“Never lose the hope,” Malco reminds us quietly, his gaze on the windswept waters of the bay. The skeleton of a dead cow lies nearby in the wavy shallows, swept clean by blowing sand and the harsh winter of southern Patagonia. It looks like maybe the cow lost its hope, but, trusting Malco, I choose to do otherwise.
We’re here to work. And while it’s my first properly gale-force day on the turquoise waters of the aptly-named Monster Bay, this is not Malco’s first rodeo here. The affable Argentine guide has spent several seasons working here, on the famed Jurassic Lake in the barren southern plains of Argentine Patagonia, along with many of the men standing on this same shoreline with us. Head guide Martín, as well as seasoned guides Esteban, Nano, Román, Ivan, and Malco himself, are the bulk of the fly-fishing guide team at Estancia Laguna Verde, and know this water well.
It's my first time here. And so I trust Malco when he tells me not to lose “the hope.”
It’s a fitting sentiment for the barren landscape that surrounds us. The vast, empty plains of Santa Cruz Province are home to fewer than 300,000 humans, making it less dense than the Sahara and one of the areas of lowest population on the planet. There are plenty of sheep here, though. And—lucky for us—plenty of very large rainbow trout if you know where to look for them.
The arid, perpetually-windy landscape doesn’t seem like the most intuitive place to go hunting for trophy trout. But they’re here, thriving on a diet of scuds, leeches, midges, and other little critters. It’s that steady diet that grows these fish to monster proportions in the aptly-named Jurassic Lake. And big fish regularly emerge from this large bay we’re fishing… Monster Bay.
There’s little subtlety in the names here. That’s okay. There’s little subtlety in the place itself. This is a raw, wild corner of Argentina, home to sheep, ostrich (Rhea), guanacos, fox, and flamingos, along with the odd gaucho with his mount. And, for several months of the year, a handful of anglers mad enough to face the conditions in the hope of catching a 20-pounder. We have long, brisk days on the water, battered by the wind nearly constantly, but fight on knowing we have asado and good wine waiting for us back in the warmth of the lodge.
Another thing that keeps the guides going—and, after a few days me as well—is mate. Anyone who’s traveled in Argentina has seen the gourd-shaped cup with a metal straw sticking out of it, usually accompanied by a thermos full of hot water tucked under the holder’s arm. The gourd (traditionally, it’s actually a calabash gourd) is filled with yerba mate, pulverized leaves from a species of holly that contains a fair bit of caffeine. Argentines often sip it throughout the day, passing it around a group of friends in a shared ritual.
Soon enough, I’m invited into the guides’ mate circle, sipping the boiling-hot tea before passing it back to Malco, who is the cebador, in charge of preparing the cup of mate for the next person. It’s a friendly ritual, and so very Argentine that I’m delighted to be sharing it with the group of guides I’ve quickly come to call friends. Suddenly, it doesn’t matter that it’s frigid and blowing 30-odd knots. We’re caffeinated. Content. And when an angler hooks into what looks like a big trout and starts shouting, the cold is forgotten completely. This is life on Jurassic Lake, life in Monster Bay. And I can’t think of any other group of people I’d rather share it with. After all, as a Danish friend once told me of Argentine fishing guides, “They’re f*cking pirates, but with good hearts.”
I can confirm that to be true, and it leaves me thankful to be among these pirates with good hearts, who share their mate and know to never lose the hope.
About the Author: Jess McGlothlin sees her mission as a simple one: tell stories. Working as a freelance photographer and writer, she’s learned how to throw spears at coconuts in French Polynesia, dodge saltwater crocodiles in Cuba, stand-up paddleboard down Peruvian Amazon tributaries and eat all manner of unidentifiable food.
