The Guided Meditations of a Fly Fisherman

This is Part 2 of Someone. Anyone. Ask me a question.

I am almost embarrassed to write this, but one of the activities I enjoy most about my fly-fishing trips to Patagonia are the stream- or lakeside lunches.

I recognize that writing that is setting the bar pretty high, given that après a day of grueling fishing for legendary Brown, Rainbow and Brook trout, we are treated in our lodge to

crudités in front of a roaring fire,

an open bar,

gourmet dinners, and

upon retiring for the evening, crisp white sheets with a 25-lb weighted blanket to help ward off the inevitable mountain chill.

Then, too, there is the unparalleled Patagonia scenery.

Snow-capped mountains and the Tronador glacier.

Deep, emerald green water.

Soaring Condors.

And the stars at night? Oy vey, it’s as if Tom Sawyer had taken a large paint brush full of white paint and flicked it at the heavens.

“And you’re complaining about the lack of curiosity expressed in the conversations?” wrote my brother in response to Part 1 of this article. “Well, don’t cry for me, Argentina!”

As I admitted in my earlier piece, the whole package is top shelf, but at this stage of my life, my defense is the L’Oréal hair commercial tagline of my youth: “Because I’m worth it.”

Back to the lunches

After 3-4 hours of sitting or standing in the boat, our guide puts us ashore so that we can stretch our legs and then quickly sit down for what amounts to a gourmet lunch.

He opens up folding chairs and a folding table, and gracefully unfurls a tablecloth. Out comes local cheese and sausages, olives, and other assorted finger food.

What? “More food?” you ask. Hey, by this time, our hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs is a distant memory.

Then, too, we hear the welcome “POP!” of the cork from a bottle of Malbec and the clink of real wine glasses. “Wine?” our guide asks. The only thing missing is a starched white cloth draped over his forearm.

And soon we settle into the sounds of something sizzling on the portable grill – pork chops, steak, or salmon.

Often the lunches are just the three of us: me, my father-in-law, and our guide for the day. Here we have more personal conversations than those we share on the water.

“Where do you want me to cast?”

“Let’s change flies.”

“I’m hooked on those weeds.”

We see the lunch-time settings as an opportunity to learn about our guides as people and not just as the guys steering us down a river or motoring us around a lake, changing our flies, or netting our fish. And in the process, we often get a side order of humor and life wisdom.

“Are you married?” my father-in-law invariably asks them.

That question may seem impertinent, but given that our guides work three to four months solid during the height of the fishing season and given that our lodge is almost two hours from the nearest town, it’s an understandable one. Many of our guides spend their nights in the lodge “bunkhouse” away from family.

Sosi

“Divorced,” our guide, Sosi replies. “But I have friends,” he continues with a bit of a wink.

We soon learned that Sosi was a member of the Argentinian Olympic ski team before an untimely accident ended his career. He pulls up one leg of his fishing pants and shows us the Andes-length scar that runs like a river from his knee down his tibia.

“Now I teach skiing in the winter,” he adds quietly.

Father-in-law Jack with his Gaucho hat, and Sosi

Sosi is a bit more reserved than some of the guides. Perhaps it’s because his English is only passable. Maybe it’s because this is the first time we’ve fished with him. Or maybe it’s because he’s shy. But eventually we learn that he knows Italian, having trained in northern Italy with the ski team.

My father-in-law, the former Italian tour guide leader of 21 years, smiles and asks him a question in Italian. Sosi answers fluently. They laugh.

“Where can I get one of your hats?” my father-in-law asks in English, pointing to Sosi’s Gaucho beret.

“I will get you one,” Sosi replies. (He later does.)

“Where do you live?” Sosi asks after a bit of silence.

“Baltimore,” my father-in-law replies.

“New York City,” I offer.

What do you know? Curiosity.

Lukas

Lukas is one of my favorite guides because he is patient with me. He observes my casting and then provides gentle counseling. “Don’t try to power it so much,” he offers after one cast. “Let the line do the work.”

He is also very intent on finding us fish. “We try this for a while,” he says with a note of optimism and seriousness, “And if that doesn’t work, we try something else.”

As we relax at lunch, I ask him “On a scale of 0-10 with 0 being terrible and 10 being great, how would you characterize us as fly fishermen?” I’m thinking 7 because I have been particularly impressed with some of my casts that morning – relatively straight and long, with the fly presented gently on the water. And if I am impressed….

“A 6,” he replies unhesitatingly. “You are both good, but you can improve. More wine?” he asks offering the bottle.

Lukas and me.

I imagine the owner of the lodge wincing at Lukas’ straightforward reply, but I’ll take it. I was nowhere near a “6” two years ago.

Later that afternoon, I make a long, straight cast where my fly gently lands on the water right in front of a stretch of weeds – the perfect home for a lurking hungry trout. As I ready for the explosion of a pesce spettacolare hitting my fly, I imagine the Olympic judges holding up cards with 10s on them.

Lukas nods in approval. “Maybe an 8” he whispers. We wait for a trout to hit the fly. And we wait a moment longer. Lukas winks “Would be higher if a fish hit it.”

Pablo

Pablo is a burly teddy bear of a man. We have fished together a number of times over the years, and I have to admit that I love his smile of recognition when he sees me for the first time outside the lodge this season.

Me and Pablo.

“Jhef!” he beams.

Bro hugs and backslaps, and then we stand back and smile at each other.

Pablo’s English is about as good as my Spanish, but he knows the most important words you can use to counter the line tangles, lost fish, crossed lines, flies in trees, and horrific casts that inevitably come at the end of even an experienced 9-foot fly rod.

One day at lunch, I recount his inestimable patience with my myriad of mishaps. He leans back in his chair and takes a sip of Coke. At that moment, he is like Socrates with his eager students seated all around him.

“Is fishing,” he shrugs with a smile. “Is just fishing.”

Next year

Some of us are thinking about Utah. It would be a much shorter trip. New vistas. New water. New fish. New guides.

New guides? Hmmmm.