west, the Rio Negro pours its dark

So when the chance came to discover just what the jungle rivers of this huge country could offer the adventurous angler, I jumped at it. The deal allowed for two anglers, so I faxed that illustrious editor, Kevin Clifford, to see if he might be interested – Dear Kevin, is there any chance at all that you can spare three weeks in February to fish in Amazonia. The reply from Kevin was spilling out of my fax machine within about three seconds – YES. The sheer scale of the Amazon and its tributaries is enough to beggar even the most fanciful imagination. The main river is over 4,000 miles long from source to mouth, and the Amazon watershed as a whole holds around 20% of all the freshwater in the world. At Manaus, about 1,000 miles from the sea, the river appeared to us to be about four miles wide, but further up the main river it broadens to twelve miles wide. Islands occur throughout the length of the river; some quite small, others large enough to hold a city the size of Birmingham. One could go on quoting seemingly fantastic facts about the Amazon and its offspring all day, but the true vastness of its reality will elude most readers. I set about discovering just what sort of job we had taken on, and soon faxes were winging their way back and forth between England and Brazil. The first exciting piece of news was that the Amazon watershed contains the biggest catfish in the world: “How big,” I asked. My informant, an enthusiast from the Brazilian embassy replied, “Well let me explain it like this – if a fisherman throws out his baited hook attached to a stout rope, and then ties the rope to a tree, there are two possible results. If the fish is a small one, the fisherman gathers a few friends together, and they pull the fish in. If the fish is a big one, the rope breaks, or the tree goes missing.” I recounted the story to Kevin, and we agreed that our task called for some stout tackle. On February 6th our Varig (Brazilian Airlines) 747 climbed steeply out of Heathrow airport: the temperature outside was around 38°. When we stepped off the plane at Manaus after a long but very comfortable flight, the temperature was hovering around 90° – pleasantly cool, we were told. Manaus is a city of two million souls who have elected to live their lives in this most tropical of cities, virtually on the equator. The twin major arms of the mighty Amazon meet here to form the majestic river of fable. From the north-west, the Rio Negro pours its dark-stained flow into the Amazon branch heading in from the west; its muddy stream loaded with tons of ochre soil, carried from the distant Andes mountain range. We booked into the excellent Tropical Hotel in Manaus, and slept well, in preparation for our passage to the chosen fishing area. On our way to breakfast the next morning we were accosted by a couple of big guys in baseball caps. “Which way to the lobby.” A deep Southern drawl announced the fact that our American cousins were lost. On being directed, he followed with, “Youall sure speak funny: youall from St.Louis?, I’m from Dallas.” “Dallas Nebraska?,” I asked. “Yeah,” he replied, “Dallas Nebraska.” I thought that it said much for his sense of humour, and it was just as well, because the American, a burly Texan doctor, proved to be one of the sons of the Lone Star State with whom Kevin and I were to spend the next seven days. Quarters, for our Amazonia fishing period, were to be the mobile fishing hotel, Amazon Queen: a three-story sixty foot wooden vessel, with a team of guides, and fast American-built bass-boats to speed us to the remote fishing spots. Along with our fellow anglers from the American colonies, we joined the Amazon Queen at Barcelos, about 250 miles up-stream from Manaus, on the Rio Negro Arm. It’s twenty-four hours by river-boat, but we claimed a few extra fishing hours by flying up in a small charter-plane. Even from a height of 10,000′ the Rio Negro is an awesome sight. The main river is dotted with islands and sandbars, thousands of tributaries, and tens of thousands of lagoons. Rivers five times the size of the River Severn are so insignificant is this land of giant waterways and seamless jungle, that they don’t even warrant a name. The next morning, having steamed up-river from Barcelos over-night, we sped away from our mother-ship in one of the sturdy aluminium bass boats, steered by our indian guide Alemău. This little man’s ancestors had crossed the ice-bridge across the Bering Straights from Asia to the Americas around twenty-thousand years ago, and over succeeding generations had made their way to Brazil by way of Alaska, Canada, the USA, and the Panama isthmus. A generation or so ago he might have been shooting poison darts at us from the depths of the jungle, but his smile suggested a more benign purpose now, and his mind was an extraordinary repository of local knowledge, which was at our disposal. We communicated mostly in sign-language, but I also tried a heady mixture of “O” level French, laced freely with my ten words of Spanish, and thirteen words of Portuguese. Kevin stuck doggedly to his Yorkshire English, delivered with the deliberate enunciation that one uses when speaking to small children. Despite all my multi-lingual efforts, in the communication with Alemău competition, Kevin and I came out about even. The Amazon Queen caters almost exclusively for Americans whose angling lives are dedicated to the pursuit of bass. Their ultimate quarry is the legendary peacock bass of the Amazon basin, and these fish were what we were off to find. Alemău left the main river, twisting and turning for mile after mile through a maze of back-waters in a way that convinced us both that we would never see our loved-ones again. At last we came into a remote clear-water lagoon where he said Aqui, (here), and made casting signs. The peacock bass is a pugnacious, territorial creature that is generally fished for with a noisy top-water plug. On the advice of our bass-mad ship-mates, we were using huge wooden lures with twin propellers at the rear, and as our electric trolling motor silently pushed us along, about 60′ from the edge, these monstrosities were cast into the over-hanging jungle bush, and retrieved in a series of spluttering dashes. The technique was to quickly jerk the rod tip to one side, then wind furiously before the next rod tip movement. The noisy progress of the lure was designed to produce the maximum commotion, and stimulate the feeding or territorial instincts of the bass. I was first off the mark as a yellow and black streak of lightning engulfed my lure with a crash that might easily have stopped a dicky heart. The fish leapt into the air, once, twice, then made an unsuccessful attempt to gain the tangles of the undergrowth. A boil or two on the surface, and the fish, a stunningly beautiful creature of around 7 lbs. was scooped into the net by a grinning Alemău. It was Kevins turn next as a similar fish hit his lure, first smashing it a foot into the air, then hooking itself at the second attempt. Peacock are great ones for low level flight, and this fish, like mine, spent several moments in the air, shaking its head in an attempt to throw the hooks. This is not a game for the faint of heart. More fish came to the net, and others managed to pop the hooks. Through the middle of the day we fairly sizzled in our open boat, with no protection from the equatorial sun, save our hats. Huge insects shot past us at barely sub-sonic speed and with a most intimidating buzz. We soon became used to these aerial sound effects with their Doppler shifts; and we remained unmolested by whatever impressive creatures were causing the commotion. As the crepuscular hues of a tropical sunset gathered in the west, the surface activity subsided, and at Kevin’s suggestion we switched to brightly coloured sinking Rapalas. Almost immediately we experienced a different sort of snatched take. “Piranha,” said Alemău, and he was right too, because within a minute or two we were connecting with these extraordinarily toothy little monsters, which fought like demons all the way to the boat. We must have had about twenty between us. Note from my diary: The Piranhas are everywhere. Alemău says that they don’t attack swimmers, but I’m buggered if I’m going in to confirm it. Can’t imagine ever getting to actually like the little brutes. This is a very hard society: everything eats everything else. From what we experienced, it seems that piranhas will attack just about anything live that they sense is in trouble. On one occasion I was slow in bringing a hooked Piranha to the boat, and within about twenty seconds its loving brothers and sisters had reduced it to little more than a golden skull. For this sort of fishing we had Shimano PL330 spinning rods. Kevin coupled his with the Shimano Stradic 8000 reel loaded with 20 lb. line. I swopped between the big Stradic, and the exquisite little ABU Ambassador Pro Max 6600. Phillip Marsteller, the Amazon Queens operator suggested that we should use 40 lb. test, and bitter experience proved him right. The fish were certainly super scrappers, but not so that we would have needed 40 lb. test to overcome them. The greatest strain on the line came from the continual casting of the heavy wooden lures, and the occasional overcast into the bush: an occupation that the “good ole boys” called monkey fishing. By the end of the second day both of us had up-rated our reel lines as suggested. All the equipment taken was subjected to some pretty horrendous treatment, and performance reports will follow in the reviews section of the magazine. That evening we returned to Amazon Queen totally exhausted, but elated. At dinner there were some real stories being told by the Texans. George was on the receiving end of the banter – as usual. George had caught a peacock over fourteen pounds (he said), but the rest of the party were hell-bent of persuading him that the scale he thought was registering 7 kilos, was in fact only registering 7 lbs. “You shouldn’t tell no lies to them real nice Britishers,” said Hunter, a retired Dallas oil-man. “Don’t you pay him never no mind,” screamed George. “Youall know that peacock was over fowteen pownds.” Hunter winked at me conspiratorially, and poor Ole George took to his bourbon bottle with a sigh like death. Our five days took on a similar pattern: the Amazon Queen would steam up-river to a new fishing ground over-night, and each morning we would set off into the over-grown maze of jungle streams with their lost lagoons, known only to our indian guides. On most days we would wind our way through two or three miles of lush undergrowth, only to find our way blocked by a fallen tree. The indian guides would un-sheath huge machete knives, and hack their way through substantial trees. The work, often in 90° – 100° temperatures was back-breaking, but they set to without a moment’s hesitation, often taking to the water to remove branches and logs. The peacock fishing was very addictive, and the enthusiasm that gushed from the “good ole-boys” highly infectious. Within a day of starting we were casting with much greater accuracy than I would have thought either of us was capable, and catching as many fish as some of the Americans, for whom such fishing skills come with their mothers’ milk. What was interesting, and not a little frustrating for me, was that by the end of the week Kevin was catching at a rate of three to every one of mine. We cast with equal accuracy, and at an equal rate, but there was something about Kevin’s retrieve that made those peacock bass madder than hell: they couldn’t resist the urge to smash into his lure. Kev also caught the biggest fish of the week at 13 lbs. a magnificent creature that was lightly hooked, and played with great skill within a few yards of an impenetrable tangle of flooded tree-roots. Once into that lot, it would have been goodnight Vienna. The best American-caught fish ran 23 lbs. and was caught by “good ole L.C.”, a man of seventy summers with a laugh a minute, and a bank-roll of around eighty-million dollars. “I’ll put her right up there on the wall in my trophy room with the blue marlin,” said L.C., “if Betty will let me.” Note from my diary: Feeling a bit low, which is just too silly for words when surrounded by this marvellous place. The peacocks are wonderful but I’m running out of the steam I need to fish hard for them. I want a bloody great piraiba. Being attached to a top-rate specialist bass operation like the Amazon Queen was a tremendous experience, but at the end of the week I felt that I’d really missed out on all the other species that this amazing river system has to offer. We did have one very enlightening experience, however. On the last evening up-river, we made a special arrangement with the ship’s operator to be taken forty miles down-river to fish for catfish. The time that we had in hand was the time that it would take the bigger, slower ship to catch up with us. We were now on the main river: dark, stately, and home to a some impressive creatures. To my mind, the catfish of the Amazon system are its greatest challenge, and a whole story that I hope to be able to tell in a future issue. I’ve already recounted the Indian method of fishing for them, but to whet your appetite further I’ll tell you what happened on our special down-river catfish expedition. The object of the evening was a brute of a fish called a piraiba. In some Spanish-speaking South American countries its called areleju, but Americans simply call it giant catfish, (well they would, wouldn’t they). Small piraiba, (under 220 lbs.) are called filhote. Just how big they do grow is difficult to ascertain, but in the staggering, untapped enormity of the Amazon watershed 1,000 lbs. is likely. Apart from a slightly more pronounced flattening of the head, the piraiba is shark-shaped, and has both speed and the power to pull a man on water-skis. There are several other huge catfish species, any of which would concentrate the mind wonderfully; but it was the piraiba that we sought as we dropped our half peacock bass baits into a boil behind a small Rio Negro island. As we settled to await a response to our baits, there came a sound that startled us: a sort of liquid wheeze, as though a giant was drawing breath. As we looked offshore in the direction of the noise, a pair of pink, fresh-water dolphins bulged through the surface: these were our giants, and they were indeed drawing breath. It was a magical moment: a sight and a sound that will remain fresh in our minds for many years. We settled again, and as the gloom gathered, were treated by another of the Amazons extraordinary sights: the dancing lights of the vaggalume: a cicada equipped with a brilliantly luminous tail that winks and flashes as the insect flies in and out of the trees. The air was hot, the night still, and, but for the gentle noises of the river, all was quiet. At last: this was real fishing, for monster fish. The tackle was totally uncompromising. We each sported top quality IGFA 50 lb. Shimano Twin-Power boat rods, with Shimano TLD 30 two speed, big game reels. Mustad 12/0 Sea Master shark hooks to 100 lb. Berkley wire, with 80 lb. Mitchell Sport running line. To add to our chances, (so I thought), I assembled an additional lighter outfit – a 30 lb. class Shimano rod, ABU 10,000CL level-line reel loaded with 50 lb. Big Game line – BIG MISTAKE, because as the tap tap tap of the piranhas stopped at sunset, it was the ABUs check that signalled a fast run: interestingly, it was the only bait that I had laced with SBS Natural Attract. I slammed the rod back, and met with a force that just turned the rod over, and then over and over. To cut a short story even shorter, I’ll just say that I was attached to that fish for perhaps five seconds before the rod jerked straight, and the line went limp. I reeled in to find that the 50 lb. line, (Mitchell Big Game), appeared to have been cut with a knife. Kevin looked at me and exclaimed simply, if a little sacreligeously, “Christ mate,” which really said all that could be said, in the circumstances. In those few seconds I was aware of a power so great, so immense, that I cannot imagine what it would have been like to subdue. It may have been a piraiba; Alemău certainly thought so; but it may equally have been another of the Amazon’s giants. The line was tip-top quality, and we assume that it caught on a sharp rock, or was bitten through by a piranha – these little monsters will snap at anything bright that passes their vicious snub-nosed snouts. Whatever the reason for the disaster, I know that I am as surely hooked as was that fish. As I write this account in Manaus I know that I shall have to return. Like the “crack” smoker who has foolishly resorted to a first “fix” that has been his un-doing; my first taste of Amazonia has served only to make me crave for more. For anglers who feel that the challenge of a three or four-hundred pound piraiba under-values their talents, there’s another Amazon alternative that they might like to consider: the pirarucu. This fish is a lagoon dweller that preys on small top-water fish, and is generally nocturnal. This magnificent fish is fully scaled (like a mahseer), and grows to about 250 lbs. Kevin and I saw these awesome, powerhouse beauties when we visited the aquarium in Manaus – and we could only marvel at the prospect of being attached to one. Amazon Queen’s operator, Phillip Marsellas, was able to tell us that they are never fished for by angling methods because they are considered to be an impossible fish to land. I would guess that it might be possible to hook one using a shallow-swimming live-bait; but just how one stops a two-hundred and fifty pound, eight foot long, pirarucu from bolting straight into the nearby jungle, I’ve no idea. They are apparently quite common, and, via the fishermens nets, many find their way onto the Manaus fish-dealers slabs. Elsewhere, there’s another amazing fish called a Payara. The payara looks much like a salmon: in fact, I believe it also has an adipose fin. When it opens its mouth however, the resemblance ceases, because the payara is equipped with the most impressive set of teeth that you could possibly imagine. A thirty pounder has lower front fangs around two inches long, which, when the fish is not sinking them into its prey, reside in sockets in the upper jaw. The payara is a fish of the faster water upstream: rocky rapids being a favourite haunt. Immensely strong, and dazzlingly aerobatic: to land one big payara in three hooked, is said to be a darn good average. That’s a fish I’ll hope to meet on another expedition. European anglers who want to take on this area – surely the greatest fresh-water fishing challenge in the world – might consider basing ashore at Barcelos. Here, a boat and a local guide, (absolutely essential, I believe, if you want to survive this huge river), can be hired. Fish baits can be caught, or bought easily. Live baits, we were told, work best, but Kevin and I thought deads would be just as acceptable. Varig, (Brazilian Airline), run London – Sau Paulo – Manaus. Barcelos, which is the only habitation of any size upstream, can be reached by the local shuttle light plane for about $100 US. The journey by boat would probably be $20. There are virtually no mosquitoes to worry about on the Rio Negro, and we found the jungle to be a much friendlier place than we’d imagined. Leaches don’t drop from the leaves to suck your life’s blood, and the only snake that we saw was about a yard long, and non-poisonous. Certainly, there are jaguars, alligators over 20′ long, and there are huge anaconda snakes which grow to 35′ long: but to put the existence of these, and their relationship with man, into perspective, it should be understood that you might live a whole life-time on the shores of the Amazon, and see not one of them. The danger from such creatures has been compared to that of being hit by a Coke-can thrown from a manned satellite. Such dangers as exist are from the tiny creatures; bees are occasionally a bit feisty if they are approached too closely, and believe it or not, there’s a tiny species of spined catfish called canduru, which swims up the urine stream, and into the urethra of animals that are stupid enough to pee whilst in the water. The moral of that apocryphal sounding tale, is that it pays to wear tight swimming trunks if you plan to pee whilst swimming in the Amazon. This is not a cheap fishing holiday option, but for those who have the wherewithal to indulge their fishing ambitions, this is probably the most exciting prospect on earth. You sure as heck can’t take the money with you when you’re pushing up the daisies.

Tomorrow, Kevin and I are moving on to the Pantanal Swamp area of Brazil, West of the Matto Grosso. They don’t have the wonderful piraiba there, but they do have some other exciting sounding species that might be very entertaining. The Pantanal is where all Brazilians dream of fishing. Brazilian angling journalist Paulo Loęs will be meeting us to act as our guide. Brazilian swamps ! – sounds as though a guide might be a very good idea.