Bass Brothers

HE HAD INTRODUCED HIMSELF as Diablo. We were sure it was a nickname, but given the language barrier, getting to a real nombre seemed unlikely. Or necessary. The devil it was. He couldn’t have been older than 25, and his English was sparse, but every time I opened my streamer box, quiet Diablo pointed to a handful of Clouser Minnows stuck in the corner, mostly hidden by the hair, flash, and plumage of much bigger, fancier, more modern flies.

“This fly is very good, sir,” he would mutter through the blue Buff protecting his face from the blazing sun.

The problem was that my old friend Tim Romano and I didn’t come to Mexico to throw Clousers. Part of the reason we were invited to Lake Picachos in the first place was to see what two devout streamer junkies fluent in the new meat-fly world order could produce on what’s being touted as Mexico’s next great largemouth fishery. Clousers, in our minds, were numbers flies, not size flies. Those same minds, subsequently, had been wondering for a full day and a