The wind of change
With the Argentinean sea-trout season getting closer, Emilie Björkman shares her first encounter with the giants of the Pampas
I HAD a lump in my throat, and it wouldn’t go away. I even felt slightly nauseous. Why? Because I had the fish of a lifetime on the end of my line. You know, the kind of fish that motivates you to travel across the globe, just to hold it for one precious moment. To an outsider, this might have seemed insignificant. To me, right then, it was the only thing that mattered.
“Hey Guillermo,” I shouted, “if we net this fish, I will dance the tango tonight!”
I had been dreaming about fishing in Argentina for over 15 years and had read every Swedish magazine article on the subject. It had never been more than a fantasy. But at last, I was there, riding shotgun with guide Augustin Girard. He had picked me up at the airport in Rio Grande. Augustin usually operated further south in Ushuaia. “Literally at the end of the world,” he said with a grin.
I had been dreaming about fishing in Argentina for over 15 years and had read every Swedish magazine article on the subject
He handed me his phone and told me to scroll down. I saw whales, dolphins, penguins and, of course, trout… many trout.
“Most of them I catch on the nymph,” he said.
I stopped when I discovered a chinook salmon. “They are not supposed to be here, right?”
Augustin told me how chinook and coho (Pacific salmon), whose natural ranges are in the Northern Hemisphere, had escaped from fish farms in Chile and were now residents of the Beagle Channel and used the rivers in Ushuaia as spawning grounds.
“Fish farms are a problem all over the world,” I said.
“It’s a good thing that they are now banned in Patagonia by law (since 2021),” added Augustin.
The view from Wuijoor Lodge: horses, gauchos, condors and epic skyscapes.
I looked out the window. The view was enormous. I was tired, having travelled for almost two days.
“Get some sleep,” said Augustin. “You’ll need strength over the next few days.”
I dreamed of big sea-run trout refusing to eat my fly. Then I woke up as Augustin opened the gate to the estancia.
Through the windscreen, I saw a group of gauchos in the distance, working the cattle on horseback.
Coming from a background of dry-fly fishing, the slightest riffle on the surface sent chills down my spine
“You see the condors?” Augustin asked.
The big scavengers were circling — a dead cow, maybe? This was Argentina, just as I’d pictured it.
I would soon get a glimpse of the river, the Rio Menéndez, a tributary of the renowned Rio Grande.
This was where I would be fishing, on a 30-kilometre stretch and the most important spawning grounds in the system. It was seldom more than 20 metres wide, but on its outer curves it was deep. These areas were, in theory, where the big trout held. I was told the season so far had been on the slow side and that the fish didn’t push high up the system if there was plenty of room in the spawning grounds downstream.
My biggest concern about fishing here had always been the wind, with gusts of up to 45mph common. Would it tear my casting apart? Coming from a background of dry-fly fishing, the slightest riffle on the surface sent chills down my spine. Give me high water, rain or an invasion of mosquitoes — but please spare me the wind.
The small and meandering Rio Menéndez.
But here, in Patagonia, it appeared the wind was a good thing. Wind — especially on a small river like the Menéndez — created a “roof” over the sea-trout which made them feel safer and more willing to take a fly.
Augustin told me he had things to attend to elsewhere, so he teamed me up with Guillermo de Campos, a former soldier who had moved into guiding a few years ago.
As we were loading Guillermo’s truck, I asked him, “Are sea-trout your favourite fish?”
He laughed. “It’s complicated,” he said in broken English. “I fly-fish for anything, including brown trout, rainbow and sea-trout, but I suppose sea-trout are at the top of the table. When you feel that first take... it feels so good.”
Sea-trout — or any other trout, for that matter — are not native to Patagonia. Their native range was almost all of Europe, a small part of Asia and even a tiny part of northernmost Africa. But, thanks to the British Empire, that range expanded significantly. In the early 1900s, brown trout were shipped to the rivers of Argentina. The result — decades later — was the formation of the world’s finest sea-trout fishery.
A good brown trout in the flat calm.
Guillermo, the owner of Wuijoor Lodge, having a cast on the mirror-flat Rio Menéndez.
Gunnar Öhlund, a scientist at the Swedish University of Agricultural Sciences, explained to me that the success story of trout introduction worldwide was sort of a paradox. In our part of the world, we view brown trout as relatively sensitive when it comes to tolerating other fish species, particularly predators. Yet in many areas around the world there are regions with consistently cold, well-oxygenated water and few other species present — ideal for trout to thrive — but they were not naturally present. This supports the old Argentinian saying: “In Patagonia, God created the perfect trout habitat; he just forgot about the trout.”
Its meandering flow created one pool after another; the Pampas was a dream to hike, and the seemingly endless spawning gravels were easy to wade
So, brown trout have been a success for anglers worldwide, creating some of the most spectacular fly-fishing on Earth, but they are also one of the planet’s most invasive fish. I couldn’t help but think of Augustin’s story about the escapee chinook and coho salmon in the Beagle Channel. The situations feel similar, but also very different.
Guillermo and I put in the hours over the following days. The Menéndez was spectacular water to fish. Its meandering flow created one pool after another; the Pampas was a dream to hike, and the seemingly endless spawning gravels were easy to wade. The fish, however, were nowhere to be found.
We changed flies frequently. Articulated streamers. Tiny nymphs. Even the odd Woolly Bugger got a chance, but more often than not, a Sunray Shadow was on the end of our lines.
“I would fish a Sunray throughout the season if I could, maybe with some variation in size,” Guillermo told me.
It was dead calm, and it felt weird. I mean, how many days a year do they have no wind in Tierra del Fuego? Every time I landed the fly on the water or ripped the line off the glossy surface, it felt like I was telling every fish in Rio Menéndez that I was there and they’d better stay away.
Emilie’s simple Sunray Shadow, tied on a plastic tube.
Despite this, every once in a while, a brown trout grabbed my fly. Sometimes a rainbow.
“Nice fish,” I said to Guillermo.
“Yes, they are nice fish,” he replied with an unmistakable hint of disappointment.
It wasn’t that we didn’t appreciate a brown or rainbow trout, but we were longing for something else, and we both knew that my time in Patagonia was only getting closer to the end. Of course, there was much to be happy about: the food, the landscape and company. But every fly-fisher knows that when the fish is missing, there is a void that can’t be filled with anything else.
It is said that the different moon phases affect the activity of fish and animals in general
Guillermo checked his phone. The local weather app forecast a change.
“Tomorrow we’ll have some wind,” he said. “And if I’m not mistaken, tomorrow is the first day of the full moon phase. Do you believe in that?”
“Sometimes I do — especially if I have to!” I replied.
It is said that the different moon phases affect the activity of fish and animals in general. It is called the lunar effect. The moon travels through eight different phases, and the full moon and the new moon are the best for fishing. The half-moon phase is also considered to be good, but all other phases indicate low activity.
Emilie warming up ready for a wind on the Rio Menéndez. The Loop Onka pants are a godsend in Argentina.
Tools to combat the Pampero, Argentina’s legendary wind. Emilie used the Loop 9ft 8wt ZX, the 12ft 2in 6wt ZT and Opti Speedrunner.
On the morning of day five, I woke to a howling wind outside.
“Finally!” I said to myself.
Guillermo was already by the truck.
“It looks good!” he shouted.
I turned against the wind and felt it in my hair at last. Immediately, we sensed there was something else in the air. The big fish were still not playing, but the activity in the pools was not to be mistaken. The brown trout attacked the fly in a way we hadn’t experienced previously.
In the last slow-running pool, with a deep channel on the far side, I felt something unmistakable in my stomach
The wind was picking up, and the condors were making the most of it, coming in surprisingly low over the river, almost covering the sun at times. They used the uplift turbulence from the river to gain height, Guillermo told me.
As expected, the wind tore my casting apart. The only good thing was that the casts needn’t be long or pretty — just precise. If the wind came from my back, it all worked surprisingly well.
Guillermo had told me at the beginning of the trip to drop the fly as close to the far bank as possible. Then, the T14 tip — or even T18 — worked its magic and dug deep before you started to slowly work the fly back.
The surface was covered in small breaking waves and, in the last slow-running pool, with a deep channel on the far side, I felt something unmistakable in my stomach.
I dropped the Sunray inches from the bank. The take was an explosion. Well, that’s what I think. I can’t say that I fully remember it. It was as if I’d blacked out; then the fish was there.
Aiming to drop the Sunray under the far bank with a heavy sink tip.
It felt so good when Guillermo netted my first Argentinian sea-trout. I was in another world. The trout was almost 70cm long and fat and deep. To catch that kind of fish in an environment like this was something else.
“It’s a nice fish,” said Guillermo as he handed it to me to release.
As I held the gorgeous sea-trout, I realised that it was what I’d dreamt of for so long. Guillermo raised his hand for the mandatory high-five.
“This time, we don’t need to pretend we are happy,” he joked. “From now on, this pool is named ‘Posso di Emilie’ — the Emilie Pool.”
Time flew while we fished, and suddenly, the light grew low, the shadows grew long and we remembered we’d promised the chef we’d be back before 19:00
The following day, back at the lodge, the chef was preparing asado, a traditional Argentinian barbecue with lamb.
“Just make sure to be back at 19.00,” he said as I opened the back of Guillermo’s truck. I tossed the gear in and assured him I wouldn’t miss a meal like that.
I kept reminding myself this was the last day and that I must take it all in, every little detail. This was a trip of a lifetime. I didn’t expect to be back any time soon.
Time flew while we fished, and suddenly, the light grew low, the shadows grew long and we remembered we’d promised the chef we’d be back before 19:00.
The pale full moon was emerging on the horizon.
“If we’re to be back for the Asado, we need to go now,” said Guillermo.
I knew that calling it a day was the right thing to do — I didn’t have anything more to wish for... not really. But still, there was that feeling.
“Is there time to try the Emilie Pool once more?” I asked.
“Not really,” said Guillermo with a wry smile.
One more cast, maybe?
This time, we changed to a slightly bigger Sunray, one with a touch of blue in the underwing. “My absolute favourite,” said Guillermo.
A fish hammered it instantly, and I knew it was big, not just by the splash but by its weight. This was way bigger than the one from the day before.
I panicked, and Guillermo tried to calm me down and told me how to play the fish in an overly gentle voice. I didn’t care. Or maybe I just didn’t hear him. I had a lump in my throat, and it wouldn’t go away. I was feeling slightly nauseous. I promised to dance the tango if we landed the fish. I screamed. Guillermo laughed. We did land the fish, and I couldn’t believe my eyes. It measured 79cm — my biggest trout. We released it in the light of my headlamp.
“What do you think?” said Guillermo. “If we add some asado to this, you have your proper Patagonia experience.”
Emilies stunning trophy, spotlit in the Argentinian night.
Guillermo’s phone signalled an incoming message: “Where the hell are you? Everybody is at the table. You are 30 minutes late.”
Guillermo smiled once more and showed me the screen.
I was drained, but I knew life didn’t get better than this.
“Let’s get something to eat,” he said.
PHOTOGRAPHY: TED LOGARDT
Emilie travelled to Rio Menéndez with Swedish outfit Outside Travels who offer high-quality fishing trips worldwide and have an experienced team of guides and tour leaders. Visit: outsidetravels.com Tel: +46 313 758 200
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Emilie Björkman
Emilie Björkman is a lifelong fly-fisher with a deep passion for wild fish and untamed waters. Based in Sweden, she is a Loop Tackle ambassador and a recognized voice in the global fishing community.
