Where the River Mends: Fishing, Faith, and Reconnection

I never expected that following a handful of brands on Instagram would set off a chain of events leading me to one of the most prestigious lodges and legendary sea-trout rivers in the world. When I got the message in June 2024, that I had won Flylords’ Tierra del Fuego giveaway, I thought it was a scam. It had been almost a month since I entered, and I was lying in bed sick with the flu, drifting in and out of fever dreams. When I checked my messages, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I even had my wife look to make sure I wasn’t dreaming again. Sure enough, I had won! Out of 67,882 entries, my name was called during the live drawing. A full week stay at Kau Tapen Lodge in Tierra Del Fuego, Argentina, to fish the Rio Grande and Rio Menendez for sea-run brown trout during the peak of the season. And to top it off, a list of fly gear long enough to make any avid angler’s head spin.

Normally, a trip like this would be the pinnacle of one’s fly-fishing career, but for me—at 30 years old with roughly 12 years of trout fishing experience—it felt more like the beginning. It was my first destination fishing adventure, and my first international trip altogether. I had no idea what awaited me. After weeks of research and speculation, I knew I had to prepare for anything. I had only a year of experience with a spey rod up to that point, that year consisted of just two lessons and a handful of days fishing for steelhead in local rivers. Sharpening my skills with a Skagit line and sink tips was at the top of the list, along with breaking any bad habits I’d picked up during that intermittent first year of two-handed casting. After a few follow-up casting lessons, another week of steelheading, and multiple trips to my local fly shop, I felt I had made significant strides toward the challenges that lay ahead.

Seven months after winning the fly-fishing lottery of my dreams, I stepped off a plane in Ushuaia—the southernmost city in the world, a place where the only destination farther south is Antarctica itself. After an overnight stay in Ushuaia, the reality of it hit me all at once: I was standing more than 7,500 miles from home, surrounded by a landscape so foreign, yet strangely familiar. As we drove east of the Andes, the brown, grassy hills and open flats stretching out before me felt like a scene ripped straight from central Oregon’s high desert. If not for that, I might have felt more homesick. But as we approached Kau Tapen, perched in the hills above the Rio Grande and Rio Menendez, I laid eyes on its red metal roof, rustic siding, and the all-too-familiar landscape that surrounded it. In that moment, the uncertainty of travel faded away. The lodge was more than I’d imagined, and I knew this would be the experience of a lifetime. 

As I unpacked my gear in my room, a wave of excitement, nervousness, and doubt hit me all at once. I was on the cusp of something remarkable, yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was stepping into the unknown. Spey casting had felt so different in the calm, familiar waters back home, but here, with the wind whipping off the river and the promise of sea-run brown trout waiting just beyond, I wondered if I was ready to step up to the challenge. Little did I know, those initial doubts would give way to something deeper—a journey of both fishing and reflection. Back home, I had sensed that this experience would offer more than just beautiful fish. There was something else in store for me here, but I didn’t yet understand what it was. For now, though, I pushed those thoughts aside, focusing on the adventure that lay ahead.

After a warm welcome, the lodge managers gathered us for an introduction to Kau Tapen—its storied history, the significance of this being its 40th anniversary season, and the team that made it all possible. They presented each of us with a leatherbound wool fly wallet embroidered with “Kau Tapen Lodge—40^th Anniversary” containing a small assortment of notorious flies used at the lodge including a variety of EMB nymph patterns developed at the neighboring Estancia Maria Behety Lodge, a Sunray Shadow, black and silver leech and the infamous Green Machine. This was the first of numerous gifts to come as we celebrated the lodge’s milestone anniversary. As the introduction continued, we met the guides who would be leading us through the week, as well as the staff whose warmth and attention to detail elevated the experience beyond just fishing. With a brief overview of the lodge’s amenities and our fishing schedule, we were set to begin what promised to be an unforgettable journey. That journey began at the dining table, where we sat down to our first gourmet lunch, followed by an afternoon siesta to recover from the long journey. Immediately, the tone was set with wood-fired meats, fresh salads, roasted vegetables, fine wines and delectable Dulce de Leche Crepes for dessert. It was just the beginning of what, for me, was the finest multi-course cuisine I had ever experienced. For an entire week, every meal was a masterpiece—artfully prepared, paired with exceptional wines, transforming each gathering into a celebration of both food and fellowship.   

As the afternoon hours began to fade, we geared up for our first evening warm-up session on the Rio Grande. It had been a long day of travel and settling into the rhythm of the lodge, but a palpable sense of anticipation hung in the air. The guides drove out from behind the lodge in synchronized formation, ready to line up for the guests’ transport to the river—a daily unspoken display of precision and flare. We were swept down gravel roads, off-road trails, and through the terrain, traversed only by the guides and the roaming herds of Merino Sheep and Guanaco.  This session wasn’t about catching fish—at least not primarily—but rather breaking in the rods, becoming familiar with the river’s cadence, and dialing in the casting techniques we’d rely on throughout the week. Though the fishing didn’t amount to much, it was a perfect way to get acquainted with the water and witness the first of several magenta-hued sunsets of Tierra del Fuego. 

The following day brought a different kind of excitement. We set out for our morning session on the Rio Menendez—an intimate, rugged tributary with water that seemed to hold secrets in every bend. I landed three sizeable fish, each more powerful and vibrant than the last. The first two—a pair in the 6-7 pound range—came quickly on different variations of the EMB pattern. Their silvery-blue sheen was a testament to their fresh run from the ocean, and each one felt like a gift from the river itself. As the day unfolded, my anticipation shifted toward the evening, when the river would reveal it’s true potential.

The rain had started to fall in the mid-evening, the air cooling with the setting sun, and the fishing slowing down with the changing light and weather conditions. We waited for sundown, when the sea-trout stir in the confidence of night. By 10:45pm, there was only room for a few more casts before retreating to the lodge for supper. My fishing partner had already retired to the car, discouraged by the cold drizzle and fading action, though he’d landed several nice fish earlier that morning. I wasn’t ready to quit. My guide, Patrick—known locally as “Pcket”—quietly approached and said, “Alright, last cast”.  In near-total darkness, I sent my black-and-silver leech 45 degrees downstream to the far bank, mended gently, and waited. Doubt crept in. My patience thinned. Then it happened. A violent jolt. The line snapped tight. The rod jerked in my hands. The water exploded—silver and brown flashing under the night sky as the fish erupted, leaping and thrashing. After a heart-pounding fight, we cradled her in the shallows: 31 inches, 17 pounds of pure, wild sea-run brown trout—my largest catch to date. Pcket and I shared a brief, triumphant moment before carefully releasing her back into the Menendez, where she vanished like a shadow in the current, leaving ripples in the current—and a memory etched deep.

As we made our way back to the lodge, a surge of emotions hit me—fulfillment, gratitude, disbelief. It wasn’t just about the fish; it was the way doubt gave way to success, adventure intertwined with beauty, and every cast offering a chance for clarity.  Back at the lodge, I recounted the tale, met with grins, cheers, and toasts from fellow anglers. Their encouragement warmed me, but something deeper stirred beneath the surface—a quiet realization that this trip was shaping into more than just a fishing adventure. It was the beginning of something I couldn’t yet name, a thread pulling me toward reflection, growth, and reconnection in ways I never expected.

Before coming on the trip, I was grappling with growing tension in my relationship with my father—the man who introduced me to fly fishing as a boy and raised me in the Christian faith, instilling a strong work ethic and integrity. The reasons are complex, rooted in years of unspoken tension.

Leaving behind my wife of ten years and our four young daughters was hard enough. Ten days away from home was the longest stretch I’d ever been apart from them. As I settled into Kau Tapen, I found myself in a quiet state of turmoil, wrestling with more than just the challenges of the river.

One evening, I found myself in conversation with a fellow guest, Lech, a man from Poland who had extended his stay a second week after a slow week of fishing before I arrived. We bonded over stories of family and the complexities of parenthood. There was something about his openness, the way he spoke plainly about life, nature, and the fragile threads that connect us.

He shared how he’d drifted from the faith he was raised in, only to rediscover it after the sudden loss of both parents—before he’d had the chance to reconcile with them. His story stayed with me, its weight pressing on a part of me I’d tried to ignore. His missed chance at reconciliation mirrored the one I was letting slip away. Through our conversations, something stirred. I found the courage to take a step back toward my own faith journey—and, simultaneously, toward healing the rift with my father. It brought an unexpected sense of relief, like the smooth release of a well-timed cast falling gently on the water.

The next morning on the water, I barely cast a line. There was no rush, no pressure to land a fish. Instead, I found myself drawn to stillness—standing waist-deep in the current, letting the rhythm of the river move around me. Gentle Celtic music played softly from my pocket, blending with the sound of the wind and water as I watched Andean condors soar effortlessly overhead. It was as if the world had slowed, giving me space to meditate in prayer over everything he and I had discussed. I wasn’t searching for answers, just letting the weight of it all settle in—much like the river settling into its bends, carving a path forward with time. It was a day of peace.

Feeling refreshed, my focus shifted back to the river—back to the sea-trout, the pull of the next cast. It was time to fish. By this time, it was my third full day of fishing, and the winds of Tierra del Fuego began to roar. Casting in 40-50 mph gusts was a true test of everything I had prepared for. All the technical spey casting form I’d practiced seemed to go out the window when faced with the brutal crosswind. It was no longer about perfect execution—it was about getting the fly where it needed to be, no matter the cost or how ugly the cast. 

Our guide, Chris, a Swede with an easy sense of humor, made the day’s challenges not just bearable, but enjoyable. Every other day we alternated between the Menendez tributary as well as a certain section of the Rio Grande, though I can’t recall if it was the upper or lower section those days. The sea-trout were picky, forcing us to experiment beyond the usual fly selection. I landed a particularly stunning 13-pounder on a small black Icelandic salmon fly.

Later that evening, we found ourselves back on the Menendez, blessed with calmer winds that allowed for more delicate presentation in the dark, clear night. Again, as routine would suggest, casting a silver and black leech pattern just after dark proved to be the key. A well-placed cast 45 degrees downstream, followed by a gentle jig and a long, slow strip, yielded a sudden strike that was all too familiar from my first night on the Menendez. The fight was on.

What felt like a modest-sized fish breached the surface, but as it leapt again, thrashing and twisting in midair, its true size became apparent. Then again. And again. By Chris’s count, the fish had jumped a dozen times before I finally worked it into the shallow gravel bed. When I lifted it from the net, I could hardly believe it—34 inches, 18 pounds, a beautifully colored-up female. I had done it. I had topped my personal best from the first night—three inches longer, a pound heavier. Mission accomplished.

Satisfied, I asked Chris if I could spend the last half-hour experimenting with a fun fly selection. I reached for a large black and purple intruder, a winter steelheading favorite back home. Walking to the top of the pool, I made my first cast to gauge distance. On the second, another take. After a shorter fight, I landed my final fish of the day: another well-colored 10-11lb female.

By this point in the week, the numbers didn’t matter as much. The personal bests, the challenges overcome, the unforgettable battles—those were already etched into memory. What stood out now were the moments shared; the friendships forged on the river. Among them, one of the most meaningful was my time fishing with Jake, a Canadian guide whose easygoing nature and shared love for the outdoors made him feel like an old friend. As a fellow North American, he carried a familiar woodsy, country vibe—laid-back but sharp on the water, with a deep appreciation for the craft. We shared plenty of laughs, but also moments of pure astonishment, like when I hooked into a strong 12-13 pounder that launched itself clear out of the river, torpedoing onto the grassy bank. In an instant, it flopped the hook from its mouth and slid back into the water, vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. We stood there, stunned, before breaking into laughter, shaking our heads at the wild unpredictability of these fish. Later, in the early evening session, Jake helped me net a beautiful male that had been in the river for some time—a huge goal of mine for the trip. As the golden light of sunset settled over the water, he captured some of my favorite photos of the week, the kind that preserve not just the fish, but the feeling of the moment. By the end of the trip, it was clear this wasn’t the last time we’d fish together—our paths would cross again, rods in hand, on another river somewhere down the line.

There were no fish landed for me on the last day, out with Nahuel, the head guide—only the bittersweet taste of a large fish hooked and lost after an acrobatic escape, leaving me with a deeper hunger to return for fish not caught and lessons left unlearned. And perhaps, that was the perfect way to end the trip. As I packed my gear for the journey home, I realized just how much I was taking with me—far more than the refined casting techniques and new approaches that would serve me well on my home waters in pursuit of salmon and steelhead. This trip had been about more than just fishing. It was about faith, family, and the friendships formed in the flow of the river. I had come to Tierra del Fuego eager to test my skills against the sea-run browns of the Rio Grande, but I left with something far greater—clarity, reconnection, and the reminder that the best moments in life, like the best moments in fishing, are often shared.

Among all the relationships forged on the river, one remained unfinished—the one with my father, the man who first put a fly rod in my hands. More than anything, I felt a renewed desire to stand beside him on the water again, to cast together in quiet understanding, and to let the river mend what words never could.

There is so much more to this story than can be explored in these pages. The deep, relational moments—the conversations that lingered by the fire, the silent understandings exchanged on the riverbank—are not easily distilled into words without diminishing their weight. They remain where they belong, carried forward in memory, shaping the journey ahead.