A Thousand Miles from Nowhere...

I’m standing thirty yards away from the river bank, in front of a beaver lodge. It’s the end of a straight run, just before a sharp, almost ninety-degree turn, so the river is pretty fast, but the bottom is gravel, and I can keep my footing. No boulders. It’s blowing a bit, enough that I hooked myself in the back of my hoodie. Twice. It’s not easy getting a size 16 scud out of a hoody. The locals would think the wind but a zephyr. Fernando told us that last year it blew 100 miles an hour, and you couldn’t open the car door.

Two nights before, Juan Carlos and I had stood in this same spot, cigars clenched in our mouths, as I cast towards the beaver lodge. I’d hooked a giant, fresh- out- of- the ocean, silver fish just after dark. It had jumped 100 yards down river, then two seconds later jumped to my right, against the bank, under the beaver lodge. I’m sure he just laughed, muttered sucker, spat the hook, and was gone. But I saw him, and he was huge. I just burst out laughing. So close, yet so very, very far.

I take my two steps down river, started loading the 400 grain sinking line, apologizing to my wrist, which was struggling a bit, when it occurred to me. Where the fuck does the beaver get the wood? I’d seen him swimming. He definitely lived there.

For, as far as the eye can see, in any direction, there is not one tree. There is a huge mountain range in the far distance, a bit hidden by the haze, there are Herefords grazing on the stubbly grass, there are weird half deer-half camels all around, there are flocks of somewhat stubby geese, always in he-she pairs, but there is not one tree.

I feel a thousand miles from nowhere.

I am. I’m wading in the Boca de Ona pool in the Rio Grande, in Tierra del Fuego, Argentina, trying to catch another giant Sea-run Brown Trout. I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.

It’s a very long way south. One hundred miles even further south, through a landscape of mountains and lakes that would make Switzerland proud, is Ushauia, on the Beagle Channel, as in Darwin and the Beagle, and then the next piece of land, past the Horn, is Antarctica. Magellan, a Portugese from the Duoro, of Port fame, was sent by the Spaniards to find a new way to Asia. He took five ships around the Horn in 1519, and went across the Pacific, which he named, only to be killed in the Phillipines. Only one of his ships made it back. It changed everything. Once Queen Elizabeth’s Drake went thirty years later, Spain and England fought furiously to control the globe.

Those stubby geese I saw are named after Magellan. The mountains we looked at are the Andes, and the weird little camels are the Guanacos, used by the indigenous people for hides and meat. The Yaghan Indians used the Guanacos furs and oil to light huge fires when they saw Magellan’s Armada approaching. Thus his name for the island archipelago - Tierro del fuego. The whole place seemed on fire.

I had thought it might be for the sunsets. If Montana is Big Sky, this is very, very big sky, and at night you just have to stop fishing and stare at it, as the sky goes from blue to gold, to red, to purple to black. That time, like on every river that has trout, is magic for sure, but here as well as fishing magic, it has majesty. It’s not hard to understand why the Yaghans lit fires. I wouldn’t want any bastard taking it either, if it was mine.

Luckily, we had it for a week.

Six of us flew from the States to Buenos Aires, from Helena, New York and Seattle. We didn’t know it, but we were about to make really great friends, strangers bound together by a love of fishing, and a good deal of BS.  We had a layover night in BA that allowed us to see Recoleta Cemetery and its amazing mausoleums, and Eva Peron’s house, where the song made a lot of sense. We bought some cool leather jackets, and ate sweetbreads, empanadas and amazing steaks. It’s no wonder there are Herefords everywhere.

Then, at last, to the River. To Despedida Estancia and the Lodge. Forty thousand acres, spreading as far as the eye could see.  A wooded, intimate house, with a piano. Warm, true hospitality from Danny and Helena, our hosts. Three wonderful meals, and gallons of Malbec everyday. I will never forget the slow cooked lamb. Three guides, Fernando, Juan Carlos and Tommy, who did everything they could to help us catch fish. Fernando, sitting with us at every meal, answering all our questions, congratulating or commiserating with us as necessary. What a gent.

We’d all fished a bit – Steelhead, Atlantic salmon, Bones and Trout. We had come together for the almost prehistoric sea- run browns, all hoping to catch a monster. It’s a bit odd that the nice browns we get in the Delaware, the Mo and the Bighorn are the same species. Why do these browns choose to live in the sea, then swarm up the river to spawn, when their cousins are perfectly happy staying in their home waters? It must be an end of the world thing. It seems they were brought from Sweden and Norway many years ago.

In the strange human way of rounding up numbers and arbitrarily picking a number that signifies success, like a running back getting one hundred yards, twenty pounds is that number on the Rio Grande. Twenty pounds, a brown trout weighing twenty pounds. Right.

The wall behind the small bar in the lodge has the photographic proof. Danny has framed many pics of success from times past, behind the little bar that we’ve stocked with our own stash, where the pre-dinner snacks are laid out. Amongst the array of fish in their twenties, there are three  thirty-pound fish. Behemoths. Unimaginable. It does so make you want to get a fish over twenty pounds, as you have your pre-dinner drink or two, and enjoy an empanada and some olives. It’s why we flew to the end of the earth.

On this, the fourth day of the trip, I was optimistic. Christine and I had each landed a few, between 12 and 19 lbs. Mike, Austin, Rick and Eric had all scored at least one over twenty, as well as a bunch in the slightly smaller range. Smaller? Though not 20 pounds, they seemed huge to us.

Being browns, they tended to go deep and hold on, then shake their heads like crazy. Jumping was unusual, unless they were silver and fresh from the sea, and we were only occasionally taken into our backing. It was more a battle of wills, a test of patience. The guides were prone to remind us of our light tippet and tiny flies. Patience. Huge fish and size 16 nymphs need patience.

Being browns, they also tried to find something to snag us on. On the Rio Grande it’s clumps, pieces of the river that have fallen in during floods, with their foliage attached. In Argentinian-accented English it sounds like clamps. And they sure as hell clamped on. These browns are masters at finding the clumps. All six of us had lost fish to them. Being browns, we’d also thought fish were clumps, so strong was the fish’s urge to go deep and dig in. Until the head shake. Underwater bushes don’t shake their heads.

I’d be fighting one, and hear Axl. Patience. Mike Agee and I would occasionally hum it, over a bourbon before dinner. It might mean walking/running 200 or even 400 yards downriver, but it sure as shit was better than breaking one off. It’s been a while since I’ve run 400 yards, let alone with my rod up, reeling like a maniac, as that glorious fish burst from its holding position and went nuts downstream, only for me to get stuck in mud, and have to crawl out, holding my rod up. I was exuberant. I had him on till the end, then, clamped and gone. I thought Juan Carlos was going to cry. No worries, mate. Lets have a Cuban as we walk back. He thought I was nuts. Sure I lost him, but man it was fun. I felt young again. Have a cigar. Loco. No, over the moon, buddy.

So it’s been a great few days. I cast to the bank, mend a couple of times, let it swing, strip a bit and retrieve. “It” is a little bit of size 16 green fluff that Christine and I have christened the Green Jelly Bean. It's a green scud on a tiny hook. Tommy had tied it that morning, his vise resting on the bonnet of his truck as he listened to reggae, only partly visible in the mist. The Jelly Bean had really worked the last couple of days.

As I stripped back, I looked downriver to see how Chris was doing. Her rod was bent double as she held it horizontally, her legs planted like a lineman, to take the strain. Tommy was excited. I reeled in, waded across and joined the party.

Christine was quiet. Tommy was pacing a bit. It went on, the give and take, the walking back a bit, the walking forward as she reeled, over and over, the 8 weight bent hard, her slender right forearm quivering to take the strain, her eyes focused on the line and the water. I’ve seen her catch a few big Atlantic salmon on the Cascapedia, some big bones in the Bahamas, and countless trout. I’ve never seen her look like this.

Then we all saw why. Jesus, Mary and Joseph. After that first glimpse, the tension on the bank just ratcheted up. Tommy slid into the river, net at the ready. Chris started walking steadily back, the rod horizontal to the ground, inching the fish back to the bank, back to Tommy.

Bam. It’s done.

We went nuts. I doubt I’ve ever seen a more beautiful fish. We all calmed down a bit as Tommy let the fish rest in the net, green jelly bean firmly wedged. The fish was huge, and glorious- golden, deep chested, with great spots and a huge kype. Chris stroked its back, over and over, trying not to cry as it rested in the water, wanting this to last and last. I gave her a hug.

Then Tommy weighed it.

Come here, Christina. See for yourself. He was almost in tears.

Thirty-four pounds with the net equals thirty pounds for the fish. It was the biggest fish Tommy had landed in fifteen years guiding. On a size 16 Green Jelly Bean he’d tied that morning in the mist.

I took a few pictures as they knelt in the water, almost in supplication to some fish God, then Tommy and Chris gently released him. We all just went back to the bank and hugged each other. I got my flask of bourbon, and we all had a swig, then thanked the fish, the river, God even, for such an experience.

Then we just sat there.