Camping on the Cinaruco River

After a long drive south across Venezuela, cities and towns petered out and we then crossed many miles of flat llanos grass country, with countless freshwater ponds dotting the countryside. Perhaps 30 klics from Columbia, we turned off into the vast Santos Luzardo National Park, also called Cinaruco-Capanaparo Park, and drove 40 klics of dirt road, crossing occasional 40-yard mudholes. Eventually we arrived at the middle of three fish camps along the Cinaruco River, with perhaps 10 miles of space between them. Our camp wasn’t on the river, but utilized scattered oxbow lakes in the forest. The camps are closed each summer, with ours flooding about five feet deep. When dry season returns each November the camp is cleaned, the swimming pool refilled with well water. Our camp had a kitchen and dining room that would seat 25 fishermen.

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Tournament awards and banquet

After a long day (dawn to dusk) of fishing in Venezuela’s final bass tournament of the year, we prepared ourselves for a big dinner and festivities. This was a real awards banquet, not what we were accustomed to in bass tournaments back in the States. This was not some tournament lakeside check-passing, by a grand-standing MC wearing suspenders and chewing tobacco—-with no alcohol permitted in the ceremony. And no food available…Maybe a wilted chicken-fried steak somewhere down the highway, if you’re lucky. (If not, a sack of burgers from a national restaurant chain).

No sir. Here in central Venezuela we were staring at three cooked grass-fed Brahma cows, native corn bread, 30 kilos of locally-made Mozzaerella cheese, fresh vegetables, and a new bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label on every table. An open bar, for back-up. In Venezuela you take care of business first and then eat, often late. It’s assumed a big dinner makes people lethargic, which only makes common sense, especially after fishing 12 hours that same day.

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Game Time: The Big Tournament

Dawn patrol: In darkness and bright headlights, 70 contestant bass boats and their towing vehicles arrived and began launching into Lake Calabozo. We were utilizing a solid dirt peninsula, which was handy, since boats could be launched on both sides for several hundred yards. It was the start of a 21-hour day, if you counted the long dinner and awards ceremony, after 12 hours of fishing…But these guys could handle it, and so would we. Several volunteers directed traffic in the dark with flashlights, waving each boat and trailer into an open spot. They peered into our truck and said, “Ah, the Yankees,” and we grinned over our coffee mugs. In three minutes we backed into water. Boats were splashed all around and outboard engines rumbled into life up and down the line, and the eastern sky grew pink. There was some banter, but many anglers had on their game faces. As the light improved, we could see that every boat crew had matching team shirts. We had dug around and found three somewhat-matching blue Columbia Wear shirts, and that sufficed. You have to cover up from this sun, after all.

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Pre-fishing the big tournament

We spent three days pre-fishing Venezuela’s last big bass tournament of 2009, on Lake Calabozo—-just before competition arrived from all over the country. Contestants weren’t allowed to fish the lake for a week before this event, and expect to win the biggest trophies. But our hosts, Venezuela’s Bass Association, wanted to see Americans, especially pro-bass fishermen, fish their big event. Since my two companions had never seen a peacock bass, nobody seemed to mind. And what a great time we had…Our hosts know how to put on a fine tournament. Every day including the actual tournament, someone either lent us their boat or took us out all day in that 90 degree November heat. In a lake filled with tropical trees and stumps that have somewhat petrified after several generations. Our drivers dodged flailing treble hooks by keeping low in the boat, in the driver’s seat.

The North Americanos with me, pro-bassers Ron Klys of Florida and big Preston Henson from California, had never seen a peacock bass. I had fished Lake Coromoto in Venezuela several years before, so knew what to expect from these hard-hitting fish. On our first day out, a 7-pounder nailed my oversized Rattletrap. The guys were impressed, watching that fish make a powerful run for deeper water. Once around the boat, that fish had other ideas about a landing net, avoiding it several times. Suffice to say, no black bass ever fought this hard.

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Series on Fishing Venezuela

We recently toured Venezuela on a fishing expedition and crossed the country by car and truck, all the way from the beach at Caracas Airport down close to the Columbian border. Our hosts, mostly Italian farmers and ranchers whose families settled here more than 50 years ago, knew just where to stop for good food. Or gasoline, which is now roughly six cents a gallon.

Venezuela is simply a different program from North America. Here, there are no highway speed limits. That means no speed traps. You can drink and drive, don’t need a driver license (or driver’s ed), and red lights only mean there are intersections ahead. So we breezed through every red light in cities and towns, which was fun. We even saw a city bus passing slower traffic at 40 mph on a narrow shoulder of the highway, which was cool, as long as you had several Polar beers close at hand, to remain calm. Our driver John Richard (no relation) didn’t drink and drive and was rock-steady, which was good. But John has a wilder side; this quiet guy has base-jumped from skyscraper buildings in Caracas and also Angel Falls, at 3,000 feet the highest waterfall in the world—-which we hope to visit next trip.

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