A 20-Year King Salmon Curse Ends in Patagonia
On my last day fishing in Patagonia, standing thigh-deep in glacial meltwater, cold, tired, and frustrated, I was convinced my streak of bad fishing luck was still alive and well. What I didn’t know yet was that I was about to land the largest salmon of my life—and finally put a 20-year curse to rest.
My pursuit of king salmon started back in June of 2004. I made my first serious attempt at catching a chinook—also known as a king salmon—and failed completely. Absolute skunk. Several years later I went back to Alaska and tried again. Same result. No salmon.
In 2023, I returned to Alaska for a third attempt and finally broke through, landing several salmon species, including a king that weighed about seven pounds. I was happy to have finally caught one, but it wasn’t the fish I had imagined for all those years. It wasn’t the giant, river-bulldozing king you see in photos. And while people do catch big kings in Alaska, the average size today isn’t what it once was. I started to wonder if landing a truly big king salmon just wasn’t in the cards for me.
Then I heard a story.
I learned that in Argentina—specifically Patagonia—there is a short 5–6 week window when king salmon migrate into a handful of rivers. The average fish? Around 20 pounds. Thirty-pounders weren’t uncommon. And there were even rumors of fish over 40 pounds.
So I decided to try to break my king salmon curse in Argentina instead of Alaska.
Unfortunately, my recent fishing history didn’t inspire confidence. I went tiger fishing in South Africa and didn’t land a big one. I fished the Nile and caught only small tilapia. I tried for pirapitinga in Brazil—no luck. I chased big brown trout on the fly rod and dealt with relentless 35 to 45 mph winds. It felt like nothing was going my way.
By my final day in Patagonia, I was convinced the pattern would continue.
We drove for over an hour down a long, bumpy dirt road, then hiked into the woods to reach the river. I spent five hours casting while standing in literal glacier melt. I was cold, tired, and frustrated. Eventually, we decided to hike to one last stretch of water.
On my very first cast, I felt a slight tick on the line.
It didn’t feel big. I wondered if it was even a fish. I reeled in to remove slack and gently pulled. The line pulled back. I figured a small fish was still better than no fish at all, so I set the hook.
Instant chaos.
My rod bent in half. The drag started screaming. My Argentine guide—who spoke almost no English—started yelling, “Fish! Fish! Fish!”
For about eight seconds, I made two incorrect assumptions: first, that it might still be a small fish, and second, that I had everything under control.
Then I saw the shadow in the water.
That was when my fish shot into the main current.
“Nooooo!” my guide yelled.
That’s when I felt it—the weight, the power, the unmistakable force of a large salmon using the river to its advantage. I don’t fish rivers often, and I didn’t fully understand what was happening yet. My guide did.
If a big fish gets downstream into heavy current, it often breaks the line. He kept yelling “Brake! Brake!” I didn’t immediately realize he meant the drag. By the time I tried to adjust it, the fish had taken an enormous amount of line and wrapped itself around a stump rising out of the middle of the river.
It buried itself under the log.
I adjusted the drag and prayed the line would hold. After keeping steady pressure for a minute, I gave it a bit of slack, hoping the fish would swim free.
The moment the line went slack, the fish exploded downstream again.
Ahead of it was a massive tangle of rocks and submerged logs. If it reached that mess, the fight was over.
Desperate, I grabbed the line with my bare hand to slow the run. My fingers burned, but I managed to turn the fish. It shot sideways into an overhanging root system and under a shelf along the riverbank. Meanwhile, my line was still rubbing against the stump mid-river.
Knowing the line would eventually fray and snap, I ran downstream while reeling, popped the line free from the log, and immediately lost tension again.
The fish bolted for a third time—straight toward the obstacle.
I was certain it was over.
My guide had anticipated the move. He had sprinted roughly 70 yards downstream and jumped into the river—chest waders on, water waist-deep—putting himself between the fish and the worst of the debris. I followed, positioning myself on the bank of the river and finally getting the drag set correctly.
Now it was simple.
One of us would tire first.
In the back of my mind, though, I knew there was a third outcome: the line was likely frayed somewhere, and it could snap at any moment. Standing there in freezing water, battling the biggest salmon I had ever hooked, I said one of the most sincere prayers of my life: Please, God, let me land this fish.
After about ten minutes, we finally brought it to shore.
We both just stared.
Both myself and the guide hefted the fish. My guess was 45 pounds, his was 20 kilos. Doing some math in my head I realized we were about the same on our guess! This wasn’t just a 20 pounder. Wasn’t even the 30 pounder I had tried not to hope for. It was a legit 40 pound plus King Salmon!
After two decades of trying, countless failed trips, and more near-misses than I can count, my king salmon curse was officially over. I don’t think my recent run of bad fishing luck just ended—I think it ended in spectacular fashion.
I will never forget that day. It may very well be the craziest, most meaningful moment I’ve ever experienced while fishing.
