Peacock BassTards by James Yates MD  This article is copyright protected.

Day 5- A Paca’s Lips Now! click here to read Part 1 or Part 2 of this series

George and I shoved off with E- saiah in command and performing the guiding duties at 0645. The Brazilian air was oddly cool this morning, in contrast to the previous day’s chokingly hot temperatures. As we motored along the Jufari, rods stowed, but anticipation high, I had an opportunity to reflect on the many astounding aspects of the trip. Not the least of these was the miracle of modern transportation. The passing scenery and moderate climate reminded me of air travel’s ability to transcend place and season. In a matter of hours, it was now possible to move from forty degrees to ninety five degrees within twenty four hours. I was transported from the genteel Lowcountry of South Carolina to the heart of the Amazonian forest in less time than my forebears required to journey from Charleston to Columbia.

 This day’s fishing experience was unique. We spent much of the day silently gliding around the edges of the many clear water lagoons that dotted the edges of the river. The scene was uncannily reminiscent of the many days I have spent on the bow of a flats boats in the Bahamas and other tropical destinations in pursuit of the grey ghost.

 Instead of bonefish, we hunted peacock bass that day, continuously scanning the crystalline water for the telltale dark shape of our quarry. After spotting and landing several acceptable fish, George finally struck gold. There were actually two brutes prowling the shallows in search of sustenance. I leapt to action, casting a smallish orange fly mere inches ahead of the lead fish’s nose. Nearly simultaneously, George let slip a gargantuan fly resembling some kind of unnatural mutant in the same direction. Despite the healthy dose of beta blocker I had taken that morning, my heart rate rang the bell when the fish locked onto my offering and pushed towards it like a drunk to a wine bottle. As fish and fly closed distance, critical mass was being rapidly reached. I breathlessly awaited the anticipated explosion, when inexplicably, “my” fish made a 12G turn away from my fly and directly at George’s. The fish hit the massive ball of yak hair at terminal velocity and George was hooked up.

 At that point, George and I were like a boat seller and a boat buyer- very difficult to determine who might be the happier. The big fish violently tested George’s knots, as well as his reel’s bearings in his mad rush downriver, presumably heading for Manaus. George would have none of it however, and skillfully brought the fish to hand. After a battle of about ten minutes, a stunning peacock was being positioned for the mandatory grab and grin photographs.

 

 This particular subspecies of peacock is called the Paca. It is an especially hard fighting fish and greatly prized by the locals for its culinary appeal. Its body is wide and well muscled. The skin is an artist’s canvas of rows and columns of cream colored dashes and dots set against a blue green background and a bicolor tail and ventral fin of brilliant red. The false eye near the tail reminded us all of our favorite gamefish back in Carolina- the redfish or “spottail bass”. George’s specimen stretched the scale to a full twelve pounds, quite a feat on a fly rod. Sight casting to, fighting, and landing this great fish consummated the fly rod experience for peacocks.

 The Amazonian sun now dipped toward the canopy of trees which took up where the water left off. We made for camp, trusting the GPS deprived guide to know the way.

  

Day 6- The Heart of Darkness

  

  Jim Barnett and I pushed north from camp to the confluence of the Jufari and its major tributary, a trip made slow and exciting by a large number of very shallow sandy bottomed spots in the river. These made navigation tricky and required frequent engine stoppages and near portages of the boat across these natural barriers. As we progressed northward towards Venezuela, the river became not only shallow, but narrow. The trees seemed to encroach from the riverbanks now, and the wildlife got closer with them. I feared that Hugo Chavez, a modern incarnation of Kurtz, lurked just around the next of the river’s many bends, ready to incarcerate, or perhaps even decapitate us. Fortunately for us, not even a passport was needed as we never actually got within a hundred miles of the border.

  The day’s fishing alternated between endless casting at structure such as steep river banks, overhangs, and blow downs; and refreshing interludes in side lakes. These lagoons often featured pools of clear, almost pale blue water containing healthy numbers of peacocks, mostly butterflies. The experience was surreal, reminding me of casting to rainbow and brown trout in deep plunge pools in the mountains of North Carolina.

  Many peacocks were caught and released. I was once more reminded of the sheer beauty of both these most exquisite fish, as well as this remote, wild place. It is difficult to say which might be more pleasing- the fish’s natural beauty, or its aggressiveness and strength. A sweet dilemma for the angler.

  No large fish were landed in our boat this day, although some success was had by others. Personally, my own achievement of note was the capture of a few images of a nesting pair of highly colorful macaws, who repeatedly made mock attacks on us when we strayed too near their home. This success was followed by a bitter disappointment when I soon encountered a Jaberoo standing just off the main part of the river, but in an exposed area. He seemed to be posing for what I hoped would be a detailed shot of this fascinating large bird. I quickly snapped on the 400 mm lens and slipped over the side of the boat to stalk my photographic prey.

 

 

   

 

The frame was composed and the focus was set to maximize the detail of this magnificent creature. I reached with my right index finger to depress the shutter, but as I did the Jaberoo made for the Amazonian sky like a Saturn 5 rocket. The only picture I will have is the one burned into my cerebral cortex.

  By five PM, the sun and heat had taken their due, and we wearily made for camp, where we were greeted as usual, by Jerry, our Guyanese camp manager. He and his staff waited dutifully on the shore, ready to hand each of us a frozen drink as we placed our feet once again on terra firma.

  No heart of darkness, this!! 

 

                       

 

 

Day 7- Mutiny on the Jufari

 

  Our last day of fishing began like all those that had come before. We arose early and sleepily made our way to then dining tent, where strong Brazilian coffee laced with hot milk and sugar shocked us back into the day-world. After taking on sufficient fuel for the coming eleven hour day of ceaseless casting and nearly as endless reeling in of peacocks, we went to the boats. Guides were already mounted up, waiting for their anglers to make hurried pit stops before boarding.

  Soon we were racing upriver. After a few miles, the river broadened and the shallow spots we had previously encountered again made their presence known. These large, extremely shallow areas were characterized by tan colored sand bottoms and were impossible to negotiate under power. E-saiah was forced to climb overboard and push us and the boat to deeper water. Occasionally, the water was so thin, Mike and I had to exit the boat and aid in this effort.

 

  Each such episode was accompanied by E-saiah lowly muttering what were likely epithets in his local patois. His frustration reached its zenith when he failed to spot an oncoming sand bar and struck it full force, the motor’s aluminum prop spinning at near full speed.  Predictably, the prop snapped, as did E-saiah’s temper. His mutters now gave way to full fledged yells as he cursed and fumed. Fortunately for us all, he carried a spare prop- but aluminum as well. He removed the mangled prop and quickly replaced it, and we were off again. Now, however, his rage was replaced by temerity. He refused to add enough power to get us on plane, a maneuver which would have allowed us to clear many of the shallow spots. Instead, we plodded along at what seemed to be two to three miles and hour. Even that was punctuated by frequeengine shutdowns allowing E-saiah to manually clear some perceived obstacle.

  Mike, meanwhile, was becoming increasingly impatient. Being and expert waterman himself, but unable to communicate his wisdom to our guide, he considered a mutiny, assuming command and getting us quickly upriver to begin our fishing day. He ultimately reconsidered and focused on trying to relax. All I could think of was a line from a Jimmy Buffet song (as I often do)- “Breath in, breath out, move on.”

 

  In a reversal of fortune, the river deepened and we reached our target area without further delays. I watched the tension drain from Mike’s face as the boat stopped once more, this time for fish.

  Having become enamored of photography over the past several years, I had decided to forego the fly rod the last day and concentrate on putting my new digital SLR and mega-lens to work. I fiddled with the adjustments on the big Canon as Mike ascended the bow and expertly flipped out his orange and white Amazon special.

  

 I quickly aimed the camera at a nice Paca, who obliged by leaping and simultaneously returning Mike’s fly to him for use on another fish. I was forced to rethink my situation, and the camera went back in its case. I picked up my fly rod and joined Mike from the aft casting platform. The design of the boat was wonderful. It was built to accommodate two fly anglers and was a marked improvement from our previous trip, where Mike spent most of his fishing time perched on a makeshift platform made from a cooler. Despite each of us flinging our rods to and fro, and about a hundred feet of overhead fly line, we remained unscathed the entire day, as did the guide.

  Not so for the fish. Cast after cast resulted in solid hookups. On several occasions, we stopped the boat from its downstream drift, instead opting to wade along sugary white beaches casting into deep cuts and pockets of gin clear water to legions of peacocks eager to take our offerings. Drifting sand had created shallow ledges, oriented perpendicular to the water flow. Casts made to these features were particularly effective, often rewarding our efforts with ten or more fish from a single spot.

  There seemed to be a preponderance of the Paca subspecies  in the upper reaches of the Jufari. This was a happy circumstance for me, as the Paca is easily my favorite of the three subspecies. The beauty of their cream colored spots and the deep blue and blood red tail colors are exceeded only by their aggressive attacks and their Schwarzenegger-like strength. The strike of the Paca might best be described as relentless. I often observed one slash at the fly followed by a hit, and a temporary hookup. Due to chance, or more likely, my LOFT ( Lack Of Fishing Talent), the Paca would disconnect, only to turn once again on the fly. These repeat strikes very often were even more savage than the original. This cycle might be repeated several times by a single specimen. This aggressiveness, easily observed in the clear shallow water, was a joy to behold.

  

 

As we continued downstream, Mike and I cast again and again to unimaginable numbers of peacocks averaging three to five pounds. We ultimately totaled an absolutely unbelievable two hundred and thirty fish between the two of us. Fast forwarding mentally as we enjoyed a storybook day of fishing, I wondered how I might make this entire trip appear credible to my buddies back home. That might ultimately prove to be the most difficult part of the entire trip. I suspect I will be accused of digital manipulation of my photos, as well as wild exaggeration of the numbers. Skepticism is clearly justified if one had not experienced this fantastic fishing.

 

 

Epilogue

 

As I write this, I glance intermittently out of the 737-400’s window at the verdant rainforest falling away below. The variegated canopy of the jungle reminds me of the always uneven surface of the ocean I love so dearly. Truly there are enough peacocks in the rivers of the Amazon to fill all the worlds seas, and almost as much water. While the aircraft powers itself to six miles above the earth, I have several hours of solitude with which to consider the events and meaning of this past weeks experiences.

  With the passing years, my fishing trips have become so very much more than the mere act of landing a fish. To be sure, the pull on the line remains central to fishing, but there is so much more.

  Chief among the elements contributing to the total angling experience is simply being where the fish live. I have spent many days admiring the Creator’s handiwork from the vantage point of a flats boat, marveling at the limitless variety of life and the sheer beauty of the azure waters bonefish call home. As deep as the visceral reaction I have to the tropical flats environment may be, the appeal of the Amazonian forest is undeniable. Drifting crystal clear rivers as scarlet macaws and green parrots whirl overhead is a delight to the senses hard to adequately describe. To sit on a bleached white sand bar and gaze upwards at a sky untouched by light pollution is a spiritual experience. The sight of the Milky Way and constellations that cannot be seen at more northerly latitudes is both awe inspiring and humbling.

  A very large part of this and all my fishing expeditions remains the opportunity to fellowship with my good fishing friends. The wonders, triumphs, and tragedies shared among friends, builds relationships that often last a lifetime. Fishing cuts across lines that sometimes separates people, allowing the opportunity to make friends of people one may have otherwise have never known. That fact alone makes excursions such as this a worthwhile life activity.

  Experiencing unfamiliar cultures adds immensely to the fishing as well. On this trip, for example, we were taken from our exclusive hotel near the airport, to a downtown Brazilian style steakhouse. As we bumped along the crowded crooked streets of Manaus, filled with masses of people, we rolled down the windows of our minivan and savored the sounds of Latin music floating in from the many street side bars, as well as the smells of black beans and roast pork being cooked by street vendors. It seemed like a fifties Bogart movie with a soundtrack by Paul Simon.

  The restaurant itself proved no less interesting. We were served in true Churrascaria style by no less than six waiters, one of whom spoke amazingly good English. Waiters approached our table in rapid succession, bearing large portions of meats and sausages, all with aromas that resulted in Pavlovian salivation, no matter how much we had already consumed. Wine bottles were opened with flare and the liquor cart rattled loudly as bottles of gin and scotch were removed and replaced by our wait staff. We begged for mercy and finally the waiters relented, but not before bringing an impressive dessert tray and an assortment of exotic cognacs.   Fully sated, we then made our way to the minivan for the return trip to the hotel, which proved as interesting as the trip to the restaurant.

  Fishing has provided me with one of life’s most robust experiences. In addition to broadening my horizons personally, socially, environmentally, and culturally, I have come to discover whole new disciplines, such as writing and photography. The deep and abiding satisfaction I have experienced from the combination of fly tying, fly casting, and fish fighting has now been deepened by the added dimension of capturing and preserving my adventures in images, both verbal and visual.

 The magic of these types of imagery is that they create an amalgam of the sights, sounds, smells, and emotions which allow me to relive my trips in later years, and to share them with friends, family, and others who were not fortunate enough to have been there. What could be better?

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