Fly Fishing Patagonia, Part 8, Street Chickens

I spent my first morning in Futaleufu walking around. I left Brooke off leash as most village dogs were. In the first half hour she had picked-off a chicken. I scolded her and removed it from her mouth. I had never held a dead chicken in my hand. It was warm. Brooke had snapped it's neck in a Milli-second. I looked around to see if anyone had noticed. Some children played nearby but weren't looking at me so I tossed the limp bird into a ditch and kicked it towards a culvert. Chickens were everywhere. They were like little street gangs. I leashed Brooke and assertively said "No" whenever she eyed and started leaning towards strutting feathers. Fortunately she learnt quickly. Soon after she was off leash again. In the whole five months I was there she killed only two other chickens. Pretty good for a bird dog genetically wired to pursue fowl. On the two other occasions I apologised and offered to compensate the owners. They refused any sort of payment even when I tried to insist. Patagonians were like that. I never had a bad experience with anyone the whole time I was there.
A couple of days later it was Christmas Eve. I attended a Mass at a tiny Catholic church. It was standing room only inside. It was a cold night and the wind battered the church. I found space along the side wall, warmed up and people watched. I don't remember anything about the Mass. I do remember feeling I was in a different place, a very rural place. The faces around me looked foreign and I felt I was immersed in a very different and distinct culture. The wind was howling at 100km, it was black outside and I was at the bottom of the world. Montreal seemed a million miles away, so did Santiago!


catholic church

Fly Fishing Patagonia, Part 7, Wind

Jim's Place Futaleufu

I had supper with Jim and his wife Celina. It was December a couple of days before Christmas, Patagonia's climatic equivalent to our June. His place was an old two story wood home with lots of windows and some character. It had a corrugated metal roof and a low fenced yard with river rafts in the back under a carport. It had been renovated, looked fresh and therefore stood out on his street where most homes looked weathered and tired. The inside was tastefully decorated. It had a definite urban touch. Celina was from Santiago. Their home was right across the street from the village plaza/park. This was a gathering place for families and kids, especially on weekends.

Futaleufu Park Square

Later that night, when it was dark, Jim walked me across town to a small home near the Espolon river valley. Stars were everywhere in the true darkness. There was little light pollution in Futaleufu. There was little light pollution in most of Patagonia. The night sky was wonderful entertainment and became part of my daily life: bright constellations; shooting stars from every direction. Jim pointed out the Southern Cross constellation. It was the first time I had ever seen it.

My Home Futaleufu

The little house was to be my place for the next four days. I ate all meals at Jim's and hung out there during the day but returned to my home in the evening. The house was under renovation. Planks were stacked everywhere inside and I enjoyed the smell of fresh sawed wood. It had one finished ascetically furnished bedroom with a single bed and window. There was a basic bathroom with a shower. When I arrived there I immediately went to bed. Brooke lied down next to the bed where I had laid a thick soft towel. I fell asleep quickly but woke up at some point in the night to a blast of wind that made my home shake and crack. The wind then subsided and it got quiet for a minute or so before I realised it was building again. It intensified to the point where I felt that if it continued my tiny house would probably blow away. It was the most aggressive, violent wind I'd ever experienced. It was an ominous living thing. In Patagonia this wind is called Zonda. All through the rest of the night it came in a predictable cycle. It gathering strength and speed as it raced down the eastern slopes of the Andes slamming into the town of Futaleufu and my tiny shelter. I imagined huge ocean waves rhythmically crashing on a beach on an incoming tide. Brooke was frightened and whimpered. I picked her up and placed her on the bed and eventually she settled down. Closeness calms us all down. It is comforting. The next thing I new my eyes opened and it was early morning, sunny and best of all very still. I heard songbirds and a rooster. The world was still intact after the big blow.

Futaleufu Valley

Typical Futaleufu Home

I got up and immediately went outside. Everything was just waking up. My home was on a little elevated area from where I could see most of the town. I saw aged wooden homes everywhere. Picket fences surrounded them and most were draped with bushes or vines. I would later realise these were wild roses. In the village nothing seemed straight or coiffed. There was no planned order. But there seemed to be an order in the disorder. It all worked. The streets were dirt. Chickens wandered everywhere. I saw horses and donkeys in back yards and a goat. Most homes had vegetable gardens. Laundry which survived the night hung on cloths lines. Young people today would describe the village scene as being organic. And it was just that. It was as far from suburban North America as you can get. The tall Andes rimed the town and they were still covered with white. I remember just standing there and looking in silence. Even Brooke eventually stopped her nose to the ground routine, sat down and simply took it all in. It was as if time had stood still. It was an idyllic scene. I have had only a handful of similar experiences or moments in my life and am always aware them. I knew my life at that moment had changed. I'm sure the enthusiasm of the new morning added to the experience as did the anticipation of having several months ahead of me to explore and fish Patagonia rivers. Several years later I would end up living in a very similar town but in southwestern Alberta. A town comprised of old wooden miner homes in a valley rimed not by the Andes but the Rockies. Instead of being close to the Futaleufu and Espolon rivers I'd fish the nearby Crowsnest, Oldman and Elk rivers. And wild roses would be everywhere. Instead of a Patagonia wind I'd have to endure Chinooks which would creek and crack my little home and seep through its walls in the cold of winter. It did change me.
So there I was in Futaleufu. My first morning. It was all new. It was all different. And what was so special is that it was all in Spanish. I looked at the donkey staring at me from the neighbour's yard and said, "Buenos Dias Eeyore"!
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