A river runs through it...

I have been in Pucon, Chile over the past few of days and have been  extremely active, yet still amassing a huge amount of idle time to read, eat empanadas and play a few hands of blackjack at the casino. No big deal. 

Two days ago, Toby and myself, hitched an early morning ride over to Ski Pucon, the resort of 5 sparse lifts up Volcan Villarrica. I think there is something cool about saying you hiked or skied a volcano. At least I thought there was. My views changed after skiing Volcan Villarrica. 

Ski Pucon

Essentially, Ski Pucon is a poorly run hill with even worse lift infrastructure. The lifts are either ball-busting pomas or two-man chairs run by hamster wheels. Painfully slow. Adding insult to the $40-over-charged-injury is that all the lifts run parallel to each other and stop at the same point: half way up the mountain. Seriously, what's the point in even building the 2nd, 3rd, 4th & 5th lift if they all dump you at the same elevation? It was lost on me. 

I don't want to be taken as negative about a day of skiing because a man that is bitter following a day of skiing deserves to be kicked in the nuts and splashed in the eyes with Tobasco sauce. I am simply expressing the fact that not all mountains and their skiing infrastructure are the same.  

We took 4 runs on their only open run, a flat bunny hill, before taking a break and waiting for the clouds to break. They didn't. It remained foggy and wet. Again, no big deal. We simply wouldn't waste the effort of a boot pack to the top of the volcano for no view and an icy slide down. 

On other days, I'm sure Pucon offers some good skiing. Unfortunately, we wouldn't experience it. Thus, we decided to cut our loses and boot back town. Within 20mins we had managed to scalp our lift tickets to a family on their way up & cut our costs in half. 

By 2pm we were back at the hostel and re-fueling on empanadas from a local stall across the street.  Later that afternoon, once digested, I went for an exploratory run through town and along the black sandy shores of Lake Villarrica.

One of my favourite things to do in a new town is run it and get lost in the process. Pucon is a really cool town nestled on the shores of Lake Villarrica, which sits at the base of Volcan Villarrica. Its rare to stay in the shadow of an active steaming volcano; there are 3 within sight of central Pucon. As a result, theres a huge amount of white water rivers and hot springs. 

Fly Fishing

Our second day in town we found ourselves in a small restaurant asking for breakfast. The place was no bigger than an average sized living room. A wood burning stove along the far wall provided all the heat. There were about 5 tables, yet the patrons, all of which seemed to be locals, were surrounding the stove in a slouched lounge and sipping beers. It was 10 o'clock in the morning. Toby and I knew we had found something special. 

Our attempts to order eggs, sausage & freshly brewed coffee came back as scrambled eggs, pan bread, marmelade and Nescafe instant coffee. Pretty good result in my books.  We turned and struck up a conversation with the locals while we waited. It turned out one of the guys was a fly fishing guide. He drank rum and coke and offered to take us fly fishing the following day. Good luck for us as the season is still closed and all the official guides had denied us the privilege. 

After a day of mountain biking the surrounding Pucon area - both with and without a flat front tire - we met up with Claudio. He was waiting out front of our hostel, leaning against an old white Nissan pickup with a shattered front windshield. I couldn't spot a rum & coke so figured we were fine. Fine indeed. He drove to a winding river just outside of town, pulled out two rods, a small tackle box of flies, attached the reels and after a few quick mock casts he sent us on our way. For three hours we casted & re-casted. 10 & 2. Trying to find our rhythm. Trying to get the fly out to the fish. Trying to accomplish a difficult task on our first try. Something I will surely try again. 

Ultimately, we caught nothing, but were contented to be shown up by a chica downstream who caught two rainbow trout. Contented in the fact that fish existed in the very river we were casting lines, but cared not for tact. 

For me its hard to think of fly fishing and not immediately think of 'A River Runs Through It.' I found an online excerpt: http://www.press.uchicago.edu/Misc/Chicago/500667.html

" I often do not start fishing until the cool of the evening. Then in the Arctic half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise. Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of those rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs."