Beneath the Southern Cross

It is hard to convey what I haven't fully processed as we are still living this dream angling adventure in Argentine Patagonia. Still, I wish to put something down in words to share a taste of what we have experienced over the last few weeks. If I were to choose one word to describe our time here, that word would be magical.

We arrived in Argentina mid-morning on Wednesday, the 12th, after a very long travel day that routed us through New York and on to Buenos Aires. Seeing our name on the hand-held sign after we cleared customs and retrieved our luggage was comforting. Our bags arrived as they should, which was extremely gratifying as we had received word that was not the case with a few of our guests. While they didn't miss out on any fishing, they truly missed some items packed in their checked bags.*

Our flight to San Martin wasn't until Thursday morning, so we took the opportunity to explore the area of Buenos Aires near our hotel. Our transfer host highlighted a few places to visit during our brief stay. The first stop was for gelato to hold us over until lunchtime, then a walk around the neighborhood and through the park that fronted an old mission and a famous cemetery. We soon gave in to jetlag and returned to our hotel for a short siesta, then awakened somewhat refreshed to have a late lunch at a street cafe, then another long walk, soaking in the sights and sounds of this city of over 15 million people. It is a city filled with life and laughter, as most Argentinians put living well high on their list. People play with their dogs in the dog parks, kids kick soccer balls, groups practice yoga, and friends gather for dinner and drinks in the many restaurants that spill into the open air. As darkness signaled the end of the day, we returned to our lodging for a light dinner and sleep, dreaming of the Trout waiting for us on the Chimehuin River.

A relatively early two-hour flight finally brought most of our guests together for the first time since departing the Great Northwest. We landed in San Martin late in the morning, and after once again retrieving our bags, we stepped outside the airport to be met by a train of trucks towing drift boats, an obvious sign that we had landed in the right place. We tossed in our luggage and were off.

The Chimehuin River House is straight from the pages of a coffee table book of country dream houses, and we almost forgot to gather our fishing gear as we soaked in every detail of the wood and stone structure. The staff scurried around, ensuring we were all comfortable, as we changed into fishing clothes and grabbed our gear.

We soon gathered in the "rigging area," where each angler had a bench with hanging hooks and storage for boots and other tackle, complete with their name on a chalkboard header. We rigged up 5-wt. and 6-wt. rods, met our guides, and headed down the dusty roads that led to the different beats.

Our guide, Nicola, wasn't at 100%, having encountered something the day before that didn't agree with him. Fortunately, he had drawn us as guests. While we had never fished these waters, with minimal instruction, Jennifer and I started catching fish on various dry flies tossed into the shadows of hanging willows as Nicola navigated downriver on autopilot. Fiesty Rainbows and Browns to 19 inches rose to ants, beetles, and small Chubbies. We floated along; Jennifer and I worried about our guide's misery. Finally, Nicola asked if we could quit at 6:00 so he could go to the doctor in town. We happily agreed and headed to the takeout.

It is said by those who would know that diets are forgotten in Argentina. This is a country that loves good food and knows how to make it. Our evening meal and dessert, combined with the hors d'oeuvres served before, had us all pushing away from the table, fully satisfied. Conversations before, during, and after dinner allow everyone to get to know each other, forming a bond of adventure that will carry on long after we return home. After a stargazing session, we retired for the evening to a much-needed restful sleep.

The next day, Nicola was in much better shape, and we set off for another day of dry flies, big Trout, and incredible birding. Trout are not native to Patagonia but were introduced from North America, England, Denmark, and other countries in the early 1900s. The cold waters of Chile and Argentina proved to be welcoming to these invasives, launching a sport fishing industry that provides income to thousands of Patagonians. These introduced salmonids do not seem to compete with the native species; in fact, they probably provide forage for the larger Patagonian perch or 'Perca,' several of which grabbed streamers on the Collon Cura and Limay rivers when we fished those waters. An old saying among Argentina's angling historians is that 'In Patagonia, God created perfect trout habitat… he just forgot about the trout!' Over a century later, Patagonia has a valid claim to the title of Trout Fishing Capital of the World.

To be continued...