Adrift On Patagonia’s Epic Trout Waters

Fly fishing southern Argentina feels like a return to Montana of the 1940s

As we drive the dirt track, bouncing our way ever closer to the river lined with giraffe tall poplars glowing lemon in the Patagonian sun, it feels like we are about to float a river that starts somewhere in Montana or Colorado before winding its way to the bottom of South America. As we reach the put-in, cattle watch us like buffalo might a lion, trying to discern if we are delivering hay for them or are about to take them to the abattoir.

Instead, we are met at the river by Kevin Tiemersma, the managing partner of Tipiliuke Lodge, a destination that has become an irresistible lure for many hunters and anglers looking to immerse themselves in all things Patagonian sporting. Tiemersma is never far from a smile and revels in showing his home waters to visitors that travel the world chasing rumors of epic browns in this land of the lost angler. He introduces me to Federico “Fede” Obejero, a 30-something recovering attorney turned fishing guide. I’m here at the suggestion of friend and veteran travel consultant John Burrell, doing field research for an upcoming book on the planet’s best fly fishing.

It’s April and the river looks like a perfect replica of Montana’s famed Big Hole River in early October. There isn’t a cloud anywhere and the temperatures are in the mid-60s, pretty close to a perfect day for what we are about to do. Our mission is to separate the river from some of its heftiest trout and I am non-denominational, happy to catch either brown or rainbow trout. I am armed with a five weight, a pocket full of dry flies and an eagerness to see what all the fuss is about.

I begin training my line and greasing my elbow for the work ahead with a series of false casts as Fede rows us across the 75 yard span of the river, to a nearby pocket that looks particularly fishy. I drop my fly under a willow bush, looking like a piece of cotton just hit the water. In the same instant that it meets the water, a 12-inch brown mugs it, turning in a splash and diving for the depths below. After having just come off a bonefishing foray where I was pitching an eight-weight against an eternal wind, the five-weight feels like I am fishing with a car antennae, experiencing every ounce of fight the fish delivers.

We are adrift on a nine mile stretch of the Chimehuin River, one of two famous trout waters that split the 50,000 acres of Tipiliuke. The other is the much smaller Quilquihue and in total there are 17 miles of private waters here and Lord only knows how many trout per river mile.

We concentrate our efforts in a series of side pools along the bank, tucked away from the main force of the river’s meandering current. It flows like a prairie river, slithering gently through the wind-swept Patagonian landscape. Maybe 50 yards downriver from my first trout, I tap the surface with two quick tease casts before letting the fly rest on the third. It proves the charm as another brown, perhaps a bit better than the first, gulps the fly and decides to make a run downriver, using his body as a sail to harness the current, fighting deceptively above its weight class.

We fish for a couple of hours and land a mix of browns and rainbows, but nothing over 14-inches. Still, a fish on a dry fly is worth three below the surface in my book, but I’m not above trying a streamer to see if I can find one of the spotted hogs for which the Chimehuin is so famous. Some of those fish reach legendary proportions, the river occasionally producing browns approaching 30-inches, a key part of the draw to fishing this piece of Patagonia.

With plenty of action from my morning float, I return to the lodge, a two-story structure that looks like a beautifully restored ranch house tucked inside a planted—and enchanted—forest of evergreens. It’s a chlorophyll oasis of sorts, for the rest of the ranch is comprised of rolling dry grass steppes where the wind talks to itself in blustery conversations. Immediately surrounding the lodge is a sprawling lawn where a table is set for lunch and wafts of grilling meats lead us in like pointers to pheasant scent.

It would be a form of gastronomic torture to be a vegetarian here, for each meal is a carnivore’s celebration of sausages, chops and loins where it’s possible to eat your way into a coma if you’re not careful. And if you fall victim to the medium rare orgy, there’s always the possibility of a nap if you’d rather ruminate like a lumpy snake for a bit before returning to the river.

Joining the lunch table is a trio of Americans who spent the morning hunting California quail behind guide Adrian Cataldi and his ace pointer, Deuce. The quail were introduced a century ago and have found the Patagonian terrain, cover and temperatures to their liking, becoming prolific across much of the ranch. Another hunter who spent the morning chasing snipe joins us as well along with a man in search of one of the ranch’s stags. Of all the sporting retreats I’ve visited over 30 years of avoiding honest work, Tipiliuke offers arguably the most eclectic menu of pursuits.

The ranch has an interesting past as well. The property was purchased in 1909 by Jacques de Larminat, a Frenchman who had two brothers who came to help him establish a sheep operation far from the impending threats of war in Europe. When the first World War broke out, however, all three brothers went to fight but only Jacques survived to return to continue developing the ranch. The property sits in the shadow of the enormous snow-covered Lanin Peak, a 12,000-foot volcano that towers like some alien marker designed to direct landing space craft.

Satiated by more meat than I’ve ever consumed at one sitting, I return to the river if for no other reason than to stop eating. I’m in search of a beastly brown and have come ready for a tussle, which also might provide the benefit of helping burn off some of my caloric overdose. This beautifully braided and wild river is simply as inviting a piece of trout stream as I’ve ever seen in my journey to fish the world’s best waters. The purity of catching fish on top—without the plumbing of indicators, droppers and bang-yourself-in-the-back-of-the-head weights—is altogether refreshing. It’s a reminder of what the American West must have been like a half century ago, before dams, channelization and center-pivot irrigation forever altered most of our trout fisheries…and before A River Runs Through It became A Realtor Runs Through It.

Fede is trying to find a big trout willing to accept my Parachute Adams fly, for he seems reticent to stoop below the surface with a streamer or some other sacrilege. After hooking umpteen browns and rainbows in the 10 to 13 inch range, however, I’m hoping Fede will surrender his pride without me having to reveal myself a Philistine and suggest we switch to a streamer. I admire dry fly purists, but I am not one. I’m channeling vibes that it would be ok to forgo the dries just for the drug of a big tug. He’s not having it.

He sends back a strong, yet unsaid message that I loosely translate to, Sorry, Gringo, I will not defile myself or this boat with a streamer…no matter how many not-so-subtle hints you drop.

I smile and focus on enjoying a glorious day in Patagonia and a river bent on offering up scores of fish willing to eat on top, so while none were the rod-benders whose pictures are floating throughout the fishing cybersphere, I am content with the bounty provided until Tipiliuke and I meet again.

And it can’t be soon enough…with a streamer in my pocket.