Chile: In the Heart of Patagonian Trout Country

CHILE: In the Heart of Patagonian Trout Country

Chilean Patagonia is nothing short of a fly angler’s dream - wild rivers, gin-clear lakes, endless landscapes that stretch from the rugged Andes to the windswept Pacific. And what better way to uncover these hidden gems than a good old-fashioned road trip?

By HERLE HAMON

After a scenic domestic flight to Balmaceda - where the aerial view reveals just how wildly elongated and narrow this country is, I meet up with my buddy Daniel. He’s a seasoned guide born and raised in Coyhaique, and a specialist in bespoke fishing trips and longhaul exploratory adventures through Chile’s remote wilderness. We load up the 4x4, our trusty steed for the days ahead, and hit the road under blue skies and the ever-present whisper of Patagonian wind, a sure sign we’ve arrived in the South.

Into the Wild – The Carretera Austral

Our destination? The town of Cochrane, named after the very river we’ll be fishing to kick off the trip. We cruise down the legendary Carretera Austral - a title that feels a bit grandiose given that the road soon turns into a rugged gravel ribbon, constantly under construction just to keep it navigable. Still, it’s the only thread connecting the deep south, so we embrace the bump and dust. Daniel had warned us: the Rio Cochrane doesn’t give up her secrets easily. She’s remote, challenging, and wild. We pass a number of inviting rivers much closer to Coyhaique, but easier access rarely leads to better fishing.

After several hours of navigating rough terrain, we reach a cozy riverside cabin. That first morning, we get our first glimpse of the Cochrane’s waters - crystal-clear, winding beneath dense, almost tropical riparian jungle. It’s like a massive chalk stream, with serious depth, intricate banks, and that unmistakable feeling of something wild. Without a solid guide, you’d be in over your head here. Daniel dials us in on gear, leader setup, and fly selection. This is refined fishing, reminiscent of sight-fishing small dries and nymphs in Europe - but on steroids.

The Magic of the Cochrane

We start out with dry flies, but not the ubiquitous Patagonian “Chernobyl Ants.” The Cochrane is rich with both aquatic and terrestrial life - lush weed beds and dense streamside growth mean plenty of food in all forms. We rig up with a CDC caddis, size 14. It doesn’t take long to spot our first risers. I land a couple of modest rainbows around 12 inches before setting my sights on a tight rise tucked beneath the far bank foliage.

The cast must be laser-precise - no drag. The Cochrane, here, is nearly 70 feet wide and several meters deep. I execute a short drift, and a big brown rolls on my fly. Game on!

She goes airborne the moment I set the hook - an absolute beauty, pushing 22 inches, golden-flanked with an orange tint that looks painted on. Daniel later shows me a true giant he “knows” lives beneath a downed tree. My buddy Jean-Paul gives it a go with a dry, but the fish shuts down after a few misses. These trout don’t give second chances.

We slide downstream, sight-fishing clear pools where visibility is perfect. I switch to a light nymph and take a couple of rainbows on bowand-arrow casts near the bank. The fishing is technical, deliberate, and insanely rewarding. Later that day, the beast brown we missed earlier is back. She’s suspended mid-column, sipping nymphs occasionally. I rig up a lightly weighted hare’s ear scud on a 5X TroutHunter tippet and stalk into position. One careful cast ahead of her path… she slides left. I set the hook. Explosion! She runs for a submerged log, twice. I’m waist-deep and can’t advance—the water’s too deep. I hold on through the chaos, but eventually she bolts into thick weed and wins the round. That’s Cochrane magic - every hook-up is earned, and not all end with a photo.

Sight-Fishing Paradise

This river reminds me of New Zealand - true stalk-and-cast fishing. The farther we hike, the fewer bootprints, and the bigger the fish.

Spotting a darker shape, I prep for a sight-cast. The sun’s wrong, and I can’t see her well, so I rig a discrete yarn indicator 5 feet above a weighted pheasant tail. Backhand castit’s tight in here, and the banks are brushy.

The first few drifts don’t hit the zone. I swap to a heavier Spanish-style tungsten-head. Drift’s better this time. Indicator drops - I set, and she rockets upstream. Wild rainbow. Close to 24 inches. I’m on 5X, walking the fine line between too light and too bold. Daniel nets her cleanly. Perfection!

We’ve heard bad news, though - locals say poaching has increased, especially in spawning areas. This place needs protection. It’s too special to lose. We push north, bound for another legend: the mighty Rio Baker.

Big Water, Big Dreams: A Float Trip on Chile’s Río Baker

The Baker is Chile’s biggest river by volume - a serious statement when you consider the country’s network of glacial-fed rivers and wild Patagonian drainages. It flows from Lago Bertrand, itself fed by the sprawling Lago General Carrera - a vast inland sea that swallows the horizon.

But here’s the catch: only the upper stretches of the Baker are truly fishable. After it joins with the Río Neff, the water turns a murky chocolate milk, loaded with glacial silt. The contrast is striking - crystalline turquoise from the lake suddenly colliding with the gray sludge pouring out of the Neff. It’s like watching two worlds collide. Rolling up on the upper Baker is an experience. The road clings high above the river, revealing an endless ribbon of surreal blue - so vivid it looks backlit, almost radioactive. On a river like this, bank fishing - especially with a fly rod - is pure fantasy. That’s why Daniel, our local host, arranged a flotada. He’s guided on this stretch for years and knows every slot, seam, and monster trout lie. The scale of this river is jaw-dropping - even for someone who’s fished some of the world’s heavy hitters.

We launch the rafts under pounding rain. Not exactly ideal. These aren’t your average inflatable massive pontoon catamarans with custom frames and gas-powered motors strong enough to muscle against the Baker’s relentless current. The rain kills any surface action, but believe it or not, dry-fly fishing on this beast of a river can be phenomenal when the stars align.

The Baker is a trophy trout factory. Rainbows and browns coexist here, with rainbows often more willing to rise. Daniel explains that this upper stretch concentrates fish like no other. Downstream, the water gets too turbid, so the trout stack up here, thick as thieves. And some of them are absolute units.

Romain lays a perfect cast, and from the depths, a giant brown explodes out of the water - completely airborne. A legit buck, easily 28 to 32 inches. But he doesn’t stick. He just vanishes back into the flow, leaving all three of us slack-jawed and speechless. I can still see that fishburned into memory. Thick shoulders, outrageous colors. The kind of trout that haunts your dreams.

Every season, fish like that are caught and released in this stretch. They migrate between the lake and the river, and if you’re lucky - or stubborn enough - you might cross paths with one.

We left the Baker with a heavy heart and one thought echoing between us: We have to come back. Next time, for longer!

Dry Fly Dreams and Trophy Hunts in Cerro Castillo National Park

The park takes its name from Cerro Castillo - a jagged, fortress-like peak rising above the valleys of Chile’s Aysén region. Castillo means “castle” in Spanish, and the mountain earns its name with sheer basalt walls that look straight out of a fantasy novel. Daniel had booked us a cozy lodge tucked right on the edge of a lake. After a proper asado and a few glasses of Malbec, we prepped our gear for the coming days.

The area offers a range of lakes - some vast and windswept, others hidden deep in remote valleys. Daniel broke it down for us: Some lakes are dry-fly friendly and loaded with eager, midsized trout. Others hold fewer fish— but the chance of sticking a legit trophy is very real. We decided to split our time: one day of pure dry-fly fun, and one full-on hunt for giants.

Thanks to Daniel’s local connections, we had access to private ranches within the park. We rolled into one estancia nestled beneath Cerro Castillo itself, snow still clinging to its ridges even in late season.

We launched a solid cata-raft - a wide, stable rig with an aluminum casting platform. As I rigged up, Daniel grinned and said, “Floating line only today. It’s going to be a 100% mosca seca kind of day.”

He handed me a fly that looked like it had fallen off a cartoon panel - an oversized Fat Albert with a bright blue belly, probably tied on a 2XL hook. I hesitated. I’m used to throwing #8s or maybe #6s on big water, but this? This was next-level.However, the golden rule applies: always trust your guide.

So off we went, peeling the edges with those buoyant bugs. Jean-Paul and I took turns dropping our foam monsters as close to the rocky banks as we could get. Daniel kept us drifting about 15 meters off the shore, rowing slow and steady. Within minutes, we were into fish.

Watching them rise was pure theater. These browns didn’t explode - they just ghosted up from the depths and sipped that big fly in slow motion, like it was a dragonfly that made a wrong turn.

The key was patience - don’t strike too soon. Easier said than done when you can see the take in HD clarity. Every fish was a solid brown, cookie-cutter in the 18-to-22-inch range. Jean-Paul and I each brought 20 fish

Daniel explained that streamers aren’t very effective here this time of year - these trout are looking up. It turned into one of the most visual and downright fun days I’ve had on the water. Classic dry-fly fishing, but with fish that made it feel like biggame hunting.

Daniel explained that streamers aren’t very effective here this time of year - these trout are looking up. It turned into one of the most visual and downright fun days I’ve had on the water. Classic dry-fly fishing, but with fish that made it feel like biggame hunting.

The Trophy Chase

The next morning, a stiff wind blew through the valley, and the temps dropped hard. Daniel suggested we try the lake right in front of the lodge. “Low numbers,” he warned, “but some real bruisers live in there.” Challenge accepted.

We started off with full-sinking lines and heavy black articulated streamers—around six inches long. These flies weren’t subtle. They were meant to provoke. But after three hours, Jean-Paul was still skunked and I had only landed two modest fish. Time for a change.

Daniel suggested we beach on an island and walk its perimeter, sight-fishing the margins.

The wind was now howling - easily 50 mph gusts - and blowing right in our faces. Not ideal. Still, we spotted a big brown trout cruising over a rock shelf. Jean-Paul gave me the go. I grabbed my second rod - rigged with a floating line and a long 4X leader - and tied on a classic tungsten-bead Pheasant Tail, size 16, with a 2.5 mm black bead. The wind kept pushing my cast off target, but I finally managed to drop the nymph just ahead of the trout. She tilted slowly, deliberate as a shadow. The surface chop made it impossible to see the eat, so I struck on instinct. The fish dove deep, using her weight and the current. It took a while, but Daniel finally netted her - an absolutely gorgeous hen brown, all curves and gold, pushing 8 pounds.

We continued the island circuit and spotted two more big fish. Jean-Paul took the shots, including one at a massive hooked-jaw male that surged open-mouthed toward his fly - only to have him pull it away a heartbeat too soon. We’ve all been there. The wind made everything harder, but the clarity of the water and the intensity of the visuals turned it into a masterclass in patience and precision.

Back on the boat, the lack of streamer action had me thinking—it was time to try an indicator rig. I switched back to the floating line, rigged up a long leader with a small yarn indicator, and started working the edges systematically.Not long after, the indicator dipped hard. I set into something heavy.

This one stayed deep. I was on 4X fluoro and had to take my time. The wind kept pushing us into the bank, but Daniel fought the drift with the oars to give me space. Finally, the fish showed - another massive bécard, barely fitting in the net. A thickjawed male brown, well over 70 cm. Unreal. But we weren’t done. We duplicated the setup on JeanPaul’s rod and kept drifting. Moments later - another takedown, another freight train. This one pushed 80 cm and easily broke the 10 lb mark. Oversized kype, wild pattern, pure power. Jean-Paul redeemed himself with a stunning female - freckled with ruby and ink.

I closed the day with one last beast, again on the nymph, again unforgettable. Despite brutal conditions, we’d had a day for the books. Daniel, who knows every hidden corner of Cerro Castillo, told us about other lakes - places where average rainbows hit double digits.…

Into the Pampa: Dry Fly Paradise on the Río Nireguao

The next morning, we continued our journey northward, heading toward the legendary valley of the Río Nireguao. With every hour on the road, the landscape transformed yet again. We left behind jagged peaks and glacier-fed lakes, trading them for the wide-open spaces of Patagonia’s high steppe. We settled into a beautiful eco-lodge just outside Coyhaique, perfectly positioned for our next mission: dry fly fishing, and nothing else. The Nireguao is famous among dry fly purists, especially for its explosive hopper fishing - and that’s exactly what we came for. There’s something almost sacred about fishing only on top.

Back home in Europe, the opportunity to fish dry flies all day is becoming a rare luxury. But here, in this wind-swept, golden pampa, it’s the norm. Daniel brought us once again onto private land - another sprawling estancia he knows well. We passed several gates and eventually reached the river, which wound through the grasslands like a silver ribbon, maybe fifteen meters wide at most. We spread out, each of us claiming a stretch of this pristine water. And it was on.

Every likely-looking spot - under a cut bank, beside a rock, behind a riffle - held fish. Good fish. The average size hovered around 30 cm, with 40+ cm fish being routine. In one small pool, I landed nine trout in a row. At first glance, I would’ve been thrilled with one. And the hoppers? They were everywhere. Swarms of them bounced through the grass, and once the wind kicked up, it rained orthopterans. The river became a buffet of twitching legs and wings. I watched one buttery brown slide out from the bank and start gorging - head fully breaching every few seconds to inhale the helpless bugs.

I sat and watched for a while, spellbound.

Finally, I tied on a big beige foam hopper imitation Daniel had given me and made my first cast. She ignored it, choosing a real bug instead. Second cast, same thing. But the third time? She came up slowly, lips breaking the surface in that hypnotic brown trout way and inhaled the fake like it was the best bite of her life. She taped just shy of 50 cm. On a stream this size, it felt like a trophy. The rest of the day, I focused on hunting. I stayed tight to the banks, crouched low, scanning the shallows for any shadow, movement, or telltale rise. Daniel was right - this river is loaded. Every undercut, every pocket, held fish. In some sections, we found literal schools of browns, from fingerlings to tank-sized adults. I tied on a big parachute sedge and began teasing the edges of cutbanks. Fish after fish rose, slashed, sipped, or exploded. Some ate with the grace of a ballet dancer, others with the violence of a bar fight. I hadn’t seen this kind of fish density in a small stream in years.

This was dry-fly fishing as it was meant to be - visual, deliberate, and wildly rewarding. We had stepped

into a kind of fly fishing time machine, back to an era when trout were abundant, bugs were everywhere, and every drift carried possibility.

Promise to Return

Daniel had crafted for us an unforgettable road trip along the legendary Carretera Austral. From glacier-fed torrents to highland spring creeks, from alpine lakes to wind-whipped pampas, he knew just when to change the game plan and always had the right spot in his back pocket. Adaptable, calm, and deeply connected to these waters, Daniel was more than a guide - he was a companion on this wild Patagonian ride. And now, back home, all I can think about is going back. There’s still so much to see. So many fish to chase. So many lakes tucked into hidden valleys, so many turns in the river not yet explored. Next time, maybe we’ll push even further south - toward the end of the road, where the map fades, and the track disappears into one of the last wild corners of the Earth - where adventure begins again.