Browns & Brookies: A Hidden Masterpiece

Peeking over the edge of the grass embankment, I could just make out the shadow of a brown trout tucked beside a shallow riffle. We watched it for a few seconds before it slid to the right and exposed itself, rising to eat a small bug drifting downstream.

“Here’s your shot,” Juanchi whispered.

I moved downstream and stripped off enough line to make the cast. The wind was barely over my shoulder and the fish was sitting just below a wide spot where the creek funneled into a clean seam. It should have been a straightforward presentation.

One backcast, another, and I let the beetle fly. Plop, the fly line landed directly across the fish's back. The trout disappeared into the bank but I let the fly drift anyway. As it slipped down the seam and off the edge of the riffle, the fish shot from cover, grabbed the beetle, and turned back toward the bank. I backpedaled, trying to keep the line tight while Juanchi scrambled over the grass edge and slipped the net underneath it.

I looked over the edge and caught my breath; it was a much bigger brown than I expected. A mature male with a pronounced kype and the kind of proportions that made the small creek look even smaller. We snapped a quick photo and watched him slide back into the clear water. Another bend downstream, there was another pool. And somewhere in it, I was beginning to suspect another big brown was waiting.

Only a few hours early I had been sitting outside the arrivals gate in El Calafate, Argentina waiting for my next fishing partner to arrive, watching a steady stream of travelers come and go. Trekking packs, cameras, new rain jackets, and surprisingly few fly rods.

That felt appropriate. Fly fishing in this part of the world is still well hidden and hard to get to. For the past three weeks I had crossed Chile and Argentina, spent countless hours in the back of trucks, visited Buenos Aires, fished some of Patagonia's most famous waters, and finally made my way to Jurassic Lake. Now, at the very end of the trip, I was headed somewhere I'd been particularly curious about.

Estancia Rio Pelke

I had talked with plenty of anglers who had made the journey south to fish the Tres Amigos programs, mostly for one of their renowned king salmon lodges. But I was more interested in the smaller, lesser-known trout program tucked away on the family estancia.

The drive east quickly put things into perspective. There isn't much out here. The country is enormous, the roads are empty, and the landscape seems to stretch forever. Eventually we turned through a locked gate and headed down toward a small cluster of buildings at the bottom of a hill. A row of trees marked the entrance to the estancia. Ranch dogs wandered between the buildings, a thriving garden grew beside the house, and Yeti coolers were stacked outside the kitchen, cleaned and waiting for the following morning.

It doesn’t look like a typical fishing lodge and that was part of the appeal. Rio Pelke is intentionally small, the main lodge revolves around a beautiful stone fireplace, a few comfortable couches, a long dinner table, and a beer tap pouring the lodge's own brew. The rooms are simple and comfortable, each with single occupancy. It feels social without being formal, more like a family estancia that happens to have some exceptional trout water running through it which is exactly what it is.

And there is a lot of water. Hidden among the grasslands and steppe are spring creeks that you would never know existed unless someone showed you where to look. Clear water sliding through narrow valleys and across open fields, often no wider than a few steps across. There is very little obvious holding water until you look closely. Then you start seeing trout.

The brook trout were wonderfully willing, often tucked into the most unlikely pieces of water. The browns were more cautious, and the clear water demanded a good presentation, but they were often surprisingly large for such small streams. Late in the season, many had moved away from their typical hiding spots and onto shallow seamlines where you could clearly spot them from above the creek before making a cast.

The fishing had just the right balance of technical water, numbers, and the possibility of a genuinely big fish. Some bends held enough trout that I could spend an hour working through the same piece of water. Other times I would walk a few bends before finding the next stretch worth fishing. All the while, guanacos moved across the hills and occasionally wandered down to the creek. Rio Pelke is known for its trophy brook trout and there are plenty of them. But, I think the brown trout deserve equal billing. They are beautiful fish, often larger than you would expect, and finding one laid up in a tiny spring creek in the middle of nowhere is exactly the kind of experience that makes Patagonia so compelling.

The guides were excellent company and between sections we traded stories, laughed, and passed the rod back and forth.

There is something strange about fishing a place like Rio Pelke; the landscape feels almost empty, yet the creeks are full of life. You can walk around a bend and suddenly find a large fish lying in a few inches of clear water, completely unaware that anyone is there. That, more than anything, is what stayed with me.

There are no signs pointing you toward the next pool, no other anglers moving through the meadow, no boats waiting at the takeout. You simply walk until you find water that looks right and start fishing. The occasional guanaco or sheep might wander through, but otherwise the creek belongs to you.

Maybe that is what made Rio Pelke feel so different from the rest of Patagonia. After spending three weeks moving between some of the region's most famous fisheries, it was refreshing to fish somewhere that didn't feel like it was waiting for anglers to arrive. The trout were there, the water was there, and the rest of it was wonderfully quiet.

It was also one of the places that felt the most deeply familiar. Trout fishing is trout fishing and there were plenty of moments that could have been anywhere. But sitting on the tailgate of the truck, sharing mate, looking out across the endless horizon, with a spring creek winding through the grass in front of us, I was reminded how special this place was. Of the years of my life that I have spent guiding and exploring the region, Estancia Rio Pelke is among one of my favorites.

After three weeks on the road it was the perfect place to finish.