The Optimist by David Coggins

Author:David Coggins [Coggins, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-05-04T00:00:00+00:00

* * *

I return to Patagonia on a different trip, to the same small airport in San Martín. I’m greeted by a tall man with a strong, dark brow and a wise-looking smaller man. They’re both in the well-worn khaki clothes often found on anglers. They nod at me. I’m wearing something similar beneath an old, drab sport coat. We get into their truck, and Nestor, the taller of the two, drives us to the lodge. It’s a surprisingly short drive by Patagonia standards—less than two hours, and, remarkably, no dirt road. “Older anglers appreciate no dirt,” the wise man says. This is Jorge.

Nestor stops the truck in front of an imposing log building with a stone chimney. We’re greeted by our hostess, a smiling, dark-haired woman from Colorado. She manages the lodge with her husband, who does the cooking. She offers us a tray of empanadas, still warm, and a glass of red wine. Now this is a welcome. Standing beside her is the small staff of the lodge and we are all introduced. My love of Argentina is undiminished.

The next morning, Jorge and I fish the Collón Curá. Nestor, who’s the lead guide, rows. I fish from the front. Jorge, a pioneer of Patagonia fly fishing, is in the stern. He’s one of the original outfitters who’s brought American anglers to Patagonia for decades. He’s fought successfully to keep dams from being built in the great rivers, sometimes unsuccessfully (there are still unfortunate dams in the area—they have the same problems as the US, alas). I don’t fish with somebody like Jorge very often.

Nestor pushes the boat off. The Collón Curá is wide and unhurried. Nestor does the heavy lifting. Tall, earnest, expert, he makes sure everything works. He’s quiet, highly capable, and I trust him immediately.

We’re on the water. It’s time to fish. From the back of the boat, Jorge hums “Wish You Were Here,” and speaks with great appreciation of Pink Floyd, something I had not counted on. I’m excited. I cast a fair distance, trying, I suppose, to make a good impression. Jorge watches me politely, with mild interest, even bemusement. Why cast so far? his look seems to ask. There’s good water near the boat. In this river, there’s good water everywhere. Jorge proceeds to cast about fifteen feet away, well within the length of casts I just made. He catches three rainbow trout in about ten minutes.

He fights these fish patiently, with a sense of assurance. I’ve never seen rainbow trout like this. They’re sleek and silver and so strong. They don’t have the vivid color of rainbows I’ve known, but are streamlined, silver slabs. Unlike most rainbows, who are reluctant fighters, these won’t come to the boat. They go on run after run. Jorge takes his time landing them and laughs to himself, amused at some combination of the ease and agreeability of these fish and his own secret knowledge. Possibly he’s amused at my approach. Like other expert anglers I’ve known, Jorge resorts to complicated maneuvers only when he has to.

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