By the third day of our quest for golden dorado and piranha on Argentina’s Corriente and Paraná rivers, our fishing guide, Chulito, had seen enough of our poor fishing abilities.
I caught four or five of the bright yellow and very toothy dorado but missed a whole lot more.
Every time one of us messed up, Chuli would groan loudly and sink his head into his hands. I felt the frustration too and started to indicate a missed strike with “fucking dorado!”
It’s a typical problem faced by American trout anglers on the big Argentine rivers. We lift our rods when we feel a strike. But Chuli wanted us to keep our tips down and quickly strip offline until we hooked the fish in the jaw, just like muskie fishermen do back home.
When he heard me mumble another “fucking dorado,” he came back to the boat where I was standing, grabbed my Cortland 7-weight fly rod, and ordered us to watch.
He made three false casts, dropped the huge green fly near a bank of lily pads, and made three quick strips of line, just like I had done dozens of times.
Only he hooked a nice fish in a lucky, made-for-Hollywood angling presentation. He tried to stifle a laugh, grinned, and shouted in a pretend angry kind of way, “OK?”
He spoke virtually no English, I almost no Spanish. But we understood each other completely.
Our stay at the Don Joaquín River Lodge up Río Corriente from Esquina was the second part of a spectacular cast-and-blast trip that started with a weeklong dove hunt eight hours away near Córdoba.
At the lodge, we were greeted by the co-manager Diego, who had three fingers wrapped in medical tape. It seems he had mishandled a dorado that morning, and the razor-sharp teeth of the fish had ripped open his digits.
The fishing lodge, built in a classic, single-story Argentine ranch style, sat on the edge of the river and the owner’s cattle ranch. Every day we were greeted with the most beautiful steers and cows, strolling near the covered porch and the swimming pool.
Mornings started with a leisurely breakfast. Then it was on the boats to fish in the blazing sun until lunchtime, when the boating guides would gather wood for a fire for some asado-style grilling. One day we had a wonderful stew paired with malbec wine. On another, the guides pushed sticks cleaned of bark through two strip steak roasts and placed them near the fire for an hour until they were medium-rare.
We had a lot of meat for dinner — we were in Argentina, after all. And we had a special treat during our visit. A large group of friends and family were on their annual fishing trip from Córdoba. Two of them are singers of traditional gaucho, or cowboy, music. One even traded his distinctive black-and-green dorado fly for one of my aged cigars from Washington’s own Paul Garmirian.
The big dorado, piranha, and pacu we were trying to catch demand the use of heavy rods, thick fly lines tipped with wire, and weighted flies. Quick strips must follow long casts. Over and over again.
It was work, and the days ended with the five of us anglers comparing our blisters.
After getting skunked the first day, I tied on my new black-and-green fly and immediately started to get hits in the Corriente. I caught four, each one bigger than the last.
Midday, Chulito pulled out some bait rods, and we used three apricot-sized fruits for pacu and caught a couple. They turned out to look like a plate-size piranha, just bigger. And, as did all the fish we managed to catch, the pacu had a mouthful of teeth.
By the final day of the trip, all of us had figured out how to cast for a catch of the prized dorado, but my hands were giving out. I’d tried every kind of tape to cover the blisters and decided the best cure was to take more cigar breaks with my fishing posse.
Before heading to lunch, we tried again for the dorado, and it was then that Chulito gave us his casting and catching demonstration. When I told that story to our lunch crew, and we all applauded him, he couldn’t help but smile and laugh.
Then it was back to the boats for our final hours on the Corriente and Paraná.
As the sun started to set over the water, I made a long cast. Strip, strip, and a big bite. This time I kept my rod tip down until he was hooked. Then I lifted and hauled him in.
We cheered the big fish, which I renamed “Muchacho Dorado.” After Chulito demonstrated his trademark palm punch to unhook the fish and put it back in the river, I gave him a big hug and barked, “OK?”
He smiled and had us all laughing with two words: “Fucking Dorado.”
Paul Bedard is a senior columnist and author of Washington Secrets.
