Trip Report: MidCurrent’s 2025 Hosted Expedition to Guyana

“In the dazzling light, under the brilliant blue sky, every detail of the magnificent forest was vivid to the eye: the great trees, the network of bush ropes, the caverns of greenery, where thick-leaved vines covered all things else.”

-Theodore Roosevelt, Through the Brazilian Wilderness (1914)

A cocoi heron sails off into the magnificent forest.

Two weeks ago, I led a group of Americans into a section of the Amazon Rainforest within the nation of Guyana that I’ve had the good fortune to explore over the last several years. I’ve developed friendships with the Amerindian guides, learned their fishing tricks, and listened to their ghost stories. What follows are my notes and photographs from this expedition 100 miles up the Rewa River from its eponymous village.

Day 0, Feb. 13

Mac and Dave arrived in Georgetown, Guyana, last night and are headed to Ogle Airport en route to Lethem. Sam and Elizabeth will arrive in the capital tonight. I’ll be attending the premiere of “Shadow People at the Falls,” the F3T-selection film I produced last year with April Vokey and Jesse Males of Backwater Productions. About 30 hours after seeing it for the first time on the big screen, I’ll be back in that same strange corner of South America for a third attempt at comprehension.

Day 1, Feb. 14

I left my Valentine at 1:00 am to drive to Billings to fly to Dallas to Miami to Georgetown. Our driver and capital connection, Eon, bemoans losing fishing spots to the vast Exxon terminals arising along the Demerara River as he drives me from the international airport to the hotel after 1:00 am. I’m asleep immediately.

Day 2, Feb. 15

Arising too soon, I finally meet Sam and Elizabeth at the buffet for breakfast. Eon tours us through the city to the regional airport. Check-in and security offer the usual mix of attention and intransigence, and before long we’re crawling into the twin-prop for an hour-long hop to Lethem.

The Nation of Guyana is roughly the size of Utah. Stars indicate Georgetown, Lethem, Rewa Village, and Corona Falls.

The outpost of Chinese wholesalers and open-air restaurants on the Brazilian border surrounded by ranchland and savanna is two hours of rough gravel from The Oasis Restaurant and Annai, then you’re into two-track. Our bright young driver, Yousef Abraham, tells us that the cattle ranching stops around here, somewhere near where the jaguar territory begins. He’s worked in conservation and sustainable agriculture with the native communities around here most of his adult life—but also side-hustles hard with his lifted, kitted Toyota Hilux. You need big knobby tires to get down the otter slide that is the “road” to Rewa right now.

The savanna ranchland country from Lethem to Annai is never short of interesting sights and modes of transport.

Two more hours of 4-low crawling through the mud and there’s light ahead at the landing. Yousef honks a few times, hailing my friend and Barefoot Adventures head guide Terry who rips down from his home just up the Rupununi. He deposits us and our gear just up from the confluence at the Rewa Ecolodge, where we slurp cold Itaipava and Banks beers before pumpkin soup and fried arowana. Tiny bats roost in the main lodge cabana rafters immediately above the octogenarian British woman on her jungle safari. I consult with artist and Indifly director Johann du Preez on on utterly off-the-wall fly patterns and esoteric fish species behavior before retiring to bed. The painting of a fiery red pacu in my cabin can only be a good omen.

A painted pacu at the Rewa Ecolodge.

Day 3, Feb. 16

I load a fried egg and sliced sausages into to my puffy “bake,” a local specialty somewhere between Native American frybread and Greek pita. We reload the bass boat and Terry blasts off upriver, relishing the rising waters. This ride took five hours two weeks ago; now we’re looking at two as the sandbars fade from view. Jabiru storks lift heavily from an inside bend before a rookery of great egrets, then a congregation of spectacled caimans. Capybara scatter into the greenery, and then Terry eases to the bank to drop me off.

Jabiru storks alight on a sandbar.

I follow the jungle path defined by perpendicular log rollers for boat dragging. Emerging at the small lake, my eye first catches the big, fresh wildcat prints among the young shoreline grass. A boat eases from around a corner. I find a shady hole in the trees from whence to shoot photos, rig a rod, and take a nap while Mac and Dave attempt to sell craft-fiber peacock bass to sunning arapaima.

Fly fishing for arapaima is a challenge on par with tarpon or permit. Casts must be quick and accurate; strip-sets must be strong and decisive.

Eventually we rendezvous, hike out, and run upriver, slapping flies and lures into creek mouths and lagoons. Payara and black piranha are as playful as I remember. Dave and Mac already have those under their belts, as well as arowana, peacock, a 100-pound-class redtail cat, and three smaller arapaima. I catch a pair of redtail catfish that night while washing in the river and bullshitting with the guides.

Payara or “vampire fish” have holes in their skulls that fit their massive fangs. They’re among the most exciting sportfish you’re likely to encounter.

Day 4, Feb. 17

It’s good to be back in camp. The boys have clearly been hard at work building up the tarp structure and milling boards for a brand new hammock house/cabin. They even carved a sign welcoming visitors to Anteater Pool. After breakfast we head upriver, stopping briefly for a standoff with a gang of giant river otters.

Anteater Basecamp is an ever-evolving wood frame and tarp structure some 40 miles upriver from the village.

Giant river otters often run in large packs. They’re very curious and can be drawn close by mimicking their calls.

Back to the lagoon and Mac locks into a nice butterfly peacock on a popper. His 9-weight promptly folds just above the cork and it’s a handline rodeo. I hand him my Winston, and we push through the neck and into the lake, angering more green, yellow, and orange cichlids along the way. As the sun rises to scorching levels we tuck into the shade to work on providing dinner. Blue-and-yellow macaws pass screeching overhead.

Brilliantly colored butterfly peacock bass do not often tolerate a popper passing over their lie.

 A tiger catfish each comes to Dave and me, and then Mac is suddenly tied to an arapaima. It’s a manageable one—maybe 40 pounds—”the fun kind,” I say. Bugs wrangles it quickly after a few runs and tailwalks, a simpler task when you’ve trained on models ten times that size. Too soon we have to return to camp to see Mac off downriver for the African half of his adventure.

Even a “small” arapaima often takes two people to control.

Weeks ago, Bugs and I had bartered a cellphone for a hand-carved fishing bow. We go out on the rocks across the river after dinner to train me in its ways. I whiffed a few good opportunities before beginning to properly accommodate the light refraction. It’s good to spend some time in the bullpen before the ballfield.

Tiger catfish or surubi are plentiful and a staple of local cuisine.

Day 5, Feb. 18

Camp packs up early and heads upriver in three boats, stopping at rocks and rapids along the way to fly fish. Barely two hours’ ride time puts us at the riverburst where we’ve normally camped to access the falls at lower water. We eat lunch and push on, the river narrowing past its confluence with the Kwitaro. A giant tapir wades the shoreline vegetation as we begin to enter the tailrace and terraced drops where the river recovers from the violent Corona Waterfall.

Tapirs or bush cow are distant relatives of rhinoceros that can grow to 500 pounds.

Captains pilot deftly up sluices and boulders to make land just below the first real vertical pour-overs. All boats offload and anglers move off to search for dinner, the cooks toward arranging a place to cook it, and the crew hoisting tarps against the inevitable monsoon. We ascend river-right through the forest to a flat-rock apron opening to the wide wash of falls and adjacent lagoon. Dave lands a payara and I miss a bicuda, but the bite feels off in the rising water and baking sun.

Corona Falls is the first in a series of cataracts about 100 miles up the Rewa River from its mouth.

We adjourn to shadier places to get serious about that dinner. Without refrigeration, the cooks didn’t bring any meat—so we’d better find some if we want some. Elizabeth locks into a few payara before Stephanu comes to ferry the couple back to camp at dusk. I tell him to leave me there; we don’t have dinner yet. A 35-pound tiger cat half an hour later solves that problem, and I hail a ride.

Payara, bicuda, and pacu thrive around fast water in this system.

Day 6, Feb. 19

The crew spent much of yesterday evening portaging two of the river canoes around Corona Falls. I’m ecstatic. We ran up to the next two sets of falls—Powis and Cataback—on my first adventure down here and encountered a lot of pacu. I couldn’t catch one on that trip, or the next one, and I’m out for blood this time.

Jungle camp at Corona Falls: set up in a few hours, broken down in a few more.

Myleus pacu is one of many species known by that common name, a large herbivorous cousin of the piranhas. This Guyanese version typically runs a fiery red or orange exterior made all the stranger by its human-like teeth used for aquatic vegetation, berries, fruits, and flowers. The moniker “jungle permit” is evocative of more than just its dinner-plate profile. They are extremely shy, spooky, selective, enigmatic, and powerful once hooked. I’m carrying a selection of grassy, fruity, flowery flies made largely from Michael’s craft store discoveries and guided by vague intel, hoping to finally crack the code. The native guides have a particular interest in seeing us land a pacu beyond its distinction as a sportfish: they firmly believe it’s also the tastiest fish in the river.

Blue-and-yellow macaws make a screech that’s as ugly as their plumage is beautiful.

We hike the trail from camp to the landing above the falls, load boats, and run a mile or two upriver to Powis Falls, more of a chute really—named with the local word for black curassow or bush turkey. No pacu spotted. Sam hooks a few payara and piranha. Terry and Stephanu expertly pilot their craft up the torrent and we reload. It’s another 3 or 4 miles to Cataback Falls, a jumble of house-sized rocks dropping the river maybe 50 feet in elevation before washing into a wide bay.

Cataback Falls, home of petroglyphs and pacu.

There’s less water than last time I visited and no flow in the channel that was packed with pacu two years ago. Sneaking up on the outflow, however, we spot three pumpkins holding tight to an inside bend. The group does not show them sufficient stealth and they vanish. While the clients happily strip streamers for more predatory fishes, the guides ferry me across and we ascend the falls. Terry is carrying my spinning rod with the small gold Mepps spinner, a known pacu hack, so I know he means business. He points me to a deep trough just above the cataract, and I begin to work through it with my craft-store concoctions. Then, on a long cast with a floating fuzz, a bright orange dinnerplate appears and rushes downstream after the fly. It grabs just with its lips and I pause, waiting for it to inhale. Head turns and I lift back into the air, groaning loudly. A few casts later, the same thing happens—but this pacu inhales straight away. I sweep hard and the jungle permit burns out my slack line upriver, turns, then shoots down toward the falls, taking me around a boulder. I practically fly out to the snag, recover tension, and lock the drag. Trevor comes up behind me and I swing the thrashing fish to his hands. We all start war-whooping: me for checking off the single highest item on my fish wish list; the guides because they’re particularly thrilled about the coming lunch.

The author with a long-time goal achieved: pacu on fly.

Back at the beach below, the guys spatchcock the pacu, sandwich it a fish grate, build a fire, and sizzle. Laid out on a broad palm leaf next to coconut crackers and the ubiquitous Mambo Sauce, I have to agree that this is the best fish flesh in the river—likely in no small part because it took me three years to catch it. After a soak and final session at Cataback we begin to descend, working the logs and rocks unsuccessfully for aimara, the giant wolf fish, the species now at the top of my list.

Bugs with a short-term goal achieved: pacu for lunch.

Everyone is weary and hungry again by the time we trudge back to camp, and the cooks serve an appropriate surubi feast while I carve everyone’s cocktail ice with a hatchet. Tireless as always, after dinner the boys ask if we’d like to go catfishing. The plunge pool around the corner from Corona is known to host jau or gilded catfish of staggering proportions. As we walk from the cook tent to the boats, a large, wide-headed serpent slithers into our path. “Bad snake, get back!” Bugs yells. As the snake goes for the undergrowth toward the guide’s hammock area, Stephanu comes up from behind and saws its head off with the 12-gauge. Labaria, they call it—lancehead or fer-de-lance, my later research yields—a violently venomous pit viper. Excitement piqued, we run the big boat up and across and hike the trail, encountering a tapir in the falling rain. Dave lands maybe a 45-pound redtail, but the bite feels slow.

Redtail catfish emit a series of croaks and grunts audible from some distance away.

We walk the rocks back to the boat an hour later and Demas spots a pacu. Everyone switches off their lights and the guides inch me forward brandishing my fishing bow. Properly situated, Bugs tells me to draw then flicks on his spotlight. I see the huge orange orb, aim down then upcurrent and launch. The arrow shaft detaches then jumps and we’re on the handline, reefing the skewered dinnerplate away from the chute below. Everyone falls to pieces when Trevor finally grabs it, proving that they don’t really give a shit about dry flies beyond what makes Americans happy—killing a pacu with bow and arrow is the true achievement for these Macushi/Wapishana tribesmen. We return to camp just ahead of a cacophonous, deluging rainstorm. I dream we’re sleeping under tarps directly under the waterfall upstream.

Avert your fly fisherman’s gaze: this is what it means to go native down here. And it’s way harder than you think.

Day 7, Feb. 20

It’s time to begin our 100-mile descent toward the village, and the boys have another big day planned. They recently discovered a reliable spot for Hoplias aimara, also known as hymara, traíra, or giant wolf fish. Whatever you call it, the demonic visage of this black-and-indigo ambush predator is as likely to appear in your nightmares as your jungle hit list. We reach the nondescript riverbank and begin hiking, arriving a while later at a tiny trickle running through rocks. Everyone slides down a steep bank to the water. We work flies and jigs around the fractured rock formations to no avail.

Small-stream wolfishing deep in the jungle.

The group disperses to work adjacent pockets, but the guides insist they are here. Stephanu sits right on top of the rock in question, dipping Dave’s jig into a crevice that seems barely able to hold an eel. Suddenly, a massive aimara blows out of the structure, tightens the line, and straightens the hook. I proffer a stronger steel and the scene plays out, this time with Stephanu tailing a 18-plus-pound wolf fish.

Ugly or ornate? The aimara or giant wolf fish calls to mind lingcod and other spooky ambush predators.

Finally I have my chance to see and photograph one of these truly terrifying fish in the flesh. We’ve caught traírao, a smaller cousin, and I can personally attest to the bitch of their bite, but there’s nothing like the real thing. Ghoulish facial skin wraps downward onto the few but fearsome teeth. Large, reflective, dark purple-and-blue scales taper back to round tail fit for a much bigger fish. The Halloween countenance and rock-pile congregation calls to mind the saltwater lingcod I grew up catching in Washington.

Dip your fly in the right crevice and it may be consumed.

I catch one casting to that particular island, then Sam and Elizabeth both land their specimens dipping flies into the fissures. We poke around some more before clambering back to the boats for rum and lemonade on ice and fried paca, the 30-pound fawn-spotted rodent Bugs and Terry harvested the night before. Both hit the spot.

Day 8, Feb. 21

We made it back to basecamp last night and celebrated our upstream adventures. Morning moves slower, but before long we’re hiking into an arapaima pond, one of my favorites. Sam and Elizabeth pole around with Jules, Dan, and Trevor, sight-casting to the mighty fish as they come up to breathe, while Dave, myself, and the rest of the crew cast from a creek mouth. Everyone got grabbed or hooked to one of these swimming freight trains; no one got to hold one. That’s all I want to say on the matter.

After dinner, Bugs offers to show me the new catfish spot he found. He, Dave, and I run up there without light and tie up. I lose a huge fish right away, then stay tied to another. We hoist the 70-pound redtail aboard then seek a shallower spot for pictures. Another coveted achievement. The day’s failings are tempered.

The author with a large redtail catfish caught just above camp.

Day 9, Feb. 22

We return to the lake back in the jungle where we left the boat yesterday and set about the same game plan. Not long into our session, Dave ties into something enormous. The fish refuses to come near and refuses to tailwalk, an expected step in any arapaima dance number. After a series of runs and jarring headshakes, the fish comes close enough to Stephanu that he can touch the leader and pat the tail to encourage another run. Dave hauls it close once again, and our bronc rider saddles up, gripping the bony pectoral fin handles to glide with the fish. Then it decides to jump—straight into Dave, knocking him off his feet. We clear the line from deadfall and the war of tug is back on. Eventually Stephanu gets a good grip and we have it: Arapaima gigas, some 350 pounds or more. There’s enough room along its flank for four of us to lift it.

Arapaima are the largest species of freshwater fishes on Earth that possess traditional scales. Only certain sturgeons and rays grow larger. This one was well north of 300 pounds.

Jules poles the boat with Sam and Elizabeth to observe the spectacle. It’s about lunchtime, so they join us in the shade while Bugs grills a tiger cat we caught last night—the last of that sweet, fatty flesh I’ll get to eat for some time. Before long, line peels and we have Elizabeth tied into one. She lands it deftly and without much hassle, certainly saying something with a fish nearly twice her size. Sam fights, lands, and releases another adult arapaima not long after, achieving some imaginary goal of catching and releasing 1,000 pounds of fish in a morning. Too soon we hear Terry owl-hoot from the landing and we must depart. I bid farewell to my new friends Sam and Elizabeth, who are taking the more relaxing route home, while Dave and I begin our more rapid retreat.

The comparison to dragons is too easy. Every angler is transfixed by their first arapaima.

As the skiff slides around a wide bend on the blessedly higher water, I spot an oddly symmetrical lump on a high bank in the sunlight. “Jaguar,” I gasp, pointing. The big cat, second I’ve seen in three trips here, regards us for several minutes before hissing and taking leave to the jungle. We arrive at the ecolodge utterly content.

A jaguar surveys its domain from a sunny shoreline perch.

Day 10, Feb. 23

Terry ferries us early from the lodge to the landing where Yousef is waiting to bounce us back to Lethem. Some Brazilian beef kills time while we wait to check into our flight with his uncle, and then we’re sailing into the sunset toward the Caribbean. Eon is out on a fishing trip, so his wife Corinne taxis us from one airport to the next. Security staff make me question my desire to return to this country, but the bartender quickly restores it. Nigh on midnight we’re in the air to New York, then I’m onward to Dallas while Dave splits for Amsterdam en route to Africa. By 3:00 pm and with the help of a friendly seatmate, I’m at home in Bozeman. Cut, infected, bruised, bitten, and still watery from the malaria meds, I sit down, breathe deeply, and add another item to my packlist for next year’s journey up the Rewa River.

Sam Lungren is a writer, producer, photographer, and MidCurrent’s Director of Production. Send a note to [email protected] if you’d like to learn more about the 2026 Guyana expedition.