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At the edge of the world

Chasing giants on the windswept plains of Tierra del Fuego

by Chad Shmukler - Wednesday, Nov 20th, 2019

Tierra del Fuego, the windswept archipelago at the tip of South America, might rightly be called the edge of the world. Separated from the rest of the South American continent by the Straights of Magellan, Tierra del Fuego is the southernmost location on the entire globe one can reach without crossing the ship and sailor-swallowing Furious Fifties and making landfall on Antarctica.

Split roughly down the middle, the western portions of Tierra del Fuego which border the Pacific Ocean belong to Chile, while the bulk of the eastern, Atlantic-facing lands are controlled by Argentina.

The archipelago's western reaches, predominated by small islands, are mostly mountainous, wet and sparsely inhabited. But the region's largest island, which lies to its north and east and is separated from the rest of the archipelago by the Beagle Channel (named after the HMS Beagle, the vessel that carried Charles Darwin on his historic voyage of exploration) is a large, contiguous, semi-arid, mostly low-lying land mass.

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Tierra del Fuego first attracted European settlers beginning in the late 1800s, thanks to the abundant presence of rivers and high quality pastureland. Today, land on Tierra del Fuego's northern island remains predominantly agrarian (photo: Chad Shmukler).

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Though Tierra del Fuego's countless rivers and streams, which flow through austere landscapes and seemingly endless grasslands, first drew Chilean and Argentine settlers seeking to graze sheep and cattle, today they draw anglers from all over the globe, thanks to their well-held reputation as offering some of the finest trout fishing on the entire planet (photos: Earl Harper).

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Despite the region's extreme latitude, which keep Tierra del Fuego's summers cooler than anywhere else on the South American continent, winters are relatively mild. As a result, the archipelago supports a diverse population of wildlife including these guanacos (a wild, close relative of the llama), fox, beaver, and almost 100 species of birds (photo: Chad Shmukler).

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Most of the settled portions of the island are a patchwork of estancias—ranches which produce either sheep, cattle, or both (photos: Earl Harper [top], Chad Shmukler [bottom]).

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Some of these ranches—and their expansive, privately held tracts of land and water—are also home to classic Patagonian fishing lodges, like Villa Maria Lodge, which host anglers from December to March, when massive sea-run brown trout enter the famed Rio Grande (photos: Earl Harper).

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Large, two-handed rods lined with bulky heads and sinking tips that can power through Tierra del Fuego's powerful winds are the weapon of choice on the Rio Grande (photo: Earl Harper).

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The Rio Grande's sea-run browns average roughly 7 to 15 pounds but commonly exceed 20 pounds. In fact, 20 pound fish are caught virtually every single week of the season on Villa Maria's beats (photo: Chad Shmukler).

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With high latitudes come long summer days, and 12 hour shifts in search of sea-run browns are common. Midday, anglers escape to Villa Maria's day house, perched high above the Rio Grande, which offers a welcome respite from the conditions. The day house's hearty, indulgent meals, free-flowing wines and the rhythmic howling of the winds outside serve to send even the most nap-adverse for an hourlong siesta (photos: Chad Shmukler [top], Earl Harper [bottom]).

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Recharged, anglers return to the Rio Grande, to ply new beats hoping to encounter sea-run browns that have moved upriver overnight or throughout the day, including dime-bright, silver, blue and magenta-hued specimens like this one (photos: Chad Shmukler).

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The real drug in fishing is anticipation—of a rise, an eat, a reel-burning run. On the Rio Grande, however, the greatest anticipation may be for the release. Tierra del Fuego's sea-run browns, typically subdued and cooperative in hand, explode with electric vigor when released and almost never fail to put on a show (photo: Chad Shmukler).

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As daylight begins to fade, each new cast becomes more precious than the last. Not only because the day is waning and with it the opportunities for the next encounter with the Rio Grande's anadromous trout, but because with the vanishing of the light typically comes the best chances to connect with river's largest, most impressive fish (photos: Earl Harper).

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Scouting—and fishing—continue in earnest until the last glimmers of light sink below the horizon (photo: Earl Harper).

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With the hope that one of the day's last casts will turn up something a bit like this (photo: Alejandro Martello).

Abaco after the storm

20 images of Hurricane Dorian's destruction in the Bahamas

by Dan Zazworsky - Monday, Sep 9th, 2019

Not long before nightfall on September 1, Hurricane Dorian made landfall on Great Abaco island in the northern Bahamas as the strongest hurricane ever to strike the island nation of almost 400,000. For roughly two days, Dorian virtually stalled, thrashing the Bahamian islands of Great Abaco and Grand Bahama with unrelenting winds, rain and storm surge. The devastation on Abaco left in Dorian's wake has been called "catastrophic," "absolute" and "pure hell."

A week later, the residents of the Abaco Islands and Grand Bahama are still trying to understand the scope of Dorian's impact. Estimates suggest that half the homes on Abaco and three quarters of all homes on Grand Bahama may have been destroyed. And the storm's death toll keeps climbing as responders, residents and others continue to pull the corpses of neighbors and loved ones from beneath the wreckage.

The images of Dorian's devastation that continue to emerge from Abaco are difficult to take in, but they are an invaluable tool for helping to understand both the power of nature's wrath and the ongoing and intensifying humanitarian crisis facing the people of the Bahamas.

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The main street through Marsh Harbour in the wake of Hurricane Dorian (photo: Dan Zazworsky @dan.zaz).

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Two days after Dorian's assault on Abaco finally ceased, floodwaters have receded just enough to allow truck travel on main highway north to Marsh Harbor from southern points on the island (photos: Dan Zazworsky @dan.zaz).

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The hurricane's two days of battering wind, rain and flood water has left a path of unmeasurable destruction across Abaco (photos: Dan Zazworsky @dan.zaz).

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Days after the storm, flood waters continue to inundate much of Marsh Harbour, though reports indicate flood waters were as much as five times deeper in the immediate aftermath of the hurricane (photos: Dan Zazworsky @dan.zaz).

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Tin roofs, commonly found throughout the Bahamas, were peeled back effortlessly by the hurricane's record-breaking winds [top], which were so powerful that they removed the entire second story of this hardy residential and retail building [bottom], and tore homes and other structures clean off their foundations and (photos: Dan Zazworsky @dan.zaz).

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This ship broke its mooring in the harbor and was carried into town by Dorian's floodwaters, before crashing into and coming to rest against the side of a bank (photo: Dan Zazworsky).

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Especially hard hit was The Mudd, an eclectic and vibrant Marsh Harbour neighborhood constructed by Haitian immigrants (photos: Dan Zazworsky @dan.zaz).

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"These used to be homes, businesses, a community ... but now it's nothing more than wreckage," said photographer Dan Zazworsky—of Abaco's Delphi Club—when speaking about the devastation in The Mudd. "When we were there, you could still smell the dead trapped under the wreckage" (photo: Dan Zazworsky @dan.zaz).

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A local, rickety watering hole somehow remains defiantly standing days after Dorian (photo: Dan Zazworsky @dan.zaz).

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A U.S. Coast Guard Jayhawk helicopter over Marsh Harbour (photo: Dan Zazworsky @dan.zaz).

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Two Abaco residents wander the streets surveying the damage and hoping for word of loved ones (photo: Dan Zazworsky @dan.zaz).

boy riding bike flood hurricane dorian abaco

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A boy rides one of the island's few functioning bicycles through flood waters in Marsh Harbour (photo: Dan Zazworsky).

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Locals take shelter at the Abaco Government Complex, using trees to dry wet belongings (photo: Dan Zazworsky @dan.zaz).

For tourists and anglers that have visited Abaco to tan on its sun-baked, white sand beaches or ply its crystal clear saltwater flats for bonefish and other quarry, these images portray a version of Abaco that is unrecognizable.

For Abaco's residents, what has been left in ruin is more than vacation destination. It's home. At least, it was. A week after Dorian, an estimated 70,000 have been left homeless. On Abaco, the death toll has already climbed to 44, though officials expect that number to climb dramatically.

The road ahead for the residents of Abaco and Grand Bahamas is long and costly one. Your help is needed.

Delphi Club Abaco Relief Fund

Abaco Lodge Relief Fund

Where dorado is king

Exploring Argentina's Iberá Marshlands in search of golden dorado

by Earl Harper - Thursday, Jan 24th, 2019

When leaving the hustle and bustle of Buenos Aires' international airport, you'll see groups of anglers peppered throughout the masses of travelers assembling outside the customs exit—chatting with newly arrived companions, meeting with drivers that will shuttle them across town to the domestic airport, piling and stacking bags of gear. Almost all of them are headed south. And west. In search of trout in Patagonia or Tierra del Fuego. But instead of shuttling across town to catch a flight to San Martin, Bariloche or Rio Grande, we're prepping to ride north. North to Corrientes, to the Iberá Marshlands, the second largest wetland on the entire globe, a region twice the size of the entirety of the Florida Everglades, and home to seemingly countless rivers, creeks, streams, sloughs, lakes and ponds where the golden dorado is king.

Almost entirely protected as a nature preserve since 1983, the Iberá Marshlands—or Esteros del Iberá—is known for its crystal-clear, unpolluted waters. Due to the region's unique geology, the marshlands are a nearly closed system with no inflow—other than rainfall—and only minor outflow. The region is also uninfluenced by mining or industry, due to the lack of either in proximity of the marshlands. Virtually uninhabited, there are still portions of the preserve that have never been explored.

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The sun rises on the Ibera Marshlands (photo: Earl Harper).

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Perched on farmland on the edge of the reserve is Pira Lodge, the only operation of its kind in the region and one with direct and easy access to the reserve (photo: Earl Harper).

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Ibera is essentially one enormous, landless floodplain—its creeks, streams, lakes and ponds formed by partially submerged, floating vegetation. Papyrus, lilies, water hyacinth, lettuces, hibiscus, victorias and other vegetation entangle to form floating mats called embalsados which channel and shape the marsh's waters and are commonly thick and strong enough to walk on (photo: Earl Harper).

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Navigating the marshlands means winding your way through mazelike channels and passageways, each turn offering the chance to discover something new—an unfished lagoon, creek or channel or even an unknown passage through the marshlands to a yet undiscovered part of the reserve (photo: Earl Harper).

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Life of all forms abounds in the marsh, which is known for staggering biodiversity. Over 4,000 different species of plants and animals, including over 350 species of birds, call Iberá home (photos: Earl Harper [top], Chad Shmukler [bottom]).

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Capybara (Hydrochoerus hydrochaeris)—the largest rodent in the world at sizes up to 145 pounds—are seen daily throughout the marsh. Capybara, which are also called carpincho in Spanish, are highly social and are almost always observed in large families and groups (photo: Chad Shmukler).

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Both the yacare caiman (Yacaré negro), also known as the black caiman, and the broad-snouted caiman (Yacaré overo) are also encountered with regularity through the reserve (photo: Chad Shmukler).

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But it is the king of the marsh, the golden dorado (Salminus brasiliensis), that we have come to ply Iberá's waters for—to cast big, bushy, brightly-colored streamers through its rivers and streams and to swim and skate mouse patterns through its twisted channels, hoping to entice a strike (photos: Chad Shmukler).

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The quiet peace of the marshlands is shattered when a dorado takes. Lines lurch, water froths and the surface erupts (photo: Chad Shmukler).

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Dorado that fail to put on a show before being corralled and released are virtually non-existent. The only question once a connection is formed with one of the marsh's voracious predators is how many times and how high they'll leap (photo: Chad Shmukler [top], Earl Harper [middle, bottom]).

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In fact, should the surface not erupt, it's only seconds before all involved realize that another Iberá predator, the piranha, has grabbed the offering—more often than not sending back only this (photo: Earl Harper).

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In addition to the dorado, piranha like this one are in abundance throughout the reserve (photo: Chad Shmukler).

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Fishing Iberá doesn't just mean stripping flies through its smaller creeks and streams, it also includes time spent on Río Corriente, which courses through the marsh only minutes by boat from Pira Lodge (photo: Earl Harper).

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The river, like the rest of Iberá, offers consistent fishing for dorado and can be home to some of the marsh's bigger fish (photo: Earl Harper [top], Chad Shmukler [bottom]).

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Exploring farther into the reserve often means the hard work of navigating the skiff through impossibly tight channels (photo: Chad Shmukler).

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The payoff, however, can be more than worth the effort, revealing untouched channels, lagoons and more (photo: Chad Shmukler).

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Which, unsurprisingly, often hold some of the marsh's most zealous and impressive dorado (photos: Earl Harper [top, middle], Chad Shmukler [bottom]).

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Encounters with the king of the marsh, with the dorado that we've traveled halfway across the globe to chase, never seem to grow tiring. Each well placed fly that produces a strike right where you had expected one, each placid channel we pole and discover patrolling dorado, each up-close inspection of the dorado's gold-flecked scales, blinding yellow sides and crimson-hued tails only leave us in search of more. And so, as the stillness of dusk descends on the marsh, we steal a few last casts, greedily hoping to shatter the peace once more (photo: Earl Harper).

For more information on fishing the Ibera Marshlands for golden dorado, visit Pira Lodge.

Read more about Where dorado is king

In the Highlands

Prehistoric trout and char in Iceland's wild interior

by Earl Harper - Tuesday, Jan 8th, 2019

Images: Earl Harper and Chad Shmukler. Words: Chad Shmukler.

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A quick on-road pit stop to check tires and make sure rods are securely rigged before descending to ford a river on the outskirts of Vatnajökull National Park (photo: Chad Shmukler).

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Though our destination in the highlands can be reached with relative ease via the southern route from Reykjavík, we embark for the highlands from Iceland's northern coast, after a couple of days spent casting to plump brown trout amidst the verdant greenery that drapes the banks of the Big Laxa River. We head south on the Sprengisandur Route, watching the lush vegetation and farmland of the northern coast disappear after putting little more than 15 minutes of dirt road behind us. Only minutes later, the route ascends sharply and turns into what it will be for the next five jarring hours: a rough, boulder-strewn trail that takes us south through the northern desert, and where we'll encounter only two other souls before reaching the ranger station more than 200 kilometers later (photo: Chad Shmukler).

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The route is accessible only in the summer and only by 4WD vehicles that have the clearance required to ford the multiple rivers along the way. Sprengisandur is an ancient pass and a historically important route between the north coast and southern portions of the island which Icelanders have been traveling for well over 1,000 years. Its name originates from the word "sprengja" which, in Icelandic, means "to exhaust." Long ago, the northern desert was thought to be a bastion of elves, giants and bandits, leading the few travelers who would brave the route to ride their horses to exhaustion for fear of slowing down or stopping.

The Vatnajökull ranger station is the first sign of humanity in hundreds of kilometers. Combined with the moss-covered rocks that line the river we'll ford below, it is an oasis after hours of barren moraine (photo: Chad Shmukler).

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In its upper reaches, not far from its headwaters, the Kaldakvísl River courses almost undetected in the landscape. From Sprengisandur, the eye stretches in every direction, spying only boulder and gravel. In the distance, however, the Kaldakvísl hides in plain sight, sculpting gentle, shallow valleys in the volcanic rock and soil (photo: Earl Harper).

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Trout food. Despite long, severe winter conditions, life abounds in the Kaldakvísl. Summertime awakens a cacophony of bug life which bring the river's brown trout to the surface in search of a meal. Even more important to the Kaldakvísl's trout are year-round residents like the one seen here, the Icelandic stickleback (Gasterosteus islandicus), which are prolific throughout the river (photo: Earl Harper).

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Find a pattern that the Kaldakvísl's ice age trout take for a stickleback and it's likely to produce a connection with a brown trout that won't go forgotten anytime soon (photos: Chad Shmukler).

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As the river descends the highlands, it quickly increases in volume and power, carving deeper into the landscape and producing numerous dramatic waterfalls like Fagrifoss, seen here (photos: Earl Harper).

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Below many of the Kaldakvísl's falls, the river cuts dramatic canyons through igneous rock which often feature deep, glacially-tinged pools (photo: Earl Harper).

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Where one might just find brown trout sipping on mayflies in the pool's placid currents (photo: Chad Shmukler).

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Fording rivers isn't just a requirement on the Sprengisandur route, it's a requirement up and down the Kaldakvísl and virtually everywhere throughout the highlands (photo: Chad Shmukler).

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Farther south on the Kaldakvísl, near where the river dumps into Lake Sporðöldulón, the hillsides begin to glow with more greenery and flows tumble over the waterfall Nefji, one of the most dramatic in all of Iceland (photo: Chad Shmukler).

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Fishing can be good even right below the falls, where moderately sized brown trout and char congregate in the shelter beneath the tumbling waters (photo: Earl Harper).

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More distant from the chaos of the falls, larger trout take up residence and patrol prime water. They are opportunistic feeders, plucking midges, mayflies and caddis from the surface when present or gorging on sticklebacks and nymphs below when not (photos: Earl Harper [top], Chad Shmukler [bottom]).

From its headwaters to its mouth where it debouches into Sporðöldulón, the Kaldakvísl is fished by only a handful of anglers each year, due to its remoteness and the fact that—like virtually of Iceland's rivers—the Kaldakvísl is private. For hundreds of years, the entirety of the river has been owned by a farming cooperative. For generations, anglers hoping to fish its waters needed to seek permission from local farmers. Today, anglers that ply the Kaldakvísl do so through Fish Partner, an independently-owned outfitter out of Reykjavík who holds the exclusive fishing lease on the river.

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Just south of the Kaldakvísl in the highlands is the Tungnaá River. Though the waters of the Tungnaá, like the Kaldakvísl, are surprisingly diverse even over short distances, the Tungnaá has distinct features and a character that is all its own (photo: Earl Harper).

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The Tungnaá's char are particularly plump and shouldered and, even in midsummer, never fail to put on a color show (photos: Earl Harper).

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Even after a lifetime spent musing about one day setting foot on the arctic island, exploring its well known rivers and geologic marvels from afar, it's impossible to prepare oneself for being in Iceland, for experiencing landscapes so extraterrestrial and unique. Hours spent tumbling over rough terrain, scrambling down hillsides, bushwhacking through fields ablaze with lupine, tip-toeing along canyonsides like the one seen here on Tungnaá, and dragging gear through long hike-ins all pay off in incalculable ways (photo: Earl Harper).

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Months later, proofing images is an endless source of bewilderment, even for those of us that were on the ground. It's futile to try to convey Iceland using words, images or even memories (photo: Chad Shmukler).

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Only returning will do (photo: Earl Harper).

Fishing leases on both the Kaldakvísl and Tungnaá rivers are obtained exclusively through Fish Partner.

Stilt Houses of Texas

Exploring the rich, rustic coastal communities that dot the Texas coast

by Tim Romano - Wednesday, Dec 5th, 2018

Images: Tim Romano. Words: Chad Shmukler.

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PC 1246
26°17’30.1”N 97°17’36.3”W
South Padre

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Romano and Medrano spent months traversing the entirety of the 379 mile-long Texas intracoastal waterway, documenting its stilt houses with anglers and the other individuals that call them part time homes.

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PC 1494
29°11'33.5"N 95°09'13.2"W
Chocolate Bay

Many of the stilt houses that dot the Texas coast were built by all manner of what Medrano calls "enterprising individuals" over decades prior to 1973, the year in which the Texas government took possession of all of what were then viewed as squatter shacks along the coast. Since that time, the stilt houses have been managed by the state. Residents apply for a permit and enter into a 5-year lease agreement with the state. Each house must be clearly adorned with its "PC" number, which stands for "permitted cabin."

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"Bird in a box," one of countless birds among the wildly diverse populations that thrive along the Texas coast—an excerpted image not found in the book.

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Barbara and Earl Manning stand on the porch of PC 1575, a weekend getaway along Texas' upper coast where the couple enjoys hosting their grandchildren.

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You'll find no shortage of BBQ pits like this accompanying Texas' stilt houses, which Medrano calls a "required cooking appliance."

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PC 1349
26°49'24.0"N 97°28'06.2"W

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Captain Ben Paschal poles two anglers along the Spoil Islands in the Laguna Madre.

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Captain Kevin Townsend checks the weather while angler Thomas Williams picks the next fly to offer to Port O'Connor's waiting redfish.

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PC 1554
26°17'47.2"N 97°17'39.7"W
Laguna Madre

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Though tarpon and countless other saltwater species are in abundance along the Texas coast, the favorite target is redfish, known for their benevolent looks, rich coloring and characteristic black spot on the upper part of their tail.

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Ken Williams and Andy Knape inside the upper coast cabin—PC 1494—that the pair built together in 1984.

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A perfect example of the Texas “Salt Box" style architecture. Heavy on the salt, box, and a generous helping of bird shit.

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Kevin Giles and his dog Daisy outside of PC 1190, which his grandfather built in the 1960s and where Giles spent much of his time growing up.

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In all, Romano and Medrano document over 400 PCs in Stilt Houses of Texas. It's a book for anglers and non-anglers alike and one which offers an immersive view of the real human substance of the expansive Texas coastal community, which has stood defiantly against the ravages of the coast's briny water, salt-laden air, punishing storms and, perhaps most of all, time.

Tim Romano is a fine arts and commercial photographer based out of Boulder, Colorado. You can join Tim this April 2-9 in Christmas Island to chase over 16 species of fish while learning photography tips from a pro. Contact Tim for more info.