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Patagonia’s Lakes Make Whoppers of American Trout Descendants of 1914 Brood Reach 15 Pounds In Nahuel Huapi By W. W. SHIPPEN, Jr. Star Staff Correspondent. BUENOS AIRES.—We’ve heard a lot of stories about the North American whoppers that thrive in Lake Nahuel Huapi!… From the sportsmen who came some 11,000 miles from Hawaii to fish for them, and accompanied us South in the S. S. Uruguay. And later, in Buenos Aires, from a young man who helped his father and a United States Bureau of Fisheries agent introduce them to snow-fed streams and lakes under the Andes in Patagonia. (W. H. Shippen, Jr.) The young man is Diego Newberry, a graduate of the University of Minnesota, and now assistant editor of “Mundo Argentino,” a local weekly magazine. His father, the late George Newberry, was a pioneer in the days when Patagonia was frontier country. The elder Newberry, at the age of 21, worked his way to Argentina before the mast in a sailing vessel, after graduating in dentistry from New York University. He did a lot of traveling in the South, and became much attached to the lake region of Patagonia with its clear water, snow-capped mountains and rich grazing land. Trout Request Granted. Mr. Newberry, about 1914, persuaded the Bureau of Fisheries in Washington to send brook trout speckled and rainbow—to Argentina for introduction in southern streams and lakes. The bureau dispatched an agent with several large metal containers of fingerling trout. The younger Newberry was about 12 years old then, and managed to persuade his father to let him accompany him on the trip to the back country. The trout were taken to the end of the railway, then on the Rio Negro River, about half way across the continent. The remaining 300 miles was done by mule train. This trek lasted for more than a month, and led across a country partly desert. Getting changes of fresh water for the young trout was only one of many difficulties like keeping metal containers cool by shading them from the sun. The party introduced the surviving trout into Lake Nahuel Huapi, saving a few for the upper streams. These they transported in a container secured on two poles which dragged behind an ox, Indian style. It was a long, tough voyage for the trout, but the survivors must have been selected stock…to hear fishermen tell about them! Descendents Grow to Whoppers. Young Mr. Newberry is authority for the statement that he has taken descendants of the original rainbows up to 15 pounds in recent years! The sportsmen from Hawaii, who had fished in New Zealand and throughout the Southern Pacific, had heard about the trout for years. They said if the fish of Nahuel Huapi liv ed up to their reputations, they would be afraid to go home without evidence (photographic and otherwise) to back up their stories. I think I’m going fishing there myself! The biggest rainbow I ever landed was a 140inch whopper in the Blue Ridge Mountains. If such trout grow to 15 pounds in Nahuel Huapi, I’m afraid one of them will land me! Next: The “wild and wooly” Argentine. American ‘Bad Men’ Who Sought Frontiers In Patagonia Tamed Present Generation Recalls Restling and Range Warfare By W. H. SHIPPEN, Jr. Star Staff Correspondent. BUENOS AIRES.—The taming of the West sent some tough citizens down this way in search of a new frontier. They showed up looking for broad minds and wide pastures after law and order moved into Texas, Arizona and the Northwest—keen, soft-spoken men, who said little and saw much. Such things as Indian raids, cattle rustlings and open warfare for choice ranges are within the experience of middle-aged to youngish Patagonian ranchers, and there were tough-and-ready days no farther back than the 80s during the building of La Plata (the capital of the Province of Buenos Aires) and the extension of railroads into the interior. A friend of mine here, the son of a pioneer Patagonian land owner, has helped to fight off rustlers, thieving Indians, squatters and local bad men from his father’s herds and grazing lands in the Southern Andes, and he is still a young man! His father came to Buenos Aires in the 80s on a sailing vessel from New York, in the days when passengers were landed at the water front in high-wheeled ox carts dragged over a mud bottom to the anchorage in the channel. Unofficial Official. “There weren’t many North Americans down here then,” the son said, “and my father became a sort of unofficial vice consul. Some pretty strange fellow countrymen drifted into port from time to time and most of them looked up my father—for advice, a night’s lodging, a loan or what have you. My father had a big heart. He helped them all he could. “One party he ofter told about consisted of three—two Westerners and a hard-faced blond woman. They said they thought of settling in the South, and required much specific information—about roads, facilities for water travel, settlements, banks and police protection. My father helped them all he could before he began to wonder why three such hard-looking customers were worried about police protection. “Well, he found out later. Those three were the fanciest shots who ever hit the south country. They robbed the local bank and such estancias as had anything worth lugging off. The old ranches were few and far between. Each house usually had a tree or so for shade. The party had an original way of announcing its arrival. The woman would ride around the ranch tree at a full gallop, knocking off the bark in a perfect circle with her six shooters Soldiers Learned Lesson. “Then the men would drive off the horses from the estancia, herding them ahead. Soldiers went in pursuit. When they drew too near, the three would shoot the legs from under the pursuing horses. They were so talented at this the soldiers eventually learned not to get too near—when they did, they usually stopped to have mate! I don’t know what happened to the three in the end, but they seemed to have gotten clean away. “My father used to tell of a young Texan who landed here off a boat, penniless and without friends, He seemed a likeable, clean-cut youngster, and my father lent him money to get out of the country. He heard from him a year later—from the Federal Penitentiary at Atlanta. Enclosed in the letter was money to repay the loan, and an explanation of the youth’s presence in Buenos Aires. “It seems he had been a member of a gang of cattle rustlers who raided Texas herds dressed as Mexicans, and Mexican herds dressed as Texans. They prospered until one of the gang betrayed them into an ambush that proved fatal to several rustlers. The youth escaped and got a boat south from New Orleans. While in the Argentine he learned that his mother had been arrested as a ringleader of the gang, and returned to try to free and avenge her, with the result that he himself landed in jail on a murder charge. He did not say so, but left the impression he had killed the betrayer.” About “Two-Gun” Smith. “Two-Gun Smith” shot his way into the legends of the country during the building of La Plata in the 80s. He hailed from the American Northwest—nobody knew just where. His enemies said he came to rob and remained to take a more lucrative job as bodyguard for a boss politician. At that time a railroad was being pushed from La Plata on the coast to Mendoza in the interior. The laborers were holy terrors to the little cow towns along the route on pay days. “Two-gun” was hired to restore order. He did this so effectively that he became a power in the land, and even, it was said, elected his own governor after the railroad opened up the fruit and wine resources of Mendoza. The Argentine in general and Patagonia in particular are law-abiding regions now. Deeds of violence are slant indeed compared with our crime record. The only culprits whose activities have been strenuous enough to break into the local papers since we’ve been here are reputed to be the followers of one “Chaco Chico,” a suspected kidnaper accused of other misdeeds. The authorities say he issued orders that resulted in the death of another shady character. The windpipe of the latter unfortunate had been compressed between the head and shoulders until he was dead. I’m glad to hear that Patagonia is not too wild and wooly. We have train reservations we don’t wish to concel. For several days we’ve been negotiating by wire to turn out some gauchos to boleadora Patagonian ostriches for the Washington Zoo. This is proving difficult, as it’s the rainy season and the gauchos’ horses may not be able to outrun the longlegs birds on a muddy track. Next: Eve of Independence Day. Was the Peon Rich Because He Could Afford an Ostrich? Dr. Mann’s Party Debates The Question in a Ride Over Monotonous Prairie By W. H. SHIPPEN, Jr. EN ROUTE TO BARILOCHE, Patagonia.—Was the peon wealthy because he could afford an ostrich? We debated the question, for lack of something better to do, while our train ran through a desert—an endless monotony of dust, scrub, bunch grass and lonely shee camps. The ostrich in question stolled in and out of a thatched shack beside which our car halted, for some unexplained reason, on a vast plain. (W. H. Shippen.) Dogs and children bumbled out to look us over, while the ostrich and a flock of chickens, less curious but more practical, made the best of the opportunity to gobble up such trifles as struck their fancy. “The ostrich is eating more than all the chickens,” said the zoologist in out party. “He’s eating the family out of house and home. Look how thin the children are! An ostrich gobbles everything in sight—eyeglasses, wrist watches, jewels * * *. I knew a diamond merchant in Bolivia who all but lost his fortune because of an ostrich!” Probably Looked Up To. “That may be,” admitted a veteran of the Patagonian back country, “but I insist that the peon must be rich, compared with his neighbors, to be able to afford an ostrich. I’ll bet his family is regarded locally as well to do. The neighboring wives are saying to their husbands, ‘I see that the Joneses have an ostrich—why can’t you get ahead in the world?’” The old-timer pointed out that the peon—the head of the household—was nowhere in sight. “That peon is out herding sheep to make a living for his wife and family,” he said. “If you notice other shacks, you’ll see bead-winners sitting around resting. They don’t have an ostrich to make them get up and go somewhere!” “All right,” yawned the zoologist, “you win. But please don’t spread that propaganda around here! You see, I’m in the market for a flock of Patagonian ostriches. I would prefer that the Patagonians regard ostriches as liabilities instead of assets!” Monotonous Country. The conversation languished, as well it might. The flat country, hour after hour, only repeated a total lack of variety. The approach of twilight purpled the plains to the far rim of the horizon. Now and then our train flashed by the fires of lone sheep herders. We twisted our necks to see them, wrapped in ponchos, huddled over tiny blazes. It was cold on the desert. Once, at nightfall, a single projection came over the horizon—a tiny landmark far off in the scrub. It turned out to be a windmill miles away—the only sign of habitation for 40 miles or more. The North Patagonian Desert seemed infinitely lonelier because of one dwelling. The ladies in our party watched the windmill in the fading light. “I hope the woman who lives over there feels that she’s getting ahead in the world,” one of them said. “So do I!” exclaimed the zoologist. “Let’s get off here—maybe the family has an ostrich!” Our train, however, kept rolling along.
