I left a perfect campsite in Caraz. Hot showers, walking space and great WIFI, it was one of those rare places that left me in the black with a happy dog. We took a few days in the middle for Lago Paron and left somewhat reluctantly, knowing work was still pressing but also willingly, knowing a long road of mountain passes and rivers with potential for fish were ahead. So we made the push onward, not knowing how far or long the next leg would run. I’ve been pretty good at breaking down distance and planning campsites to this point but Peru is big, time is somewhat limited with a Patagonia fishing opener on the horizon and the pace of things is changing from the hustle and bustle of crowded countries to more open landscapes where wild camping and remote roads are more common, a change I am very much enjoying.
We drove on south to Huarez, a fair size city and hub for mountaineers and peak viewing tourists. Far from the crowds of Machu Picchu, this city was mellow enough but bigger than anywhere I cared to stay. Shale stayed in the van and we stopped long enough to track down overpriced groceries at a “Health Food Store” selling the basic local goods. I didn’t have the patience to track down the local market, which I’m sure would have been a fun one to roam. I grabbed a coffee, translated the WIFI password for a fresh gringo girl traveling solo, always a good thing to see and loaded back in alongside a bored and frustrated dog. Kids had sketched slogans in the dust on my windows and off we drove, local scrolls intact until the next rain.
South of Huarez, we followed a muddy river, almost trouty but off color in that not so welcoming and slightly polluted way. At this elevation, there’s no reason for that amount of sediment to cloud the waters. A half hour later and we passed the tributary spewing brown, the main fork turning to clear and pristine color as it should be throughout the it’s entirety. I parked near a house on the highway, a trucker pullout of sorts, void of free ranging chickens for Shale dog’s greedy jaws.
Peering down from the road grade, I saw a flash. Polarized shades on now, a half dozen trout feeding between a maize of downed logs made themselves clear. Rod out and strung in a minute. I cast, line and fly grazing the danger zone on the roadway. I was fishing at Pyramid lake in Nevada about a decade back. A double haul and bead head caught a windshield and the glass exploded.
I slowed down and and reeled in to move upstream and off the road. We jumped boulders on the steep grade until it flattened out alongside a corn field without anyone present. I crossed the river, deeper and swifter than expected. My wading legs, long gone after a year of chasing coastlines and lake shores. I squatted, found my base and hard stepped across, balancing barely while my sandals dug against the riverbed, filling with loose pea gravel. Shale swam right across, no loss of muscle memory, almost winking as she watched me scramble through a simple wade.
On the opposite bank, I had access to a side channel, not yet cut off by the dry season. Purple hopper because why the hell not. I don’t know what these trout are eating. One fish shot out from an undercut rock ledge and slammed the fly. Surprised, I farmed the shit out of that 15 inch trout. I moved up and turned back to the main channel, where the far bank showed a series of creases alongside rip rap and small boulders and the middle was broken by one large boulder, further complicating the mends required to present anything realistic alongside the far bank.
Fish the middle first, work inside out. Calm down, deep breaths. After casting at roosters and big fish in the salt, it’s the intricacies of a little trout stream in Peru that has me flustered. I cast straight upriver, working the inside of the boulder with a basic dry dropper. Purple foam and a copper john. One cast. Nothing, Two. Nothing. Ten, the hopper stalled but never dipped. I set and was tight to a fish. One head shake and he was gone. Like one of my favorite spots in Ecuador, these fish grabbed soft, held soft and let go. Unlike any trout I’d encountered in the states. My new strategy was to set the hook if a trout should be there, bobber drop or not.
I cast up again, in the zone, it’s perfect. Where’s the fish? Should be right there? Set. Fish on. WTF. Making my own reality I guess. 14” rainbow landed. Silvery, no jumps, digging down just enough to bend the 5-weight. Next cast, outside seam, bad drift. Pick up and cast again, a little to the right, catch the current and drop enough slack to hold off the drag for a few seconds. Looks good. Set. Nothing. The magical conjuring of fish here isn’t a perfect science. Again, 20x over, one grabs on the reel up. A bit bigger and harder fighting, caught on the drag, unearned but notched on the belt. There wouldn’t be many landed in this country.
I waded out, half expecting a shattered window with the clear opportunity for roadside thieves. Car was intact however and Shale dog was happy enough with the few hours of criss crossing the river. We drove on, upriver, watching the volume of water transition from river to crick. A ways up, it looked pretty damn good but the sunset was an hour out, my typical deadline for locating safe campsite.
A woman on the roadside was holding a stringer full of 14” fresh caught trout for sale. I wonder how she caught them. I hit the gas and pressed past, riding the highway curves with Shale’s nose pressed hard against the windshield, wondering if that teaser of trout was all for a while. We caught a hard corner off the creek and climbed a steep pass for a half hour to a radio tower and a pullout on a mountain pass with views of the Cordillera Blanca behind us and a new range of ragged peaks ahead. A short walk, cold wind and a warm bed. Van campsites don’t get any better than this.
The next day started out just fine. We dropped down, took a few wrong turns in an overly complicated small town with a mix of friendly and indifferent, wind weathered faces. We caught a new river, bigger, clean from the road above and about perfect looking. I stopped a few miles past town, hoping to fish an inside bend. A woman with her sheep grazed past. Sorry shale dog, can’t eat these ones.
We drove an hour longer with the road climbing far above the river, eventually catching a gated road that appeared to drop straight back down. The gate was unlocked so I swung it open and started down. The first two switchbacks were easy but the road turned soft on the third. Beach sand that pulled me down. I gunned the gas pedal on every corner and drifted through until it caught rock near the river bottom. A good half mile of fine dust drifted along the ridge above.
A short hike down and we were looking at a seemingly pristine piece of water in a remote corner of the world. I rigged a bugger and went to work. Waded across a tail out, knee deep and easy river bottom for wading. Fished back up. Nice bend, rock wall, structure. Nothing. Waded up, crossed back over. Tail out, riffle, inside seam. Nothing. Three more of these before I met a sheepherder with his flock and wrapped a string of paracord around Shale’s neck whilst she foamed at the mouth looking at the little lambs. Pescas aqui senor? Truchas? I was still hopeful.
No. Pocos. Mas, mas arriba.
Shit. He wasn’t bullshitting me. An hour hike back up to the rig and all my AWD could handle to catch pavement again.
Up the remainder of the pass, casually cresting 14k feet and dropping right back down to 12k. The road was smooth so far as Peruvian roadways go. We quickly passed through a small town and hooked left at a construction detour sign. It turned to dirt. Then rutted dirt. Then switchbacks with potholed dirt. Then more switchbacks. Did I take a wrong turn? The construction trucks are on this road and there was no other turn. Must be. More switchbacks. More. Up, Up, Up. Around an entire mountain and into a new drainage, a roadless place with a single house tucked in a grove of trees on a river bottom at least 3k feet directly below. Long drop. Who’s floating that river? Nobody. It’s not even on my map.
Up, up, up. Around the horn and down, down, down. Somehow, a collection of sedans accumulated behind me despite my aggressive driving, an attempt to keep some space and avoid the chaos of the psychotic drivers here. I’m not moving fast enough for them but there aren’t any pullouts on this dirt track. It’s built like a dirt bike track. I’m barely clearing loose rocks, landmines in the road. How are these small cars getting along? I drop into 3rd and ride the brakes, dodging oncoming cars with the same death wish as those behind me.
Three hours of unstoppable descent to a worse road on the flatlands with cars edging past each other at each construction stop like a NASCAR race starting line. I hold my ground, edging the center-line and only allowing passers on the straightaways. The sun sets and I pull into some town, searching for a place to park and fall asleep. I’m exhausted. Two hours of night driving later and failed attempts at a quiet parking spot, I finally make a hotel with a secured parking lot, a clear necessity here.
Shale stretches in the small yard, not enough to satisfy her need for daily walks. We sleep, uncomfortably, up early and on the road again, in search of the next good place.
