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**Aled** · 09-10-2009, 16:08

Cracking report TT, looks like a cracking trip.
Da Iawn
Aled

**Teifi-Terrorist** · 09-10-2009, 16:12

Written report.

Striking Gold in the Bolivian Jungle - by Steffan Jones.

The freshwater Dorado is often an overlooked and unknown species to travelling Europeans, more often pursued and appreciated by Americans, who have had them in their crosshairs for decades, with good reason. This demographic origin and appeal has always puzzled me and left me slightly bemused, especially after the raw, and, seemingly, untameable power of a Dorado is experienced. Perhaps us Europeans prefer the more sedate things in life? Fish that rest lethargically in our arms once subdued? Rather than trying to bite our fingers off!

I had fished for Dorado many years ago in the Northern climes of Argentina, in the nature and scenically rich area of the Iberia marshlands. Whilst the area was breathtaking and definitely amalgamated well with the fishing to create an experience that I cherish, the fishing was, well, unprolific. Granted, the water was very high, which certainly didn�t help matters, but with fish reaching a maximum weight of some 8lbs or so for the week it did leave me wanting more � not that I�m a specimen hunter by any stretch of the imagination, but the smaller fish left me with a taster, wetted my appetite, and I certainly wanted more.

The sporting prowess of the Dorado within the freshwater world, in my opinion, is unsurpassed. Sure, you may get fish that fight for longer in a more dogged fashion, you may even get the occasional species that jumps higher and more often. But as a combined effort the Dorado is a rare and standalone species, a fish that represents a challenge then releases a sense of relief and awe once landed unlike any other I have come across, even my beloved sea-trout, dare I say. They�re a species that combine subtlety with savagery in the same breath; they�re a lethal carnivore, the ferocity of which is quite simply frightening yet before and after the act they are akin to an innocent teenager covering their tracks after an act of vandalism. Get a Dorado in a feeding frenzy when baitfish the size of which you�d be more than happy to catch on your stream back home are being tossed through the air in a hedonistic rage and chances are your offering will be accepted as part of the carnage. Get a cruising Dorado, however, that�s gliding by as if it were a picture of serenity, where bloodshed had seemingly never entered their thoughts and you�d be fooled into thinking that they were docile, pillars of the community.

These fish really are the gangsters of the river. They patrol their streets, they keep everyone in check, they �roll� in gangs, perform indiscriminate �hits� on the sick, weak and vulnerable and have no sense of morality. When not feeding you will see them swim alongside shoals of baitfish � I call them baitfish due to their end purpose or calling, yet many would weigh over 3lbs � keeping them in check. Not feeding, just terrorising the streets, making sure the �victims� know that they�re there. One Dorado then becomes two, as they slowly tighten up the bait shoal, two then become 5 or more when they congregate in deeper water, forming a gang, circling in a small area as they do so. Then, all hell breaks loose as the pack surges towards the baitfish, slashing and chomping with speed and dexterity. Then there�s the calm after the storm, the Dorado scoot off to deeper water to seek refuge and digest, leaving the baitfish flapping in the shallows, distraught and inconsolable.

Due to their feeding nature and the need to hunt as a pack chances are if you find one Dorado then you will find more. As a result of this trend and tendency Dorado become quite a sociable species to target, because when the first Dorado hits, which is often the smallest Dorado of the pack (the martyr), the rest join in on the action, and with your fishing companion standing close by they will almost certainly be able to pick off another Dorado (often the larger one) from the pack � indeed, this sport can continue for quite some time; after the first smaller fish has been released sport can recommence quickly as the pack will continue to follow the second hooked fish. However, once all fish have been released and none are being fought then the sport, as a rule, is over for that spot � they become shy and unresponsive, and it�s best to move on to the next spot. The feeding frenzy, as described earlier, is a flick of a switch for these fish - they have a very short fuse - when one commits the rest follow like sheep. But the feeding frenzy has no boundaries or predefined parameters of etiquette; everything and everyone is fair game � a hooked Dorado, especially a smaller one, will be berated by its brethren. The fly in the mouth of the hooked fish will become the centre of attention for the rest, often resulting in another Dorado biting through your leader. It�s not just the fly that gets the attention though, the hooked Dorado, in its �traumatised� state will often get chomped by the others.

The general outline of the Dorado, along with the redundant adipose fin, led to scientists bestowing the Salminus family tree upon it, akin to that of the Salmon and the Trout. Yet, the Dorado actually belongs to the Characidae family, which are primarily synonymous with Central and South America climes. From conception the Dorado is a ruthless carnivore � their hatching times are timed to perfection with those of the Sabalo (the primary baitfish), making them their primary source of protein from their fledgling state. Their name, Dorado, meaning Golden in Spanish (hence the reason why there�s no need to call them Golden Dorado, as this basically translates to Golden Golden!) unquestionably derives from their gilded hue adorned flanks, which makes for an impressive battle attire and one that captivates the angler in a splendour and marvel as it folds and compliments the sun�s natural light. Combine this beauty with the second half of the Dorado� Latin name, Maxillosus, which refers to its jaw, and you begin to understand and appreciate why it�s so highly sought after. The power of a Dorado� jaw is quite simply incredible. I remember reading an extract from an old book about the exploits of an angling pioneer that delved into some of the remotest regions of Argentina almost a century ago, where he commented that if your tackle wasn�t sturdy enough then the Dorado will destroy you, and should your hooks not be of sufficient quality and strength then the Dorado will simply crush them to an unrecognisable state. This certainly lay testament to their powerful and destructive nature, and I was keen to see if the larger fish could and would live up to this reputation.

Following my initial encounter and with the Dorado I was keen to further pursue this mystical creature. An opportunity presented itself in the way of a new programme opening its doors in the Bolivian Jungle, a lodge aptly named Tsimane (chi-man-e), after the local tribe that inhabits the area. This, 2009, was their inaugural season, but the photos and reports emerging from their 2008 exploratory trips were enough to sell me on the idea � it looked, quite simply, amazing. The camp opened its doors back in August, and by my travelling time in mid September I was at fever pitch. Indeed, no other destination had captivated or captured me in this way, and I hadn�t been so excited about a destination or a trip in a very long time. From what I could read into the experience it was going to be more than just the fishing and the fish; the setting, location and the virgin state of what was promised just added and heightened the expectations, and I wasn�t to be disappointed.

Santa Cruz, Bolivia, is where the adventure begins in earnest. A sporadic mess of a city, and one that I couldn�t care much for, but seeing how quickly the terrain changed when the urban sprawl ceased I knew it was a small compromise to pay for the contradiction that awaited, to say the least � the 5 star hotel certainly made the stay more palatable! Getting there, however, was less than pleasurable, having an eleven hour delay on my flight from Argentina to Bolivia, following a fifteen hour flight from the UK. Waking up in the middle of the night without changing the time on my watch properly thus believing that I had missed the flight completely didn�t help matters either.

An early start saw the party for the week ushered towards the small, internal airport, nestled in between townhouses in the heart of Santa Cruz. From there two planes awaited; one for the anglers and one for the supplies � these runs are done every 3 days, which is testament to the camp management and ground staff�s competency, as it must be a logistical nightmare. No waiting in line, 2 hour check-ins, boarding passes, seat allocation, it was straight out, luggage boarded and hop onboard. Soon enough we were airborne � the little plane needed no encouragement. The encroaching urban sprawl was soon eaten up and made to look insignificant by the jungle; a mass of green to one side which marked the presence of the rainforest through to the Andes towering as guardians on the other, the 2 hour flight was simply breathtaking. I did fall asleep at one stage - the flights were starting to take their toll - when I woke I found the pilot reading his newspaper! With me in the co-pilot� seat I didn�t fancy our chances, so quickly nodded back to sleep. Perhaps best not to know what the pilots do on the longhaul flights! Out of sight out of mind.

Colossal waterways could be spotted traversing and meandering through the rainforest below, with no human intervention or presence in sight, except for a few outlying farms, which blended and harmonised well with the surrounding environment. Soon enough there was nothing, nothing but trees and rivers, no mobile phone masts, high-rise buildings, bustling walkways, no urban carnage or blight of any description, in many respects; paradise.

As part of the new programme landing strips needed to be cleared in the forest, metres away from where the natives call home. Soon enough the landing strip was in sight and the descent began. As the plane drew to a halt life sprang out of every crevice; children came running out from the undergrowth to greet the plane as the parents and elders followed slowly behind. These, in our eyes, were primitive people. Their clothes were largely robes, they carried and used bows-and-arrows as their primary source of protein gathering, and they lived a simple life and existence. What they made of us I can only imagine, disembarking with gadgets and paraphernalia of all colours and descriptions. I was, at first, cautious of our intrusion making a concerted effort not to stare, make too much eye contact, attempting rather pathetically to blend in, as if that were feasible and achievable. However, after a few minutes you began to understand and appreciate that you were the minority and there was as much if not more attention placed upon you as you were putting on them, which, whilst reassuring, felt odd, being the minority, for once.

The guides were there to greet us and they had become attached to the locals as they had to them. Kids ran around as the guides strew sweets around, which were collected with great hilarity and enjoyment. All had their share, and all shared their spoils, it was a great spectacle to observe, as the community spirit was engrained from an early age. At first we, the newcomers, were kept at a distance. A wave would produce nothing, and why should it, for all they knew that could be a gesture to signify anything, let alone a welcoming gesture. A smile, however, is a smile, and a smile is a universal language, unlike a wave which becomes a tradition. I loitered around with the camera, after asking the guides whether the natives would take offence to me snapping away, which they didn�t. I had a huge focal length lens mounted, so most of the time they would not know I was capturing their manners and ways. A small lens up close causes shyness, or false/fake results. I smiled happily as I wandered and soon enough interest was sprung with some of the younger members of the tribe. Showing them the back screen on the digital camera was first met with shock and awe, then quickly followed by great hilarity, along with multiple new subjects that wanted their photo taken, before they ran back quickly to see their faces magically appear. They had no mirrors, the closest they had probably gotten to seeing themselves was in the reflection by the riverside, so to have such vivid replications must have been both implausible and perplexing, at first.

The rafts were soon laden with our luggage and supplies, ready to set sail for the lodge, which was situated some fifteen minutes upstream. There could be no greater contrast between what greeted us and what the natives called home. Private bathrooms with hot/cold running water, showers, wi-fi internet, satellite phone, cooling fans, cold drinks, to name but a few of the creature comforts we take for granted at home, but certainly not in an eco-style lodge built from local materials and nestled sympathetically in the Bolivian jungle some 400 miles from Santa Cruz.

The first afternoon in camp was not a fishing day as such. It was a day to relax, get your bearings and attempt to absorb all that had already taken place. However, with the lodge being perched some fifty metres from the nearest pool, instinct and temptation takes hold without much persuasion.

The river was like no other. The jungle towered above on both sides, whilst the river itself tumbled on quite a steep gradient between boulders and gravel beds, creating pots, rifles and glides, the character of which you expect and enjoy fishing for trout and salmon in. I described the river at some stage during the week to one of the guides as a trout stream, and to all extensive purposes it was. It had fantastic runs, pockets, glides, cover etc. all of which would amalgamate into a perfect yet challenging blueprint for a trout stream. The guide, however, quickly interjected; �no�, he said �it�s not like a trout stream. It�s like the nicest and prettiest trout stream that you have ever come across. The likes of which, until now, you would not have seen�. You know what, he was right. This wasn�t just a trout stream, it was like something you would hope to be gifted with after passing away; it was, quite simply, a gift from the gods. Yet, and this is where the disparities begin; where you expect to be flicking out a delicate dry-adams to a free rising trout you are now confronted with marauding Dorado � I�m fairly sure this is where your heavenly state turns into turmoil and you begin to question whether you have been sent to heaven or hell, as your dry flies become toothpicks for these bloodthirsty killers.

The rivers are teeming with life; from the insects through to the plethora of fish species that inhabit these waters. Shoals of baitfish, Sabalo, can be seen in every run an pool, providing plenty of protein for the natives and the Dorado alike. Then, when peering through into the eerie depths, dark shadows appear. Dorado, Pacu (described as the freshwater permit), and catfish lurk with intent, each one a predator and each one seemingly bigger than the next. In fact, with this being such a new operation the camp is unsure of what exactly is there to be caught - both from the size and species perspective. Dorado of over 40lbs have already been recorded, and catfish of over 300lbs have been noted by the natives � with one of over 100lbs landed during my week in camp, I have little reason to doubt their existence, especially in the lower river, where colossal pools exist.

As the week progresses you begin to get comfortable in your new surroundings, you forget that you�re so far removed from what you call a civilised society. However, nature has its little warning signals to remind you that you�re the visitor not the king of the jungle. Puma and jaguar prints are commonplace alongside the riverbanks, although, and I was told reassuringly, that they were more afraid of us than we were of them � questionable, at times! Snakes, spiders, scorpions, all go hand-in-hand with the jungle, and they call it their home, whereas we call it a holiday. If you have no sense of adventure or prefer packages less off the beaten track then this is not for you. Biting insects provided little annoyance, and, on the whole, were of little concern. No mosquitoes were seen, and for someone that attracts all manner of biting insects � people say they�re attracted to �c.rap�, others say I talk enough of it � I was pleasantly surprised at the minimal presence of the pesky invaders. Further to the less favourable jungle inhabitants an explosion of colour and life is emitted. Birds and butterflies of every colour, size and description, many of which, I was informed under reliable authority, were not documented. Monkeys, especially further away from camp where the natives had yet to hunt them. Taipers, which I was lucky enough to see, yet remain one of the strangest animals I have come across. The jungle was bountiful, which was rather reflected and corroborated by the waistline of the natives!

The weather was, well, tropical. It was the Southern hemisphere�s winter, but daytime temperatures would still soar to over one hundred Fahrenheit. The evening, however, which fell very quickly, would see a big slump in the temperature, which was refreshing following a long, hot day on the water. The cool night also added to the minimal mosquito levels too, I�m sure. There was rain, and, at times, it was very heavy, making me understand and appreciate why I was told to bring a coat and a fleece, which, beforehand, I thought to be an overkill.

An hour or so was spent to settle in to camp, following which the home pool provided a compelling itch that I needed to scratch. The rivers run at an ambient temperature � certainly warm enough to wet-wade in. No need for waders I threw on the big socks and wading boots, fumbled the rod sections together with nervous anticipation and was soon strolling down the sandy path to the home pool. Some rock hopping later and I thought I�d found a decent platform to launch my offering from, suitably perched up and above a deep run that emptied expectantly into the sizeable pool below. Sure enough, a take swiftly followed, leaving me rather jaded and bewildered. Everything happened so quickly it left me in a self doubting state; did that really happen?

Dorado takes are, as a rule, spectacular. If they want your offering then there�s nothing on earth, other than another Dorado, that will stop them from taking it. However, it�s the ferocity with which they take the fly that really gets most anglers � they�re not for the fainthearted. Your fly is quite happily gliding along, wagging its 4 inch tail seductively then the next moment a metre square vortex has been created around your fly and your stripping hand is being sucked into it. There�s no if buts or maybes; it�s everything or nothing. Your first instinct, especially if you�re a trout angler, like me, is to lift the rod � not really to strike, but more to get the fly out of the way of the fish in shock! You fear for your fly�s life! The next moment the line comes flying back towards you, leaving you entangled and mesmerised. What just happened?

Lift-striking a Dorado is the cardinal sin. Lift-strike these fish which has armour-plated jaws and you won�t even penetrate the tip of the hook. You may, if you�re lucky, land one in ten � sadly I speak from experience, as the ferocity of the take and old habits made for a steep learning curve. Learn to strip strike, and I mean strip strike; clamp the line in your hand, point the rod tip towards the fish, then pull like you�re trying to break the line, only then may you stand a chance of setting the hook. By doing so, your catch or land rate will increase to some five or six out of ten, again, no guarantees. Even after you think that you have sunk that hook as deep as it will go one head shake and the hold has gone. You finally realise what an insurmountable task setting the hook really is when you finally land one, as the barbed hook pops out as if it had never been bedded at all. The aerobatic displays of these golden-devils partly explains why they�re able to shake a hook-hold so easily, but these acrobatics just add to the appeal. You�re almost guaranteed at least four jumps from each hooked Dorado, with some of these putting my beloved sea-trout to shame, which says something. A 20lbs Dorado leaping 3 ft clear of the water with its gilded flanks and resulting spray catching the residual light in the dark corners where they usually lurk is something to behold, and these are mental pictures that will remain with you for a very long time � they are bringing a smile to my face as I type, reliving some epic battles and displays. I remember one fish in particular. It was my first full day on the river. Many fish had been lost because of my own incompetency and tradition of lift striking. The guide was getting inconsolable, and I could hardly blame him, he was doing a sterling job, whilst I was just fool�s gold - the fool attached (briefly) to some gold. Working down a fantastic looking run, lined with overhanging branches and sub-structure that formed perfect lairs for the Dorado that awaited offerings to be pushed towards them by the sheer volume of water. Sure enough a savage take was encountered behind a partly submerged obstacle. I had decided to hit that fish as hard as I could even if that meant snapping my rod/line/arm in the process. I strip strook hard three times in all and when the fish turned to run I hit him twice again for good measure. The fish leapt clear of the water, shook its head and out popped the fly! I could hardly believe it. The catch and land rate did improve throughout the week, thankfully.

Dorado have mouths like buckets. You could not present an offering too large for a Dorado, of that I�m certain, especially after seeing some of their victims. Their teeth, at first, look and seem quite unassuming. Their main �killing� element, however, is formed from their immensely powerful crushing jaws, combined with their turn of speed, of course. Amalgamate these powerful jaws with the unassuming teeth and the destructive power and prowess of the Dorado soon becomes evident, easier to comprehend and fathom. Take these traits into consideration and there is little surprise why so many flies come back crushed, mauled and molested beyond all recognition.

The first three days of the stay were spent at the upper camp where the group of maximum four anglers are split; two heading upstream and two heading downstream, vice-versa on consecutive days. The river is a manageable size, not too large not too small, intimate yet being large enough to hold some intrigue. Boats, which were specifically designed by and for the lodge owners, help you traverse the system with the help of a native guide and an English speaking Dorado guide, dropping you off at likely spots where you would wade through much the same as if you were fishing a salmon pool � cast, couple of steps and so on. Should you encounter a deep pool, or a particularly wide section then you would fish from the boat, which were safe enough to do so from and this was productive. However, I have never been fond of fishing from boats, as such, this was kept to a minimal, especially when midday temperatures soared and wet wading was welcomed.

A good number of Dorado were landed each day, certainly enough takes and action to keep your interest throughout the day, especially in such surroundings where the fish, dare I say, become almost irrelevant, at times. No Pacu managed to find their way through to my fly, unfortunately, although I did miss my chance with one by, you guessed it, lift striking! I was, however, lucky enough to watch one of the guests hook and land one, where I appreciated why they have now been nicknamed the freshwater permit. The surging runs that quite simply could not be stopped along with their overall fighting tenacity amalgamated into one awesome force of nature, one that I had never witnessed pound-to-pound in any other freshwater species. The pacu, in contradiction to the Dorado, have a more diverse palate, being omnivores. Pacu will gladly munch on baitfish, and often do so, but they�re also slightly more opportunistic and will eat flower petals, nuts and fruits that fall from the leaves, along with any insects that find their way onto the water � indeed, they can often be taken with dry flies that imitate grasshoppers, cicadas etc. They�re often seen cruising very close to the surface, often porpoising as they feed along back-eddies, often presenting themselves suitably for sight fishing.

When my strip striking skills were finally starting to bear fruit and were being finely honed it was time to travel to the next camp. The destination had two lodges in all that you fished during your stay � 3 days at the first, travel day in between then 3 days at the second camp. The second camp is located on a different river system, and would take over a day to reach by boat, as such, it was back to the community airstrip to await the plane, which would take us to the next community landing trip, just 20 minutes or so away � certainly more palatable than the boat ride option.

The second airstrip, again carved out of the jungle, was set alongside another native tribe�s camp, this time comprising of two different tribes that lived in harmony. A proper sense of community existed and was felt in both settlements. However, the second was certainly more developed, with this being immediately evident from their standard of living, clothing and even their approach and response to our arrival. The first tribe were quite shy, reserved and retiring, certainly not invading or approachable, at first. The second tribe was more use to outsider interaction, Unicef had been into the camp, there was a brick-built building where school took place, and their clothing was modern and Westernised. The people themselves in their approach and attitude were very different too. Eye contact was immediate, the women would not hide behind the men and the children would happily run up to you without a second thought. One tribe�s inhabitants were no better or nicer than the other, they were just different, and one was just more accustomed to newcomers and visitors than the other. Trade and money meant a lot more here, and value soon became apparent as an understood term. Whereas with the first tribe there was no comprehension for the value of money � literally the very week I was in camp the locals had tried to sell a young parakeet to the lodge manager for what equated to a thousand US dollars, not understanding such wealth or value, how it was created or how it was spent � the second camp understood value and the need for money all too well. Handcrafted bow and arrow sets were flaunted and offered for sale; as tempting as they were I could not see me getting away with taking them home as carry-on! I�m not sure how my bow and arrow lessons at the first camp from one of the locals could be applied at home either - I doubt that the local bailiffs and water owners would appreciate my new found fish taking skills!

The procedure mimicked that experienced at the first camp, and we were swiftly led to the moored boats, which were to take us some four hours upriver to the second camp. The river was low which made for a bumpy ride. Wading boots were worn at the ready as many places were too shallow for boat and crew to traverse intact. However, in such surroundings there was plenty to occupy the mind, and every new corner provided a glimpse of a pool that may be fished over the following three days, certainly wetting the appetite of what was expecting us as the mind drifted off conjuring thoughts and expectations of what may be lurking in the glassy depths.

A tropical storm was given its own name for good reason. They�re not downpours, they�re not even thunderstorms, in fact we have nothing to compare or equal the wrath and magnitude of a tropical storm. I first saw them in Cuba, on the streets of a sleepy town on the Southern coast. They materialise from nowhere, giving you have a split second to run for cover otherwise you�re in for a soaking. Get caught in one and not only will you be soaked to your skin but it will actually hurt! Within a few minutes roads are turned to rivers, there�s bedlam, then as quickly as it began it ends and the sun shines once more as if nothing had happened. The first and only tropical storm of our stay hit on our first evening at the second camp, on our non official fishing day. We could hear the rain pound the roof of the dining area, yet not a drop came through, laying testament to the natural construction and materials used in the lodges. The rain continued for a long time, and we almost anticipated or put our minds in a positive state to expect and accept the inevitable and dreaded river rise, which would undoubtedly adversely affect the fishing for the following day if not the following three.

Night-time fell early, around 7pm, and by 8pm we could hear what sounded like Dorado continuously crashing into bait shoals on the opposite bank of the river to where the lodge was situated. Intrigue got the best of the guides and they soon leapt into action, scurrying to find their spotlight. What had hoped to be Dorado actually turned out to be a quickly rising river, which was now some 5ft up and rising � such are the risks of fishing a given week, regardless of where you are in the World and how much you have paid for the week, such matters have no relevance or consequence to mother nature.

Sure enough when dawn broke a chocolate river confronted us, surging through, snatching all hope and optimism in its wake. Heads slumped over the breakfast table we were consoled by the fact that the river was dropping fast and would almost certainly be fishable by the following day. The camp is strategically placed directly below the confluence where two major rivers converge. Both these rivers drain from very different watersheds and both have very different characters, even when they ran just a hundred metres or so apart in the lower reaches. One was clearing quicker than the other, and usually does as a rule, by all accounts, but neither would be fishable on the first day. Guides nearly always have contingencies, even though this was the first time this season that they had been confronted with such conditions, typically. An offer was made to go catfish fishing in the lower river. It would be with bait since clarity was down to around an inch, but it was fishing nonetheless, and with six catfish species to target, that they knew of, with some reaching over 300lbs, I was actually quite excited at the prospect, especially as I had never caught a catfish of any description in my life.

An offer was made to utilise the guide�s baitfishing outfit, but I palmed that off to one of my fellow anglers. I instead opted for my 400 grain sinking line, a #8/9 fly rod, length of wire at the end attached to an 8\0 hook and a lump of Sabalo. Not quite cricket, but it should work and it should be a lot of fun should one of the big guys take. Hey, I was fishing, I was happy. Rather that than sitting around all day drowning sorrows.

A cast of any description would be impossible, stripping the lump of Sabalo back alone felt like I was into a sizeable fish! Ingenuity shone through.
The local guides at the second camp are quite use to fishing with handlines, and have made it a fine art � they could cast these things a lot further than I could cast with standard rod and line outfit, not that that says much. Utilising their assistance they would strip off my line onto the sandy bank, rotate the bait with increasing speed upon each oscillation before expertly releasing at the correct trajectory. A big splash followed and down went the bait and line to the murky depths, the system was working, if not in a slightly unorthodox manner. A large fish was lost on the bait fishing outfit, but other than a couple of half-hearted takes nothing significant was to be reported from the fly-rod. The side of the Sabalo didn�t seem that oily, and given that the river was extremely coloured with the fish relying on scent rather than sight to track down their food I thought that the head would act as a better attractant, especially after hearing that eyes hold a certain appeal. On went the fish head and out it was launched once more. Not five minutes had passed before a pull was felt, the line started to rise out of the water and a fish was on. No need to strip strike this time, whatever I was latched into was big, hooked and mad!

The reel started screaming and soon enough white backing was spinning off the reel, decorating the otherwise grey and solemn sky. No chance of turning it or stopping it, it was into the boat and follow. It finally rested up in a back-eddy where no amount of force could move it. Finally it budged and started another uncontrollable run. This time it was in shallow water, where a tug of war ensued; I would gain five metres on it, it would then gain ten metres on me, and so it continued for a good twenty minutes more. My arm was aching, two hands were used to compress the rod and put as much strain into the fight as physically possible, and soon enough it started to pay off as a colossal head emerged close to the bank. Saving another ten minutes or so fighting the guides quickly ran in to hand the beast ashore, and boy was I glad when they did. Out slipped the catfish, all 30lbs+ of it, safely resting on the pebbles.

That was my epic battle for the day and I was glad that it was just a small one, as one of the larger specimens would definitely have been a bridge too far for my rod. Later that day a larger catfish was landed on the bait fishing rod, this weighed well over 100lbs and took over ninety minutes to land. I think I�d still be there now if I had hooked it on the fly rod.

The following morning was cause for renewed enthusiasm. The river had dropped significantly and both rivers systems were fishable. With the sun shining and no more rain forecast conditions would only improve throughout the day, so we were back in action, energised and ready for battle to commence.

We ventured up the left river on the first fishable day, the larger of the two rivers and the more lowland in nature of the two. The river was still coloured, but certainly fishable, and with Dorado being good low-light feeders confidence was high. Sure enough the Dorado were feeding and feeding vigorously. With the limited clarity the Dorado had pushed onto the shallower water and the tails of the pools to mount their attacks, making their presence easy to register and target. Pool after pool produced fish, and, much like salmon, trout or sea-trout in a falling spate, they became easier to tempt, taking with ill-placed confidence. These river and the destination in general is renowned for its sight fishing, where Dorado, pacu and the rest of the leviathans that inhabit these waterways can be targeted on an individual basis. There was none of this, unfortunately, but it didn�t really matter as the sport really was fast and furious. The water levels had a further affect on the fishing; not only had it made the Dorado easier to approach and catch but it had also pushed some �fresh� fish into the system from the lower river, much like a spawning run experienced with salmon and sea-trout - yet another sharing characteristic that led to its Salminus status, perhaps.

Two hooked fish at a time became commonplace, and four or five fish out of each hole became almost expected. The walk between each pool provided a well deserved and needed rest as the shoulders and arms began to waiver. This was some of the best fishing I had ever experienced, I was loving it, it was nothing short of exhilarating.

Sport had been replicated on the neighbouring river too, where tackle and man were tested to the limits. Fish of close to 30lbs were landed from tiny spots where you�d expect a 1lbs trout back home � however, I wouldn�t fancy the trout�s chances in these waters! All fish were taken on floating lines; no need for heavy lines that just become tedious to cast, especially with the five inch plus offerings. Fly colour seemed to make no real significance. Red, black, blue, white, all tangents of the colour spectrum were explored and taken with valour. Size, however, did matter. The adage of big flies equals big fish rang true, especially when Dorado were on the menu.

Much the same followed the next day on the second river with the fish slashing at the offerings in every conceivable spot, with some of the larger fish coming from the most unusual locations, locations that, at times, barely covered their backs. As always, where one was found the rest of the pack wasn�t far behind, with this being a consistent feature throughout all the waters fished that week. The character on the second river was very different, strewn with boulders the size of small cars, drop-offs, gullies, pockets and cascading runs, all adding to the intrigue and attractiveness of the location. With the river clearing off the fish had pushed back into the deeper, securer water but sport was still frantic. Some pools seemed devoid of life. Sometimes they were. However, and more often than not they had been gorging themselves over the previous couple of days and had become lethargic. This became evident as they started to role, much as they did when they were spooked or when you had caught a couple of their neighbours. Their porpoising really gave you an indication and insight into how many fish were in a given pool, and their size. The system was healthy, teeming with life, with our fleeting visit leaving the system no worse for wear. Indeed, the creation of the lodges actually work in the Dorado� favour, as the natives have largely agreed not to hunt the Dorado, sticking to the easier and more abundant Sabalo, which, being algae feeders, provide no sport to the venturing angler. With the lease covering the settlement for twenty years it can do nothing but prosper and continue to provide the visiting angler with what can only be described as a unique experience, and, in my honest opinion, one, at present, that has no equal or comparison.

It was a long flight home following this trip, longer than usual. Did I enjoy it? More than any other place I have ever been in the World and I don�t state or release that sentiment lightly. Would I go back? In a heartbeat, as I am confident that each trip would present a unique adventure and experience. Would I recommend it to others? Yes and no, oddly. This is not a package for everyone. Certain people who have no sense of adventure and prefer things a bit more regimented and to the letter probably wouldn�t enjoy or get as much out of this experience, as you do need an adventurous spirit to make the best of the location and the experience. This doesn�t mean that you have to be physically fit, as a very good friend of mine that suffers badly from knee problems joined me on the trip and he enjoyed the trip immensely, vowing to return next year. You can basically do as much or as little as you want during your stay, but coming with a closed mind one would be doomed to failure before starting. It�s a very special location and fish, and one that I feel truly honoured and glad to have experienced.

TT.

http://www.frontierstrvl.co.uk/publi...orado&m=public

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Bolivia trip report.

Bolivia trip report.

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