PAICHE

from Strung Magazine - Vol 2-2: Summer 2020

MY HEART OF DARKNESS

By Ryan Sparks

IN AMAZONIAN FOLKLORE, PIRARUCU WAS THE SON OF A PROMINENT CHIEF WHO VIOLENTLY TRIED TO USURP HIS FATHER’S POWER. SEEING THIS, TUPA, THE GOD OF GODS, SENT A DEMON TO PUNISH PIRARUCU. THE DEMON SET THE FOREST ABLAZE AROUND THE VILLAGE AND CAPTURED PIRARUCU AS HE FLED, DRAGGING HIM TO THE RIVER WHERE HE TRANSFORMED HIM INTO A GIANT, DARK-FINNED CREATURE AND SENTENCED HIM TO HAUNT THE JUNGLE WATERS FOR ETERNITY. ALONG THE JUNGLE BORDER BETWEEN PERU AND ECUADOR THE LOCAL PEOPLE CALL THIS DOOMED CREATURE PAICHE. THE REST OF THE WORLD CALLS THEM ARAPAIMA.

Arapaima are one of the world’s largest freshwater fish. The biggest individuals can grow up to 15 feet and reach weights in excess of 400 pounds. Largely unchanged from their prehistoric ancestors, Arapaima are swimming fossils and the apex predators of their freshwater ecosystem. The remote jungle environments where they live, the difficulty of tricking them into eating a fly, and their overwhelming strength makes them one of the most uniquely aweinspiring fish in the world of fly fishing.

When thinking about where to fish for arapaima those in the know think of places like Guyana and Brazil, not Ecuador. That isn’t from a lack of fish, but rather the absence of infrastructure set up for anglers to access them. If you want to fish for arapaima in Ecuador, you have to do it yourself. When Javier Guevara, owner of Ecuador Fly Fishing Tours, asked if I wanted to join him on an exploratory trip to the outskirts of Yasuni National Park in easternmost Ecuador, one of the remotest places on Earth, I couldn’t say no. Guevara had heard rumors of isolated lagoons brimming with arapaima, but made clear it was more likely we would fend off hordes of insects, endure torrential rains, and burn in the equatorial sun without ever seeing an arapaima. There was only one way to find out.

*I met Guevara and his friend Alejandro Diaz in Coca, a small Ecuadorian city on the outskirts of the Amazon. Guevara and Diaz have been leading trips to remote locations throughout Central and South America for years, spending several months in the jungle each year. Together they probably have more experience fishing jungle environments than anyone on the planet.

With an afternoon to burn before our journey upriver the next morning, we walked the city streets taking in the life and culture. Passing a fish market, a man hacked a barred catfish into pieces with a cleaver while his wife fanned flies from their display. One species surprisingly absent was arapaima. Guevara asked the man if he had any for sale. “No,” he said in Spanish, “they are hard to find.”

Photo: Javier Guevara

Considered a delicacy in the Amazon, arapaima yield boneless steaks of firm white fish. The local people salt and dry the meat, rolling it into cigar shaped packages that hold up in the heat without refrigeration. During the height of commercial arapaima fishing, 7,000 tons was taken from the Amazon each year, drastically reducing arapaima numbers across the region. Due to overfishing and habitat degradation arapaima are now only found in secluded pockets of the Amazon outside the reach of commercial fishermen. Guevara’s goal for the trip was to strike a partnership with the local community to create a sustainable fishing program that both protects arapaima from commercial fishing and creates jobs for the local people. That night we woke to the sound of rain on our hotel’s metal roof. By morning the rain had strengthened. In a blinding downpour we loaded our gear into the boat and found seats among the other travelers—indigenous villagers returning home and oil workers beginning six-month contracts in the jungle. Forty percent of Ecuador’s oil reserves, an estimated 1.7 billion barrels of crude oil, lie below the surface here. Payments from the international community have curtailed oil drilling within Yasuni National Park, but outside its borders oil stations are common. As Ecuador’s largest export, this oil greases the country’s financial gears, but this economic dependence has come at a price. Vast swaths of land, along with the people and creatures residing there, have been pushed aside in the name of resource extraction. Outside of overfishing, habitat

loss is the greatest threat facing arapaima conservation.

Pulling a tarp over the boat’s metal frame, the interior was chokingly humid with a smell of wet bodies reminiscent of a high school locker room. Motoring upriver we stopped frequently at small villages and oil stations, dropping off passengers a few at a time until we were the only ones left in the boat. Signs of civilization faded away until we arrived at the last stop on the river before the Peruvian border. Glancing at my GPS, I noted we had traveled 155 miles, yet were still a long way from the area we intended to explore.

There we met our guides, three local fishermen that would accompany us on the rest of the trip: brothers Jairo and José Vega and José Macías. After a quick lunch of stewed chicken, rice, and chichi, a strong alcoholic drink made from cassava root, we carefully loaded our equipment into two dugout canoes outfitted with small outboard motors and set out to navigate the labyrinth of tributaries along the outskirts of Yasuni.

Spine-covered palms and flowering vines lined the edges of these slow-moving streams. On the three-hour journey we encountered pink freshwater dolphins, several species of monkeys, caiman, and numerous groups of endangered giant river otters. Considered the most biologically diverse place on Earth, Yasuni falls within a small zone where amphibian, bird, mammal, and plant life reach their maximum diversity level within the western hemisphere. A single hectare, an area roughly the size of a soccer field, can contain as many as 655 different tree species, more than all the native tree species in the US and Canada.

Following a tunnel-like rivulet through the jungle, the water gradually opened into the small lagoon where we intended to camp. Macías and the Vegas got to work clearing the jungle with machetes. While not traditional fly fishing guides, it was clear they had more outdoor skills than most Americans who call themselves

Photo: Javier Guevara

“outdoorsmen.” They expertly maneuvered through the flooded jungle forest using canoes and paddles they had made themselves. This was especially impressive considering they did it without GPS in a place where water levels change daily, altering which routes can be taken. Their knowledge of the environment was one that only comes from a lifetime of immersion in the landscape.

Within minutes they had miraculously created a fire amidst the rain, and then set about cutting limbs to create a sleeping shelter. As the sun set, dinner simmered in a pot over the fire and I noticed the Vegas donning headlamps and slipping into the jungle with their machetes.

“Where are they going?” I asked Guevara.

“To fish,” he replied.

“With machetes!?”

“Yes, go see” he responded indifferently, and I followed them into the night.

Looking through the water’s surface, the immensity of aquatic life was staggering. Fish of every shape and size frantically darted to get away from the light, creating silver and golden streaks like welding sparks. Within fifteen minutes the brothers had collected enough fish for the six of us to eat for breakfast and lunch the next day. It seemed almost more difficult for them to strike the water and not come up with a fish. When we returned to camp they scaled

and butterflied the fish, placing them over the smoldering remnants of the fire to smoke until morning.

*At first light the rainforest was symphonic. Macaws, manakins, thrushes, blue-headed parrots and a variety of monkeys greeted the day with vocalizations both sweet and strange. With a low fog rolling over the water we loaded twelve-weights into the canoes and pushed into the stillness of the lagoon while primal sounds radiated from the jungle.

None of us had fished for arapaima before, although the Vegas had years of experience hunting them with spears. We initially blind casted towards shore, but after three hours we had only caught two small peacock bass barely larger than the flies we were using and several small sardinata. Macías told us we should be seeing arapaima roll on the surface and suggested we move camp. After a quick breakfast, we loaded everything back into the canoes, and set out looking for new water.

After a few hours of searching the meandering, seemingly endless river system we entered an enormous lagoon with dozens of small adjoining bays. Cutting the outboard we drifted silently, watching for arapaima to surface. Arapaima depend on surface air to breathe. In addition to gills, they have an enlarged swim bladder, composed of lung-like tissue that enables them to get oxygen by coming to the surface and gulping air. This is why arapaima are so vulnerable to commercial fishing. Spear fishermen spot arapaima on the surface and home in on them with spears and nets.

“We need to stop fishing and start hunting,” Guevara said as another enormous fish surfaced in the distance.

We moved to an area where we could observe a large swath of water, taking note of where and how often fish were surfacing. Often, we would hear them before we saw them, turning our heads just in time to see them disappear. Through trial and error, we honed our hunting strategy. When we located an active fish, we would stealthily paddle towards it. Certain fish seemed to follow a pattern or route, surfacing in the same areas in sequence. We tried to guess where the fish would surface next and hoped to get lucky. Once we had closed the distance it was a waiting game. Focus and timing were crucial. It could be twenty minutes between each sighting, and when a fish showed itself the opportunity for a cast lasted only a few seconds. This was quiet hunting and we couldn’t help but fall into unnecessary whispers.

Between both canoes we had two legitimate chances at connecting that afternoon, but both boats came up empty. During lunch we decided to split up and explore different bays within the lagoon system. As Guevara, Macías, and José motored in the opposite direction, they joked that when they returned, they would smell like arapaima.

Again, Diaz and I got several shots at surfacing arapaima, but the speed required to get a fly in front of them felt like playing a high-speed game of whack-a-mole. At the agreed upon place and time, we returned to make camp and see if the other group had fared better. As the sun set on the jungle skyline, we finished setting up camp and began preparing dinner with no sign of the others. An hour later we heard the distinct sound of an outboard drawing nearer.

“We got one,” Guevara said coolly as the canoe slid ashore. He had taken a long, low odds cast to a fish cruising on the surface. The fly landed directly in front of the fish and when it hit the water the arapaima grabbed it immediately. Guevara told us the fight had lasted an hour with the fish jumping six times. When they got it alongside the canoe, they estimated it was 10 feet long and weighed around 200 pounds.

“They could sink the canoe if they landed on it,” Guevara said with excitement in his voice.

“That’s a badass fish.”

Several rounds of “coco loco” (rum and coconut water) were consumed that night while Guevara recounted the story again over dinner. Before the guides had looked at our fly tackle with skepticism, now they examined it closely, asking questions about how it worked and admitting their initial doubt. Our flies particularly interested them; long baitfish patterns of 8-12 inches with ribbon tails that fluttered during the retrieve.

“Es perfecto,” Macías said, comparing one of Guevara’s flies to the fish we were preparing for dinner.

“It’s just like hunting them [with spears], but with hooks and line.” A heavy rain fell throughout the night and in the morning the water had risen several feet, creating more room for the fish to swim through the tangle of flooded jungle. As we watched for arapaima into the afternoon, we could hear them rolling within the jungle, but didn’t see a single fish. At midday thunderheads loomed in the distance and when the first streaks of lightning arced across the sky we retreated to camp. Such are the realities of fishing in the rainforest.

The following day was more of the same; fish heard rolling in the jungle, but never seen. Still, drifting silently in a canoe, listening for fish while howler monkeys groan in the distance and harpy eagles circle overhead isn’t a bad way to spend a day. As the skies cleared that evening everyone agreed if the water fell overnight, the next day was going to be good.

In the morning we split up again with Guevara, Macías, and José exploring to the north while Diaz, Jairo, and I headed south. Following the twisting channels, we ran as far as we could until floating grass mats pinched to a narrow gate that opened into a small circular cove roughly the size of a little league baseball field. As soon as we entered the cove, we knew we had found them. At least a dozen arapaima rolled around the edges in the first few minutes. Looking into the water, the reason for this concentration became clear. Thousands of baitfish shimmered like gold under the surface. Moving in mass they occasionally fluttered as orange streaks of peacock bass flashed below. Diaz pointed out several sardinata rushing past, and as we looked the dark outline of an arapaima floated under the boat. The entirety of the food chain was swimming beneath our feet.

Moving the canoe to the side of the cove Diaz positioned himself to cover the water off the stern while I took the bow. Ten minutes passed before an arapaima surfaced fifteen feet to my right. I made a quick cast and put the fly in the fish’s path. Making a long, slow strip I felt tension building in the line and strip set hard. Like many fish species, arapaima are suction feeders, rapidly expanding their mouths to suck in water and food. Feeding this way, it’s possible for them to inhale and then exhale your fly instantaneously. As I set the hook, I felt the fly briefly connect with the fish before coming loose. The water exploded and the fish was gone. Dangling from my hook was a small scrap of gummy flesh from the fish’s mouth.

I didn’t have time to dwell on my lost opportunity. A minute later another fish rolled at the stern, giving Diaz a chance.

He made a good cast and stripped the fly painstakingly slow. On the third long strip, he shrugged his shoulders in frustration. A moment later the line snapped tight. The fish burst from the water, thrashing its head and flaring its gills. Then it started a long run towards the back of the cove, throwing a wake behind it and pulling 100 feet of backing off the reel in under a minute. Diaz tightened the drag to its fullest strength as the fish made several more snaking jumps. Besides peeling line off the reel, the fish also towed the canoe, and Jairo used the motor to pull against it. For the next 45 minutes Diaz worked the fish to the boat. Occasionally it would surface to breathe and then dive again, pulling all the line Diaz has gained back off the reel. Outside of marlin, I’ve never seen a fish with such incredible strength. To sight fish for such an unbelievable species is unmatched in the world of fishing. As the fish began to tire, we heard the hum of an outboard. Soon Guevara and the rest of our group came speeding into the cove. They had been fishing nearby and heard our shouting when Diaz hooked the fish. Soon Diaz had the fish alongside the canoe where its red flaked scales shone like crimson armor. Guevara pulled on the leader trying to position the fish where we could remove the fly, but as he pulled the fish surged in the other direction, snapping the line in an explosion of water. Diaz flopped down in the canoe to collect himself. The rest of us sat silently, processing what we had just seen. “I told you,” Guevara finally said. “Those are badass fish.”

*The next morning, we returned to the same cove which we nicknamed “the arena.” Being the only one to have not caught an arapaima, Diaz graciously gave me the

bow. Over the course of the day I got at least ten shots. Although I was learning in arapaima fishing, if you get ten shots, three might be legitimate chances where if you do everything right—judge the speed and direction of the fish, make an accurate cast within seconds of seeing it, and strip the fly directly in front of it—you could logically suppose it would eat. The other seven are akin to last second hail Mary passes; too far and at bad angles where you do your best and hope to get lucky.

After a fishless day, Jairo paddled the canoe out of the bay heading back to camp as an arapaima launched itself into the side of the boat, nearly tipping us. We looked at each other, not sure what to think or say. Whether the fish had struck us on purpose or by accident Jairo and José agreed I was cursed. Superstitions like this are common in the Amazon. Each evening when we

returned to camp Jairo, José, and Macías made a smoky, seething fire while we prepared dinner. Guevara told me the smoke is thought to fend off spirits and illness. When they suggested “una limpia,” or a cleansing, was in order to refill my fishing juju I was hesitant to say the least, but after thinking about it (I’d had numerous chances at fish every day, not to mention two missed hook sets) who was I to disagree with them?

Jairo and José gathered palm leaves from the forest and started a smoke bellowing fire near the water. They instructed me to sit on the ground next to the fire and José began an indecipherable chant while brushing my back, neck, head, and shoulders with the palm leaves, shaking them through the fire between each stroke. When he finished, he tossed the leaves in the fire. Guevara told me this symbolized the burning of my curse. I wasn’t sure what to say or how to feel about it, whether this was a heartfelt belief or an excuse for slapping a naive gringo with palm fronds. Either way, it couldn’t hurt.

*There are only a few things a long night of introspection can’t fix. Fishing is one of them. Our final day came and went with several good opportunities, but no fish. At one point we watched Guevara make several casts to a resting fish at the back of a large bay. On the third cast the fish lunged at the fly, exposing its entire profile above the water. It looked twice as big as the 200-pound fish we had seen earlier in the week, but because it came directly towards the canoe, Guevara was unable to set the hook. When I asked José how big he thought it was, he shook his head and shrugged. “Muy grande,” he said, gesturing with his arms like he was trying to a hug a 300-yearold oak.

That was our final encounter with arapaima on the trip, although Guevara has returned to the area several times since then, eventually achieving his goal of partnering with a local community to found Paiche Amazon Lodge. The lodge provides fishermen like our guides a better income than commercial fishing, thus replacing spearing with catch and release fly fishing. Guevara admits it’s still tough to compete with the oil industry who offers young men around $10,000 for six-months of tough labor. Still, the lodge offers employment to anyone from the community, including women and the elderly (something not easily found in the region) and currently employs just over fifteen people.

Fishing for “paiche” is as much about the environment where they live as the fish themselves. For anglers interested in adventure travel, technical fishing, and the opportunity to catch one of the most incredible fish on the planet, Ecuador is a unique opportunity that checks all those boxes. Arapaima just might be the perfect fly rod fish. They jump like tarpon, invoke all the head scratching frustration of permit, are pursued using an addictive blend of hunting and fishing, and when hooked put up a fight unparalleled by anything but the largest saltwater species. The mere presence of such a fish changes the feeling of the entire landscape.

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Strung Magazine - Vol 2-2: Summer 2020