truck on our way in to the property.  They were packing up their fishing gear and, in a sheepish manner, got into their truck then drove up to us to give, what I could tell from my limited ability with Spanish, a bullshit story of why they were there.  

Eyes and posture need no translation.