The willows along the shore are swaying. Snowy Andean peaks are looming. After hours of intermittent rain, the sun is at full blaze, making the Rio Palena shine like an emerald. It’s December—prime fly-fishing season in northernmost Chilean Patagonia—and I’ve been casting streamer flies to the river’s spirited wild trout for about six hours. Apart from a hasty lunch break and a few reel-ins during which my guide, Arturo, had to oar the raft through choppy water, I’ve been doing nothing all day but fishing.
About a half dozen of the rainbow and brown trout I’ve hooked have come to hand (and just as promptly been returned to the water). None were chanchos—“pigs,” or big ones—and for some reason my reflexes seem to be a split second off. Still, it’s been a good day of fishing, all in all. As I drift off to sleep that night, I’ll replay the day’s rhythmic casting and stripping of fly line, the sweep of the current, and the live-wire feeling of having a fish on. For a spell, at least, the uneven rumblings of my brain will have become as smooth as a river stone.
