Guiding is hard enough if you are working with two distinctly different people, but if you have two best friends, about the same age, size and ability named Frank, the confusion factor is higher, especially when the excitement heats up.

Here’s the story:

After fishing for four days strait, and heading into the final day of the fishing week, I threw out the option to the group:

“What kind of experience would be the best way to wrap-up your ideal Patagonia fishing week?”

I knew I had the Franks for the next day, two best friends who had traveled to hunt and fish all over the globe together. Over a few glasses of wine and some quiet back and forth nudging and recollection, they announced that they wanted to spend the day taking it easy on a high mountain lake, being rowed around the tullies (weeds that form the apron of almost every body of still water in southern Chile), and dry fly fish for trophies.

“We had our best luck with big fish on the lake,” Frank added.

“My shoulder is sore, and I want to watch Frank catch some fish and relax,” the other Frank said.

“10-4! Sounds like a great plan.” I was really excited in knowing that the fishing jury had delivered a unanimous verdict of outstanding fishing everyday a guest had fished flat water in our lagoons and lakes. The fish seemed to be really concentrated on the outer edge of the weed-line feeding on both dragonflies and cicada beetles. The lake was the perfect answer, so with one day to go, and two guys named Frank, the plan was set; how could we fail?

After Sandra cleared the table of our breakfast dishes, the Franks headed for their fishing gear, and I finalized our lunch and gear needs and started loading the coolers and rods into the truck. The Chilean flag proudly hanging on the flag pole next to the main lodge was limp and unwavering … I crossed my fingers and stared directly up to pray for one last ‘great’ day for this appreciative group of anglers, becoming lasting friends.

After an hour of fishing on the lake, it was obvious that the water was so still, almost too still, and we were spooking the fish with the boat. Every time we saw surface activity, it was never replicated on the artificial fly when we presented it. Both Franks agreed that either we had to be more stealthy, or cast further. For a short lived period, I was beginning to wonder if our luck had run out, and the Almighty fishing god had turned his hand away from the Franks.

In Chile, there is no morning hatch. Most of the insect life depends on an increase in temperature triggered by mid-day sun. The lakes and rivers get their water from the glacial peaks soaring above them, and generally, the water is 50 degrees, unless the mid-day sun raises that temperature a little bit. Depending on the exact day, large ginger caddis emerge when the sky is slightly overcast. Some days, larger mayflies poke through the surface film if there is a slight drizzle of rain, while other days, it looks like someone dropped a toaster out of a hot air balloon as the browns explode on dragonflies and beetles crashing into the water near the tullies. The dragons and beetles only happen when the air is HOT and the winds calm to non-existent, and the Franks and I waited in the still silence in hopes that a toaster would drop closer to the boat.

I slowly pressed the oars forward and put Frank (in the bow) closer to where we saw a recent toaster drop. He cast the big dragonfly to the spot, and CABOOM, the direction of our luck began to change! A couple of “adda boys,” a few quick photos, and we were off for the next fish. The remainder of the morning continued with short periods of sterile silence followed by periodic toaster droppings and rods bent to their cork grips…absolute elation.

The Franks were punch drunk, laughing and giggling after each good fish. The takes were so spectacular that they resembled a cherry-bomb firework more than anything natural or expected. Seeing the fly drop to the surface was comparative to watching a fuse burn…some fuses were long, some were short, some were duds, but more often than not, there was an explosion…CABOOM!

At high noon, we had to stretch our legs, and relieve our full bladders, so I pressed the boat up onto a small beach, that we ultimately did not leave for over an hour and a half.

As we returned from our respective pee spots, fish were beginning to show in the spaces in the tullies around the vicinity of the beach, and you could actually sight-fish to cruising brown trout, much like seeing a whitetail deer working its way through a cedar bog.

“Right there!” I would point at a cruiser.

“Yeah, I got him.” One Frank would say as he tossed a quick back cast and executed a heavy presentation of the foam dragonfly…plop…..tsssss of the fuse…CABOOM! Just as we were ready to tail one fish, the other Frank would holler…

“Got one!” I was literally running back and forth down the beach to tail, photo, release another perfect Chilean brown. In most cases, the fish would puke up natural dragonflies as we were handling them for CPR (catch, photo, release).

Wayne Gretsky would have been proud of the Franks, tossing their flies into tight holes and scoring goals with reckless abandon. The Almighty fishing god had turned his hand back in our direction, and we were HOT.

The great fishing writer, Norman Maclean, wrote something like, “it was the closest thing to perfection, but like all perfect things, it could not last forever,” and it didn’t. We returned to the boat, and as the mid afternoon sun began to lower in the sky, the toaster droppings became less and less frequent, and the fish were beginning to become fewer and farther between. The momentum was beginning to slow down when one of the Franks sighted a great fish cruising in deeper water near the surface. We all spotted the fish, as it hovered near the surface like a whale preparing to breach. He dropped the foam fly very close, and the fish immediately took. We netted this one from the boat and the other Frank manned the camera as we laughed and posed for a fun photo with this perfect Chilean specimen.

Their experience as traveling anglers had taught them when to quit: on a high note, and so we all agreed that it was time to crank in the rods, wipe the sweat from our foreheads, stretch our tired fingers and hands, and giggle and snort like pirates.

“I can’t imagine ending it on a better note!”

“I couldn’t agree more…that was absolutely fantastic!”

Rather than recount each magical moment of the day, I decided to remain quiet, and allow the background of the Andean peaks, the stillness of the water, and the occasional toaster drop serenade our last fishing day into the evening as we slowly rowed back to the truck.

“It is great to be children again,” Frank said.

“CABOOM!” the other Frank added, grinning.