“Just be smart; don’t get in the car with some local,” -Dad

AEP-BRL Day 1

So, of course, I started my trip by riding in a random guy’s car with someone I had met just 10 minutes earlier. Thankfully, he took us as promised to the town center of Bariloche. Sofia and I parted ways, and I immediately made my way toward some of Bariloche’s renowned chocolate. I ordered some chocolate caliente after dropping my free sample on the ground (which the barista definitely saw). I sat down for about 15 minutes, got antsy, and decided I wanted to get into the mountains.

I had plenty of time before my friend Dan would land, so I seized the opportunity. I finished my hot chocolate and hopped on the bus. When I got to the trailhead, I felt a peace wash over me as the fall mountain air put me at ease. I exhaled the tension I had been holding from the bustling capital city of Buenos Aires. Instead of tall buildings and a constant stream of noise, I was now surrounded by trees and the sounds of birds I had never heard before. I made it to the first really good overlook, which seemed like the perfect place to slow down and take in the view of Nahuel Huapi Lake. I had a decently heavy pack because I had to fit everything into one carry-on bag for the whole trip. I sifted through my jackets and layers for hiking and fly fishing and took out my Bible. “All of earth is full of your glory,” I read aloud, then confirmed it based on what I beheld. After reading a few more passages in Psalms, I turned to my place in Mark and read a chapter there. I prayed, then reached back into my bag for some chocolate I had saved from the chocolatería. It was white chocolate layered with dulce de leche—by far the best I tried. After that delightful Bible study and snack, I got up and kept going up.

The top of the mountain was solid, though the view was a little cloudy. I still had plenty of energy and ran into two Israeli guys at a fork in the trail on the way down. We exchanged information; I told them the top wasn’t much farther, and they told me that the river was down the other trail. “Why not?” I thought to myself. The trail did lead lower and then branched off and went way down. I followed it, but it only led to the lake. Still cool—I probably took the wrong one, or there wasn’t actually a river. I turned to climb back up, and the trail spat me out into a parking spot on the opposite side. I also had no cell service. I walked up a little ways to see if I could find a bus stop or something helpful, but to no avail—just dirt roads. I would have to retrace my steps. I wasn’t lost, but I didn’t know exactly where I was either. As I was walking back in, I saw two girls who said there actually was a bus stop, so I turned around and went with them.

We chatted in Spanish, and Eva helped me when I didn’t understand. That was a win, but then it became a win-win when one offered a ride. This ride turned into a mini private tour in a sweet CRV-looking ride with minivan doors. Eva and I got shown around some of the panoramic views by the other girl, whose name I have since forgotten. Our third stop was at the base of Cerro Lopez. Our “guide” told us the water was good to drink, and I hadn’t had water since I was on the plane—so I took advantage of that. We rounded the next corner, and Eva and I got dropped off at the bus stop. We said our thank yous and goodbyes, and that was it. One minute later, I realized I had left my hat in her car. Not just any hat, but my Orvis camo fishing hat. I had caught so many trout wearing that cap. With no way to get in contact, I quickly mourned the loss and moved on toward getting back into Bariloche. Eva had no idea how much that hat meant to me, or to all the fish who couldn’t see my head right before I pulled them out of the river. I reminded myself it was just a thing and that people are more important than things. So, I turned my attention to Eva, and we went to an expensive vegetarian restaurant that was actually really good—or we were just really hungry, or both. Either way, the food was delicious, and we ran some other quick errands before parting ways. She went to her hostel, and I got on the bus to check in to our Airbnb. I took it easy, and then Dan showed up and we went to get some dinner at El Patacon. We walked in wearing hoodies and jeans and were the only people in there who were not in an intimate romantic relationship. But as soon as we were given a complimentary shot of wine and mixed herbs, I knew it was going to be a great meal. We unromantically shared a t-bone steak and a bottle of their cheapest wine. The steak was so good we didn’t leave a single gram of meat on the bone. Definitely living up to some glorious American stereotypes. The wine was good too, but we had a small problem: we had one glass of wine that had been untouched, and neither of us wanted to drink it (there were three glasses). I started offering it to people in broken Spanish and got rejected every time. Is an “untouched” glass of wine given by a random gringo really that suspicious? So Dan poured the wine back into the bottle at the table, and he hardly spilled any of it! It was pouring rain, so we went across the street to a tea house for dessert. I really regretted this purchase because it was overpriced, yet the complimentary bread almost made up for it—almost. We walked back in the rain, which just added to the way-too-romantic vibe (I’m shocked we didn’t accidentally touch hands). And that was the end of day 1.

DAY 2

I woke up the next morning with a sore throat. And I was the only one to blame, because drinking anything over one beer consistently compromises my immune system by approximately 75%. It’s probably a blessing in disguise, though, because I do not want to be regularly sick nor an alcoholic.

I started the day with a quiet time at the lake. It was a very chill day compared to the previous one. Right as we were waiting for the lunch spot to open up, the rain turned to snow for an hour. We got some burgers for lunch and did some grocery shopping for the next few days. While in the checkout line, Dan and I got into an argument over sharing toothpaste for four days, and he called me savage. It worked out for both of us in the end. Forty pounds of groceries in my backpack later, and we still had to get eggs and sandwich meat. After spending way too much on our first meals out, we came up with a challenge to eat all of our food before eating out again or getting ice cream. It was a good amount of food, but we would have help from the other guys. Dan and I spent our last night with just the two of us in the Airbnb, and we cooked at home—the challenge had begun.

DAY 3

I woke up the next morning feeling even worse than before and had my quiet time in bed this time porque estaba enfermo. Yet I was able to rally hard. We had a full day of fly fishing, and allowing myself to stay in bed all day was not an option. Dan made us sausage and eggs, while I made four sandwiches for the river. Stacked up like a tower, they could have been mistaken for the eighth wonder of the world. I started packing them into the produce bags from the grocery store and the now-empty bread bag because we forgot we needed to transport them (no Ziplocks). One thing about my fishing career is that it has not been made in a drift boat. I am far more comfortable on the ground and fish better, too—significantly better. I have never had a really good day from a drift boat, and I was hoping Patagonia would break that curse. Also, the hat I lost on day 1 was my fishing hat. I had caught hundreds of fish wearing that camo cap. The snapback was starting to fall apart. Now I always wore that hat on the boat. Maybe it’s actually good luck that I lost it. “I’m not superstitious, but I am a little stitious.” —Michael Scott.

I hopped in our guide’s truck (hatless), and we were off at about 11:30 a.m. The guide shared the same name as the lake, Nahuel, which means leopard in the native tongue. On the drive to the Limay River, we chatted about life and how he was self-promoted from an aerospace engineer to a fly fishing guide. We also learned that he built his own drift boat during the off-season, from start to finish. I told him I made a cutting board in December (that’s cute, squirt—check out my boat). The river was as gorgeous as it was wide, and I was starting to act like a kid on Christmas morning when Nahuel was backing down the boat ramp. I knew it was going to be tough fishing. Three guides told me so, and I believed them. But if we did hook one, there were realistic chances of a 24+ inch fish. Nahuel said his personal best out of the Limay was one meter. That’s 39 inches. I have a hard time believing it was that big—because, you know, fishermen are notorious exaggerators.

I looked at Nahuel and asked him to describe the Río Limay in one word in Spanish as we were putting in. He thought about it and answered with “reto.” It directly translates to “bull” and means challenge. I like a challenge, though. If I wanted it easy, I wouldn’t be fly fishing the Limay for the chance at a 25-inch brown. I would be spin fishing in the lake for spawners. But where’s the fun in that? It’s less adventurous, less risky. I was about to pay this guide 300 bucks, and I might not see a fish all day (seeing that in writing makes me feel a little crazy). That last part changed early. We spooked a big fish, and I saw it swim away deeper into the crystal-clear substrate made up of large, slippery boulders that would be a death trap to walk and wade.

The Limay proved to be a reto indeed. From the start, there was heavy wind, and Nahuel had us swing streamers—a tactic I had never learned before. This was Dan’s second time fly fishing ever. It wasn’t my first time, but parts of it felt like my first time. It was humbling to realize I have serious gaps. It was windy. Learning to swing was a curveball, and mono shooting line was, too. My line management was terrible. Tangles, no fish. Luchando (fighting) with the line, with the wind, and with the fish. My fly got stuck five times deep in the trees on the bank because I wanted to get as close as possible. Every time, he back-rowed for it instead of snapping it off. Usually, guides will snap and re-tie. Not Nahuel, though. After about three hours in, Dan prayed the fish prayer, we said Amen and waited.

I was asking how to say “I hope we don’t get skunked” in Spanish. Just one fish would be a win. Another hour and a half went by with no action. Clouds came, and I was back to stripping that same streamer that Nahuel tied specially for the Limay. And I was hopeful again because of the cloud cover. My arm was getting tired, so I sat down to rest. I asked Nahuel to tell me the next spot I should fish. Ten seconds later, he told me to “fish this on the right.” I was stripping quickly and felt the glorious tug I hadn’t felt since last October (in Montana)! I stuck a nice brown after five hours of nada. I was so excited to get it in the net—high fives and pictures after we did! It’s hard to say how big this trout was: healthy, colored up, and most of all, we were on the board. I wanted Dan to hook one. I did before, but now I really did. Ten minutes later, I caught a 7-inch laucha (mouse/cheapskate). I still wanted a pic, so Dan snapped one on his digital camera! He got rewarded for his hard work and brute persistence with a nice Patagonian rainbow trout (trucha arco iris). We both had fish in the net! The fish prayer was answered.

I switched back to trying to swing flies through the deep runs. Nahuel had me with the shooting mono line. I was struggling to get the timing right and with line management. I had never had that much line out before, and it was showing.

“Here, switch rods.” Back to the streamer rod. Back to comfort. “No, I can do it. I am getting close.” Slowly, I got it, then I put it into action and got an arco iris (rainbow) between 12 and 14 inches swinging a small streamer at the end of a very long, beautiful drift. The fishing turned off again for some unknown reason. So we took the boat to the bank and ate our sandwiches sitting on the ground while admiring the sunset. The stunning, untouched landscape is reminiscent of the American West with big rivers and bigger skies.

Dan’s advice was to “never give up” as we ate our second sandwich on the bank. Finishing the float, my arm was spent from hundreds of casts, but that didn’t stop me from boat ramp fishing in the dark in my waders with holes in them—which led to soaked jeans. I asked to keep the fly I caught the big brown on to remember the trip by, and Nahuel complied. We got back late and had an awesome “man” dinner: between half and one pound of ground beef burgers, mashed potatoes, and whiskey. Then we met up in town with the guys who had just finished the Chico Circuit for some chocolate.

DAY 4

The start of day 4 was a very chill morning admiring the lake view from my bed, which was technically in the living room. I started talking to Dan about stocks, and it turned into a one-hour crash course from an ex-marine who was doing this very trip funded by passive income. I got out my laptop and became a sponge. The biggest takeaways were: 1. Keep investing. 2. SWVXX. 3. “Get a house and a motorcycle as soon as possible.”

Then all four of us got empanadas right outside our unit. I started talking to this man who had just gotten his food. Long story short, he claimed to be the strongest 70-year-old in Argentina. The conversation immediately turned political and aggressive. “You’re a schmuck if you voted for Donald Trump, and Republicans are all assholes,” he yelled at me in my face. I just stayed calm, looked him in the eye, and stood my ground. He thought every blonde white person was a descendant of Nazis and that English was an ugly, gross language. I felt bad for him. He had nothing to live for besides himself, gym, and hard drugs being the evidence. No fear of God in his eyes, not even a little. My only fear worse than divorce is becoming like that when I am 70.

We got our lukewarm empanadas and walked down to the lake. We skipped some rocks and tried and failed to rent kayaks, so we decided to do the Campañera hike, which had gondolas. Unfortunately, they closed at the exact moment we walked up. So they saved us 20–30 million pesos (30 USD), and we walked uphill with our own two legs for 20 minutes. We stayed up there for sunset, and it got cold, so we went back to the trail with the dog we befriended at the top following us. Our group dinner that night was red wine and sausage pasta carbonara. Some Malbec and some chocolate. I think the little bit of wine disrupted my sleep, and the minimal caffeine from the Rapanui chocolate didn’t help. I still had fishing the next morning to rally for, so I wasn’t worried. Same setup—Kadin and David were going on a hike with some Brazilian girls that David met in Buenos Aires, and Dan and I would be walking and wading on a small private river called the Picilufu.

DAY 5 Final Day

Sausage, eggs, and coffee with substantial 7:30 traffic to start the morning. The weather felt good in Bariloche, but after driving an hour and a half into the Patagonian Steppe, it was pretty dang cold. We arrived at the “estancia,” or ranch in English. We saw some red stag does by the river and then got out of the car to talk to Martín. He was a quintessential gaucho, his grandparents from Texas, and he was wearing the southern Argentinian hat to show for it. He gave us a quick tour, and I saw five hunting dogs, red stag euro mounts everywhere, puma skins, and I’m sure we were barely scratching the surface. We got back in the truck, and a seed was planted in my mind to try to return one day for fishing and a stag hunt.

The grasses were frosted over and my waders had a small leak. None of that mattered much because the rods were ready. We downed a bit of coffee, and were off. The first 2 runs I saw no sign of life, but on the third I got a chase and so I knew they were at least active. I moved up the river into some pocket water that produced 2 small rainbows on a little green streamer. I put on the articulated streamer. The one I caught the 19 inch brown on, then I took off upstream trying to cover as much water as possible Half a mile later and I had only landed 1 brown, 1 rainbow 10 inches each. I missed a good one though. Super hungry and thirsty, I hiked my way back to Alex and Dan for some nourishment. I cracked a beer and got out my sandwich and sat down to chill with Alex. Dan was in the river figuring out his dry fly cast when suddenly. He hooked a BIG one. That is, he hooked himself in the eye! I had forgotten all about telling him to bring sunglasses and I 100% felt partially responsible. Alex handled it like a pro with a guide trick for the barbed hook. Thankfully, everything was good so we could eat lunch by the pichilufu (peachy loofoo) insead of driving to the hospital. After that sandwich, a tall boy, and a homerolled cigarrillo. I was feeling good. Now I was ready to try and catch one on the dry. The bite turned on as it warmed up. I got some time with Alex and he was showing me where to fish. I missed my first few…last time I set the hook on a dry was in September, then the rust was knocked off, and I was back in the game. 

After getting a few on the top water…I wanted to catch a bigger one so Alex tied on a heavy streamer for me and I made it to a nice hole on an inside bend with slow water, brown trout habitat that reminded me of the East Gallatin in Montana. I caught 3 browns before hooking a nice one that gave me a fight. I snapped some pictures and kept going. I was on fire at that hole and I kept moving along. I fished some really good water with no chases and then sat down to watch Dan. He was getting close but no cigar. Our time was coming to a close. Both the fishing, and the trip — my flight was scheduled for that same day at 7:30 pm. I knew there were still fish in that run because they were actively feeding on Dan’s fly. Within a minute I had a nice brown on the end of my line. That was my last fish…sike. I saw a spot at the top of the run with an overhanging branch and some broken water. Boom. Biggest fish of the day lit up my streamer and I was so content to be there on this bucket list trip. I am so blessed. On my way back I reflected about that, and also the lessons I learned from Alex and the river that day. 

We made our way back to the ranch following the bumpy two track that is the polar opposite of the street I live off in Buenos Aires which I would be standing on in several hours because I cut it tight with time in order to maximize fishing time. Plus, being stuck in Bariloche wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen, let’s be real. Alex bought some red stag meat from Martín. His chest freezer was filled to the brim with wild game. It was a sight to behold. I rode shotgun and chatted Alex up about flyfishing, Bolivia, Argentinian economy, politics, and life. To summarize. 

1. Andean mountain culture is incredibly fascinating, 
2. There are Mennonites in the middle of the Amazon rainforest
3. We both don’t like Tesla or Elon Musk.
4. Nazis in Bariloche

I packed up super quickly at the Air bnb…then Dan and I went into town to get a little choripan, because there is always time for choripan. Thankfully, Dan called me an Uber from the restaurant to the airport because I still don’t have the app, and I was off. Since day 1, I have tried to treat every Uber or Taxi ride as a mini private spanish lesson even though I was absolutely gassed running off a swig of cheap whiskey and half a non-alcoholic beer. 

The trip flew by, and there was definitely a temptation to stay and rebook my flight for double the price. It surpassed my expectations and I still had a 24” brown waiting for me in the Limay. At the same time, I was Looking forward to what I’ve got to do in BA, rest up, work out, run. And spend time with the people I’ve missed like my doorman Alan. Seeing Buenos Aires from the sky at night made it seem less daunting. Yes it is big. But it still has its city limits.