A storm brushed the valley overnight, and by morning we weren’t sure what we’d find. From the chopper, it was clear: the upper beats were mud soup. Luckily, we’d staged spare rafts downstream, so Plan B kicked in.

Stuart’s highlight came when Fidel, his guide, tied on a giant sábalo imitation in EP fibers—just a handful of casts later, Stuart came tight to what felt like a rock. “Set!” Fidel yelled, “That rock is way too yellow!” The rod bent, the backing screamed, and after a furious 10-minute brawl, Stuart landed the dorado of his life. Clean photo, quick release, champagne smiles all around.

Not to be outdone, Carlton stuck a 94 cm brute off a mid-river boulder. First cast was short, but Juanchi muscled the raft into position. Second cast, perfect. The fish tracked, missed once, then bulldozed the fly out of the water and crushed it on the second swipe. Solid strip, blistering run, acrobatics, and finally a safe release. Pure electricity.

By Tuesday, it was clear Mother Nature had her own plans. Heavy rain upstream had pushed a surge of dirty water down the valley.

Safety first—we grounded the chopper, called off the floats, and turned the day into a gift: casting lessons, fly tying, a local wine tasting, and an Argentine-style asado that Diego, our magician of a chef, served to perfection. No one complained.

Wednesday dawned gray and damp. Spirits were tested, but this crew are warriors. The river was high and brown, so strategy shifted to tight pockets and ambush water. We cycled through poppers, mice, black streamers, white streamers—you name it.

The Aussies dug deep, working tirelessly until each of them earned a medium-sized dorado on a black streamer. Hard-earned, but richly deserved. Energy restored. That night Diego put on “Italian Night”—garlic cream pasta, laughter, and wine. Perfect reset.

Thursday brought more of the same—milk-chocolate flows and impossible visibility. Sometimes nature lays down the law, and all you can do is accept it with grace.

Our anglers knew it, and they battled honorably through the blank day.

Respect to them—fighting not the fish, but the conditions.

Friday we rolled the dice on Plan B: tributaries. From the air we spotted promising water and split the team.

John and Carlton waded Picabuey Creek, a pocket-water paradise. Fish weren’t big—4 to 10 pounds —but they were savage, explosive, and eager. Many lost, a few landed, and plenty of laughs.

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Meanwhile, Dizzy and Stuart hiked into Lapacho Creek, a tiny stream with outsized gold. Juanchi’s sharp eyes spotted a dorado posted up in skinny water. Dizzy’s cast landed perfectly; two fish charged, the bigger won, and suddenly he was tied into 15 pounds of muscle in water barely wide enough to walk. Aerials, runs, a quick net job, photo, and release. Dizzy and Juanchi both earned gold stars that day.

We closed the week with Diego’s Crew & Guests Local Flavor Night—empanadas, stories, and toasts to future adventures. A tough weather week, yes, but full of lessons, camaraderie, and flashes of brilliance.