I’m visiting what has always been one of the original holy grails of international fly fishing destinations: Argentina’s Patagonia.   Many of us recall the old Field & Stream stories written of Joe Brooks or Ted Williams catching giant trout in the shadow of the exotic Andes overlooked by gauchos on horseback. In 1952, this land produced the then world record brown trout of 35 pounds. If you’re old enough, you might remember the shock that spread through the fishing world in 1991 when 15 year old Ken Bohling Jr. won the annual IGFA fishing contest with a 12 pound 2 ounce brook trout caught in Patagonia. That fish thrust Argentina once again into the imagination of North American anglers as a dream destination. The fact is, much of this fishing remains as appealing today as it was when these first gringos made their way south over 50 years ago. There are miles of rivers that make you feel as though you’re one of the first to ever cast a line. That’s why I’m here and it’s why I’ve been coming to Argentina for over a decade. 

This trip we’re focused on several of the rivers and lakes of northern Patagonia in the area referred to as the Lake District. With majestic Andean peaks looming above the deep blue waters of Nahuel Huapi lake, the surrounding region reminds visitors of the Swiss Alps.  There is any number of famous rivers here to fish. We are focused on one river with a rich and storied history: the Rio Traful.  

Our destination is Estancia Arroyo Verde, one of the oldest fishing lodges in Patagonia, located on the Traful River.  Situated to the north of Bariloche in Argentina’s oldest national park, Nahuel Huapi, the ranch shares the river with Ted Turner, who owns an estancia, or ranch, on the southern shore. Tired from the overnight journey from the U.S., we are met with warm hospitality by lodge owner, Marina Lariviere, whose family has been in the valley for more than 70 years and opened their ranch to fishing in 1987.  Her staff has prepared a mid-day asado for us.  This traditional Argentine barbeque features lamb, pork, beef, chicken, various sausages like chorizo and mollejas and grilled vegetables.  After a diet of airplane fare, we’re more than ready to relax, sip some wine, and enjoy the feast.  

Recharged, with the summer sun beating down, it’s a tough choice between a siesta and rigging tackle for an evening of fishing.  I decide on compromise and close my eyes for a brief recharge before the evening’s fishing.  The group stirs an hour or so later and we’re ready to give the Traful a try. I’ve been joined on this expedition by friends John Hoagland, Mike Gibbons and Tom Carter, who hail from Salt Lake City, and Ann Murray, fish catcher extraordinaire of Memphis, Tennessee.  Ann’s southern charm all but disappears when confronted with feeding fish and she morphs into the fly fishing version of a diving osprey: deadly accurate.  This evening the river flows high and cold, however, and refuses to give up its secrets. We’re able to fool a few of the smaller fish, but the larger denizens remain unseen.  I fall asleep that evening dreaming of a brown like the one Ernest Schwiebert holds in the photo over the fireplace – a leviathan of 25 pounds or more. 

Our guides Arturo and Diego have primed us for the Traful’s challenge. Arturo explains an early hot spell has the river levels elevated with melting snow. We work hard to get our flies into the feeding zone, fishing with sinking lines and weighted streamer patterns.  (For practical advice on tackle, see “What do I really need”) These tactics produce a few nice fish, but they’re hard labor.  Later in the day we are rewarded with a few rising fish, but I can tell it just isn’t happening.  Maybe it’s just bad karma, but it’s reinforced by Diego’s truck not starting. The battery is dead.  Still, there are clouds of caddis forming above the bank-side willows as the sun sets; perhaps tomorrow. 

By mid-day we must depart for Rio Manso Lodge to the south, and only have a few hours left to fish at Arroyo Verde.  The day dawns hot and bright and we hit the water early.  Not a breath of air stirs against the shockingly blue sky.  I work a wooly bugger somewhat sulkily then realize last night’s caddis are returning to the water by the thousands, perhaps millions.  We spot first one, then another rise, as the fish finally key in. The group spreads out and begins to catch fish almost immediately.  We can see dozens of feeding fish lined up slurping bugs.  Mike and I are focused on a hefty rainbow gulping in front of a large boulder.  Several drifts later, Mike hooks and lands the fish, a beautiful silvery female of two pounds. Successful at last!