Reel Small World

With images of Rio Gallegos lingering in my mind, my arrival to San Martin de los Andes was refreshing. Hunting for a hostel, I walked along immaculate sidewalks where not even an old cigarette filter was wedged in its cracks. The storefronts were adorned with elaborate displays, and the shopkeepers smiled as I passed. San Martin´s plazas of perfectly primped grass were maintained by old men wearing matching sweater vests. The hunched men busied themselves sweeping stones back onto the path after people passed. So quant, San Martin invoked a merry melody in the mind´s radio.

I found a hostel, dropped my pack, and went to the grocery store with a couple of young Chilean who were in my room. The two hitchhiked from their home in Chile, and it was their last night in Argentina. I relished in the opportunity to work on my Spanish with them. They enjoyed hearing about my life in the States and were particularly interested in knowing if the portrayals of college in American film were accurate. I said they were for the most part, but not as funny.
Back at the hostel, I set my groceries on the counter and prepared to cook an omelets. It was three days since my last proper meal. Hurrying from bus to bus forces one to dramatically lower the standards of a daily diet. Between bags of chips and cookies, I ate sandwiches that an disheveled woman put together in the bus terminal at a make shift stand of stacked cardboard boxes. Handing my winkled pesos to the women, I did my best to divert my eyes from her flagrant disregard for personal hygiene. I inhaled the unknown meat tortas and chased them with a swig of Peptobismal.

Now at the hostel, I knew I needed to revive my body with some protein. I scurried around the hostel´s kitchen in search for a pan. Two guys were putting together some pasta creation at the stove. Although they were silent, I detected that they were Americans, or at least Israelis. ¨You know where the pans are?¨, I asked in English. He stooped down below the stove, and handed me a pan. ¨Where you from¨, I poked. ¨Boston¨, he replied. For some reason I expected him to be from Boston. Our discourse began laboriously, but I soon melted his hesitation when I told him I was a fishing guide back in the States and that I was in San Martin to fish. Chris was also there to fish. We got to talking and he invited me to join them for dinner. Having just checked my dwindling bank account, I stashed my now broken eggs in a jar and warmly accepted his invite.

Setting the table, Chris introduced me to his traveling partner Megan. Also from Boston, Megan asked where I went to school. ¨Holy Cross¨, I mindlessly responded. She dropped the silver wear she was gathering, and excitedly turned to me taken in a giddy smile. ¨No you´re not!¨ she laughed. I knew what that meant. Megan graduated from Holy Cross the year before me. We both went abroad the years we would have been in the same social scenes, so we had never met. Chris and Megan recently quit their jobs in the American rat race to travel. Bottles of wine took us late into the night and we laughed together like old friends. Staggering back to our rooms, we agreed to combine forces and head to the river in the morning to camp and fish.

I was uneasy to join Americans for this stint of travel in San Martin. Being with Americans, especially in a group, transforms the traveling experience to something completely different than what I am used to as a solo traveler. It is easy to become insular and hide in the comfortable bubble of speaking English and operating in the various American modes. The surroundings are no longer viewed independently- they are compared to the US. Time is spent laughing over movie quotes and anecdotes of pop culture. Time is also spent doing what American post grads do best: drinking. I had my first drink in three weeks with Megan and Chris. I set these concerns aside. Chris is a flyfisherman and a bow hunter. I was confident he would be an excellent companion for the river. Megan is a fellow Crusader. I could not walk away from the scary coincidence of bumping into someone who attended the same 2800 student school way down here in South America. Not to mention the fact that both are supremely warm, kindhearted people. It was a nice change from the seriousness of my most recent adventures.

We boarded a local bus and made it to Lago Lolog set North East of San Martin. The lake sat in the shadow of Cerro Colorado and in the far distance the peak of Volcan Lanin poked out from the landscape like a setting sun. Neither Chris nor I were interested in fishing the lake. We were there to fish the river that dumped into the lake, Rio Quilquihue. The camp site we intended on was nine kilometers from where the bus dropped us. While we initially attempted the walk, our painfully heavy packs persuaded us to camp illegally along the river. There were no signs prohibiting this, and we were all financially inclined to take this risk for some free camping. Best of all though, we were right on the river.

Chris and I spent the days climbing through brambles and downed tree limbs along the river, scouting for underfished spots. Argentina´s fisheries, or at least the one´s I have been fortunate enough to wade into, are subject to a lot of local pressure. Most access points to the rivers are crowded with local Argentines using a myriad of techniques to catch dinner. Most cast regular spinning rods with spoons or a bobber from which a number of flies hang. Others go even more primitive and handline a string wrapped around a stripped toilet paper roll. The inherent problem is that there is very little sport, catch and release fishing being done by these local fisherman. With very little mandated regulation, locals keep most of their catches, no matter the size. The stretches of river that are controlled, as in Tierra del Fuego, are privately owned and cost a hundred American dollars to fish per day. It saddens me to see these locals actively destroying the gift of these magical rivers. Trout Unlimited needs to set up shop down here.

Chris and I walked far from the crowds, and found excellent runs where riffles dumped around exposed boulders. Little Rainbow Trout rose clear out of the water, devouring some delicious terrestrial. With trees and shrubs directly behind us and across the way the fishing was highly technical. I made sweeping roll casts that shot my nymphing rig up stream. I hooked into several small brown trout that were dressed in dazzling red spots. My trophy was a 14 inch Rainbow the gleamed hot red in the sunlight. Camped just upstream, Chris and I fished late into the night. Squinting, I could just barely make out the silhouette of my indicator in the milky light of the crescent moon.

NOTE TO FAMILY: I am headed to San Juanin for a week or so. Ill call you when I can. All my love.