The Flyfish Journal - The Flyfish Journal 15.3
AUREO HAMO PISCARI: Rainbow’s End in Ecuador
Words, Photos and Captions: Lane Forrer 2024-04-16 09:58:37
A nameless waterfall punctuates the Ecuadorian jungle’s endless variations on a verdant theme.
One of the guys knocked on the window at 3:42 a.m. It startled me so I must have been asleep. A few hours before we’d had a late-night seco de pollo from a cart serving patrons at a disco across the road. Through the cracked window the jungle night embraced me, windshield opaque with mist. My alarm sounded: 3:45 a.m. We’d parked in front of a police station along the Troncal Amazónica, the main highway snaking through the Ecuadorian Amazon, to sleep. I walked to the car in front of me where Alex, Jeremy, Julio and Calvo were stirring. I lit a cigarette and regretted it. “Ready?” I asked in Spanish. Incomprehensible mumbles came from inside the car. Tapio walked up from his own rig. “Did you get any sleep?” “Some.” “Should we get moving?” “What’s the plan?” “Don’t ask me.”
A friend and fellow expat named Tim had been offered 50 hectares (123 acres) of land in exchange for a drone and a laptop. I was intrigued and laughably skeptical. The property was located well off the road system in the turbulent Amazonian foothills of the Andes. A river ran through the western edge with little to no access in a part of the world with little infrastructure—the watermark for a spectacular dorado fishery. A group of colonos with claim to the land solicited Tim’s help through the coconut telegraph of jungle outfitters, offering him the parcel—part of their 600-plus hectare claim—in exchange for the tools needed for a topographical survey: drone and computer. Unable to make the trip himself, he asked if I could go in his place. He owns an adventure tourism business and is always looking for new rivers to explore. It was a 4- to 6-hour hike into the property and an additional jaunt to the river. Google showed what we both knew were mining scars, but they were not on the river in question, and easily dismissed when weighed against unexplored dorado fishing. Neither of us was convinced the trip was a great idea, but fortune favors the bold and this was one of those spots that had never been fished with a fly rod, maybe never with rod and reel. By the second beer I was committed.
The Amazon system headwaters drop over 13,000 feet in less than 60 miles in Ecuador, a series of steep, volatile rivers connecting the high Andes with the jungle. The Salminus genus, or golden dorado, thrive in the clean water of the foothills. Volcanos, earthquakes and floods have all played their part in forming this river-scape, but gold mining, both legal and illegal, is taking the most immediate toll on these lower-elevation streams.
I’ve been living in Ecuador for almost 20 years and have been exploring the Amazon for most of that time. Enough fishing trips have gone sideways for me to know how to see it coming. This one seemed to be on track but had early symptoms of unraveling. Fishing was the primary objective, but we also wanted to explore the viability of access for other types of tourism, like kayaking or bird-watching. Tim and I, along with a few others here in-country, dabble in remote flyfishing trips, clandestinely exploring new fisheries whenever possible and trying to outpace progress into isolated areas.
The other guys were there for the land, which they considered to be theirs. A lack of legal standing for their claim made the situation precarious, and they needed boots on the ground occasionally. We were a motley crew to say the least. The colonos, who lived in Quito, were in their 50s, salt-of-the-earth, middle-class Ecuadorians that came from all over the country. They were of a generation in which higher education and financial stability were reserved for the elite, whereas people such as them from middle and lower classes were forced into compulsory military service. Due to ending up in the Amazon region during the oil boom of the 1980s and ’90s, they were harder than coffin nails, with a tolerance for hardship and a resourcefulness that doesn’t exist in richer countries. Still, they were extreme conservationists and radically anti-authority in what can be, at times, a lawless part of the world. This jaunt into the foothills was a casual outing for them—it took me a full week to recover.
Standing in front of the police station, I could have pulled out and just driven the seven hours back to Quito and told Tim I didn’t feel comfortable. I mean, these guys thought sleeping outside a seemingly empty police station on the main highway in an area with a disco, two brothels, a dozen industrial warehouses and a history in the drug trade was a good idea. But when the truck turned over emitting the acrid diesel fumes that always seem to be worse in the jungle air and we started into the predawn veil, I followed. Headlights amplified the mist and illuminated an entomologist’s dream. Bugs stuck to the damp windshield in such numbers that we needed the wipers to see. It was a day or two before the full moon. I couldn’t see it, but I could feel it. Strung out from lack of sleep and running on disco-cart chicken, nicotine and diesel fumes, reality had a psychedelic edge to it.
Not long after dawn we reached a parking area. A flimsy-looking shop with sparsely stocked shelves and the standard skeletal dogs stood on the bank of a muddy river and completed the scene. We prepped our packs and made final adjustments. I’d overpacked—a DSLR, a few lenses, too much food and a slew of camping and fishing gear. Heaving my pack off the tailgate, I almost fell over—it must have been 45 pounds. The other guys looked at me with their day packs and all said, “Que llevas?” which in this context could be roughly translated as, “What the fuck are you bringing?” I laughed nervously and they just shrugged and asked if I was ready.
We were at the entrance to a mining operation. I half understood this at the time but didn’t realize what I was getting into. Upriver from the parking spot, a large-scale legal mining claim with an even larger-scale illegal mining operation had grown like tentacles out from the strike. We had at least six hours of muddy trail ahead of us. The river was off-color but low, evidence of machinery working upstream.
The day before, I’d left Quito and driven over the eastern cordillera to Tim’s lodge in the cloud forest to meet the colonos. After some preparations, we made the epic drive to the Amazon plain along a serpentine artery of landslides and potholes, with enough fog and night to hide it all. I was worried about my endurance.
The heat started to get serious about an hour into our walk and the line between sweat and river blurred. Approaching the working mines, the guys wanted to stay as incognito as possible. When I first heard the machinery in the distance, the gravity of the situation sank in. Walking straight into a gold mine of questionable legality with a backpack full of camera equipment—what the hell was I thinking? Pushing through the jungle to stay unseen, the spiny bamboo and thicket tore my technical fishing clothes to shreds. At the edge of a mine scar the size of 20 football fields we paused to take in the gravel, mud and stagnant pools of dark, greasy-looking mine tailings. Heat mirages danced over the Martian landscape. Tired and hungry, we walked the edge of the clearing, conspicuous as penguins in the Sahara. Eventually finding a path out of the clearing, we stumbled into a grove of banana trees. I ate three and gathered a few more and followed the group another 100 yards to a rundown jungle cabin and homestead.
They’d been living in this area on and off for 25 years. They, like the mining company, had come for gold. Volcanic origins and high attrition create perfect conditions for alluvial deposits, particularly the 79th element. The difference is this group of prospectors panned the rivers by hand. What little gold they found offered a subsistence living in a remote corner of the world’s wildest jungle, providing a tangible connection to the land. Still, as the trip progressed, I couldn’t help but question their intentions. These guys are just after the gold, like everyone else, I thought. However, in listening to Julio and Tapio talk about the mine scar, I heard the legitimate concern of people talking about their home. They wanted the land and legal ownership of it, but were nonetheless deeply uneasy about the environmental degradation taking place and seemingly heartbroken over it.
Alluvial mineral extraction is just that—removing valuable material from a riverbed and the surrounding floodplain. Ecuadorian rivers have been mined for thousands of years. Indigenous cultures gathered gold and other minerals long before Europeans came to this country. Today, there are hundreds of legal mining concessions in eastern Ecuador, most of them focused on alluvial deposits. When environmental laws are followed and enforced, alluvial mines are less detrimental to the ecosystem; however, regulation is rarely effectively observed and what little enforcement exists is riddled with corruption. Legality, as it pertains to gold mining in Ecuador, is more theory than fact. A concession may be legally conceded to a mining company, but is it adhering to regulations? Has it carried out an environmental assessment prior to breaking ground? Is it staying within the limits of its concession? Is it providing remediation for the tailings or the affected area? Is it declaring all findings? None of this is cut and dried and the lack of regulatory bodies in the field means mining companies are left to their own devices.
Then there are the illegal operations—groups that have no legal claim yet capitalize on access provided by roads often built by legitimate mining operations. With no incentive to do things properly, the effects of these operations are often the most detrimental, destroying rivers and leaving behind toxic heavy metals, pollution from machinery and completely upturned alluvium that will take decades to recover. Local communities, both colono and indigenous, are often involved to some degree and are usually the first to suffer. The silver lining is that more and more groups and communities are resisting the destruction of their rivers. Indigenous groups have stronger legal authority under Ecuadorian law when combating illegal extraction practices, but indigenous communities are often politically fractured and disorganized. Plus, mining operations are almost always backed by financial heavy hitters, making local opposition next to impossible due to corruption and the efforts of lobbying groups. Problems associated with both legal and illegal mining have become widespread in the foothills of the Andes and many rivers have become battlegrounds.
Over a lunch of tuna and rice, I asked about our target river. They said it was beautiful, fast, cold and clear. As often happens when talking to non-anglers, many of my questions were lost on them. Type of river bottom? Bait? Other species? I pulled out my fly box, which elicited a mix of excitement and skepticism. They were intrigued but not convinced the flies would work. The toughest part of the hike still lay ahead of us. I felt better, but that was relative. I laced up my soggy boots, packed some extra rice in a banana leaf and shouldered my pack.
The next three hours were a hellish slog up a steep, slick mess of switchbacks. Tapio had picked up a rifle stashed at the cabin; within five minutes of starting the climb he’d disappeared into the jungle. The rest of us trudged on, leapfrogging up the hillside. The path cut through the jungle like a game trail—or a trail used by people who didn’t want to be seen. It was vertical in spots, and we scrambled as much as we hiked. When we finally topped out, a celebratory bottle of cane liquor appeared. Rejuvenated after a few pulls and jokes made at each other’s expense, we covered the last 20 minutes over mostly flat ground to reach our rancho for the next two nights.
We were on a plateau, the first uplift of the Andes roughly 1,600 feet above sea level. Julio had built the rancho two years prior, his way of saying this piece of dirt was his. He felled a large hardwood and cut planks and 6x6s with a chainsaw and jig, tools that, along with fuel, nails and an assortment of other items, he’d carried in on his back. A platform about shoulder height sat beneath a dubious roof, with enough room for the six of us to sleep ass-to-elbow. The hearth was beneath the platform, protected from the elements, and a creek with a pool large enough to bathe hid nearby in the undergrowth. The water was cool and life affirming.
The past 24 hours had been a circus of movement. In Ecuador, remoteness is not measured by distance, but by time and terrain. We were six hours from the road, nine hours from a highway and 17 hours from home. One sprained ankle or heavy rain doubled that time. This was up there with the deepest dives I had taken into this part of the Amazon.
Time, and particularly nightfall in the wilderness, serves as a reset. The absence of technology and stark reality of being in the troposphere give clarity, a visceral escape from modern existence, which can be ruined by the wrong company. Thankfully, this motley crew was as comfortable in the rancho as it was in the suburbs of Quito.
As we lay down for the night the southern sky came alive with lightning. Thunder sounded in the distance. The gaps in the roof looked bigger, glowing with every flash. The fire had been doused but smoke and warmth wafted through the floorboards. The sound of the rain woke me before the drips from holes in the roof. It was a wet night. All I could think about was the river. It would be another hour and a half to get there in the morning and it was likely to be completely blown out.
We awoke in the predawn to clear skies. Getting up was a relief, but I was still exhausted. Somehow the fire was still warm and we had a flame for boiling water in minutes. We strung up everything we could to dry. Calvo and I were headed to the river, the rest of the guys were going to walk the perimeter of the property.
Ninety minutes of slippery leaves and snot-like mud brought us to the river and it was in perfect condition—low, clear enough to work to my advantage and strewn with boulders and pocket water. It was beautiful. A blanket of vegetation covered the steep canyon walls. Trees and vines looked like the spires and gargoyles of a natural baroque cathedral. Calvo walked right up to the edge of a pool and I bayed at him to come back. Dorado are fantastically aggressive, but spooky as hell.
I sat on a rock in a meditative state for a few minutes, cigarette acting like incense and the river noise like a chant. Manifesting. Then I stood up and got into position for a cast into a large pool. My first cast was sloppy, about two yards shy of the target and collapsed. I stripped like hell to get tension and started my water haul and then came a flash. A fish whacked the fly without coming tight, but it was a welcome sign. Collected yet jittery, my second cast was perfect—right across the current seam where I could get the action I wanted. Nothing. Three more casts. More nothing. I shifted position. With no room for a proper backcast, the next presentation only went halfway across the pool, a little up current from where I’d aimed before. Two fish attacked, the smaller fish getting the eat. I was tight to a dorado in a section of river that had never been fished with a fly before. Calvo was smiling. He had never seen anyone flyfish and had never seen a fish of any size come out of this river. I then realized that I hadn’t shown him or explained anything about my camera, but he was a quick study and soon I had him making pictures of the fish and the fishing.
A while later I heard a voice. Calvo was nowhere to be seen. He had been a good distance behind me. The voice again. Still no Calvo. I reeled up and started to walk back upriver, a little uneasy. For a moment, the remoteness of my situation became oppressive, until Tapio and Calvo appeared from behind a boulder. Tapio wore combat fatigues and had the rifle slung around his shoulder. Hearing I’d caught fish brought a smile to his face. During our climb the day before he had caught the scent of jabali—wild boar—and pursued them for a few hours until he lost the light and made camp in the jungle. No boar for dinner, but he said he found plenty of fruit. He was interested in the fishing, particularly the releasing. Calvo, on the other hand, looked at me like I’d run over the family pet when I released the first fish.
We’d only made it 300 yards downriver when the clouds started to look like they had plans. Working back upstream, I focused on the big pools where I could get a good cast and retrieve up current. I brought a few more fish to hand and laid eyes on a real one trying to eat a 15-inch fish I had on the line—probably close to 30 inches, 9 or 10 pounds. I sent an extra 10 casts into that pool, but no dice. At the confluence of the creek and the river we sat for a quick meal. My exploratory 3.5 hours of fishing had yielded 10 fish to hand and a look at a big one—not too bad, all things considered.
The hike back to the rancho was a long two and a half hours full of intimate interactions with invertebrates sporting more than six legs. Light rain started as we approached camp. The rest of the group was there, cooking a dinner of rice and plantains and passing the bottle of rum. Their perimeter walk had been successful. There had been a few visitors, but no damage to structures or attempts to vandalize anything. They said they’d found jaguar prints. In all my time in the Amazon, I have never seen a jaguar and only a handful of prints. But I have heard them, and that night we heard the faint sound of a jungle cat in the distance.
We started our hike out in the predawn glow and had a good pace down the ridge by sunrise. The chocolaty river cutting through the mine scar was the same, no higher than two days before. I was relieved. A few women along the river washed clothes and panned for gold. The trail was muddier than on our entry and my boots turned into balls of jungle muck. We reached the parking lot by noon, the jungle buzzing even in the heat of the day, with a blazing sun doing its best to evaporate every last bit of moisture it could find. The shopkeeper said there was a troop of squirrel monkeys around that we eventually heard chirping above us. We asked him if he had any cold drinks and I was disappointed but not surprised by his answer. Alex bought a two-liter of warm cola and we shared it ceremoniously. I hate cola, but when in Rome…
I hadn’t intended to photograph the mine. I had no idea of the extent of the situation in this particular area and, for me, this was a river-scouting trip. In retrospect, I realize the colonos had ulterior motives in bringing me along. They wanted exposure. This mining operation had been under the radar for some time, and they thought bringing a gringo along would have an impact. Being a photographer and conscientious person, I had to document what I saw. Back in Quito, I contacted a conservation group and sent them a few photos to publish anonymously, which they did, and they also contacted the local authorities. Two days later all mining ceased, and we were told that some 50 excavators were removed by their owners. One day later, the military conducted a raid and only managed to confiscate two pieces of illegal equipment. Someone in the local police station had tipped off the mining company.
It’s been two years and I have not been back to the area. The potential for tourism is there, but the risk from the mining is too high. Mining companies don’t appreciate visibility, and a bunch of foreign ecotourists would be a big fly in the ointment for them. Tim was disappointed, but not overly surprised. I told him that if it was any consolation, the area was a true Eden beyond the mines and would probably stay that way unless the miners venture further afield. I stay in touch with the colonos and try to keep tabs on the mining situation, but information is scattered and unreliable. The mine is up and running again, this much I know. Recent investigative reports have shown ties between mining operations and drug cartels, using gold as a means of laundering money. I hope they haven’t reached the ridge and the picture-perfect river I was fortunate enough to experience for a few brief hours.
It’s hard to believe that the monster that is humanity will spare this section of the Amazon. Too much value is buried under the surface. Roads are the gateway drug, opening areas to human encroachment on an industrial scale. The river I fished is as precious as any metal and the clean, cool Andean runoff is irreplaceable. I tossed hooks of steel into those waters and found something priceless, that transcends value. But for now, unfortunately, men have set their sights on a different metal. As the saying goes, aureo hamo piscari: He who fishes with a golden hook, fishes well.
©Funny Feelings LLC. View All Articles.