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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Fly fishing Patagonia, Part 6, Futaleufu

It was early morning and cool when the driver opened the luggage doors at the bottom of the bus. I knelt down. My vision adjusted slowly to the darkness. Then I noticed two eyes staring back at me. She was alive! I immediately reached in and slid the kennel out and then quickly grabbed my luggage. I walked her around the grass perimeter of the Osorno station paying close attention to her. She drank a lot of water. She seemed alright. I promised her, "no more buses". That was no longer a option. I had the next four months to figure out a better way of getting her back to Santiago.

A short mustachioed fellow approached me and called out my name. It was the lodge driver, J.C. He pointed to a vehicle and indicated we had a lot of driving to do," Mucho kilometers". The next thing I knew we were heading east towards Argentina on route 215 in a Mitsubishi with a windshield cracked in a spider web pattern. My dog was sitting up like a soldier at attention in the back seat. Several kilometers later she began to wobble and it looked like she was going to faint. I spotted a little creek next to the road and alerted J.C. We stopped and she waded in the cool water. I hung on to her as the current was powerful. It revived her. Ten minutes later we were back in the vehicle. I kept checking my dog. No more wobbly!

We pushed onward. Mucho kilometers!

We were climbing as we headed east. I spotted the King of the South: The Osorno volcano which is still active. It was gigantic and a perfect conical shape with snow on its peak. It looked like Mount Fuji. I had never seen anything quite like it. During my journey through Patagonia I would see other volcanoes but none this large. It truly is the, "King".

We pushed onward and kept climbing. Mucho kilometers!

The border crossing into Argentina was a breeze. I showed my passport and other documents. J.C. did all the talking. He briefly joked with the guard. I didn't understand a thing. We were waved through. Southeast we travelled now on route 231. We stopped for an ice cream in a pretty tourist town called Villa La Angostura which reminded me of many of the small towns in the Laurentian mountains just north of Montreal. I purchased a map there and oriented myself. My dog gobbled up part of the ice cream cone. No wobbly! Things were looking up. Shortly, we entered Nahuel Huapi National Park, the first National Park of Argentina. It is their Banff or Yellowstone. We followed a very large and deep looking beautiful lake aptly called Lago Nahuel Huapi. We drove along it for hours.

We pushed onward. Mucho kilometers!

Eventually we dropped out of the Andes mountains and  forests down into the open Argentine foothills. Near the eastern end of Lago Nahuel Huapi I spotted the large town of San Carlos de Bariloche across the lake. It had a lot of modern architecture and many multi-level buildings. We drove around the eastern end of the lake, crossing the Rio Limay, and came closer to Bariloche. People were sunning on a sandy beach. Then we turned onto route 40 and headed south to Esquel.

Mucho kilometers!

There was less development south of Bariloche. We crossed rolling terrain and several streams which looked like they could contain trout. Many hours later we passed through Esquel a large town sitting in the arid, barren steppes within striking distance of another famous Argentine National Park, Los Alceres. Then westward on to the Welsh village of Trevelin that has an Anglo heritage. We stopped briefly then pushed for the Chilean border. We followed the Rio Grande for some distance. The same river is called the Futaleufu in Chile. For the next four months I would spend most of my time rafting this river. We had another smooth border crossing after showing identification.

Mucho kilometers!

Around suppertime the Mitsubishi came to rest at Jim's place. We had arrived in a quaint village tucked in a valley on the eastern side of the Andes. All the homes were wooden, many quite aged and crooked. I spotted horsemen on the streets and an Ox drawn cart with automobile tires. There we cars around. Some had no mufflers and spewed blue smoke. I felt I had gone back in time. I then realised I had been up for 36 hours straight. The soldier in the back seat was no longer standing at attention but instead was curled up in a ball and dreaming. We were in Futaleufu.

Futaleufu Traffic

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Fly Fishing Patagonia, Part 5, Osorno

I saw little on the overnight ride. I might as well have been in an endless tunnel. Occasionaly there were lights out in the blackness suggesting life and a large glow when I approached towns. Route 5 south of Santiago was paved but many sections were quite rough.  I kept thinking of my dog in her kennel and if it was bouncing with every bump. If I would have know it was this rough I would have tucked a blanket or foam under the kennel in order to cushion the jolts. I'm sure she was stressed, possibly in a state of shock.

The bus went bumpity bump, bumpity bump, bumpity bump all through the night.

The bus had a big TV screen up front. The sports station on had soccer highlights. I kept hearing excited announcers yell out "Golazo!" which I later found out meant highlight goal or goal of the week. The Golazos' were incredible: unbelievable overhead/bicycle kicks, headers, magical footwork, laser like strikes from great distance, penalty shots improbably stopped by diving goalies. All this occurred in stadiums overloaded with energised fans and all the play by play announced in rapid Spanish. No wonder Soccer is called, "The Beautiful Game."  The station had highlights from all over the Latin Americas.

Bumpity bump, bumpity bump, golazo!, bumpity bump, golazo!... all through the night.

I didn't sleep. I logged the towns passed through: Talca, Chillan, Los Angeles, Temuco. The bus stopped frequently and often for several minutes at a time. During theses stops local women and men, but mostly women, boarded selling snacks, baked goods and other inexpensive items. They walked the aisle with their goods in large display trays at belt level with a wide strap around their neck much like the classic club cigarette girls in the 1920's through the 1940's.

Bumpity bump, bumpity bump, golazo!, bumpity bump... all through the night.

The bus wasn't full but with every stop people got off and others got on. It was well used. It linked the towns along Route 5. It reminded me of how Greyhound buses were popular North America 20 or 30 years ago. I had gone back in time.

Bumpity bump, bumpity bump, golazo!...all through the night.

Then the sunlight travelled the Atlantic. It touched Buenos Aires, then the Pampas, then the eastern face of the Andes. It jumped the mountain peaks and then landed on Chile and me. Morning had come. I had been travelling for about 11 hours. I  arrived in Osorno. Now I would see how my dog faired.

Fly Fishing Patagonia, Part 4, Santiago

The overnight flight to Buenos Aires, Argentina went well. I kept thinking about my dog in the belly of the plane. After landing I searched for my Santiago connection. From a large window at my gate I remember seeing my dog on the tarmac being transferred to the next flight. Occasionally a member of the ground crew talked to her. She seemed alert. In about another hour or so, after crossing the Andes, we would be in Santiago and she would be free from her cramped travelling home. I was to be met by two of Jim's family members, Juan and Paulita. It all worked out as planned. I landed at Arturo Merino Benitez International airport, named after the founder of the Chilean Air Force and the Chilean National Airline, Lan Chile. Shortly after being greeted by Juan and Paulita I informed them that I needed to get my dog out of her kennel and outside. They understood. Amazingly there was a large grass area in front of the airport which my dog fully enjoyed. She kept rolling on her back and stretching. I gave her a lot of water while chatting with Juan and Paulita. It was early summer in Chile and sunny and warm. It felt good to be outside and in fresh air after many hours of travel. The airport was on the outskirts of the city. I was driven downtown, I think on the Costanera Norte expressway to a high rise condo probably built in the 1960's or 1970's. I would spend a few days there before travelling further south to Patagonia. Juan informed me that pets weren't allowed in the condo but he knew of a good boarding kennel nearby within walking distance.

I knew very little about Chile before arriving and didn't know what to expect. I knew Chile was producing some of the Worlds' best and least expensive wines. I knew the Andes mountains were the spine of this long slender country and that its snow pack was the source of many of the rivers I was about to fish. I knew trout weren't indigenous to Patagonia and that eggs were first planted over 100 years ago, and that they came from England, Germany and the United States. I knew that southern Chile (Patagonia) was a region of wind, water and mountains.

I had read a little about politics and past leaders such as Allende and Pinochet and a Military Coup which occurred in 1973. I knew that shortly after the Coup many people were rounded up and placed in soccer stadiums, interrogated and some tortured. Many disappeared forever. I had read that under the Pinochet dictatorship some undesirables were flown out over the Pacific and thrown out of planes. That knowledge was unnerving even though I was there 25 years later and Chile was a democracy. The movie Missing directed by Costa Gavras and starring Jack Lemmon captures this dark period in Chilean history.

To my surprise Santiago was a modern metropolis and beautiful. The area I stayed in was much more affluent than I had anticipated. It reminded me of Montreal. It had a lot of old architecture blended with new, and Catholic churches. It all felt familiar even though I was at the "bottom of the world". My hosts correctly questioned whether "it was the bottom?" and suggested it just might be the "top"! We went out for Empanadas. I had never eaten them before and they reminded me of Jamaican patties at least in appearance. A day later we went to an outdoor Enrico Iglesias concert. I took my dog on a number of long walks to various parks. I remember crossing Presidente J.F. Kennedy boulevard. I also walked the beautiful green way along the Rio Mapocho which runs through part of downtown. I felt quite comfortable in Santiago and understood why Jim was so fascinated with the country.

Two days later I was standing on the upper deck of a bus station saying good-bye to my hosts. They said they would be visiting the lodge in about a month and therefore we would meet again. It was about 6 pm and although the day had been hot the sun was getting low. I wanted it to cool so my dog would be comfortable during the overnight 11 hour bus trip. The bus was a modern coach. The station was busy and people started gathering around my kennelled dog. They ask many questions. Juan answered and engaged them in conversation. I kept looking at the bus trying to figure out where my dog would be placed. Then my dog was loaded in a section behind the luggage in the bottom of the bus. I was very uncomfortable with this even though the area had some ventilation holes. I was told they had a special pet area. Where she was placed didn't seem "special". Juan assured me Jim had transported his dog this way and it worked out fine. I still didn't like the situation and wanted to make alternative arrangements but I had no idea what my options were. I reluctantly got on the bus thinking my dog might not survive. I felt sick. It was going to be a long night for both of us..

Fly Fishing Patagonia, Part 3, Miami

Miami International airport has a buzz about it. It is probably second only to Atlanta in the south east USA for flight activity. I had landed and was waiting at the special cargo area for my dog to arrive. Eventually her kennel appeared. She looked alright. The effects of the tranquilizer had worn off. She was happy to see me. That was a good sign. I had already surveyed outside to see if there was a pet area or at least a large area of grass, or some sort of greenery. I didn't see anything. I asked airport staff about a pet area. They looked baffled. There was a tiny island of growth just outside full of discarded paper and other trash. Cars whizzed by it. I figured that is where I'd take her so she could relieve herself. That worked out well. Once back in the airport I noticed the water container that came with the kennel was missing. My next task was to get the airline luggage staff to try and find it. I kennelled my dog and then asked a uniformed fellow who kept going in and out of the special cargo area to look for it. Getting his attention wasn't easy. He seemed disinterested in my request but eventually said he would check. He returned seconds later and said he had found nothing. I explained to him once again what it looked like and that it had been attached to the kennel when it was placed on board so it had to be around! Another company employee was standing nearby, overheard me and came over. He went to look and came back several minutes later. When I spoke to him it was as if he had totally forgotten who I was and my request earlier. The water holder was gone. I had to accept it. I was ticked off at the airline employees. I was glad I had attached the back up water container with duct tape and it was still in place. When you travel bring two of everything... no make that three of everything.
I took my dog out of the kennel again and disassembled it so that it would fit in an over sized locker. I had spotted a row of taxis just outside earlier. With my dog on leash I went to hail one. My plan was to spend the afternoon in a nearby park and then return to the airport in the evening for the overnight flight to Buenos Aires. I spoke to several taxi drivers and all responded as if I had the plague. They said they wouldn't put my dog in their vehicle. I went from one driver to another. I told them I 'd kennel my dog if that would make a difference. No interest. I asked if there was a good dog park nearby. Eventually one driver said, "Tropical Park". The name stuck in my head. After much persistence I found a driver who said he would transport me if I kennelled my dog. I said it would take me a couple of minutes to retrieve and assemble it. He said he'd wait. When I returned he was gone. I spoke to several new drivers as the taxi line had turned over. Fortunately, a large middle-aged African-American driver agreed to take me to Tropical Park. The park took 10 or 15 minutes to get to. When he dropped me off I asked if he'd be willing to pick me up in 5 hours. He half heartily said he would. I didn't fully trust his response but said I'd be exactly in the place we were standing in 5 hours. I offered extra money if he returned. I thought to myself I'd better search for a telephone in the park just in case he didn't show. Cell phones weren't the norm then.
Tropical park was big, well manicured and beautiful. Where I was let off seemed to be a large tennis area with many courts. People were arriving and leaving in crisp white tennis cloths. Most looked Hispanic. Many were in shiny sports cars with convertible tops. I remember that Pete Sampras was the top tennis star then. I found a park office and asked the young people working there if they could call for a taxi later on. They said they would. I also asked what time the office closed. I spent the afternoon walking the park figuring it would help my dog sleep for the long 12 or 13 hours flight to Argentina. It was hot for us as we had come from the start of a Canadian winter. It was also humid. My dog's winter coat had also grown in. There were a couple of man made lakes in the north end of the park. I had brought lots of bottled water for us to drink. We eventually had to take refuge in the shade. I had disassembled the kennel and bungee corded it together so that carrying it was easy at least for an hour or so. Later I dragged it on the grass. I didn't want to leave it anywhere because if stolen I'd be in quite a predicament. Late in the afternoon we got caught in a tropical down poor. It was relief for both of us.
A couple of hours before I needed to return I started thinking I'd better call for a taxi based on my earlier experience at the airport. I went to the park cabana and they called as promised. It took forever for one to show up. I had assembled the kennel in the meantime. When the taxi arrived the driver refused to transport my dog. Deja vu!
It was time to tranquilize my dog for the flight. I gave her the pill disguised in a dog treat. Shortly after she became very sedated and stumbled a couple of times. I think the heat and all the walking we had done earlier made her more susceptible to the medication. People hanging around the park cabana started asking me, "What is wrong with your dog?" They still looked at me funny even after I explained to them that she had been medicated for an upcoming flight.
It was now dark. My dog was wobbly. I was desperate. One more call and a taxi showed up. The young driver said in a heavy Spanish accent that he wouldn't transport my dog. I pleaded to him over and over and then offered him sixty extra dollars on top of the airport fare. That changed everything. He said, "get in". As he whisked me down the Palmetto expressway north he said the smell of a damp dog made his "skeen (skin) crawl". He complained all the way to the airport. Thanks to him I was able to checked in on time. The Aerolineas Argentinas staff took good care of my dog. It felt good in the air conditioned airport and I felt free to go for a beer and sandwich. I realised then that I hadn't eaten since early morning and it was probably 7 pm or later. I was tired but grateful that I'd of soon be off to Buenos Aires. I remember saying to myself, "good-bye Miami!" It was a couple of weeks before Christmas 1998.

Fly Fishing Patagonia, Part 2, Consulate

Dealing with airline companies around transporting a pet internationally can be very complicated. The polices and advice change depending on what airline employee you are talking to and on what day. I must have made forty telephone calls in order to check and then recheck the rules. If you are flying a long way and dealing with different carriers then it all gets even more convoluted and confusing as each airline has its own pet policy and information. There are also different animal Custom polices with each country and since I was was dealing with several ( Canada, USA, Argentina, Chile on the way down and then in reverse order on the way back) there was much to look into. I didn't want my dog quarantined some place for several months. I ended up having to deal with Canada Food Inspection and Agriculture regarding my dog. I had to get passport like photos of her which were attached to an official document and stamped. It seemed everything needed an official stamp. Of course I needed to prove she was healthy and up to date on all shots. I also had to look into a Chilean work visa for myself. Fortunately Montreal had a Chilean consulate. The consul there informed me I had to get my potential employer in Chile to fax a letter indicting that I in fact had employment and a job description. All this was understandable. I had a couple meetings at the consulate. The consul always sat behind an official looking desk and politely asked many questions. I imagined him to be a great card player as he revealed little. I telephoned the consulate just three or four days before my flight to remind them I had yet to receive a work visa they promised. I was concerned; they weren't. A couple of days before my flight I was at the consulate once again reviewing everything with "poker face". I was relieved when he provided me with the needed visa. I had received it in the finial hour. I had gotten through that hoop, a big hoop. Looking back I should have just told everyone including Customs that I was going on a 5 month fishing trip of a lifetime instead of being honest. Although honesty is the "best policy" sometimes it makes things much more complicated. Paper work, or not, I would have gone.

I purchased a large dog travel kennel and started sensitizing my dog to it. She was not used to confined spaces. Dog treats helped the learning process. I made the kennel a fun place with lots of rewards. The kennel came with a water container that looked flimsy. I made a back up one out of a solid plastic container and duct taped it to the grated kennel door. I then wrote the Spanish word for dog, Pero, all over the kennel along with my home address, etc. I consulted a veterinarian about long distance air travel. He informed me that since my dog was one year old she was in the prime of her life and at her strongest. He suggested a sedative for the air travel and I picked up the prescription. My itinerary was Montreal to Miami non-stop. Then a 5 hour stop over before boarding an all night Aerolineas Argentinas flight directly to Buenos Aires. Then I'd switch to a flight to Santiago just an hour later, where Jim had arranged someone to meet me. I'd  spend two days with a member of Jim's family in downtown Santiago and then board an over night bus south to Osorno, Chile. The fly fishing lodge driver would met me there upon arrival early in the morning and we would travel southward a full day through Argentina and then back into Chile. I was informed the overnight bus had a place for pets in the back of the coach that was safe. Jim said he transported his dog this way and it worked out fine. I was uneasy with this arrangement. Next thing I knew I was at Montreal's Dorval airport with my fishing equipment, outdoor gear, extensive paper work (documents), and a drugged dog. Miami international would be my first stop. It turned out to be one of the most challenging on my journey.

Fly Fishing Patagonia, Part 1, Miramichi

 

I was standing in the middle of the river and it felt cold. It was the last weekend of the trout season. Leaves were falling around me. The wind was chilly and the clouds had the ominous look of winter. I started thinking about Bruce Chatwin, Yvon Chouinard, William Leitch and others who had visited the Land of the Big Feet. I thought about large trout swimming in rios, lagos and bocas. I was thinking about Patagonia and the southern hemisphere. I wanted to go straight from Fall into Spring and fool nature itself by skipping Winter. I wanted to transport myself to where the rivers were beginning to warm and come to life; where trout weren't hunkering down in dark deep pools but instead awakening and looking to the surface and the sun.

By chance I read a magazine article on several fly fishing lodges in Patagonia. The images of the terrain and rivers were mesmerizing. I decided to take action and after a little research faxed my resume to the bottom of the world. It was the first angling resume I had ever written. It was my message in a bottle. A couple days later I received a reply. I couldn't believe it. I thought, "Things like that don't happen to me!". A lodge owner named Jim said he'd be chasing the King of Fish ( Atlantic Salmon) on a famous maritime river in New Brunswick in a couple of weeks. I lived in Montreal then. He knew his geography and asked if we could meet. I said I'd make the road trip east to the lodge near the town of Blackville where he would be staying. I made the full day drive dodging moose and logging trucks along the last stretch of rural route 108, and arrived just before dark. We talked over a beans and wieners dinner in a classic wood lodge overlooking the Miramichi river. It reminded me of the old Adirondack camps in a region just south of Montreal where where I learned to fly fish as a child. It all felt familiar. Jim seemed larger than life. He had fished just about everywhere for trout and salmon. He said with a playful smile that "after God created trout he created him". I didn't know what to think of him. I don't think it really mattered. The next morning I watched him and others take turns fishing a tannin colored salmon pool on the Cains river. He wore a Filson tin cloth hat and a Barbour coat, and fished a full flex fly rod. He oozed tradition. I liked that. He spoke about his love of dry fly fishing and his home river in Chile. I also liked that. Before I drove home I had committed to spending five months in rural Patagonia, from late December until May. He offered a guiding gig and I couldn't say no. I took the hook. I had a full time job, a mortgage, a one year old golden retriever and like most people numerous other responsibilities. There were many unanswered questions: Could I get several months off from work? Could I afford to take the time off? Was it possible to transport my young dog such a distance? Did I need a work visa? Where the hell is Valle Des Escales, Chile (my destination)? It was already the middle of October and I had a lot of scrambling to do. I wondered if I could pull it off. I doubted I could pull it off. Then one night while listening to talk radio I heard the author Ray Bradbury being interviewed and I found confidence. He spoke with boundless enthusiasm about everything he loved. He said that his approached to life was to "jump off a cliff and then learn to make wings on the way down". Mr Bradbury was the best storyteller I had ever heard. He made everything seem possible. I said to myself," build wings".