From "Trouble in Pescaderia: Returning to Gallegos "

We arranged a ride to Puente Blanco, and sure enough we found Alfonso posted there in his chair. The first words out of his mouth were, and I do not embellish, Ah, a ti te gustan las truchas del sur – “I see that you really like the trout of the south”. No sign of surprise or even greeting; he just began the conversation where we had left it on my previous trip. The same way the estancia considers fifty square miles its backyard, Alfonso treated the passing of a year like the next day. He looked at our map with some amusement and pointed across the featureless pampas: “Jump over that fence and walk straight, and you will reach the Pescaderia in an hour.”

Which is exactly what we did. We got there in an hour’s hike, dropped our packs in a likely campsite, and got lines in the water as fast as possible. My third cast got grabbed brutally at the end of the swing, snapping a 12# tippet. After that, we both succeeded in landing medium-sized 4-5 pounders and were just warming up to the Pescaderia when we heard the dreaded sound of fate: a car engine approaching. Since the area is fenced off by locked gates, a car could only mean people from the Estancia, probably guides with clients.