PATAGONIA

FISHING AND FIESTAS AT A LIVELY LODGE

Author: By Rip Cunningham, Globe Correspondent

Date: SUNDAY, October 4, 1998

Page: M1

Section: Travel

At Futaleufu (footaLAYfoo) Lodge in Patagonia, a region that includes parts of Chile and Argentina, chickens ran free everywhere -- and to be absolutely sure that the 4 o'clock rooster was silenced would require massive poultry genocide. I finally went back to sleep, until the smell of breakfast in the kitchen below got me up. For the rest of the week, the rooster was a nightly fixture that had less and less of an impact, as Jim and Sonja Repine's staff purged any vestige of stress from our bodies.

In my family, there has always been a clear distinction between fly-fishing and religion: Fly fishing came first. For that matter, all types of fishing and hunting were high on life's priority list.So naturally, I caught the bug early. It has been a long love affair that has taken me and most of my family to many faraway and interesting places.

Certain fishing destinations are considered musts on fishermen's life list: Atlantic salmon fishing in Iceland and now Russia; Alaska or British Columbia for a variety of Pacific salmon and steelhead; Newfoundland for giant brook trout; and, of course, Argentina or Chile for rainbows and browns. Having added Chile and Argentina to my list, I fear that they may become habit forming and require additional visits. As my brief writing in the Futaleufu Lodge log indicated, ``We did not know what to expect, but we could not have expected what we found. We came, we saw, and were conquered.'' We came for the fishing and we found so much more.

The overall impact of a trip is, for me, a compilation of a lot of little things, often not planned for. This trip was no exception. We took an American Airlines night flight out of Miami to Buenos Aires. At our check-in, we had chatted with the gate agent, who just happened to be from New Bedford and a fisherman no less. Once again, fishing was about to pay off. My wife, North, and I boarded the flight and were just settled in our seats on the 747 when the PA system snapped us to attention. ``Mr. & Mrs. Cunningham in 28 A & B, please come to the front of the aircraft and bring all your carry-on luggage.'' Ooops, were we being bounced off the flight? Not exactly. The plane was oversold, but there were four extra seats in First Class and, along with my in-laws, we were being moved up to make room for four more passengers!

My wife, her parents, and I arrived at the lodge on Saturday afternoon, several hours after our landing at Esquel and a 40-mile trip over some paved and some dirt roads that included a border crossing from Argentina into Chile. The February weather could only be described as horrible, but we later found that January and February weather is usually the best, comparable to our July and August in the Northern Hemisphere.

Our arrival in the town of Futaleufu was greeted with a heavy mist and an ominous-looking sky. The ride back into the valley where the lodge sits is down a cart path carved out of the side of the mountain rising above the Futaleufu River. It was made for the primary local means of transportation, the ox cart or horseback.

Given a chance to ride on horseback into the valley, we graciously declined and instead remained out of the elements in the Toyota truck. We also discovered that the horses were not just for riding. One of the hills becomes slick in wet weather, and even four-wheel drive cannot get traction. So the horses had to provide the extra oomph to get the truck over.

The ride in is in several sections. The first brings you into El Valle de Los Reyes (The Valley of the Kings), where there are several beautiful ranches. Then you rise up again to the Paso Suicida (Suicide Pass), where the sheer wall of the mountainside drops what looks to be several thousand feet into the raging river below, which also happens to be a stretch of Class 5 rapids. One part of the roadway is actually propped up by hand-hewn timbers.

After sweating out the pass, you descend into El Valle de La Escalas (The Valley of the Stairs), which is a true time warp. The farmers in this valley still use the same cultivating and harvesting techniques they did several hundred years ago. The valley boasted only two gasoline engines; one was in the Toyota truck and the other a generator for simple lodge needs. In our terms, these were extremely poor people. However, in all our travels we have rarely met happier people.

Bad weather or not, we had come too far not to give the fishing a brief try. So, Darrin, one of the two Alaskan guides wintering in Chile, showed me First Run. I tied on a Woolly Bugger, which was soon to become the fly of the week, and my first Chilean rainbow was caught and released. No worldbeater, but I always relax more after the first fish.

I remained on the water until my hands were incapacitated by the raw wind and drizzle. Back at the lodge, one was greeted on the porch with refreshments, and the guides helped with the removal of cumbersome chest waders. This was a feature my wife found so endearing that she has come to expect similar care at home. She's still waiting.

Inside, care was washed away by a beverage, a roaring fire, and classical music. Every evening, dinner was a country culinary experience. If I had to describe the style of food, it would be Northern European with a Latin flair. To complement each meal, we sampled a variety of Chilean wines not often, or ever, found in the United States. Since it was a lifestyle that was comfortable from day one, we regretted that it was only temporary. We soon found that this was much more than a fishing trip. There are few places left on earth like this.

If the nocturnal crowing of the 4 o'clock rooster did not wake you up, the daily selection of classical music wafting into your room and carrying with it the smells of breakfast did. So did the morning wake-up from Patti, who brought coffee or juice. Looking out the window each morning was like looking at a perfectly staged panorama. One morning the mountaintops had snow; the next they were green.

For those who fished, there was an endless string of possibilities with miles of river to cover. This was done by truck, boat, or horseback. North and I tried a two-day float down to Lago Yelcho with an overnight stop at a little hosteria along the river. It was obvious that the building had been constructed by people who were far shorter than I: The top of door openings hit me just above my eyes. I soon learned to duck instinctively. The gas hot water heater in the community bathroom was, let's say, interesting, but it did make hot water if you lit it correctly. It was a charming place, but we had been spoiled by the Lodge.

For those who do not fish, there are alternatives. Full- or half-day rides into the mountains surrounding the lodge or along the river present the riders with some spectacular scenery. For birdwatchers, there is a variety of species. Birds such as the bandurias (buff-necked ibis), the queltehue (southern lapwing), and the tiuque and chimango, which are small hawks not unlike the North American sparrow hawk, are readily seen. A variety of geese nests along the river, and if one is lucky, a condor will be spotted.

There are not a lot of game animals to be seen in this region, although there are pumas, huemuls (a small native deer), and beeson (a minklike animal). However, their lack is made up for by the wild flowering shrubs called notros and chilquis, the latter being a type of fuchsia with beautiful red blossoms. Wild roses are also abundant and almost a plague to farmers because of their fast growth. There are also coihues, which are large trees with extremely dense wood. Much of the area was burned years ago in a forest fire that itself burned for years, and the fallen coihues are still providing usable lumber.

What would a fishing trip be without at least one good fish story to tell? Mine came on a day that North and I rode out to the Blue Lagoon, which was more spectacular than the one in the movie. At the end of the Class 5 rapids below Paso Suicida, the river carved out a deep hole, and the oxygenated water is deep blue. With many back eddies along the perimeter, there are numerous places for trout to set up feeding stations.

In one of these eddies, I hooked a rainbow trout of about three pounds. As I worked the trout to shore for release, it suddenly swam right at me and tried to hide around my legs as I stood in the water. Looking down, I saw what was causing this strange behavior. A brown trout that would have to go to Weight Watchers for a month to ever get down to 15 pounds was trying to eat my fish. If the guide had not seen the monster as well, I might have been tempted to give up drinking.

Our last night at Futaleufu was celebrated with a fiesta. All the residents of the valley come to the lodge for a traditional ``asado,'' with a split whole lamb cooked upright on a sword in front of an open fire and basted liberally with garlic oil. Some of the local teenagers play flamenco guitars and demonstrate traditional Chilean dances like ``la cueca,'' where the male dancer plays the aggressive rooster and the female plays the coy hen.

After a few pisco drinks (much like tequila), we were enticed to join in the festivities. I danced with a breathtakingly good-looking young woman, and my wife danced with the 80-year-old gardener. It was hard to tell who had the most fun, but my dancing must have impressed someone. I was given the kidneys from the lamb for dinner, which is considered the choice part. Even thoughwe spoke very little Spanish and they spoke no English, it was an evening to remember.

Departure from the lodge was not easy, partly because of a small overindulgence the previous night and because we had been spoiled by the attentive care of the our hosts, Jim and Sonja, and their staff. It was, however, made easier by the fact that we would get a chance to see a rodeo being held in ``downtown'' Futaleufu, a half-hour drive back over Paso Suicida.

The town of Futaleufu is reminiscent of a Western US town around the turn of the century, except there are cars and trucks. The streets are all dirt, and gasoline is dispensed in two-gallon wine jugs with woven baskets and handles.

The festive spirit was immediately obvious as gauchos rode everywhere, asados were being started, and groups of people filed toward the rodeo stadium built into a side hill. Many of the events would seem to be the same as in our rodeos, but they are not. The steer roping takes place on foot, and the objective is to rope the two front legs of the steer as it is being herded around the perimeter of the ring. A perfect roping pulls both legs of the steer together, and the gaucho plants his heels, upending the animal. A poorly-thrown lasso that catches only one front or back leg results in the gaucho being jerked out of his boots, much to the delight of the crowd.

The steer-cutting event started out much as we know it, but the final objective is to pin the steer against the ring barrier with the front of the horse. Watching these gauchos work their horses was watching the melding of rider and horse into a symphony of action.

But the best was yet to come as we left the stadium area. Along the main street, clusters of people and gauchos gathered with horses nearby, some under blankets and others prancing and glistening with anticipation. The gatherings were for looking over the contestants and placing bets for the match races that ran down the length of the town's main street.

The horse owners formed the starting line for the two horses by standing on opposite sides of the street. Each had an opportunity to call a false start on the other, if necessary. Then the two horses dashed off toward the finish line in a rolling cloud of dust. It seemed as if cowboys might walk out of the settling dust with six-guns on their hips.

We left our hosts and Futaleufu for a far more cosmopolitan Esquel, back in Argentina, and then headed up into the Parc Nacional Los Alerces to Hosteria Quime-Quipan, which translates roughly into Welcome Back.

The hotel was on a hillside overlooking Lago Futalaufquen, one of the lakes forming the headwaters of the Futaleufu River, as it is called in Chile, and the Rio Grande in Argentina. This is part of the area that is referred to as the Switzerland of South America. Sitting on the terrace at Quime-Quipan, it was easy to see how it got its name. The lush green forest rose out of the lakes to snowcapped peaks that were turning pink in the sunset light. In the distance, the eerie sound of geese flying in to feed in fields added a sense of serenity.

Earlier, on our ride in, our guide, Emilio, caused some alarm by mentioning that this was the peak of the tourist season and the park would be crowded. It seemed odd because we had not seen many other vehicles going into an area roughly the size of Yellowstone. All we could think of was a long waiting line just to enter. When that did not happen, I asked how many people were there when it was crowded. He said 250 to 300. Some crowd!

For two days, we fished in the series of headwater lakes. In Lago Verde, we found some of the most interesting sights while fishing for large rainbow trout that were feeding along the edge of the lake well back in the cat-and-ninetails. Hooking the fish was no problem. But getting them out was another story.

Along the shore of Lago Verde, there was a small resort built on the site of one of the first settlements on the lakes. We had a chance to see some of the original log cabins that have been preserved. Each day, our guides set up camp along the lake and cooked us an asado of grilled chorizo (local sausage) and filet of beef. Several times, we added fresh trout to that. With each meal, we sampled a new variety of local wine. I began to understand why the siesta is such an important part of life in South America.

Although this park does not have the tourist attractions that some of our national parks do, it has a lot to offer, such as hiking and incredible vistas and scenery.

These lakes, which form the headwaters for the Rio Grande, are on the eastern side of the Andes, yet the outflowing Rio Grande goes west into the Pacific. The lakes lie between the Andes and a smaller ridge of mountains that were formed before the Andes. As the larger mountains rose to the west, the river continued to carve its way to the west coast of Chile. This is why some of the water flows and scenery are so spectacular.

After departing the park, we returned to Esquel, where we stayed at the Hotel Sol del Sur and were thrown into a more typical tourist environment. Having come from the serenity of the countryside, it was a mild culture shock. Each day, we ventured out to new places. One day we went into a Montana-like area with a beautiful spring creek running through the center called Arroyo Pescada. One day we visited a basin lake at the foot of the mountain right outside Esquel that is the area's winter attraction for skiers.

Each day we had another midday feast prepared over an open fire. Our last lunch happened to be on North's birthday, and somehow the guides found out. Our wine list for the day was expanded to include champagne. A cake and candles were produced. The siesta was a little longer than usual.

Patagonia has too much to offer to be seen in only a week. We found that even two weeks went by too fast. We came, we looked, and we were conquered and captivated by this truly unspoiled area.

Emelio Cleri Hotel, Sol del Sur 9 de Julio 1086, 9200 Esquel, Argentina; 945-2189 or 2427.

Chip Bates Angler Adventures, PO Box 872, Old Lyme, CT 06371; 800-628-1447.