06-08-2009, 08:49 PM
Further adventures of Steve Shoulders on Lake Guri:
"Hello Fisherpersons,
We at HFC have been anxiously awaiting the start of our annual rainy season, and Mother Nature, being her fickle self, has held off on these rains for a month. During the past month, I haven't put out a fishing report primarily because the fishing sucked, and secondarily because we have been busy putting new roofs on several of the main camp structures in preparation for the rains. The roofs are on, or at least the most important ones are, and now we can talk about the great fishing in store for our clients in the coming months.
But first I want to tell you of a little incident that transpired two weekends ago. All of our clients departed early Sunday morning, and the next group were not due until the following afternoon, so it was decided that myself, my wife, my niece, and two guides would venture over to the Pemon Indian village located six miles upriver from the camp for our annual neighborhood public relations gesture. I have always maintained a good relationship with the local Indians, and I hope to continue on for many years in this same fashion.
When you visit Indians in their natural habitat, one thing you notice immediately is that the men congregate together, and the women usually serve them. Not unlike life at my home, except for the serving and being nice part on the women's side.
Since they know I have a bad knee and sitting cross-legged on the ground is out of the question, unless there is a large forklift available to get me up, they yield to my being an invalid and bring out the tree stumps to sit on under a large mango tree. Once seated comfortably, the festivities invariably kick off with the local village chief breaking out the 'cachiri', which is Indian white lightning - moonshine, cat whiskey, or any other name you know homemade booze to be called. Prepared by fermenting yucca sqeezings with sugar added over a low burning wood fire, a really good batch of this elixir might be aged all of five or six days!
Their party begins with the village chief pouring me a hearty ration of 'cachiri' in a gourd cup. It is considered bad manners to only sip on this drink, and chugging down the entire offering is always greeted by my fellow shade tree sitters with clapping and considerable chattering. Knowing what is expected of me, I turned the cup up and swallowed down the four big gulps of white liquid, and then immediately passed the cup to the man to my right.
It was about then I began to feel a tingling sensation in my throat, which caused me to think to myself, "Holy Crap!!! Great Balls Afire!!!! I have just Roto Rootered my digestive tract." Now certain I have done permanent injury to myself, I fight for air, since I now realize that I haven't drawn a breath since in taking this flammable cocktail. With tears freely flowing down my cheeks, I begin to breath again, only to realize the cup has made its rounds and is now being placed in my trembling hands for round two. The chief pours me another hefty ration, and dumbass me, I chug down another load of poison. My breath departs for another journey somewhere besides my lungs, and I begin to see a phenomenal fireworks display that I now realize only I could witness.
After about four rounds, I am now getting in the correct mood of the day's festivities. This means I didn't know what was taking place, and actually didn't care. About this time, music started playing loudly, although I never saw the source of this music. I noticed various Indians were beginning to dance in groups, which is an interesting sight, since Indians do not dance salsa, meringue, or any of the other Latino dances, but rather do more hopping and arm swinging.
Numb to the point I could have been hit with a school bus and not felt it, I jumped to my feet and began my version of their dance, or at least this is what my wife told me the next day when we had a review of my actions over Gatorade and Bloody Mary's. I do recall that during one of my landings from having made a higher than normal hop, a quick escape of gases from my rear area caused me to stop in my tracks. Whatever that had just left my body in the form of gas had left a trail of flames, which to me seemed to be growing in intensity with each high pitched scream I emitted. My wife says the Indians thought I was really getting into the dancing, and they tried as best they could to imitate my movements and screaming. Just before I was sure I would pass out from the pain, I stumbled over to my personal stump chair, plopped down on it only to be immediately aware this would only increase my discomfort, and somehow managed to return to a standing position.
The local Shaman, aka witch doctor, dropped by about then, and as a special treat to me as an honored guest of the village, he offered to blow a bit of red dust up my nose with a blowgun. This was supposed to allow me to go visit all my dead relatives in order to gain insight into life itself. Thankfully, I was sufficiently in control to tell him I didn't have the normally required three days of free time to indulge in such a cosmic journey, and besides, I never liked most of my relatives when they were alive, so I could see no benefit from visiting them dead.
It has now been eight days since this adventure, and I still can't taste anything, I have double vision most days, my anus has shutdown for repairs, and I go into violent shakes every time I see a glass of water. I guess I should be thankful we only do this once a year, and next year I am sending a proxy.
Friends, the seasonal rains finally have begun to fall, and that means something special to all HFC clients, which is fishing is going to be going crazy the next few months. Both peacock bass and payara fishing will be what many consider to be the best all year, and the stories of broken lines and lost big'uns will be plentiful each evening over cocktails at the camp. Spinnerbaits will be making their annual revival as the number one all-round fish finder, and there will be virtually no type of bait in your tackle boxes that will not attract a hit during this period of frantic feeding by both species of sportfish. Topwater fanatics can get their share of nerve shattering explosions as they fish the small inlets and shallow flats along the river channel.
You will need at least 50-lb braided fishing line during this period, because the majority of the fish will be holding tight in the rockpíles along the edge of the rivers, or the various entanglements of blown down trees that pile up along the channels. Dragging a 'Bubba' size fish out of these areas with strong current assisting the fish is not an easy chore. You will find this type of fishing to be more like warfare than sportfishing. It would also be a good idea to make sure you pick a rainsuit to bring along.
This week's main photo is of Edwardo Rivas, 10 year old son of HFC gardner, Ramon. I have been teaching Edwardo a few of the finer points of peacock bass fishing, and as you can see from the photo taken this past weekend, he is a good student. I have also included a few photos from last July of the fish caught by our clients.
There are some openings still left in late July on weekends, and various days available during the week, so just contact AL at South Fishing to get started arranging a special fishing trip for you and your friends or family.
Regards,
Steve"
"Hello Fisherpersons,
We at HFC have been anxiously awaiting the start of our annual rainy season, and Mother Nature, being her fickle self, has held off on these rains for a month. During the past month, I haven't put out a fishing report primarily because the fishing sucked, and secondarily because we have been busy putting new roofs on several of the main camp structures in preparation for the rains. The roofs are on, or at least the most important ones are, and now we can talk about the great fishing in store for our clients in the coming months.
But first I want to tell you of a little incident that transpired two weekends ago. All of our clients departed early Sunday morning, and the next group were not due until the following afternoon, so it was decided that myself, my wife, my niece, and two guides would venture over to the Pemon Indian village located six miles upriver from the camp for our annual neighborhood public relations gesture. I have always maintained a good relationship with the local Indians, and I hope to continue on for many years in this same fashion.
When you visit Indians in their natural habitat, one thing you notice immediately is that the men congregate together, and the women usually serve them. Not unlike life at my home, except for the serving and being nice part on the women's side.
Since they know I have a bad knee and sitting cross-legged on the ground is out of the question, unless there is a large forklift available to get me up, they yield to my being an invalid and bring out the tree stumps to sit on under a large mango tree. Once seated comfortably, the festivities invariably kick off with the local village chief breaking out the 'cachiri', which is Indian white lightning - moonshine, cat whiskey, or any other name you know homemade booze to be called. Prepared by fermenting yucca sqeezings with sugar added over a low burning wood fire, a really good batch of this elixir might be aged all of five or six days!
Their party begins with the village chief pouring me a hearty ration of 'cachiri' in a gourd cup. It is considered bad manners to only sip on this drink, and chugging down the entire offering is always greeted by my fellow shade tree sitters with clapping and considerable chattering. Knowing what is expected of me, I turned the cup up and swallowed down the four big gulps of white liquid, and then immediately passed the cup to the man to my right.
It was about then I began to feel a tingling sensation in my throat, which caused me to think to myself, "Holy Crap!!! Great Balls Afire!!!! I have just Roto Rootered my digestive tract." Now certain I have done permanent injury to myself, I fight for air, since I now realize that I haven't drawn a breath since in taking this flammable cocktail. With tears freely flowing down my cheeks, I begin to breath again, only to realize the cup has made its rounds and is now being placed in my trembling hands for round two. The chief pours me another hefty ration, and dumbass me, I chug down another load of poison. My breath departs for another journey somewhere besides my lungs, and I begin to see a phenomenal fireworks display that I now realize only I could witness.
After about four rounds, I am now getting in the correct mood of the day's festivities. This means I didn't know what was taking place, and actually didn't care. About this time, music started playing loudly, although I never saw the source of this music. I noticed various Indians were beginning to dance in groups, which is an interesting sight, since Indians do not dance salsa, meringue, or any of the other Latino dances, but rather do more hopping and arm swinging.
Numb to the point I could have been hit with a school bus and not felt it, I jumped to my feet and began my version of their dance, or at least this is what my wife told me the next day when we had a review of my actions over Gatorade and Bloody Mary's. I do recall that during one of my landings from having made a higher than normal hop, a quick escape of gases from my rear area caused me to stop in my tracks. Whatever that had just left my body in the form of gas had left a trail of flames, which to me seemed to be growing in intensity with each high pitched scream I emitted. My wife says the Indians thought I was really getting into the dancing, and they tried as best they could to imitate my movements and screaming. Just before I was sure I would pass out from the pain, I stumbled over to my personal stump chair, plopped down on it only to be immediately aware this would only increase my discomfort, and somehow managed to return to a standing position.
The local Shaman, aka witch doctor, dropped by about then, and as a special treat to me as an honored guest of the village, he offered to blow a bit of red dust up my nose with a blowgun. This was supposed to allow me to go visit all my dead relatives in order to gain insight into life itself. Thankfully, I was sufficiently in control to tell him I didn't have the normally required three days of free time to indulge in such a cosmic journey, and besides, I never liked most of my relatives when they were alive, so I could see no benefit from visiting them dead.
It has now been eight days since this adventure, and I still can't taste anything, I have double vision most days, my anus has shutdown for repairs, and I go into violent shakes every time I see a glass of water. I guess I should be thankful we only do this once a year, and next year I am sending a proxy.
Friends, the seasonal rains finally have begun to fall, and that means something special to all HFC clients, which is fishing is going to be going crazy the next few months. Both peacock bass and payara fishing will be what many consider to be the best all year, and the stories of broken lines and lost big'uns will be plentiful each evening over cocktails at the camp. Spinnerbaits will be making their annual revival as the number one all-round fish finder, and there will be virtually no type of bait in your tackle boxes that will not attract a hit during this period of frantic feeding by both species of sportfish. Topwater fanatics can get their share of nerve shattering explosions as they fish the small inlets and shallow flats along the river channel.
You will need at least 50-lb braided fishing line during this period, because the majority of the fish will be holding tight in the rockpíles along the edge of the rivers, or the various entanglements of blown down trees that pile up along the channels. Dragging a 'Bubba' size fish out of these areas with strong current assisting the fish is not an easy chore. You will find this type of fishing to be more like warfare than sportfishing. It would also be a good idea to make sure you pick a rainsuit to bring along.
This week's main photo is of Edwardo Rivas, 10 year old son of HFC gardner, Ramon. I have been teaching Edwardo a few of the finer points of peacock bass fishing, and as you can see from the photo taken this past weekend, he is a good student. I have also included a few photos from last July of the fish caught by our clients.
There are some openings still left in late July on weekends, and various days available during the week, so just contact AL at South Fishing to get started arranging a special fishing trip for you and your friends or family.
Regards,
Steve"