Part 2: The Long Way Through Patagonia - Dorado Teeth

I saw the blood before I felt the sting, which is usually a bad sign. Predator, meet prey. Turns out, dorado teeth are no joke. Wire bite is not optional, and my foot found out why. There I was, floating in a busy harbor on the edge of Buenos Aires, a cocktail napkin taped to my foot, vodka being poured over a fresh slice, and not a moment to pause because the bite was still on. But we’ll get there. The week started in a very different kind of Argentina, hundreds of miles from the capital, on a vast estancia where the only sounds were cattle, wind, and trout rising in the reeds.

Arroyo Pescado: Esquel, Argentina

The plan was simple: leave Las Pampas Lodge for the two-hour drive north toward Esquel, stop in for an early lunch at another lodge, my fishing partner Mike would peel off for a flight to Cordoba, and I would stay the night to explore a new spring creek. From this point forward, I would be traveling solo.

As we moved farther from the mountains, the landscape opened into a dry, almost desert-like expanse. Cracked earth, low scrub, the occasional guanaco, and an odd rhea bird moving through the flats. It did not look like trout country, not even close. It felt unlikely that anything resembling a fish could exist out there. Then we turned off the pavement and ten minutes down a dirt road, the first trees appeared in the distance. That was the first hint. Still, nothing quite prepares you for what Arroyo Pescado looks like when you arrive.

An oasis of green grass, mature beech and cypress trees, and a quiet estancia tucked into the middle of an otherwise dry landscape. It feels hidden, like it should not exist where it does. The place was alive with activity. A full construction crew was working on a new structure overlooking a pond, and it was clear this was not just a refresh. It was a full reimagining of the property.

Arroyo Pescado has long been known among guides and outfitters in the region, but under new ownership it is being brought back to life in a serious way. We were greeted by Fran and Santi, both of whom I had spent a lot of time talking with over the past season. We had discussed the possibility of working together, but some places are hard to understand from a distance. This was one of them.
The current lodge is a historic Welsh farmhouse that has been carefully restored. Local history has it that one of the farmhouse’s early occupants was shot by Butch Cassidy and his gang more than a century ago. Inside, original tile floors, clean lines, and a thoughtful blend of old and new give the place a sense of history without making it feel staged.

We toured the new lodge, scheduled for completion next year, then climbed into trucks to get a better sense of the property. From a high overlook, we could see it all: the Arroyo Pescado and the Teka River winding through miles of pasture, side channels, and holding water stretching beyond the horizon, all contained within a working ranch.
It was one of those moments where you immediately understand the potential. The kind where you’re nodding along with the tour, but already thinking about how quickly you can get a rod in your hand.

After lunch, Mike loaded up with Anka and Nuni and headed for the airport. I strung up a rod, grabbed a fly box, and headed out with Fran and Santi to explore. Two asados within 24 hours had left me in desperate need of a walk. The property is vast. A network of two track connected multiple beats, each one fished selectively and rested between guests. It took nearly an hour to reach the headwaters, all still contained on the estancia.

Water spilled straight out of the ground clear, cold, and narrow. A true spring creek. I tied on a small purple Chubby and got to work but the wind made things interesting. A few casts landed too far into the opposite bank, but fishing 3X gave just enough margin to pull flies free from the grass without breaking off.

Every good cast mattered, and more often than not, every good cast got eaten. The fish were exactly what you want from a place like this: dark, colorful, and perfectly shaped from life in shallow, clean water. They held in narrow slots, undercut banks, and soft seams where the current pushed just enough food past them to make a dry fly worth their trouble. We worked methodically through the system, taking turns and picking apart each section. Rhea scattered ahead of us as we approached the banks, adding to the feeling that we were fishing somewhere removed from almost everything else.

By late afternoon, the wind picked up again and we made one last stop. I passed on fishing, grabbed a cold drink from the cooler, and climbed onto a small bluff. From there, I watched Fran work through a wide stretch of creek below while the light started to fade.

The next morning came quickly. Bags packed, I jumped in the truck, and we made the short drive to the Esquel airport. In Patagonia, you learn to appreciate short drives. This one might have been the easiest of the trip at only 25 minutes. One gate, a friendly agent, and a quick pass through security. It was that simple.

As the Aerolineas flight lifted off and tracked east toward Buenos Aires, the landscape below stretched out in that same dry, open pattern. Somewhere down there was Arroyo Pescado, hidden in plain sight, full of fish, and easy to reach once you know it is there.

Buenos Aires, Argentina

Gone was the world of wide-open valleys, gauchos tending herds, and trout sipping mayflies. In its place came the noise, movement, and scale of a major city.

With more than 13 million people spread across its metropolitan area, Buenos Aires makes an immediate impression. After weeks spent bouncing between remote lodges and dirt roads in Patagonia, the energy of the city felt almost overwhelming. Thankfully, Nuni from Las Pampas had arranged a driver to meet me at the airport, turning what could have been a stressful arrival into a seamless transfer across the city. I checked into a hotel, grabbed lunch, and spent the afternoon wandering tree-lined streets, cafes, and plazas while preparing for the next chapter of the trip.

The following morning, my attention shifted from trout to something toothier: Golden dorado.

Urban Dorado Anglers, Argentina

Golden dorado hold near-mythical status across Argentina, Bolivia, and Uruguay. They are native, aggressive, and built for violence. The eats are explosive, the fights are chaotic, and somehow, they exist right on the edge of one of the largest cities in South America. At least, that was the pitch.

Early that morning, a driver was waiting in the lobby of my hotel. I finished my coffee, grabbed my day bag, and headed outside. I could leave my own fishing gear, they had it all. We worked our way through the city and into the Parana Delta, eventually pulling into a marina in San Fernando. Waiting there was Oggy Fox, along with two boats.
Everybody knows Oggy. He has built a reputation on charisma, energy, and an almost relentless enthusiasm for enjoying life. Owner of Las Pampas Lodge and Urban Dorado Anglers, and the Patagonia brand manager for Argentina, he is equal parts operator and instigator.

We loaded into a skiff with our guide Elias, then pushed off.

Urban Dorado Anglers is exactly what it sounds like: Urban. We ran straight toward the city center and into an active harbor. Cargo ships moved through. Industrial infrastructure surrounded us. We cast flies into concrete, rebar, pilings, and whatever else had ended up in the water over the years.
Elias tied on a five-inch EP baitfish, and I dropped it tight to a wall below the outflow of a power plant.

Let it sink. Two strips. The line came tight and did not move.

“I think I’m on the bottom,” I said.

Elias and Oggy laughed.

“That’s not the bottom. Throw it back.”

Same cast. Same sink. Two strips. This time, the line came tight and moved. A flash of gold. Then an explosion on the surface. That wasn't the bottom. That was a dorado, and a good one.

The pace did not let up from there. Oggy worked a topwater popper while I stayed just subsurface with the streamer. Every few casts, something happened. Fish rolling, fish eating, fish missed, fish connecting.

I do not know if it was normal or if we just hit it right, but it felt nonstop. At some point, in the middle of it all, things got a little western.

I was taking a photo of a solid fish when it slipped out of the guide’s hands, hit the deck, slid my direction, and thrashed. I felt it graze across my foot, then felt the heat. I looked down. Blood, and a good amount of it.

Then I looked around. Floating debris in the harbor. Plastic bottles drifting by. The faint smell of a sewage outflow somewhere nearby. Storm drains emptying directly into the water we were fishing. Not exactly postcard material.

For a brief moment, looking at the cut, the harbor water, and the general state of my surroundings, I had one thought: this is how the trip ends.

Instead, we did what anglers have done forever when making decisions of questionable medical value. We poured vodka over it, wrapped it up, and got back to fishing. Five minutes later, I was back on the bow with a dorado pinned, trying to pull it away from the side of a sunken barge.

We wrapped up the day on a high note. In the boat next to us, the guests Tony and Josh brought in a massive catfish. I would be heading back to Buenos Aires that evening, but their trip was just getting started. They were staying the night deep in the delta, and we figured we should take a look.

As we motored away, the city skyline quickly disappeared behind us. The boats wound through a maze of channels and narrow cuts that make up one of the largest freshwater delta systems in the world. Before long, it did not feel like a city at all, it felt like the jungle. Perched above the water on raised platforms sat their accommodations for the night: a network of cabins connected by wooden walkways, all tied together by a central lodge, an open bar, and a pool. Each room was thoughtfully done, simple but comfortable.

Cozied up to the poolside bar, I opted for antiseptic spray, gauze, and tape to deal with my foot, followed by a fernet and cola to deal with everything else. If you want to skip the city and go straight to something wild, this is the move. We left Tony and Josh at the lodge and wound our way back to the marina. But the day was not over.

Oggy, in typical fashion, had other plans. Loud, chaotic, and just questionable enough to make it interesting plans. We were going to a Thrash Punk concert.

After a quick shower, we threw on black T-shirts and headed into a part of the city most visitors do not go looking for. I am no stranger to a good time, but I couldn't tell you the last time I went to a punk show. It was loud, aggressive, a little out of control, and a lot of fun. The band was D.R.I., Dirty Rotten Imbeciles, a staple in the hardcore and thrash scene since the 1980s. We worked our way into the pit, drank warm beer, and committed ourselves to the experience.

By the time we made the long drive back into the heart of the city, my ears were ringing, my eyes were bloodshot from sun, and I was ready for bed. There would be little rest. Oggy had other plans.

Futbol is more than a sport in Argentina. It is woven into the culture. So, when Oggy managed to get tickets to see his beloved River Plate play, there was no chance I was saying no. Juan, one of the assistant guides, joined us for the evening. I have been to soccer matches before. A regional game in Germany, another in Spain, neither prepared me for this. River Plate's stadium is one of the largest in Latin America, and on match day it feels like the entire city is headed in the same direction. Tens of thousands of fans streamed toward the gates singing, chanting, and waving red and white flags.

There was only one problem. The ticket I was using belonged to an Argentine. I am very obviously not Argentine. At some point you stop asking questions and commit to the bit.

The crowd swallowed us as we approached security. One checkpoint. Then another. I handed over my passport in place of the required Argentine identification and tried to look like I belonged there. For a moment, it looked like the plan might unravel. Two police officers started moving in my direction pointing. Before they could reach me, Oggy stepped in front of them, fumbling with his own ticket and creating just enough confusion for me to slip through. We were in.

The rest of the night was everything you would hope for. River Plate won 2-0. The stadium shook with every chant, every near miss, and every goal. When the final whistle blew, thousands of fans poured into the streets celebrating as if they had personally scored the final goal.

For a few hours, I forgot entirely about fishing. The next morning, it was time to move on. I packed away the sandals, traded city streets for dirt roads once again, and pointed myself south. Fifteen hundred miles away, another predator was waiting in the cold depths of a wind-battered Patagonian lake.

Stay tuned for the next part from The Long Way Through Patagonia when Liam Donohoe heads to Jurassic Lake Lodge.