El Lago Divorce-O

“Pass the big lake then you come to where the stream’s washed-out the road.  From there you can either follow the stream to the lake or follow the trail along side of it. When you come to the lake, you will see this shallow pan of sand at the edge of the dark, deep water. Walk out as far as you can and begin casting. There’s Brook trout in that lake 30 inches or greater.  They will either be there, or they won’t.”

Rance Rathie of Patagonia River Guides had a Google Earth image of the lake on his computer screen. He was giving us potential fishing spots for our upcoming week at Estancia Poncho Moro. He was clicking locations on a map and I was rapidly snapping photos with my iPhone. (The lake has a published name, although we didn’t think it was good form to give away fishing spots given to us. )

P. T. Barnum said: “There’s a sucker born every minute.” For every sucker, there’s something to lure them in, something causing them to rush headlong into in a situation where they lose their money, their health, or something otherwise of value to them. Rance had, while innocently delivering a simple, matter-of-fact statement, thrown my bait: Brook trout. Giant Brook Trout. 

I hadn’t seen a Brook Trout in 40 years. Brookies were the first wild trout I’d caught in a career where I’ve since touched thousands of salmonoids.  Flash-back to a place called Twin Springs in Aiken County, Minnesota, where I was a teen hunting Ruffed Grouse in 1976. I’d heard there were wild trout there and, as I was walking around the Springs with a shotgun in arm, I saw a flowage of water spilling over the top of a beaver dam. Crawling on my hands and knees to the edge of that tiny stream, I looked through the willows to see two Brook trout digging a nest and dancing their spawning ritual. It seemed a miracle. I swore to return, and did in the summer of 1977.  On that second visit I caught four six-to-eight-inch Brookies on a diminutive Fenwick fiberglass fly rod purchased just for the occasion. I killed and ate them for breakfast, of course, because that’s what one did back then.

Now here I was, in the middle of Patagonian Argentina, with the opportunity to catch a Brook trout longer than the width of that trout stream in Aiken County Minnesota.  “Step right this way, folks!”  P. T. Barnum must have been rolling in his grave.

Lynnette and I made plans to visit the lake after a couple days of rest at the estancia. We took Nico, the gaucho, who liked the idea of an adventure to see a new place. The plan was we would cook an asado lunch then walk the stream to the lake. I could hardly sleep the night before.

We started off from the estancia to the lake at the crack of 11. The first leg was an hour-long hellish, bouncey ordeal along a rocky, corrugated switchback road. Using the GPS, we came right to the junction of the entrance road with a sign promising the lake was only 12 km away. 

If we thought the previous road to be rough this new road was a doozy. It had long ago lost the fine particles that had bound it together when, ages ago, someone had decided this would be a road. Decades of vehicle travel in high winds had reduced it to a boulder field hemmed-in by fences. It took another hour to go 12 km and reach a beautiful field overlooking a larger lake. We decided we would cook our lunch there, out of the wind, and proceed afterwards. 

Two hours later after a delicious asado, and a quick nap, we began the final trek to this mysterious, lost lake of dreams. After 20 minutes of more rocky road and multiple fence gates, we arrived to the edge of the stream where, as Rance had promised, the road was washed out. There appeared to be a trail right next to it. we excitedly dressed in our waders and told Nico we would be back in 2 to 3 hours. “No problemo” he said. 

“Do not attempt to take a direct walk to the lake.” Rance had admonished us, “Stay on the trail. Although it seems walking direct is the shortest way, the entire area is covered with thick, intertwined, thorny brush. Impenetrable. Believe me, I’ve tried it.”

We jumped the fence and immediately came to a simple farmhouse. The stream was quite rocky there and, seeing no other way, we trespassed the house and right past the door of an open outhouse. Good thing nobody was in there.

The foot trail suddenly split into two, then three, then got noticeably spare.We crossed fourth-and-back the creek several times, imagining we’d seen trail cross here or there. A mosquito landed and bit Lynnette on the face. A forest fire had gone through the area decades ago and now wind storms were blowing-down the charred remains of ancient trees directly across the trail. Suddenly, we were covered in mosquitoes as we ducked-under or climbed-over blown down trees. My heavy pack, festooned with extra Rods and a net, was hanging on something constantly as we pressed through the thorny underbrush,  attempting to keep the vanishing trail.  

“What the hell are we doing?” Lynnette exclaimed as we came to yet another stream crossing. I explained my idea; which is thought to have outlined earlier;of following the creek to the lost lake then fishing, perhaps for an hour, to catch a 30-inch Brook Trout. “ The lake!? I thought we were going to fish the small stream. You don’t begin a trip like this at four in the afternoon!”  She was right.  We were in pretty miserable straits. A couple of large pools lay in the creek before us.  I agreed. “Let’s just make a few casts and head back.”  Feeling my dream of glory quickly fading, I handed a rod to Lynnette and she began casting. The brush was thick and the wind strong. She was catching brush constantly. It was the type of brush that immediately tangled your leader and kept it several places. “I’m over it! This sucks!” she proclaimed. “I’d rather watch you fish.” I took the rod and made a few casts. A couple small trout hit the beetle fly and one was hooked but did not come to hand. I moved forward along the creek,  silently oblivious as Lynnette followed me. We came to to a narrow, deep point in the creek. “F#ck this!” she yelled. “I’m out!” 

Reeling up the line, I hooked up the fly and said “I think we’ve had enough. Let’s make our way out here.” I silently begin backtracking our way to the swamp, thorns, and blow down. The mosquitoes were intense. We crossed the creek several times. We headed to one of the few stands of mature trees, knowing the walking was easier there. 

Like many men, when the going gets rough I tend to get stoic. Women, in my experience, tend to wish more communication and collaboration under such circumstances. When we reached the stand of trees it all fell apart right there & then. “Is this another of your god dammed tests?! Maybe I’m not cut out for this!  Maybe I’m not the woman you thought me to be!” She was in absolute tears, sitting on a log and sobbing.  50 mosquitos were biting me, my best friend was in hysterics and going backwards in her fishing. progress. Time to un-stoic and get with the game.    

One thing we both have in our relationship is our ability to get through situations like this then discuss what happened, looking at it in a very objective way.  It’s essentially the honesty and optimism that Lynnette brings to the relationship. We immediately calmed down, decided we would find a way out of there and get on down the road back to the estancia. 

We aimed for a cleft in the mountains before us, seeing it above the snarl of vegetation.  We knew the truck was there, within minutes we broke out onto a trail large enough to drive an ATV. We thought: this must be the trail Rance had described to us. We were following cow trails all day. We had a good laugh about it. It being too late in the day, we returned to the truck packed up and went home. that night over the fire, we vowed to return. 

Fast forward to three days later, past the rock-strewn roads, the gates and there we were, standing again at the stream: roads end. We quickly found the ATV trail and within 20 minutes of easy walking there we were, standing at a breathtakingly beautiful lake in a valley of the Andes.  

The wind was light to moderate and we quickly made our way along the sandy shoreline, studded with ancient, gnarled trees, to where the stream entered.  

Lynnette is getting really good at spotting fish. She excitedly pointed out a trout in the stream. Wasting no time, she picked up a rod then cast a Locust fly above the fish, which immediately took. It was a gorgeous Brook Trout of about 14 inches. We marveled at the beauty of the fish before taking a picture and releasing it.

About 200 m out I could see where the shallow, white colored sand bottom met the dark. Lynnette wasn’t having any of that, so, while she cast dries at the creek mouth, I waded out on my own, up to my naval,  before casting. 

The 30-inch Brook Trout were not there that day. There were, however, a lot of beautiful Brookies in the 16 to 19 inch range. Throwing a cone head Zonker, I had a fish on my first cast. After about an hour, after which I couldn’t take the ice-cold water any longer, I had taken about 16 fish to hand and had struck & lost many, many others. I did my best to snap a net photo for a memory. 

We made a snack lunch on the shoreline, savoring the experience as we quietly enjoyed the scenery. It was close to perfect.

On the way out, at the trail head, I had to make one last cast from the shoreline. It produced a small Brookie.  

El Lago divorce-o, we will never forget you. We passed the test.  Our marriage is stronger than ever... Gracias.