The first clue you might have that Junin de los Andes in Neuquen province, Argentina is fly fishing country are the town's street signs. All are in the shape of a trout.
Your second clue might be more a matter of luck, or skill. On my first evening there, I checked into the small Hotel de Chimehuin alongside which flowed the renowned Chimehuin River. Though the town is small (10,000), it's still a town and I gave no more thought to getting my line wet on a river just a dozen yards from my hotel room than I would have taking my laundry down to pound on its banks.
Nevertheless, a couple gregarious fishermen urged me to do just that before I'd even thrown my bag in my room. What the hell? I thought. I've come all this way to fish the rivers that I'd heard and read about for years such as the Chimehin, the Melleo, the Allumine and the Collon Cura, so there was no time like the present to get started....even if my fellow fishermen were playing a practical joke.
It was early evening and there was a nice hatch on. It was a little disconcerting hearing traffic around me, and the yells of kids playing on the banks, but I flicked my line out in the water with a fly one of my hotel mates had given me. On my third cast, a fish rose and made a lunge at the fly, but I was over anxious and tried to set the hook too quickly. A couple casts later, I hooked a 12" brown. Oh, man, I was going to like Junin de los Andes.
Over the next week, a local guide took me to all his favorite spots. I took a decided liking to the Melleo and parts of the Chimehin. They reminded me of Montana....a Montana with no other fishermen in sight. I admit I didn't catch the most or the biggest fish of my life, but it was definitely some of the most challenging fishing I'd experienced—those southern browns are wily devils. My favorite moment was an evening spent on the Boca de Chimehuin...the mouth of the lake where the Chimehin originates. Here, at nearly dark, a group of fishermen—mostly Argentines and Chilenos—gathered in a hut and passed around mate gourds. I was anxious to get out and hit it, but everyone kept telling me to wait. It was pitch dark when everyone began to file out on the river. Nevertheless, there was a sliver of moon—barely enough to guess where your fly was landing. It was fishing purely by feel. We were out there for a couple hours—freezing—with just a couple of mate breaks, but it didn't matter. It didn't matter that I did't get so much as a whisper of a tug on my line. It was the most unforgettable day of fishing I'd ever known.
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