Being from Wyoming, smack dab in the middle of North America, I never figured I’d find myself at the end of the world. But there I was, escaping the February powder storms of the Rocky Mountains, flying in a twin-engine plane south from Buenos Aires in the South American summer. The astounding views of alpine lakes and southern fjords made me thankful I had a window seat.
I was expecting windswept pampas and grazing llamas. Instead, I spotted at least three distinct mountain ranges that reminded me of the Tetons, one after another. After a slow descent over the gorgeous, mountainous landscape we landed in the town of Ushuaia.
But, we had no plans to sail to Antarctica from the southernmost tip of South America. Our sights were set on the Sea Run Brown Trout of the famed Rio Grande.
Baggage can be a bitch. Matt and I shlepped fishing gear in oversized baggage onto red-eye flights for two days. Flies tied, lines rigged, and the special anticipation of things to come were loaded into a Toyota Hilux for the Pampas.
“Hey Ned, how does it feel to travel so far and feel like you’re still in Wyoming?” Matt asked as we crested the end of the Andes into the flatlands of southeastern Argentina. I had no words.
I got my voice back in time to show up at the Maria Behety Lodge on the banks of the most beautifully windswept river I have ever experienced.
I’ve always tried to learn quickly when fishing new water. We learned at lightning speed that wind can be your friend. The winds of southern Argentina are legendary. They are as strong as an 80-pound tarpon, as unrelenting as a class-five rapid, and as unforgiving as an ex-girlfriend. Positioning yourself downwind along a run can make all the difference between a quality presentation and presenting something even an ambitious bird dog wouldn’t eat.
Up at the lodge and out of the wind, I was admiring the pale blue, stark white, and crisp yellow of the Argentinian flag—flying in the wind as if it had been starched flat. “We replace that flag once a month, sometimes it’s in tatters in a couple of weeks,” our lodge host informed me as she mixed up a Whiskey Manhattan near the hearth of the wood-burning fireplace that defines the lodge.
We landed brown trout larger than my dreams, we watched condors sore on thermals as if they were frozen, we admired wild llamas chowing down on grasses without care of wind, water, or weather.
We dined on the authentic Asado—more of a cultural experience than a meal—that has become ubiquitous of Argentina the world over.
I found myself at the end of the world with a lifelong friend, and we made new friends from Argentina, England, Finland, and more. Folks from every background brought together with a common passion for angling in one of the starkest environments on earth.
“Let’s do it again, Matt!” I said as we left the lodge through hugs and high fives from the crew. “I’d love to, but next time I’m gonna bring my Frigate Windshirt!”
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