Wading into Patagonia

From the moment I walked off the bus, I knew I was where I was suppose to be. Carved into the Andes, Bariloche sits on the shores of Nahuel Haupi Lake. The lake flows like a sea. Past the caps of its wind swept waves stands the distant snow topped peaks of the Andes. After checking into my hostel, I set my gear aside and strolled down to the rocky shores of Nahuel Haupi. I felt compelled to wash away my city skin, and baptise myself in this Patagonian lake. With my shoes and camera aside, I waded in and then plunged into its frigid embrace. Water streamed down my face as I emerged. The initial shock of the piercing cold was immediately subdued by the scene I floated in. The sapphire water drew my eyes down its expanse to the solemn spectacle of the Andes.

Returning to my hostel, I opened a celebratory bottle of Argentinian Cabernet Sauvignon. I sipped at the wine contently and smiled to each that entered the hostel. As the last of the wine circled the bottle´s bottom, I felt all inhibitions drift away. Just then, three gents carrying fishing rods strolled in. I followed excitedly behind them up the stairs to the room I had also be assigned. ¨Estais pescadores¨, I asked unsure of their nationality. Picking up on my American accent, they responded in English, ¨Yea, we´re trying to do some fishing.¨ They were Aussies on an extended holiday. After some banter over where I was from and my interest in fishing, they invited me to join them in hiring a car and exploring the various rivers we had all seen on the bus ride to Bariloche.

The next day, we rose on the bright and piled into a small Volkswagen. Accustomed to driving on the left side of the road (or the proper side of the road as they described it), the Aussies insisted that I drive. We set out, each with a distinct image of where to fish. Dave, the fly fisherman of the bunch, sat next to me at shotgun. He insisted on a very particular piece of water. Having seen the water myself, I was in complete agreement with Dave. We followed the lone road out of Bariloche with eyes glued to the paralleled Rio Limay. Passing pristine fisheries, we drove for two hours in search of this idyllic stretch. When coming to a bridge which we all knew marked the end of the lake district, we concluded that we must have past the spot. I pulled a U-Turn and headed back to Bariloche. Brimming with the anticipation to fish, and encouraged by the speedy traffic I witnessed on the drive out, I floored the old Volkswagen down the winding highway. Each of us day dreamed of our first cast, and let the scene before us fade into unimportance. Going 135 kmhr, a speed I only later figured into mph, we zoomed back. As I drove, my mind feverishly calculated the time it would take us to backtrack . Indulging in speed, I whipped around the bends towards my fishing dream. Then suddenly, Whaaap! Black and white feathers exploded on the windshield. In the rear view, I saw the bird spiral like a downed jet fighter to the pavement. Ripped out of their daydreams, my mates shot around to our wake and saw the poor bird transpire on the road. ¨Damn Rob, ¨Dave broke the silence in his Aussie accent. ¨More food for the vultures I guess.¨

It was not long till after that we found a fishy looking spot on the Limay and pulled the two door, bird battering machine to the side. We rigged our rods, and jumped the cattle fence to the water. The beautifully blue river flowed lazily along. On the opposite bank stood a ragged rock formation. Not use to fishing slow water like this, the early part of my day was rather frustrating. Later in the day my luck improved when I met up with Dave. He rigged with a dry fly, and me a nymphing set up, we stalked fish like a sniper team. Picking out a big rainbow that continually sipped at the surface, I made a cast out to him. My double fly set up landed and momentarily broke the tranquility of the moving surface. Watching the submerged flies drift towards the fish my eyes burned with concentration. The fish´s take was only indicated by the subtle white flash of the his opened mouth. I shot my bowed rod to the sky and felt the tiny hook of my beadheaded nymph set. Hooked, the fish ran towards the protection of underwater brush and rocks. With rod raised high, relying on the strength of my knots, I dictated the fish´s course to the shores. Reaching down into the now muddied water, I landed my first Argentine rainbow.

The next day, Dave, Greg, John and I pulled the car over along a high cliff from which we could make out a magical stretch of the Limay below. We hiked down along a rocky path, then through a long snake infested plane. I led the way around snake holes as I had the best protections against a bite having worn boots and gaiters. The three others were still in their holiday gear of sandals and bathing suits. The whole time I laughed to myself, thinking that despite living in Australia, a place infamous for its venomous snakes and spiders, these three chaps were just as scared as I was. I enjoyed the company of my new Aussie friends immensely. Each reminded me of someone I had known in my life. They were exceedingly kind to me and to one another. I felt blessed to have met them.

Cringing as we hurried through the very real threat of getting bit by a snake, we continually reminded one another that we were going to find virgin waters. We said that the risks we took would be rewarded with fish that have never seen a fly before. And that's exactly what we found. The river flowed quickly and was only accessible at certain clearings. We walked along a semi-beaded path through the brush and eventually came to high rock formation. We bouldered to the other side where the Limay flowed around massive rocks. After some time without any luck, Dave called me over to a huge boulder he was fishing from. ¨Rob, I got a huge rainbow right here. I have thrown everything I got at him, but I can´t get down to him quick enough. You want to give him a shot?¨ Of course I want a shot. I rushed over, wading stealthily over to the boulder. Looking to solve the problem of reaching the fish as soon as possible I tied on the gnarliest, heaviest fly in my box: a big black woolybugger. Second cast, Bang! The trout crunched the fly. Not expecting such quick success, I remained surprisingly silent as I paced my breathing and maintained my composure. After some agonizing moments of fighting the fish around sharp rocks that could easily snap my 5X leader, I landed the fish along the banks.

The night before, we ate dinner with four lovely Australian girls that were staying in our hostel. One of them actually turned out to be gold medalist sailor in these past Beijing Olympics. In any event, the girls took great interest in us as fisherman, and in turn, possible fish providers. After a couple bottles of wine we agreed to a hunter gatherer scheme were we would return with fish for them to cook the following day. In the back of my mind, I hoped my fellow fisherman would be the one´s to bring home the catch. I consider myself a fly fishing purist- especially as it applies to trout. Accordingly, I adhere to a strict policy of catch and release. I have never killed a trout.

It turned out that I was the only one to catch a fish that day. After a few pictures, and holding the fish at the river´s edge, I turned to my mates, ¨So are we keeping this fish?¨ Not wanting to disappoint the four Australian birds, they responded ¨I guess we have to.¨ Saddened, I laid a kiss on the trout´s forehead, ¨Sorry buddy.¨Hoping to preserve my fishing karma, I vowed to do my penance the next day out, and fish with hookless flies.