By Jess McGlothlin
The third time is the charm, or so they say. Well, I’ve landed myself in the Darién Gap for the third time in a year, and so far the promised charm element seemed to be… in question. I have a solid group with me; a lot of effort had gone into ensuring the guys joining me for this hosted trip to fish off the northern Pacific coast of Colombia were game for the unique challenge.
This was Colombia, after all, and we were likely to see some things which were… unusual. (Read: illegal.) It was a fair guarantee that transportation at some point or another would change, probably at the last minute. And, well, this is a big, brawly fishery—especially on a fly rod.
Some fish aren’t meant to be chased with a fly rod, even a stiff 12-weight. Yellowfin tuna over the 100-pound mark might fall into that category. All I know is they’re not a lot of fun on a fly rod once they push over that 75-pound range… then the catching becomes just a gut-it-out-workout.
Man versus fish, and all that.
Medellín, Marines & Insurgents
But I’d found five game gentlemen who were up to test their mettle. We rendezvoused in Medellín and then hopped a small (overloaded enough to give an FAA administrator heartburn) plane to Juradó, a small military base just south of the Panamanian border, which made news headlines in 1999 when 600 FARC attacked, leaving 23 Colombian Army marines and 42 guerillas dead.
Now, in a contrast that somehow only fits in the Darién, it’s home to both regular Colombian military and a contingent of left-leaning insurgency group, the National Liberation Army (the Ejército de Liberación Nacional in Spanish, or ELN). Both opposition groups manage to coexist in a space where they rightly shouldn’t—where maybe anyone shouldn’t exist.
From Juradó, we’re treated to a panga ride through ripping surf out to the sea and a short run to our home base in the small village of Punta Ardita—home to fishermen and a variety of men with curious sources of income. Use your imagination.
We settle in, dropping luggage and ripping into our fly gear to set up rods. Within an hour everyone’s back on the boats, heading back out through the surf for the first day of fishing. Within 20 minutes we find a giant bait ball teeming with feeding dolphins and leaping yellowfin, and the vibe is good.
It’s going to be a good week.
Three hours later we have two broken fly rods, three broken fly lines, and one team member in the process of being air-evacuated to Medellín with a ruptured quadriceps tendon. Trying to coordinate a medical evacuation from a boat to a military base to a lodge back to the base to an airstrip to a hospital in Medellín and eventually to the U.S. was a new one for me.
Colombia. It keeps you on your toes.
Finding Out
The rest of the week doesn’t let up. High seas, big thunderstorms—complete with a waterspout in the village bay—greet us for four days straight, and we fish through it all. Local smugglers inadvertently dropped a load of product along the coastline, leading to a multi-day game of “dodge the cartels,” a sport at which we’re mostly successful. The team takes more hits in the form of more broken rods and lines, but grit through some spicy fishing and, to a man, everyone comes away with their first yellowfin tuna on the fly.
I’ve had yellowfin on the fly here before, so these fish are not my species-first, but do come away with one marriage proposal and the promise of a spicy night with a fisherman from the village. I decline both.
For a sport which many consider to be mild—a sport which conjures up images of pastoral fly fishing in a Montana trout stream in pursuit of a 14-inch rainbow trout—it’s the definition of a “fuck around and find out” week. We fucked around. And we found out.
We’re still all pretty damn giddy when we pass back through the Juradó airstrip and jam ourselves into the little plane which will take us back to Medellín. Everyone’s already talking about running it back in the coming year. Back in the city, we shower off the jungle, put on our city clothes, and head to a little open-air café, where we’re carefully attended to by a waiter who I’d made friends with the week prior.
We chat through the meal, sipping iced coffee and reveling in the cooler, higher-altitude air, when a loud crack rang down the street and the bustling city breezeway goes quiet. Conversation screeches to a halt as we listen; my hand curls around my bag, and I eye the backdoor through the kitchen, just in case we need it. But all stays quiet.
“Welcome to Colombian bingo: backfire or gunshot?” Someone comments wryly.
The wail of police sirens shortly thereafter answers that question. I take another sip of my coffee and watch the rain start to fall on the lush Medellín sidewalk with a little grin.
Bienvenido a Colombia.
