Part 1: The Long Way Through Patagonia

If you had told me a year ago that I’d be rattling down Argentina’s Route 40 in the backseat of a well-worn Toyota Hilux, wedged between a duffel full of fly rods and two people I barely knew, I probably would not have believed you. But that was before I became the Patagonia Destination Manager for Fly Water Travel, and before I set off on my first scouting trip through the fisheries I now represent.

Yet there I was, with a fresh cup of Mate passing around the cab, my fishing partner Mike riding shotgun, and hundreds of miles of Patagonia stretching out ahead of us. Over the next three weeks, I would cross international borders, visit six lodges, fish in two countries, and chase four species across some of the most storied water in the Southern Hemisphere. This wasn’t my first time in Patagonia, but it was by far my most memorable.

The trip was part work assignment and part reminder of why I fell in love with fishing travel in the first place. There were long drives, missed sleep, relentless wind, enough red meat to worry a cardiologist, three species of trout, golden dorado, old friends, new partners, a late-night punk show in Buenos Aires, and a soccer match in one of Latin America’s most famous stadiums. More than anything, it gave me a firsthand look at the people, places, and fisheries that now make up my office.

Coyhaique River Lodge - Coyhaique, Chile

If you’re looking for the most efficient route to a top-tier Patagonian lodge, go through Chile. From many North American cities, you can leave home one day and be sitting on the deck at Coyhaique River Lodge with a pisco sour in hand the next. After Santiago, it is a domestic flight to Balmaceda and a 45-minute drive to the lodge. The travel is straightforward, the connections are manageable, and the reward comes quickly.

I was heading in to meet up with Mike Moore, Far Bank’s Chief Revenue Officer, and spend a few days on the water with one of our key Chilean partners, Gaston Urrejola. Mike and I had only met briefly before the trip, but in this industry, common ground tends to come quickly. We fish, and more importantly, we like where fishing takes us and the people we meet along the way.

Coyhaique itself has changed since my first visit. What once felt like a frontier town now has most modern conveniences, but it has not lost its character. It is still approachable, still welcoming, and still unmistakably Patagonian.

The lodge sits high above the Río Coyhaique on a bluff with broad views of the valley below. Gaston and his brother Claudio Urrejola have built something more layered than a fishing lodge. They are owners, certainly, but also hosts, innovators, and stewards of a program that continues to evolve without losing its sense of place.

After a quick orientation, we settled into the lodge rhythm: a local draft beer, a walk around the property, and naturally a visit with Brisa, the resident llama. Best to keep a few feet of distance, though. Her spitting aim is excellent.

Leading into the trip, Patagonia had seen a tough stretch. Low snowpack, minimal rainfall, and generally dry conditions. Then, just before we arrived, a large storm system rolled through and blew out a number of the local rivers. Not ideal. But one of the defining advantages of this region is the optionality. When you have access to this many watersheds, you are never truly out of the game.

One river might be blown out. Another might be dropping. A third might be clear. Somewhere, there is almost always a lake that has not seen pressure in weeks. That flexibility ended up defining our stay.

We started on the Rio Nirehuao, about two hours from the lodge in the valley of the same name. The wind was ripping as we bumped down a private ranch road, stopped at a strategically stashed boat, and put in for a half-day float. The river had come up from the storm, but it was running clear and cold. Zach, our guide for the float, had his hands full. I do not claim to be a great caster, but I have spent enough years telling other people how to fix their cast in the wind. From the front of that boat, I applied none of that advice. What followed was a bird’s nest so impressive it could have supported a small ecosystem. We’ll call it shaking off the cobwebs.

Still, we picked away at fish on a dry-dropper rig before making the inevitable switch to streamers. Shorter leader, heavy conehead, and a more direct approach: the classic Patagonia solution to wind. It worked. A few solid fish came to hand, including one on my second retrieve. Mike connected shortly after in a shallow riffle, his line coming tight with that unmistakable thump as the reel picked up fly line and started to sing.

After lunch, we shifted to a wade section where the river braided into side channels. I paired up with guide Enzo. Not only is he a deeply experienced guide, but he also offers an excellent playlist. Out of the wind, everything changed. We switched to a single tan Fat Albert, and suddenly the fishing became consistent. Trout rose casually and ate without hesitation. We rotated the rod on each fish and worked upstream methodically. Every miss spurred a joke, every landed fish a small celebration, and hooking an overhanging tree meant an automatic trip to the penalty box. It was a much-needed reset and an excellent way to begin the trip.

On day two, we fished with Piti, a guide with impeccable taste in wine, a background in endurance sports, and a full commitment to keeping the energy high no matter what the day threw at us. The plan was flexible. We would fish the Rio Simpson if it had cleared or continue north to the Rio Manihuales if it had not. We stopped at the Simpson. Historically, it’s a fish factory. That morning, it was quiet.

The conditions looked right: good clarity, solid structure, and all the water you would expect to hold fish. We covered it aggressively with streamers, hitting every likely bank, seam, and bucket. Nothing. Then, as rivers sometimes do, it turned on. As temperatures climbed, so did the activity. Piti’s approach to a tough day was simple: fish hard, enjoy a long lunch, and never let the mood in the boat drop below the waterline. By the time lunch was over, I had nearly forgotten the slow morning.

In the afternoon, I stuck a solid brown on a Sparkle Minnow thrown tight to the bank and stripped quickly back. Mike followed with another shortly after, and we picked off a few more before the takeout. We even rowed past the truck to fish one more piece of water.

It was not a banner day by Coyhaique River Lodge standards, but it was a classic one. Sometimes “nothing” really means “not yet”. On our final day, we headed into the mountains with Federico and Gaston to fish a remote alpine lake.

The drive alone was worth it: long, winding, and filled with just enough bad jokes from Federico and a classic rock playlist that kept things moving. We climbed to the edge of the treeline, parked the truck, pulled on our waders, and continued in a side-by-side with a boat in tow. From there, we climbed even higher into a glacial moraine that felt completely removed from the rest of the program. Clear water. Calm conditions. No pressure. A view that would stop you in your tracks. The fish, however, were not easy. They were big, technical, and aware.

I found success with a slow-twitched Chernobyl Any and a small Copper John suspended beneath it. The eats were subtle, but once hooked, the fish ran hard for deeper water and did not come easily to the boat.

Mike went the other direction: a single big dry, twitched near the shoreline, producing some of the most visual eats of this portion of the trip. It is hard to imagine fish this high and this late in the season keying on terrestrials, especially something as large as a size 6, but that is Chile. Opportunistic, aggressive, and always willing to surprise you.

Every few minutes, the quiet was punctuated by a shout from Gaston, who was working the distant shoreline and pulling in fish after fish. Local knowledge outweighs foreign enthusiasm every time!

It truly would not be Patagonia without talking about food. We arrived near the end of the week, which meant one thing: asado. A whole lamb, butterflied and slow-cooked over an open fire. The entire staff joined in, and the evening turned into a proper celebration of the week: laughs, stories, exaggerated fish accounts, and a few sips of local moonshine. We traded stories with returning guests who had become part of the lodge’s extended family, and with first-timers who were finding plenty to love beyond the fishing. Each course came paired with a thoughtfully chosen wine, and each story seemed to get better as the night went on.

Predictably, a rough morning followed. Just in time for a seven-hour drive into Argentina.

Las Pampas Lodge - Rio Pico, Argentina

The drive from Chile into Argentina is not the most comfortable way to cross Patagonia, but it may be the most honest. A land border crossing followed by a long drive is a rite of passage for anglers in this part of the world. Somewhere between the border post and the long pull north on Route 40, the country changes around you. Chile is lush, vertical, and dense. Argentina opens wide. The sky gets bigger, the land flattens, and the horizon seems to run on without end.

The crossing itself was simple. Gaston walked us through the Chilean checkpoint, we shuffled our bags through a one-room outpost, and on the far side Anka and Nico were waiting with a Hilux, a packed lunch, and cold drinks. We loaded up and pointed north.

Argentina has gone through its share of economic swings, and Route 40 still reflects some of that story: potholes big enough to make you question the truck’s structural integrity, guanacos grazing along the roadside, and the occasional long-haul truck inching toward a distant town. But this is 2026, and our truck had Starlink. Things have changed.

Five hours, one fuel stop, and one Dramamine-assisted nap later, we rolled into Rio Pico.

We often describe Las Pampas Lodge as being at the end of a long dirt road well past the pavement, and that still holds true. What also remains true is what makes the place special. Las Pampas has built a reputation as one of the most immersive fishing experiences in Patagonia. From the moment you arrive, you are not treated like a guest so much as folded into the family.The lodge itself is understated, authentic, and deeply comfortable. Snow-capped peaks surround the valley. Spring creeks wind through open meadows. Lakes sit tucked into the landscape in every direction.

For an angler, it is hard to imagine a better setting. On our first day, we headed out with guides Nico, Nico “Nico Chico” and Jackson. We loaded into the truck and pointed toward Chile. A courtesy wave at the border guards, a locked gate behind us, and spread out ahead was the famous Rio Pico.

Nico is one of those guides you immediately settle into a day with. Laid-back, full of stories, and completely in tune with the water. It never quite feels like guiding. It feels more like fishing with a friend who happens to know exactly what the fish are doing. Jackson and I had both guided similar waters back in Idaho on the Snake, and it was good to swap stories as we worked into a series of side channels. The conditions lined up: bright sun, minimal wind, and water that was still slightly elevated from recent rain but running cold and clean. The fishing followed suit.

In the slower backwaters, trout held in clear, shallow lanes. Suspended, visible, and unpressured. It’s the kind of water that forces you to slow down and actually fish. I had spent years guiding just downstream on the Chilean side of this same system, standing in the same river and telling other people where to cast. Now I was the one with the rod, fishing water I had described from memory a hundred times. It is a strange and good thing to stand on the other side of something you love.

We moved fish, missed a few we should have landed, and brought a handful of very solid trout to hand. By noon, the rods were packed, and we were back in the truck heading toward Lago 5.In classic Argentine fashion, we arrived to a full lunch spread waiting on the shoreline. Table set. Malbec open. Meat already on the grill. I could get used to that.

After lunch, with my belt working overtime, I swapped boats and jumped in with Anka and Nuni. Anka, in addition to being our long-haul driver, is an accomplished guide and manager with deep roots in the region. Nuni is the person making sure everything runs smoothly behind the scenes.

I also learned an important lesson on Lago 5: after a large lunch and a glass of wine, do not fall asleep at the wheel. The first few fish that ate my dry either went completely unnoticed or were lost to an overly aggressive hook set. No excuses. Fortunately, there were enough opportunities to dial it back in.

The next day, we loaded back into the Hilux and pushed farther out with Tim and Chuck. Over the course of a long guiding career, Tim has transitioned from Teton guide to something close to a local. He understands these lakes on a different level and carries the quiet confidence of someone who has seen every version of these fisheries in every condition. Chuck was newer to Las Pampas than much of the guide staff, but his quick wit and easy humor fit the place immediately.

Lake fishing, in many other places, can feel slow. Strike indicators lazily drifting and sinking lines probing water you cannot see. That is not the case here. In Patagonia, lake fishing can be visual, active, and explosive. Lago 2 is known for one thing: big fish.

Despite less-than-ideal weather, the morning started strong. I pulled a fish tight to the bank on a red Water Walker along the first stretch. Chuck followed with an absolute specimen of a hen rainbow, chrome-bright and thick. We spent the day moving between protected coves, staying out of the wind where we could, and hunting fish cruising just under the surface. In the other boat, Mike connected with several quality fish, including a very solid brook trout. The takeaway was simple: do not overlook the lakes. They might hold the best fish of the trip.

On our last day, we finally made it to “Africa”. For years, I had heard about this fishery. Stories passed around lodges, across borders, and between guides. It had taken on a bit of myth. We were joined again by Anka, along with Martín, a veteran guide whose amazing photography I had seen long before this trip. Standing by the truck with a rolled cigarette perched between his lips and Iron Maiden coming out of the cab, I instantly liked him. This was going to be a good day.

Africa is a complex private spring creek system accessed right outside the lodge. Standing above it for the first time, looking down at winding channels cutting through open grassland filled with horses, cattle, and flamingos, the name starts to make sense.

It does feel a bit like the Serengeti. Just with trout. The fishing was as technical as the setting suggested. Absolutely still conditions. Dry-fly presentations to actively feeding fish in tight channels. Careful positioning. No room for sloppy casts.

That said, luck still has its place. At one point, I stepped away to take a photo of Mike and Martín with a fish and left my rod sitting haphazardly in the water near my feet. A size 14 Parachute Adams drifted in a small side cut only two rod lengths away. After the photo and the celebration, I looked down to see my rod inching across the flooded grass. There was a decent rainbow on the other end. Sometimes it is better to be lucky than good.

Mixed into the spring creek system were lagoons where small leech patterns came into play, adding another dimension to the day. It was one of the most complete fisheries we fished on the entire trip, and easily one of the most memorable. And just like that, we were back at the lodge for another asado.

Fire going. Meat turning. Wine flowing. Authentic, simple, and exactly what you want at the end of a trip like this. I managed to pace myself better this time. Guests I had previously known only through emails and itineraries were now standing there in person, recounting their days on the water and reliving each eat and missed opportunity in real time. It is a unique part of this job, seeing trips you help put together actually unfold in front of you. The stories become real. The connections get stronger. The experience becomes more than a file, an invoice, or an itinerary.

By the time the sun dropped behind the mountains, the evening had slowed. A few remaining guests joined an impromptu fireside karaoke session. The week ended with handshakes, hugs, and the sort of promises to return, that at Las Pampas, often prove true.

Somewhere between the asado smoke, the lingering dust, and the long drive north, the trip started to feel less like an assignment and more like an absurd privilege. These were no longer just lodge names, river systems, or itinerary notes. They were people I had shared boats, meals, weather, and water with.

Two lodges in and I had already experienced everything you dream about with a trip to Patagonia, yet four more destinations were on the docket, and the trip had just begun.