Trout fishing in Patagonia

Tom Fort remembers his fishing in patagonia. journalist and writer Tom Fort contributes regularly to trout and salmon.

Memories of Chilean Patagonia: snow-dabbed mountains, thick forest, wide seas of tawny pampas, horsemen in ponchos and leather leggings clip-clopping homewards as the sun sank, crystal rivers to set a fisherman's heart thumping, a brown trout appearing from the depths, mouth open, intent on the fat, hairy size 8 grasshopper bouncing over the ripples, a rod bent against a blue sky with harriers wheeling on the thermals.

It really is the most exciting place. South of Puerto Montt, which is south of Santiago, the land is squeezed between the Andes and the Pacific, and the landscape dissolves into a jumble of peaks, valleys and fingers of blue saltwater thrust in from the sea. We landed at Balmaceda, close up to the Argentine border, and were driven through a virgin land until we reached the Cisnes.

It's a mountain river, strewn with boulders and rapid, but urgent rather than fierce, and full of graceful glides and marbled runs, an infinity of places for a fish to rest and feed. One day we drove out of Rex Bryngelson's Lodge, Posada de los Farios, up the valley until it flattened out and we left the forest behind. We stopped by a little oxbow lake left by the winter floods, where I caught a good fish by landing an artificial beetle behind it as it cruised.

On the main river we fished with artificial grasshoppers, soused in flotant then dried in the sun, so they floated like corks. The art is to bring them down with as big a plop as possible, to let the fish know you're open for business. With the sun blazing down, you could see the shadow cast by the fly on the stones; then the trout stealing out from under the far bank with a meal in mind. In that blinding sunlight, with the hot wind blowing across the grasslands from Argentina, and those muscle-packed wild fish hurling themselves at the hopper - it was a magical, draining day. And in the evening, after cold beer and good food, we crept down to a little glide near the lodge and found trout chasing sedges and ready for an Elk Hair Caddis.

I loved Chile, and without any effort at all can picture myself back in that glorious, empty, river-rich land. Although the trout were introduced, they needed no help to get them going, for the place was made for them. The country is safe, the essentials of life - food, drink, trout - are in ample supply. All right, it takes some getting there; but that's what keeps it special, and the thirteen hour flight from Europe provides plenty of opportunity for anticipation, and the one back for sorting the memories and plotting a return.

When Negley Farson got there in the 1930s, a rough Scot came into his hotel room and told him: "I'm going to give you some fishing that will take the hair off your head". The next day Farson was playing a six pound rainbow in shadow of the erupting volcano of Chillan. Chile was, and still is uniquely awesome amongst fishing destinations.

Tom Fort