One of the questions I often get
asked when people find out I’m heading almost 7,000 miles south to fish in
Tierra del Fuego is “is it really that much better than here” or “don’t they
have good trout fishing closer to home”? The short answer to both of
those questions is a resounding “YES”. But these are the types of
questions you brush off because they are coming from those outside the
eccentric world of fly fisherman, and outside “the know”. They usually
say something along the lines of “it’s their summer down there, right?”.
When you tell them it is, but that their idea of sunshine and sand covered
beaches is a little off, as the temps are usually in the 50’s, maybe lower, the
wind blows about 30 mph on a day with a “slight breeze”, and then there are the
random rain, hail, and snow storms that can crop up at any time, and did I
mention the wind? You tell them that you will be doing all this while
sleeping in a tent, showering about every 5th day, eating dried pasta or some other easy to preserve meal
served “hot” off the single burner gas stove, and prepared in the back of the
car to keep the wind from blowing the whole contraption over, they start to
look at you with that look. Those of you that fish for an addiction know
the one. That “you are out of your freaking mind” look.
“But
the fish are big right”? “Yes, yes they are”. And there is no
one around, no modern day distractions, no light pollution, no noise pollution,
peace, solitude, you get the idea. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy the
conveniences of modern life, but every once and a while, more often than not, I
need to unplug. John Gierach wrote that “ there’s an art to being
unaccountable without ultimately ending up sleeping on a park bench. It
involves the rare ability to check out indefinitely while leaving open the very
real likelihood that you’ll check back in at some point. (Not forgetting
that reentry can be a time-consuming shock to the system).”
And so it was that the opportunity presented itself again, to check out, and
spend 25 days with my amigo Herb (I feel obligated to break into what little
Spanish I know for this report) in one of the most beautiful places in the
world, chasing brown trout where measuring tapes are useless and nets with
scales serve a purpose, throwing foam hoppers that fish have never seen (real
or alive), into a headwind that makes it an almost if not completely impossible
task, on meandering spring creeks that look like there should be a 3-5lb brown
trout in every lie (and there is).
When the wind becomes too much to
throw the hopper, usually about the time you realize you are having difficulty
staying upright, it becomes time to switch to the bugger. The results are
the same, although there is something much more poetic about watching a fish
that size rise slowly through the crystal clear water column until his nose
just breaks the surface, sipping the hopper in with the surface disturbance of
a minnow……..until you set the hook. Then the water literally
explodes. Your rod bends with a force that you are sure will just snap it
in half, but somehow it doesn’t. You struggle to gain a couple feet
of line, to keep him from pulling you beneath that undercut that he desperately
wants, and is making good progress of getting back to. Sometimes you win,
and are rewarded by holding in your freezing wind burned hands, a beautiful
golden brown that makes you start to reconsider the 3X you have been
fishing. Sometimes you lose, again, reconsidering the 3X. As
this repeats itself at every bend, you have long forgotten the looks of those
crazy people who earlier were considering having you committed to some sort of
mental institution, thinking to yourself that this is what keeps you out of
such a place.
After several weeks, coincidentally
about the same time we had pretty much run out of food and water, and were both
physically beaten down, we decided it was time to check back in……..at least
temporarily. After several days of processing photos and a few hot meals
and showers, I already find myself pouring over maps and satellite
images. There are several streams and a handful of lakes that have
already made the list of “if we can find a way to get in there, looks like it
could be a lot of fun”. But until that time comes, I guess
I’ll start processing the video. Although I’m sure that is not going to
help the reentry process much. So for those who have not already just
skipped over the paragraphs above, below are a few (we probably shot near a thousand) of the still photos from the
4 cameras and 5 video cameras we had in tow. I will try to get the video
up soon, but the process of compressing 10 hours of video into 10 minutes can
be a bit time consuming. As always, I hope you enjoy the photos.
Remember the old adage, “it’s better to die with fishing memories, than to live
with fishing dreams”.
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| Refueling! Its hard to explain how big a deal this is. The next closest place to get fuel is 5 hours away, in the wrong direction. |
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| 7.5lbs |
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| 5lbs on a foam hopper. What more could you want. |
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| Guanaco |
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| It's not big, at its deepest point it may be up to your chest, but it holds 5-8lb+ browns.....and lots of them. |
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| Another sunset from our tents, overlooking the lake. |
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| Carpentero |
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| No matter how many times I see them, still find it wild to be chasing trout where there are flamingos around. |
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| Andean Condor |
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| Mi Amigo Alejandro |
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| Lago Deseado |
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| Little further south this time. Yes that is Antarctica just to the south. |
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| RARE calm morning at Lago Fagnano. |
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| Another gourmet meal in production. |
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| Lago Fagnano |
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| Last beer, trip over. | | | |
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| Tres Amigos |
Special thanks to Alejandro Cardenas and Estancia Cameron Lodge. Also to Simms for making waders and coats that can stand up to the conditions down there, and Sage and Rio for making lines and rods that can do the same!
