In the spring of 2016, a long-planned journey into the Nicaraguan jungle came to life in a way that was as chaotic as it was unforgettable. What began as a conversation years earlier on the banks of Russia’s Rynda River—over a glass of wine and a shared dream of giant tarpon—had evolved into a full-blown expedition in search of silver kings exceeding 200 pounds. Between logistical nightmares, last-minute travel rescues, and a winding route through Central America, the journey to the tarpon waters was anything but straightforward. But once the jungle finally closed in around us and the first silver shapes appeared beneath the surface, everything else faded into the background.
BY CHRISTIAAN PRETORIUS – www.instagram.com/christiaanpretorius/
While enjoying a glass of wine on the banks of the famous Rynda River on Russia’s Kola Peninsula on 24 June 2015, my Belarusian friend Vadim Titovets began speaking about a dream that had clearly taken hold of him. He wanted to travel to Nicaragua and pursue tarpon in the jungle—fish of truly exceptional size, the kind that define a lifetime pursuit for many fly anglers.
He had already made one exploratory trip earlier that year and had seen enough to convince him that something extraordinary was possible there. The fish were powerful, the environment wild, and the potential undeniable. They had hooked into impressive tarpon during that first visit, though nothing that satisfied his ambition. One of his companions had landed a fish well over 200 pounds—an encounter that borders on the extreme limits of fly-fishing tackle—but for Vadim, that only confirmed that bigger fish were still waiting.
When he later invited me to join him on a return trip, I did not hesitate. The idea of sharing in a pursuit of that scale—tarpon in the heart of the Central American jungle—felt like an opportunity that could not be refused.
The months leading up to the trip became a patchwork of preparation squeezed between guiding assignments in Kamchatka, the Seychelles, and brief stops back home in Cape Town. Fly-tying for tarpon while sitting on an island in the Indian Ocean proved easy enough. Sourcing tackle capable of handling fish in the 200-pound class was another matter entirely, particularly in South Africa.
Eventually, I managed to secure Owner Aki hooks—the only option I fully trusted for this kind of fishing. I had used and tested them before and felt confident in their strength. These would be paired with 130lb fluorocarbon leaders, crimped for maximum reliability and connection strength. My Sage 6000 reels were spooled with a range of lines, from fast-sinking to floating, supported by 300 metres of 50lb backing. For rods, I relied on a Sage 12-weight—the tool I intended to use to launch what could only be described as heavy artillery.
Everything felt ready.
The final departure came on 8 April 2016, leaving Cape Town bound for Managua, where I was scheduled to meet Vadim by the 11th. But as is often the case with major fishing expeditions, reality intervened. Airline cancellations through Panama forced a rapid reconfiguration of flights. Having never travelled in that part of the world before, mistakes followed quickly—some small, some far less so.
At one point I was denied boarding due to documentation issues, and for a brief moment it felt as though the entire journey might collapse. With the help of an experienced travel agent, an emergency yellow fever certificate, and a borrowed sum of money from a supportive friend to cover new tickets, I eventually rerouted through São Paulo, Brazil. The debt that followed was not insignificant—jokingly measured in years of lawn mowing—but at that point, it felt like a fair exchange.
After nearly 29 hours of travel, I arrived in Nicaragua. Entry through Central American airports always carries a certain tension; bags are unpacked and repacked repeatedly, and inspections are frequent and meticulous. Relief finally came when I stepped outside the airport. I had made it. The tarpon trip was real.
Later that day, I met Vadim at a hotel across from the airport. Over local Nicaraguan rum by the pool, we spoke at length about what lay ahead. The rum proved unexpectedly good—fortunate, given how central it would become to the rhythm of the week. With Vadim’s strong Russian heritage and no vodka in sight, rum quickly became the default currency of celebration.
From Managua, we moved on via a short domestic flight and then by boat toward Bluefields, a small coastal town and gateway to the jungle system we would fish. The operation was family-run: two brothers, Marco and Orlando, served as guides, while their sister Rosa managed logistics as the head of the lodge. Her husband Randy, a 60-year-old Elvis enthusiast from Tennessee, completed the picture. Randy attempted to educate me on Elvis Presley’s legacy, though his strong accent meant much of it was lost in translation. Still, the team’s energy and warmth made an immediate impression.
The following morning, we pushed deeper into the jungle by boat. This was the first true glimpse of the fishery. The lodge sat on the riverbank, where we were welcomed with a shrimp lunch and, somewhat incongruously, an Elvis concert DVD playing in the background. Rods were assembled soon after. The feeling was not unlike preparing for battle.
That afternoon we went out to familiarize ourselves with both the water and equipment. The system offered a mix of channels, lagoons, rivers, and floodplains—an environment that felt oddly familiar, reminiscent in places of the Zambezi, yet visually overwhelming in its density of green. Mangroves lined the banks, palm trees leaned over the water, and towering mahogany trees formed a canopy above. Birdlife filled the air with constant movement and sound.
We began fishing in what is known as The Big River, a broad system roughly 200 metres across with depths reaching 25–30 feet. A 450-grain sinking line became the first choice. I was content simply casting, absorbing the environment, when a large silver shape suddenly rolled beside the boat.
It was the first live tarpon I had ever seen.
Expectation had already prepared me for large fish, but nothing quite matched the reality. The size alone triggered a physical reaction—an involuntary tightening, a brief shock of disbelief. Shortly after, after repeated blind casts, I had a brief follow on the fly. A few casts later, everything came together. A solid pull turned into immediate chaos. The hook set, the line tightened, and suddenly I was connected to something immense.
The fish erupted from the water in a vertical leap of roughly ten feet. At that moment, everything else disappeared. It was just me and the fish. I laughed aloud, unable to process what was happening. My first tarpon—fully committed and violently alive. After a hard fight, we brought the fish to hand. Around 50 pounds, but unforgettable. For a first encounter, it was more than enough to redefine expectations.
The following days were spent moving between different areas, searching for larger fish while refining patterns and tactics. The goal remained unchanged: a true giant, ideally the 200-pound class tarpon that had first inspired the journey.
Fishing in this environment was demanding. Days began before sunrise and stretched until dusk, with long periods of continuous casting from powerful 12-weight rods. Lunch was optional; rum breaks were not. Physical fatigue accumulated quickly, and anti-inflammatory tablets became an unspoken part of the daily routine. Then came Sunday, 17 April 2016.
We left camp at 4 a.m. and arrived at a stretch near the mouth of The Big River, where large rolling fish had been observed the previous day. The water was still and reflective, the sky tinted pale orange as dawn broke. A low haze hung above the surface.
By mid-morning, Vadim was tight into a massive fish. It cleared the water repeatedly, confirming its size in dramatic fashion. After a prolonged and exhausting fight, lasting roughly 45 minutes, the fish came alongside the boat—estimated at 130–140 pounds. A breakthrough moment.
Shortly after, on the very next drift, my reel erupted. Line disappeared at speed. A distant jump revealed another enormous fish. After a prolonged battle, we brought it in—a personal best, estimated around 150 pounds. But the day was not finished.
After releasing the fish and regaining composure, we continued the drift. Vadim soon hooked into what could only be described as his fish of a lifetime. One jump was enough to confirm its scale and significance.
He fought it relentlessly for 45 minutes. When we finally entered the water beside the fish, few words were spoken. The moment belonged entirely to the experience itself. The fish was estimated at over 200 pounds—approximately 230 pounds—and the dream had become reality.
In the end, the trip was not defined solely by numbers or trophies. Even without those exceptional fish, it would have remained extraordinary. It was the combination of place, people, effort, and timing that gave it meaning.
From the guides and lodge team to Randy’s endless Elvis soundtrack, from shrimp tempura and lobster lunches to endless rum at the end of exhausting days, every element contributed to a week that felt larger than fishing alone.
On my final day in the jungle, a familiar phrase came to mind—half promise, half inevitability:
“I’ll be back.”
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