Its been three years since I’ve seen Richard and seven years since we first met. Most of the biggest trout I’ve caught in my life have been with Richard at my side and I hope that today will be more of the same.
We drive out of town along the southern shore of the lake. On our right tourists with ice cream and cameras soak up the Andean vistas. We cross over the Rio Limay running a brilliant shade of aqua marine. This late in summer it’s low, clear, and warm. The weather conditions don’t bode well for the fishing, but the brilliance of the water and first shades of yellow on the streamside leaves make it hard to complain.
The first day out we continue past the boca section of the upper river. Passing over the concrete highway bridge Richard and I both strain our necks to see if anyone is knee deep in this sacred spot of Argentina fly fishing. From the highway you can just see the break where the lake spills over into the current of river.
It’s was the boca of the Limay, along with the boca’s of the Correntoso and Chimehuin further north, that put Argentina on the fly fishing map. Black and white photos from the 1950’s and 60’s show fish after fish taken from the boca sections of these three rivers. In one photo a banquet table is lined with meter long fish. The fishing is nowhere near what it was fifty years ago, due mostly to the thirty-year propensity to stack trophy trout on banquet tables. Even though it’s not what it used to be we cross the bridge and swivel our necks, our heads naturally filling with images of our own huge boca fish taken not so long ago.
Another 20 minutes through the broad Limay valley brings us to the tiny hamlet of Villa Llanquin. The only way to cross the Limay after the boca is a free ferry service. Driving down a steep dirt embankment we bounce our little rental car onto the rough wooden decking of the small barge. There’s no electricity or motor, the system works on a series of cables the diameter of a stout fighting butt. A hand crank shifts the angle of the ferry to allow the current to push the barge back and forth across the river. The two short, tanned ferrymen have the routine down. They wave me forward until the car is in position, then chalk the front tire in place with a piece of firewood. A lever is flipped and the hand crank flies into motion. The big metal side of the ferry catches the current cutting like an underwater sail. In a minute they’ve tied us off on the far side and wave me ahead with the flick of the wrist. Its takes few tries to rev the tiny Chevy high enough to bounce out of one of the deep ruts of the rough decking.