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Jim stepped off the plane under a hot January sun in Puerto Montt and wondered if his outfitter's guide, Nico, was waiting for him.

Ideas and frequently recurring thoughts of fishing Chile's big rivers had, until today, been just that. For too many years the timing was never right and money was elusive - always at an arm's length and a publisher's promise away. He poured his heart and soul into his writing but his books hadn't sold like he had hoped. It had been five long years since a re-printing and Jim wondered if readers were tiring of tales of fishing and wing shooting in far-off places.

Jim walked across the soft tarmac and was nearing the terminal doors when a man, wearing a white and red flowered shirt and deep lines checking his brown face and neck, quickly approached him. As he neared, the man was smiling and frantically waving something back and forth overhead in his hand.

"Jeem?" He said. "Teléfono, Señor."

"Gracias." Jim took the phone and ducked under the terminal awning for relief from the heat. Listening intently to Nico's familiar voice, barely audible over the crackling and buzzing connection, Jim frowned at the news of a grounded airplane in need of repairs and Nico's missed flight from Chaiten to Puerto Montt.

Only one noon flight per day between the towns meant another overnight and less time to fish. The trip's itinerary, calling for seven days on the water, had suddenly turned to six and he wondered if this setback was a premonition of things to come. That evening he was to fish for large rainbow trout and brown trout with Nico on the Rio Yelcho, a cold, wide meandering river near Chaiten that wound its way through the valleys and meadows along the base of the Andes before emptying into the ocean. But even the best-laid plans can abruptly change, as they often do when traveling, and the Yelcho would have to wait until tomorrow.

Disconnecting his call, Jim offered the phone back to the man and wondered where he was exactly in Puerto Montt and where he would stay that night and if his rusty Spanish would be understood.

"¿Hay otro hotel cerca de aquí?"

"Si," the man answered. "La Holiday Inn. It is on Av. Constanera overlooking the harbor. Do you need the phone again?"

"You speak English," Jim said. "Thank God for that."

"Si, Señor. I speak good English. Is the plane from Chaiten delayed?"

"Engine troubles, or so I'm told. My guide informed me the plane would arrive tomorrow. How could you tell the call came from Chaiten?" Jim said.

"You are an Americano carrying big bags and many fishing rods. People here that carry such equipment all go to Chaiten. Was that Patricio or Nico?"

"Nico," replied Jim, stooping to gather his things once again as the man stepped aside and held the terminal door open. "Do you know him?"

"Si. He flies here often to take travelers to Yelcho Lodge. Nico is young. He will have you fishing for longer tomorrow. You will be tired when he is through with you, but you will get your peso's worth from Nico."

Jim stayed up far too late the night before in Santiago, sitting until the morning hours at a sidewalk café on the Plaza de las Armas, listening to strolling musicians and watching dancers over fresh baked empanadas, machas and a bottle of inexpensive Concha y Torro merlot. The spiced meat-filled pastries and clams did little to offset the effects of the wine and Jim felt tired today and wished his journey could continue without further delay.

Puerto Montt lacked the vibrant colors and sounds of Santiago's summer festivals and carnivals. It was a busy port-of-call for large cruise ships filled with wealthy tourists that did not care for the inconvenience of foreign language and culture. Jim did not delight in the thought of eating his meal that evening in the company of rich, boorish Americans and Europeans in the brightly lit hotel restaurant. He wished only to dine alone again in the open air and look out over the water and drink his wine and write another short chapter of his book.

Jim's writing had become labored these past few years and it was this trip to Chile that would set his pen straight again and fill his mind and body with good food and drink and fishing and all other forms of pleasant things to write about. It is difficult to write from long-ago memories, and Jim knew that attempts to recall old feelings and conversations that have been dulled by age did not make for good reading. The truest recollections cannot be laid down on paper unless they are written shortly after they occur. Perhaps tomorrow things would be different. Maybe with a little luck the plane from Chaiten would be repaired and he would meet Nico at Tepual Airport and fish the rivers that he thought so often about and embark on the adventure he waited so many years to begin.

(Read next week's column for Part 2. I have no idea what that will be, but give me a week and I'll make something up! - Dan)

Dan Brown's weekly outdoor column is brought to you by Frankie's Bait and Marine, in Chisago City, and St. Croix Outdoors, in St. Croix Falls, Wis.

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