The article is meant to be more entertaining than informative, so take it with a grain of salt, and I hope you chuckle as much as I have over this unforgettable experience!
Morning came early twith a wake-up call from our interpretative local expert with the greeting that went something like “Good morning, Mr. Toby, it is a beautiful day for flying!” I thought to myself that maybe it was a train that I was hearing outside my window, rather than a cyclone-force wind best described as consistent. Ominous warnings were all over the place that morning, as one of our members overslept and had to be removed from his bed to meet our deadline. We ambled out to the runway with excitement and filled the two planes that awaited to take us to our“Jungle Oasis.”
Thankfully, we were number 2 for takeoff, and I watched closely for any clues to the wind’s effect as the plane (full of our buddies) headed down that 3 miles of bleakness as 50 gusty knots of South American breeze crashed into us sideways. I will say that I became markedly less excited about the trip at that instant in which the plane ahead of us left the ground and immediately swerved and bounced its way towards the heavens in what appeared to be a truly precarious state.
As we descended towards a tiny strip of cleared ground in a place that truly is “out there,” I looked out the window at the river we were to fish the next few days…it was the color of my son’s favorite morning beverage, chocolate milk. The plane landed safely, and despite the realization that the water we were to fish looked like junk, I felt excitement in that moment upon realizing that we had finally made it!
The planes taxi to the end of the landing strip, denoted by the presence of 50 or so locals waiting with blank stares and broken smiles. We depart and there is an immediate senses of “what next?” After seeing a few Chili Pepper and Ramones T-shirts on the young kids, the feeling of being in “undiscovered” country soon went away. Introductions and handshakes with the greeting party were made in short order, and we stepped aside to visit with the members of the party ahead of us that were now on their way to the next lodge for the balance of their stay.
As typical in these situations, the majority of the other guys were in their 50s-60s, dressed in head-to-toe long-sleeve everything with their rods in one hand and a gear bag in the other. It was hard to read their expressions as they were wearing buffs and sun gloves. Their report came in quickly and sounded something like the fishing sucked…but it should be better for you guys! I bit my tongue and gave them the uber-polite response of heartfelt empathy that went something like “ I am sorry to hear that you had a tough week, and I hope that the rest of your trip makes up for it.” The parties separated, and mine headed towards the boats waiting to take us to our camp for the next few days.
The old guys, now getting into the planes that brought us to this godforsaken place, now seemed like the smart ones with their fancy gloves and buffs. We loaded ourselves and gear into these 20+’ dugout canoes piloted by some guys with no teeth and that ever-present blank stare so apparently common to the locals that we had encountered to that point.
The boat ride ended up being about two minutes and the vision of quaint hospitality brought my spirits up and attitude back around to the good side of fun. That too quickly faded as I realized I had to climb up what appeared to be 200 steps in the oppressive heat and humidity to reach our appointed “Jungle Oasis.” Before we got to the steps, however, we discovered that climbing 10’ of mud at an 80-degree pitch isn’t really a picnic either. The lodge was reached by all, and personally, it felt good to relax after burning 2000 calories getting from the boats to the lodge in less than 5 minutes.
The hosts were welcoming and eager to ensure that we were all comfortable and hydrated as we settled into our new accommodations. The blank stare familiar on the faces of the indigenous folks, especially the dudes, was quickly explained to me by our host as one of the effects of chewing on Cocoa leaves 24/7 your entire life. I felt jealous of them for a few minutes as I pondered the simplicity of life. At that moment, one of the local dudes comes marching up the steps that were daunting and overwhelming, to be honest, with a full-size washing machine on his back…not the dryer but the washing machine…on his back…in gumboots!
After all that, I was truly ready to get in the water, make a few casts, and begin to unwind the craziness that had permeated my soul over the previous 24 hours. There is nothing in this world as therapeutic for me as standing in water and casting a fly line. I don’t really care where it is anymore, just so long as I have some cork in one hand and coated PVC in the other…
Part 1 - Bolivian Adventure 2014
Morning came early twith a wake-up call from our interpretative local expert with the greeting that went something like “Good morning, Mr. Toby, it is a beautiful day for flying!” I thought to myself that maybe it was a train that I was hearing outside my window, rather than a cyclone-force wind best described as consistent. Ominous warnings were all over the place that morning, as one of our members overslept and had to be removed from his bed to meet our deadline. We ambled out to the runway with excitement and filled the two planes that awaited to take us to our“Jungle Oasis.”
Staring out at 3 miles of concrete surrounded by rebar-topped apartments put together in a manner that defies the term “zoning,” I wondered how I ended up here. The concrete was the runway in Santa Cruz, Bolivia, and my seat was where the co-pilot should sit in a 6-person prop plane. The question of my being there had to do with the fact that the guy flying the plane looked like he just came out of his room in mom’s house after drinking Monster and playing Minecraft for 13 days straight…and the wind was blowing 50 knots.
I have no idea what a knot is, but I have spent enough time around water to know that dudes who do know what a knot means usually start to get a little jumpy around 20. Other than that, I was excited about heading into the jungle for a week of Golden Dorado fly fishing with buddies.
A couple of things about me and small planes to keep in mind. I often puke when put in hot, cramped spaces that tend to move around in various directions in a seemingly unpredictable manner. Also, I have very little faith in other human beings when it comes to doing a better job of keeping myself alive than I could do myself. So, there we sat – after I broke the back on my seat and now relied on the knees of my pal in the backseat – staring down at 3 miles of concrete, in a hot little plane bucking in the wind, AND we hadn’t even started!
The other friend in the back is holding what appears to be some kind of homemade dipstick with little marks on it that presumably is used to measure the fuel level in the plane…it’s in the rear pocket of the pilot’s seat.The pilot looks way too young to know that he should be scared out of his mind right then, and I begin to have that nagging feeling that I am getting old - a young person would never think like that.
Thankfully, we were number 2 for takeoff, and I watched closely for any clues to the wind’s effect as the plane (full of our buddies) headed down that 3 miles of bleakness as 50 gusty knots of South American breeze crashed into us sideways. I will say that I became markedly less excited about the trip at that instant in which the plane ahead of us left the ground and immediately swerved and bounced its way towards the heavens in what appeared to be a truly precarious state.
The rest of the flight was largely uneventful. My only moments of anxiety came while looking at the gauges after an hour or so and realizing that the pegs on the ones labeled “Fuel” were bouncing around on empty.
The young dude in knock-off Aviators to my left quickly waved me off and pointed to something that looked like a speedometer, smiled, and gave me a “thumbs-up.” We didn’t run out of gas, but I still worried about it the whole trip. I didn’t puke, but I wanted to.
As we descended towards a tiny strip of cleared ground in a place that truly is “out there,” I looked out the window at the river we were to fish the next few days…it was the color of my son’s favorite morning beverage, chocolate milk. The plane landed safely, and despite the realization that the water we were to fish looked like junk, I felt excitement in that moment upon realizing that we had finally made it!
The planes taxi to the end of the landing strip, denoted by the presence of 50 or so locals waiting with blank stares and broken smiles. We depart and there is an immediate senses of “what next?” After seeing a few Chili Pepper and Ramones T-shirts on the young kids, the feeling of being in “undiscovered” country soon went away. Introductions and handshakes with the greeting party were made in short order, and we stepped aside to visit with the members of the party ahead of us that were now on their way to the next lodge for the balance of their stay.
As typical in these situations, the majority of the other guys were in their 50s-60s, dressed in head-to-toe long-sleeve everything with their rods in one hand and a gear bag in the other. It was hard to read their expressions as they were wearing buffs and sun gloves. Their report came in quickly and sounded something like the fishing sucked…but it should be better for you guys! I bit my tongue and gave them the uber-polite response of heartfelt empathy that went something like “ I am sorry to hear that you had a tough week, and I hope that the rest of your trip makes up for it.” The parties separated, and mine headed towards the boats waiting to take us to our camp for the next few days.
The old guys, now getting into the planes that brought us to this godforsaken place, now seemed like the smart ones with their fancy gloves and buffs. We loaded ourselves and gear into these 20+’ dugout canoes piloted by some guys with no teeth and that ever-present blank stare so apparently common to the locals that we had encountered to that point.
The boat ride ended up being about two minutes and the vision of quaint hospitality brought my spirits up and attitude back around to the good side of fun. That too quickly faded as I realized I had to climb up what appeared to be 200 steps in the oppressive heat and humidity to reach our appointed “Jungle Oasis.” Before we got to the steps, however, we discovered that climbing 10’ of mud at an 80-degree pitch isn’t really a picnic either. The lodge was reached by all, and personally, it felt good to relax after burning 2000 calories getting from the boats to the lodge in less than 5 minutes.
The hosts were welcoming and eager to ensure that we were all comfortable and hydrated as we settled into our new accommodations. The blank stare familiar on the faces of the indigenous folks, especially the dudes, was quickly explained to me by our host as one of the effects of chewing on Cocoa leaves 24/7 your entire life. I felt jealous of them for a few minutes as I pondered the simplicity of life. At that moment, one of the local dudes comes marching up the steps that were daunting and overwhelming, to be honest, with a full-size washing machine on his back…not the dryer but the washing machine…on his back…in gumboots!
I remember thinking to myself that not only am I getting old, but I am also fully rooted in the generation that the older generations sometimes refer to as being “soft.”
Did I forget to mention that it was my “grand plan” to get off nicotine while on this trip? What better way to do it, I thought to myself? No tobacco, I’ll only take a couple e-cigs and when they’re gone…I’m done…no problem. Safe to say, I was bumming smokes off anyone that would share after I blew through my allotted e-cigs for the week in a few hours.
Did I forget to mention that it was my “grand plan” to get off nicotine while on this trip? What better way to do it, I thought to myself? No tobacco, I’ll only take a couple e-cigs and when they’re gone…I’m done…no problem. Safe to say, I was bumming smokes off anyone that would share after I blew through my allotted e-cigs for the week in a few hours.
After all that, I was truly ready to get in the water, make a few casts, and begin to unwind the craziness that had permeated my soul over the previous 24 hours. There is nothing in this world as therapeutic for me as standing in water and casting a fly line. I don’t really care where it is anymore, just so long as I have some cork in one hand and coated PVC in the other…
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