Today I decide to try my hand at fly-fishing on the Pelo River. My grandfather and father were both passionate fly-fishermen and I am eager to see if I’ve inherited the gene. 

As I understand it, fly-fishing is a sport of rhythm, patience and intuition. As I get out on the river I find there’s more to it: 

Step 1: Tie a surgically sharp hook to a long piece of line attached to a flexible pole. 

Step 2: Hurtle the hook past your face at white hot speeds. 

Step 3: Repeat step two. 

Step 4: Land your hook in front of a trout who is a whole lot smarter than you and knows to stay away from these things.  

Step 5: (Optional): Do this for hours and hours, or until the beer runs out. 

I begin to think I’m the Milkman’s kid. 

To my utter astonishment, and that of the “Trucha” on the end of my line, I reel in the first catch of the day. In the ensuing hours I will also snag the boat’s steering column, the engine cowling, the cooler and my rear end. 

My guide, Hernan, deserves a saint’s place in Heaven for his patience.  I watch in awe as he looses a roll cast that seems to defy gravity. He lands a lure in a promising spot as gently as a snowflake drifts to Earth with a natural rhythm that stems from a deep inner peace. He doesn’t have to try. 

 It dawns on me that when I let go of my need to succeed, I cast without effort.  Learning to let go is one of the hardest things I will have to do and another of the lessons I take from here.  I am grateful to have been able to study in one of the world’s most beautiful classrooms. 

Tonight is our last night in Patagonia. It seems unreal that only two weeks have passed. In my mind, I have journeyed across oceans of time in this magical world.

On the long journey back to the lodge I think a lot about rhythm and timing. How each of us is seemingly ruled by the timing of our lives. One chapter of my life has closed and another is dawning.  I am impatient to find my place in this new world but naggingly aware that the Universe sets its own pace. I must learn to flow with the rhythms as they come. 

 Dinner is lively and everyone seems satisfied at an amazing trip among amiable people. Afterwards some of us head for the hotel’s outdoor hot tub. 

As I gaze up at the Milky Way I realize that since I lost my best friend and companion of the last 15 years, I’ve been drifting in a universe without stars. In such blackness no bearings can be taken, no course reliably charted. 

I have traveled half a world to make sense of my exile and seek solace in the wilderness of Patagonia.  In the process I have discovered that the real wilderness is the daily existence to which I must reluctantly return.  I know I cannot remain in a gentle orbit around the memory of my wife.  Life, like a river, flows forward in time and those who resist the current risk drowning. 

Perhaps there is a purpose to this time of becoming.  In the holy places of this ancient land I have found a universe within myself. Among the galaxies there I find hope. For now, it is enough.