I knew he’d be trouble from the moment I saw him. He was a big guy and seemed top-heavy as he lumbered down the stairs from the jet. I stood off to the side and left myself unannounced as he and the others, mostly Argentines, ambled toward the small stone building that, in 1985, served as the airport terminal for San Martin de Los Andes. There was a stark disconnect between the tiny tin-roofed hut with its small stone chimney and the large modern jet that loomed over it. The hand-pulled cart, piled high with baggage, made the connection.
It was my first season in Argentina, and after months of endless guiding, I’d begun to look at exchange days as my time off. I’d learned to recharge in those few moments between saying goodbye to my old clients and picking up the next old clients. I stood with my eyes closed and let the wind wash over my face to renew me. Jorge had called it a “puelche” wind. Unlike the usual weather that came from the mountains at my back, this wind came off the desert to the east, and was thought to be the harbinger of difficult fishing. I opened my eyes and moved toward the luggage cart. I’d given myself much more time than I should have; my sport would have found his bags by now and be looking for his gringo guide.
“Hi, my name’s Bob,” I said, reaching out my hand, “I’ll be your guide this week.”
My eyes wandered from his face to his enormous belt buckle. It was in the shape of Texas and as big as a pie tin. I imagined that Matamoros would make it plenty uncomfortable to sit down.
“Well, shitfare, Bobby,” he replied in a thick accent. “It’s mighty nice to finally meet another American. My name’s Ford!”
His hands were as big as hams, and I wondered how I’d ever cast again after he released his grip. Bags were identified and thrown into the back of the pickup truck I’d been issued for the week; since he was a single fisherman, I wouldn’t need any extra passenger space.
“Y’all got any cervezas in that cooler?” he asked half an hour later, as we rolled through the dusty little town of Junín.
“Yessir, sorry I hadn’t thought of that sooner.” I replied, pulling off the road after we crossed the Chimehuin River. I reached into the box and retrieved a large, brown, thick bottled Schneider. It was coldly beaded, and I popped the cap with the back of my knife, as I’d been taught.
“Y’all got any Budweiser?”
The first beer was finished and replaced before I turned onto the gravel track which led over the Paso Santa Julia, and eventually to San Huberto, where we’d fish for the next few days.
After a quick lunch, the sport retreated to his room to sort out his gear for the afternoon’s fishing. As was customary, we wadered-up on the porch, I in my Red Ball Rangers, and he in 5mm, camouflage, boot foot, neoprenes, and hit the river. It was late February, and the hopper fishing had been especially good on a section of the river we called La Chacra, where the Malleo made a long sweeping bend through a large hay field. It’d be a good place to get him into fish, get a handle on his style, and evaluate his abilities. This information would help me plan the rest of the week.
“Let’s take a peek over the edge and see what we have.” I whispered, dropping to my knees, crawling forward, and slowly raising my head above the waist-high grass. Half a dozen good fish, happily rising in their lies, disappeared into the depths as my sport thundered past.
“Boy-howdy, these waders are hot!” he announced.
By the time we’d walked upriver to the vado, where we’d cross the river, he’d spooked another dozen fish, but I figured they’d have rested and resumed feeding by the time we finally got to fishing. I was right.
“Watch that eddy along the high bank, behind the willow tree, while I get us ready,” I said, and then rigged his rod, built a leader, attached a 4x tippet, tied on a Dave’s hopper, sharpened the hook, and rechecked the knots. We were ready.
A long shadow had fallen across the water so we were able to get a bit closer than I normally like. He readied himself to cast by stripping line off his reel and flipping the fly behind him onto the water. So far, so good, I thought, maybe this will work out after all.
“There’s nothing behind you to worry about,” I coached. “Let him rise once more to get a good idea where he’s feeding.” “There”, I said, pointing my rod at the rise form, “make the fly land a few feet above him, and don’t worry if it lands hard, sometimes that’ll trigger a strike; be ready if it happens.”
The fish rose again and the sport rolled out a short line to get direction, one more for distance, and then made the perfect cast. I was hopeful.
The fly just barely caught a willow leaf as the tippet rolled out, hung there for an instant, and fell gently, perfectly, to the water. My breathing stopped as the hopper drifted over the big brown, which tipped up and sipped the fly with a gentleness born of complete confidence. I took a breath.
“Now.” I whispered.
“FISH ON!” The sport shouted and snapped his rod back with the force of a rapier blow. There was a crack so loud, I thought his rod had exploded.
“Shit!” I said. And then, more gently, “That might have been a bit too hard.”
“Hell’s bells, Bobby! What am I using for tippet?”
“4x,” I replied.
“Well shit, boy, I use 0x for the bass in my stock ponds back home, and that works just fine!”
“0x?”
“Hell yeah, 0x… and I never lose a fish!”
“16-pound tippet… with a hopper?”
“Tie on some 0x, Bobby… and let’s get to fishing!”
I cut back the leader, lengthened the 0x tippet and finally managed to find a hopper in my box with an eye large enough to thread it through. The knot was larger than some midges I fish. We found another feeding fish, set up on him, made a decent cast, and got a solid refusal; he spooked on the next cast. This scenario repeated itself a dozen times, until the sun was well off the water, and an early spinner fall began. The fish responded and started to rise.
“What are they eatin’, Bobby?”
“Spinners.” I replied. “But, the flies are much smaller… and we should use 5, or even 6x.”
“Well, shit.”
“Sorry about that, but there’s no way I can thread 0x through the eye of a spinner.”
“Will 4x work?”
“Maybe.”
“Okay… I’ll do 4x… but only if I have to.”
“Deal.”
Most of the fish refused our flies drifted on 4x, but we did have a few eats, and the excited response of “FISH ON” broke every one of them off… or bent the hook straight. I was willing to keep at it, and hopefully coach him into a gentler hook set, but he called the day. We drove back to the lodge in a long, heavy silence.
We arrived at the lodge shortly after a new group of fishermen had rolled in, and they were excited to talk to us about our day. The group was hosted by Lefty Kreh, whom I knew by sight and revered, though we’d never met. Someone asked my sport how he’d done.
“Well, we had plenty of chances,” he declared loud enough for all to hear, “but my guide insisted on using 4x tippet and I broke off every fish.”
I was mortified. Everyone looked from the sport to me, and back again. Lefty caught my eye and seemed to note my discomfort. He smiled.
“Hmmm,” Lefty said to the sport. “This your rod?”
“Yup.”
“Same tippet?”
“Yup.”
Lefty reached up to his hat, plucked a #12 royal Wulff off the brim, and tied it on. “4x, you say?”
“Yup.”
“Well now,” he continued with everyone’s rapt attention on him. “I’m going to hook this fly to the fence post over there, and I want you to break it off with a hook set.”
I felt sick to my stomach as he handed the sport his rod and marched the fly over to the fence post. The reel’s drag marked his every step. I wanted to hide.
“There,” said Lefty, hooking the fly solidly to the post. “Now, break it off.”
The sport reared back like a big leaguer swinging for the fence, but Lefty put a hand on his shoulder and stopped him. “Nah, just set the hook regular-like; lift the rod until the line comes tight and let the rod break off the fly.”
The sport did as he was told, lifting gently, and then grunting as his rod bent double. The tippet held, the sport looked confused, the spectators all chuckled, and Lefty said loudly, all the while fixing me in his gaze. “I don’t think it was the tippet… or the guide.”
I’d finally met Lefty.
