Seasonable Angler: Echoes in Time

“Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart.” –Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore

There was a twisted and ancient apple tree in a marshy meadow of windblown grasses and sad-faced cows. The bending grasses seemed at home here. The cattle were immigrants like me, and they stared at us mournfully as if they had overheard the gauchos planning an asado and were completely aware of their journey’s ending. And it does end. No amount of mindless grazing will change that, for the cows or the cowboys. Eventually, we all become blades of grass, bending in the wind.

This journey began a few years ago when I asked my friend Bob White, “What are the homewaters of your heart?” I fully expected him to name the St. Croix River, which flows not far from his home, or perhaps a particular stream in the Driftless Region, just a few hours’ drive to the south.

But without hesitation he replied, “There are two rivers: the Agulukpak River in Bristol Bay’s Wood River Drainage in Alaska, and the Rio Malleo at Estancia San Huberto, in Argentina.” Bob has fished and guided on both rivers for decades. That year Bob and I flew to Alaska to connect with salmon, Arctic char, rainbow trout, and grayling. Our weeklong adventure together was, for me, life-changing. This year we traveled to Argentina and the Rio Malleo. With each passing day I fell deeper in love with Patagonia’s landscapes, waters, wildlife, and perhaps most of all, its people. This feels like a lifelong love affair—nothing casual or ephemeral.

After stringing up our rods and greeting the lonesome cattle, Bob and I weaved our way among the willows and began scanning the surface of the river, looking for feeding fish, while also taking notice of the flaming purple flowers of lupine blooming all around us. Brightly colored parrots called out to each other as they flew from tree to tree. A small rufous-colored hawk called a chimango screeched from a nearby fencepost as a kingfisher rocketed upstream, squawking his displeasure at our arrival. The sounds of wind and water spoke of moments shared and memories made—fish and fishing were simply an excuse for being here—although no excuse was necessary. I would have traveled all this way simply to watch the river flow, the meadows bloom, and my buddy Bob grow quiet with the rush of memories swirling all around him.

I could see it happening. I knew that look from my own face reflected in the Guadalupe River of my Texas Hill Country home. There at the place I call the Pooh Bear Bridge, I now fish alone—sort of. Even in complete solitude I frequently look over to see the mental image of my daughter, long ago, casting into the current until a bright Guadalupe bass takes her fly, and she looks at me smiling and says, “Look, dad . . . I’ve got one!” I miss those days when she was young, and I was younger. Now that’s she’s all grown up and lives in England, I know those days will never come again. I helped her to leave. Love is always a key and never a cage. Love is what makes life worth living. But love is also the toughest thing I know.

The pool we were fishing is called El Manzano, The Apple Tree. We had come here on our first day together, and I struggled. It was cold, wet, and windy and I caught nothing. Since then we’d explored many miles of the Malleo and Huacha rivers together, and we’d both landed plenty of beautiful browns and rainbows under the gaze of the volcano, Lanin, and possibly of the large puma we saw crossing the dirt road just above us. Fish were caught and adventures were had—from watching gauchos drive cattle to sipping Argentine Malbec beneath the monkey puzzle trees. Fish were extra.

But today was our final day before Bob was heading home and I was going elsewhere in Argentina, so we returned to El Manzano one last time. We began fishing from the opposite side of the Malleo, where wild lupines covered the sun-dappled riverbank and red deer burst from the willows upon our approach. I managed to catch a few smallish rainbows and lost a nice chunky fish—of course. That’s fishing.

As we walked between the willows and approached the quickly moving water, we began searching for signs of fish feeding. Bob is highly skilled—I am not. With the high, fast, deep water and the profusion of willows, this is not an easy spot to fish. I took a position high up on the bank and upriver of Bob, and for a while, we simply watched in silence. I began to notice that my friend seemed to be slightly melancholy. He wasn’t simply watching for feeding fish, he was watching memories unfold in his mind’s eye. And that’s when he said, “This was Les’s favorite spot.”

I had heard the story of Lester and his wife Helene, and how they had begun as Bob’s new clients and quickly grew to be his old friends. He told me of their first meeting at the San Martin de Los Andes Airport, and how Lester had recognized him as “that guide on the Agulukpak that walks the boat down the river!” Fly fishing can be a small and friendly world, even on a big, lonely planet. And I had heard that Les was a bit of a purist, who told Bob on day one, “I don’t fish wet flies, and I don’t fish nymphs. You put one of those flies on and all you’re likely to catch is a crummy brown trout.” Les liked leaping rainbows. But the most important thing I heard was that my friend missed his other friend. I know that feeling—all too well.

After a while, Bob spotted a nice rainbow rising along a seam of current that could only be reached by way of a tricky cast around some sticky willows. Being the gentleman he is, Bob asked, “Do you want to try for him?” and I immediately declined. First of all, I knew Bob had a much better chance of pulling it off. But more importantly, I felt he needed to catch this fish—for Les.

We watched the fish rise a few more times, and while we did, I asked Bob about his love for this river and this place. He paused, and then said, “Returning to San Huberto is like going home for Christmas. Old friends and family, and familiar sights and sounds, even smells wash over me as I wander around the place reliving moments of my life that seem like yesterday . . . with friends who crossed over decades ago. Norman Maclean wrote that he was haunted by waters . . . but the Malleo and the fish it sustains were merely the reason for us showing up. Water was the catalyst that brought us together to share in each other’s lives. And now, I am haunted by that sharing, by their memories . . . and by the memories that will be. Yet the river remains.”

It had been an amazing week. I had no idea how many fish I caught—I never keep count. I had no idea what the largest fish weighed or how long she was—because I don’t care about such things. But as the evening light grew dim across the surrounding hills, I did know that this would be the last fish of our last day—and this needed to be Les’s fish. So I sat down on the riverbank next to a bouquet of sun-yellow wildflowers, and watched as my friend made his cast, watched the drift, saw the rise, and caught the fish.

I smiled as Bob brought her to hand, and I heard him say, “This one’s for you, Les.” Just before he released Les’s fish, Bob looked over at me just briefly, and without planning or permission I snapped a quick photo. I love that image. I love how the willows and wildflowers framed the bittersweet smile on my friend’s face. I love that I was fortunate enough to share that moment with my friend. And I love each memory of our time together along the Rio Malleo among the willows and under the monkey puzzle trees—and of our final golden sunlit evening. I’m forever grateful.

Bob and I are both in our sixties. And we both have our share of dings and dents from the lives we’ve chosen—lives of challenge and adventure. These days, life seems even more precious as we count all the friends who have crossed the river before us to rest beneath the shade of the trees. We speak often of meaningful thoughts and lingering questions. On our walk back to the truck Bob shared, “It seems to me that humankind wastes time focusing beyond life in an attempt to make sense of now; creating the idea of Nirvana, Valhalla, or Heaven . . . when perfection, mirrored in the river, has always been and will always be. Perhaps we might seek solace in the river.” Amen brother. Amen.

And now as I write this I am reminded of that twisted and ancient apple tree in the marshy meadow of windblown grasses and sad-faced cows. The bending grasses were naturally at home there. But so were the immigrant cattle, the generations of estancia families and transplanted trout and yes . . . even me. I guess home is more about presence than place.

I wonder who planted that tree. I wonder how many gauchos have ridden their stocky horses by it as they drove the cattle along. I wonder if I will ever see it again. I should have touched it before we left and said my goodbyes. You see, we just never know when the last time really is the last time. We all create our own heavens and hells. There is only this present moment to live our best lives, and a pocket full of memories to relive our best moments. Make the cast and make it count.

Life’s not a dress rehearsal.

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Steve Ramirez is a Texas master naturalist, poet, and Marine Corps veteran. He is the author of Casting Forward, Casting Onward, and Casting Seaward. His newest book, Casting Homeward (Lyons Press) was released in September 2024.

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