It was an absolute game changer when they discovered that they could get tarpon and bonefish to take flies on their old fiberglass salmon rods-then they tricked a permit. Then some dudes in the Florida Keys took a hard left and decided to try flicking feathers in the salt. Then it jumped the pond to North America with our immigrant forefathers and adapted to myriad other species in the northern latitudes before the pioneers of our game started distributing our trout targets to faraway lands such as Chile, Argentina, and New Zealand. Our sport started in cold water, and stayed in that narrow lane for quite some time. When I took that first trip, the jungle was a new frontier in the fly-fishing world. Little did know that I was about to have my whole perspective on life (fishing) changed forever. I planned to throw poppers into one of the wildest jungle rivers on the planet. I was ready to go into uncharted territory and hunt for a fish that looked like it was going to tie balloon animals at some six-year-old kid’s birthday party. So when I was told I was going to explore a previously unfished-by outsiders like me, anyway-region on a tributary of the Rio Negro, that nobody had ever heard of, I asked myself, what would ol’ Jacques do? Well, I guarantee he wouldn’t have said “No thanks, it’s too hot and I don’t fish for bass.” I promised myself I would go on an adventure there too, someday. I can still see myself on the couch, when I was just a padawan, eyes bugging out, watching Jacques Cousteau, listening to him talk about his adventures in the Amazon, one of the most immense tropical wildernesses on Earth. I don’t pop frogs over lily pads, and I hate being hot.īut I have always wanted to see the Amazon, as long as I can remember. I’m a steelheader from the cold coastal rivers of the Pacific Northwest. I really wasn’t that excited to chase peacock bass. This article originally appeared in the Destinations special publication of Fly Fisherman magazine.
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