Like many others, I find January in the UK to be one of the grimmest months of the year. The festive season has faded, and we are all settling into normality. Some of us cling to misplaced New Year’s resolutions, hoping they will distract from the bleak weather and limited fishing opportunities. I have been fortunate to have spent the past few years escaping the post-Christmas blues by returning to Argentina, which is a place I love, feel deeply connected to, and once guided in.
For three years now, I have hosted the same week at Estancia Maria Behety which I believe to be one of the finest lodges on the Rio Grande. Eight rods join me to test their skills against the tide-fresh sea trout that run early season and the elements of Patagonia. This year’s group was a similar blend to those who had travelled the year before, except for Timmy and Wee Jaime (Jaime’s son) who where both on their first trip this far south. I had heard from the others that Timmy had been impatiently counting down the days.
When hosting a week, I try to match like-minded characters to make sure of a good dynamic. With this group, it was never an issue as they were all friends or family. That left me as the odd one out and a token southerner among a gang of Scots. Gordon, Stuart, Jaime, Wee Jaime, Sean, Allan, Mark and Timmy.
The group arrived in Buenos Aires a few hours ahead of me and had already eased into a few bottles of Malbec by the time I joined, and it wasn’t long before I had the telltale red lips caused by enjoying some of Argentina’s finest. The evening set the tone for the trip as we enjoyed supper at Fervor, one of Buenos Aires’ best steakhouses. The door opened to a checkered floor, flashes of red leather, and a cheerful barman who was practised in his trade. In Argentina steakhouse menus can be deceiving and it’s hard to picture a 600g slab of beef until it lands in front of you, and a few of us had eyes bigger than our stomachs and despite our best efforts, could barely finish what was an exceptional steak.
The domestic flights in Argentina are always unpredictable and this year our schedule took us to Ushuaia instead of the closer Rio Grande. At least the timing was better, and the three-hour drive to the lodge was a scenic one, with jagged peaks giving way to deep valleys carpeted in dense native forest. We stopped in Tolhuin to visit a bustling café that was little more than a shack a few years ago but is now a much larger operation that produces all sorts of pastries en masse and has become a must-stop for anyone travelling between Ushuaia and Rio Grande.
As our minibus turned onto the gravel road leading to Estancia Maria Behety, I was relieved to find that the driver had properly closed the back door this time, so we were not covered by plumes of dust like we had been the year before. The bus ground to a stop outside the wooden door that leads to the main part of the lodge. Little had changed since last year and familiar faces greeted us with the warmth of a homecoming. After a long journey, the team was eager to settle in and enjoy a much-needed drink. I stepped outside to take in one of my favourite views of any place I have been, A panoramic sweep of the Rio Grande in all its glory. Above, the blue and white Argentine flag flapped aggressively in the wind, a reminder that it would be replaced at least once this season, shredded by the relentless gusts from the Andes.
The first session of the week is always met with anticipation and a touch of nervousness. What shape would the river be in? and would these notoriously moody fish cooperate? I joined Timmy and Sean for the morning session to take photos and to see how Timmy was faring. I needn’t have worried for he is an experienced salmon rod, and he took to this style of swinging flies like a duck to water. The river was low and clear, but in good shape. Our guide, Sebastian, set up both rods with an intermediate tip and a decent-length leader, which is the usual starting point for these conditions. Begin with the most subtle approach, then gradually get more aggressive and obscure if the fish aren’t responding. Despite their best efforts, the morning was tough with Timmy and Sean managing a single fish. Back at the lodge, others had caught, but no one had a lights-out session. As I had suspected, the bright morning sun played its part in keeping the fish down, but this was nothing that a perfectly cooked chunk of estancia beef and glass of Malbec couldn’t fix. While I chose the sensible option of a siesta, some of the gang kept the craic going over a game of cards in the main room which became a habit that was soon dubbed ‘the Scottish siesta’ by the team at the lodge.
That afternoon, I followed Gordon and Stuart to Beat 26 which is home to Leandro’s a pool otherwise known as ‘the fish factory’ by Villa Maria. I hadn’t seen this pool before, but knew that it had a mythical reputation when at the right height. Genaro, our guide, said it was a little low but still held fish. As we stood on the high bank, broken clouds offered some welcome cover. A fish rolled opposite us, and though we couldn’t tell its size, it was a good sign. Gordon moved into position while Stuart and I walked upstream. Both rods unrolled tidy loops, stripping their rubber-legged nymphs with short pulls. The river was waking up. Gordon was the first to hook up, a fresh fourteen-pounder that tore across the pool, tail-walking as it peeled line from his reel. By the end of the session they had landed five fish, none over fifteen but all in the twelve to fourteen pound range, coin-fresh and scale-perfect. On returning to the comfort of an open fire, drink and nibbles I found that the rest of the team had enjoyed the better conditions. No ‘book fish’ yet (over fifteen pounds), but plenty of doubles. Anywhere else, these would be sea trout of a lifetime. Here, they were just another good fish.
Breakfast unfolds in a familiar rhythm, which for most of us means at least a few crispy rashers. It was a gentle breeze that stirred the air outside, and a thin veil of cloud hinted at favourable conditions for the morning’s session. Most of the team are fishing the lower beats which usually do well this early in the season. Genaro and I spend the first few hours crisscrossing the riverside to capture moments of the boys working beats 24 and 26 through the lens. It isn’t long before Sean hooks into his first fish of the day at Barrancas Allen. This pool is unlike many others on the river as it lacks the high banks that are typical elsewhere. The current rushes headlong towards a series of submerged rocks before fanning out smoothly into the main body of the pool. Much like Leandro’s it is a known haunt for early season fish and is often a place where fish show but can be frustratingly hard to hook.
I leave Sean cradling a fine catch that gave him a spirited fight and head upstream to see Allan and Mark, the father-son duo who are fishing Julia’s. Mark landed a fish from the upper section, a stretch where the current drives hard into the high bank to form a textbook Rio Grande pool. We pause for a quick chat over a steaming mug of coffee before Genaro and I follow the dirt track to an open beat for a few casts before lunch. It feels good to let a line unroll again as it has been months since the close of the salmon season. The wind is strong but favourable, allowing me to snake roll over my left shoulder. I work the EMB nymph along the high bank at Profundo, making short, deliberate strips, and I soon find the kind of rhythm and cadence that makes this kind of fishing so appealing. A sudden, violent tug snaps my focus. The line goes tight, and I lift into the weight of the fish. The old Hardy reel screams as it bolts downriver. This is what I’ve missed, the raw aggression of these fish. Despite the small flies we use to entice them, their takes are nothing short of ferocious. In the net, I admire a solid hen in the low teens, her scales flawless and her gill plate shimmering with an iridescent mix of blue and silver which are tell-tale hues of a fresh arrival. This is why I love this time of year. Not for the numbers, but for the quality of fish that make the journey worthwhile.
I am not alone in my success. As the morning session wraps up, word spreads that Barrancas Allen has been generous, and Timmy and Sean have both landed fish in the fifteen- to seventeen-pound range. Timmy declares his week complete and that he can now go home and die happy. Instead of returning to the lodge for lunch, we take a walk to the quincho. Calling it a “lunch hut” would be an insult as it is so much more than that. The quincho was designed by Ropo’s daughter and it stands as one of the finest dining spots I can think of. We are greeted by the scent of smoke and sizzling beef from the estancia. The glass-walled front offers an unbroken view of the river stretching below, with the distant silhouette of the Andes framing the horizon. Over a spread of grilled meats, homemade chorizo and morcilla, we eat in near silence, savouring both the meal and the scenery that few places can rival.
The afternoon sun burns through the morning clouds which slows the fishing. When conditions are like this, you might pick up the odd fish, but the real anticipation builds for the “magic hour”, that fleeting window when the fading light transforms the river. It always astonishes me how a seemingly lifeless pool can erupt with activity as the dusk wraps closer.
That night, the transformation was no exception. Stuart hooked a fifteen-pounder at 22:45, Mark followed with another at 23:00, his father Allan landed a seventeen-pounder five minutes later, and then, in a grand finale, Timmy proves his morning wasn’t a fluke by landing a massive twenty-three-pound fish at 23:05. For that brief span, the river had come alive, rewarding those in the right place at the right time.
The late-evening trend held throughout the week, as it often does in Argentina’s sea trout fishing. This was not to say that the daytime fishing was dull, far from it. What was most striking this year was the quality of the fish with very few below double digits and most between twelve and fourteen pounds.
Jaime is a seasoned salmon fisher who has worked rivers from Scotland to Russia and Norway. His style leans more toward effectiveness than elegance and catching fish is the goal, not perfecting an array of fancy casts. I know he is not one to shy away from unconventional tactics, so when a seventeen-and-a-half-pound sea trout smashed his eight-inch Pahtakorva, he would have been less surprised than his guide Marcelo. Hours later, in the darkened waters of Peter’s Pool, Jaime struck again with a nineteen-pounder.
Back at the lodge, the food is always exceptional, but this year reached new heights thanks to the addition of a pastry chef. As someone with a particular weakness for sweet things, I found myself consistently spoiled, and each lunch and evening, we were treated to some of the finest puddings I have had which was a sentiment shared by the rest of the table.
The next day, I fish with Ropo who runs EMB and La Villa and whose family has deep history in area having owned the estancia for many generations. We’ve cast lines together a few times now, and I have come to appreciate his company as that of a good friend. Marcelo drives us upstream to scout beats that have been lightly fished. Upstream from the Menendez tributary the water narrows, and I scan my phone for an old map, trying to match the landscape to the names of pools I once fished while guiding at Kau Tapen. This stretch rarely holds the same numbers of fish as the lower beats this early in the season, but I enjoy the challenge of fishing light and with precision. Despite my best efforts, the fish remain elusive, though Ropo manages to land two on his single hander. Some days, luck is simply on another’s side.
That evening, Stuart lands his second “book fish” which is a stunning seventeen-pound hen from Julia’s. Mark follows with another fifteen-pounder, while Sean puled a fifteen-pounder from Arturo, one of the river’s legendary pools. Up to this point, Wee Jaime had played second fiddle to his father, but Barrancas Allen delivered for him a sixteen-pound hen. On this river, any “book fish” is special, but fresh hens of sixteen to eighteen pounds are in a league of their own. They are the ones that take with the most venom, threatening to rip the rod from your hands before tail-walking through the pool like tarpon.
The final day is always bittersweet as it would be another year before we cast a line on the Rio Grande again. I try to savour this place for what it is, a big sky place, and a place where the wind howls from the snow capped Andes onto a river that holds the opportunity to crystallize the memory of a lifetime. The wildness of the day gives way to a calm and stunning evening. As the evening light fades, and the wind dies the sky becomes a canvas of orange and scarlet. Beneath the high bank, the smooth water is briefly broken by a rolling fish. I jig the leech, making the rabbit strip pulse, and slow my steps to make sure the spot is covered. On the second jig, the rod jerks forward. I lift. It’s heavy but stays deep, giving me the illusion of a big fish. Though thrilled, I can’t help but wish it was over eight pounds. I hold the fish briefly in the shallows before it surges away, showering me as it vanishes into the pool.
That night, we celebrated. It was a final toast to an unforgettable week, the wonderful guides, and the warmth of Estancia Maria Behety. Drink flowed, and karaoke ensued, with Jaime, Wee Jaime, and Timmy stealing the show. It had been an excellent week, not just because of the fishing, but because of the camaraderie and the joy of being in a place as special as this. To my Scottish friends, thank you. You fished hard, laughed harder, and made this trip one hell of a ride. Until next year.
