Expanse of America Found in Argentina
I left spring for autumn in a single day. It was disorienting at first, even heartbreaking, going from daffodils and warmth to yellowing poplar and chill. But when T.S. Eliot wrote that 'April is the cruellest month,' he wasn't on a fishing trip in Argentina. Although autumn can be equally cruel as spring, 'mixing memory with desire,' the sentiment is less potent in beautiful fall weather on a trout stream.
It's misleading, of course, to call any stream in Argentina a trout stream, because there are no native trout in the Southern Hemisphere. The trout were introduced by the British more than 80 years ago, then other species came from North America, and trout are now part of the exquisite landscape of Patagonia.
My host, Wayne Nordberg, invited me to the 430,000-acre Estancia Tecka, owned by Don Federico Ochoa and his wife, Dona Elena, in the Andes' foothills. The ranch is a world in itself; half the size of Rhode Island, it is a two-hour flight and a long car ride southeast of Buenos Aires. Along to enjoy the fishing were a former United States treasury secretary (Robert E. Rubin); a concert pianist and band leader; a money manager; a fly-shop owner; and a health care consultant.
In the midst of our isolation, a synergy began to develop among disparate people.
The first night of conversation by the fireplace focused on our careers, where we lived and what we were planning to plant in our gardens. By the fourth day, we had shared emotional details of our lives and were all good friends, and we vowed to stay good friends.
The bonds made on the stream were as tight as the grip that a place like this can have. The air was so crisp, the sky so blue, the bird life so abundant, the whole so inspiring. As we fished the Corcovado, a largish river with rainbow trout (from California), we saw condors, flamingoes, teal, geese, coot, swans, widgeon, grebes and caracaras (handsome raptors). It was memory mixed with jet lag that produced the most delicious of disoriented sensations. Only when the haze of sentiments cleared could I focus on the other side of the story. It occurred to me when I heard what I thought was an airplane, and looking up saw that the sound was from a crested caracara's wings cutting the air.
Here we were, Americans, on perhaps the largest private ranch in Argentina. There are only a handful of ranches this big in the United States, and much of the West is being overpopulated by villages of 10,000-square-foot homes. Some among us, though capitalists, lamented the Aspenification of the American West. So we come here to experience what much of the American West was a hundred years ago: a pristine frontier.
Lately, concerned and wealthy Americans have been buying large ranches in Patagonia, and attempting to keep them open and wild, as if to say to the Argentines: Don't make the mistakes we've made. But such parenting is being met with mixed opinions.
Some Argentines feel that by tying up the land the Americans are tying up the resources that could lead to recovery for Argentina, which is, in one of our fishing guide's words, 'broke, broke, broke.' Maddeningly, though the country is rich in natural resources, its people do not necessarily benefit from the wealth. According to Argentine law, anything beneath the ground -- gold, oil, natural gas -- belongs to the state.
In any case, it is not clear if one country can learn from another's mistakes, and the Argentines just might have to make their own. But maybe not. Recently, in the nearby town of Esquel, 82 percent voted against mining a hillside for gold. The voters seemed to understand the long-term value of open land. That is a good sign.
One night, Rubin asked, 'Will it last, or will it become New Jersey?' At which point Nordberg, a New Yorker who is from New Jersey, rolled his eyes and smiled. But it wasn't a bad question.
I left early to return home for things that seemed important but now no longer do. A ranch hand drove me back to Esquel, and the song that was playing reinforced my feelings. It was Kenny Rogers singing, 'Promise me son, not to do the things I've done.'
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