The fishing is broader than the days, they add up and become part of a life.

I love the black spots on the sides of cutthroat trout. Their spacing is quite varied and random. Sometimes there are a lot, but often there aren’t too many, as if the fish got tired and didn’t get dressed up all the way. Muted gold often dominates the background, like a rich streak of lacquer, something precious and rare.

A trout fly is a delicate, airy combination of feathers and fur that is an intricate construction worthy of a trout, which has high self-esteem. A popper is nothing like that.

Perhaps it’s just that Maine has its own way of doing things. It can be fancy or gritty, often in close proximity. That dynamic gives Maine its muscular charm.

The rainbow trout is a wonderful fish. It expresses itself and often jumps in the air when hooked. It’s not self-aware, like the brown trout. Where the brown trout is wary and resists most efforts to get caught, the rainbow plays along. Attractive, beloved, maybe not technically the most intelligent, though that’s never held against them. It’s the

wonder what it means to commit yourself to a place. I know that question can’t be answered in the abstract.

There’s a strange moment when things go so wrong and you finally give yourself the liberty to laugh at them.

Trout live simply. They want to expend as little energy as possible, they want to eat and they want not to be eaten. This is a good philosophy of life. I also want to eat without too much exertion, and not be eaten myself. And if I could do that in Patagonia, even better.

The guide takes out a cutting board and starts slicing a garlicky summer sausage and opens a jar of pickled boar (they run in the hills nearby). He cuts up some sharp cheese with a knife that seems slightly too large. He lays it all out and it’s impressive. This is the picada, the traditional Argentinian board. It makes a lovely lunch. Then he star