Guyana Trip #5 – “Piping Guans” and “Good for Fry”

About the title – I have a condition that, from what I understand, isn’t uncommon in anglers – I repeat things, out loud even, when I’m fishing.  Humming lines of songs or just random phrases – both happen.  Maybe it’s a tick, I think of it more of like a big sigh. 

Well, on this trip, we saw and heard many piping guans – something like the amazonian version of a turkey, chicken, and guinea fowl wrapped into one creature.  They’re beautiful, loud…and tasty.  When I heard these birds, I would shout out, “piping guan!”  It became a camp joke.  Often times I would blurt it out randomly.  Another phrase, “good for fry,” lived rent free in my head on this trip.  It was something Terry shouted every time we caught cootie or suribeme catfish.  It got to the point that we labelled everything, “good for fry.”  Both exclamations were inside jokes I thought fitting for the title – you’ll understand why later. 

Quick note before reading – I embedded many videos into this blog – mainly to illustrate events in the sequence they unfolded.  I’m not confident in the video quality of these embeds so if it’s offputting, open YouTube to watch them.  The option is part of the link.    

Introduction        

This was my fifth trip to Guyana. After spending close to three months of my life in the Amazon, the rhythms are familiar to me — the river, the terrain, the fish, the environment, the people. In earlier trip reports, I wrote about species, conditions, culture, and what it takes to live deep in the jungle. Over the years, we have seen the river at multiple stages, caught giants of every species, ate incredible meat harvested from the jungle, and learned a great deal about the Macushi way of life.

Although my previous visits were incredible, I wanted to do something different on this one. Since that first trip — and on every trip since — there had been a nagging desire to push farther upstream. Logistics, time, and conditions always prevented it from happening.

This time, we finally answered that nagging question every adventurer carries in the back of their mind: what if we go farther upstream than we’ve ever been?

Why Go Farther?

Most folks reading this have followed my work for a while — weekly fishing reports included — so you know I’m very much a leave fish to find fish kind of guy. I’m curious, maybe to a fault, and I’m always interested in what’s happening somewhere other than where I am.  Having new problems to solve keeps me engaged. That instinct to continuously poke around is usually tempered when I’m fishing with clients – I favor action over discovery to keep them engaged. However, when it comes to my own time on the water, I indulge that exploratory urge, always seeking new spots before the novelty of familiar ones wears off.

That may be some sort of disease I have, because the loss of novelty hasn’t happened yet and probably never will. Still, keeping things fresh feels like an insurance policy against boredom. It might even strike some people as a little “anti-Ryan” to keep returning to the same place every other year. I won’t deny that in planning this trip, there was a nagging sense that the excitement of going to Guyana could eventually fade if I didn’t do something different.

So, my buddy Jay — who you’ve seen in the last three trip reports, my brother-in-arms from the UK — and I decided to ask our Macushi brethren to push farther upstream than we ever had before.  We knew it would be taxing—mentally, physically, and logistically. We knew we’d sacrifice fishing time to make it happen. And we understood that the jungle, and the waters that move through it, don’t care at all about our plans. Still, those were risks we were willing to take to experience something different. What we didn’t know yet was how quickly the river would remind us who was in charge.

Settling In — Then the River Spoke

Getting into Guyana and reaching our first camp was smooth. Travel was frictionless as we headed upriver with another pair of anglers visiting for the first time. That familiar mix of anticipation and excitement was there for us, but watching it hit them in real time was entertaining in its own right.

When we turned off the Rupununi and onto the Rewa, we noticed an immediate change. The water was higher than normal and noticeably off-color. Jay and I had fished through far worse on a previous trip, so it barely registered as a concern.

That first day on the water was solid. We landed giant catfish, arowana, and enough peacock bass to feed camp that night. Spirits were high. Everything felt… normal.  That night, the rain came.

I lived in south Florida for three years and rode out six hurricanes, but I had never experienced rain like that. It didn’t fall—it poured. For hours, it sounded as if a river had opened in the sky, hammering the canopy and the tarp above our hammocks so loudly that sleep was impossible.

By morning, the water had begun to rise. As I usually do, I jammed a stick into the sand at the waterline when I woke up. While we ate breakfast, I watched it slowly disappear.

We fished that day. Action was decent — numbers were low, but we still landed giant catfish. On its own, that wouldn’t mean much. Even though that river system is a bountiful place, slow days happen from time to time.  What did stand out was something else entirely: the bugs.

I’ve spent a lot of time in Guyana, and bugs have never been more than a minor annoyance. A few sand flea bites here and there — nothing memorable. That changed fast. By the time I climbed into my hammock that night, I was bitten from my ankles to my butt. How they made it up my shorts is still a mystery, but they absolutely did.

Later that night, as we lay in our hammocks full of fried catfish and El Dorado rum, the sky opened again—harder and longer than the night before.  By sunrise, the river was up a couple feet. By noon, a couple more.  That’s when my emotions started to run wild.

Waiting, Watching, and Letting Go

To jump ahead for a bit of context—when I arrived at JFK on my flight home, I had a few hours to kill. I started thinking about where I wanted to take this blog. I knew it had to be emotionally focused, because on this trip I became more aware of my own headspace than on any previous one.

Why? Because we had a plan—a vision, a clear picture of how things were supposed to unfold—and we were stoked. By day three, that vision started to unravel. Given the volume and color of the water, it was hard to imagine that pushing farther upriver would be worth the effort at all. From that point through day five, I cycled through a wide range of emotions—few of them positive.  Sitting in that airport, trying to make sense of it, I looked up the stages of grief.

In her 1969 book On Death and Dying, Elisabeth Kübler-Ross outlined five stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. From day three through day five, I hit every one of them—more or less in order. I was distracted by it. We fished every day, watched the water rise and grow dirtier, still caught fish—giants, not numbers—and yet I spent most of that time inside my own head.

The guys who were there for the first time had no frame of reference. They came back to camp each day after fishing similar water as Jay and I, absolutely blown away by how good it was. These weren’t newbies, either—one of them had fished or hunted in 141 countries before arriving in Guyana. Still, they couldn’t believe how productive the fishing was despite tough conditions. I wanted to feel that way. I just couldn’t.

By day five, after landing a personal-best redtail catfish, I started to touch acceptance. When we returned to camp that afternoon, the stick I’d jammed into the sand at the waterline showed something new—the water had dropped, just a little. Morale lifted. By the following morning, it was clearly falling, and it continued to do so into the next day.  Seeing that rapid change, our Macushi brothers made the call.  It was time to push.

The Push Upriver

The Plan

On the morning of day six, as the other crew departed camp for home, we sat down with Terry and Stephanu, the Macushi elders, to discuss the plan for the push upstream. It would happen in phases:

Part 1: Advance Party to Corona Falls
Me, Jay, Steph, and Flavian would push to the first portage, Corona Falls, in two boats and camp there for the night.

Part 2: Main Body Arrival/Link-Up
Terry, his son Trevon, his sister-in-law Theresa, and his daughter Julie would meet us the next morning, stash their boat below the first portage, and continue upriver in our boats. Extra bodies meant redundancy — for boats, guides, camp setup, and food prep.

Part 3: Move to Cattleback Falls
One big portage, new camp for a night.

Part 4: Move to Bamboo Falls
Another big portage, new camp for two nights.

Part 5: Return to Base Camp
Planned over two days.

Corona Falls

Me, Jay, Steph, and Flavian made it to the rapids below Corona Falls without issue. But the high water prevented us from running the lower rapids as planned. We faced two portages: one over the lower rapids and another massive one along a trail bypassing the main falls.

We moved gear over uneven rocks and boulders without incident. The first boat we dragged over the rapids with a long line went smoothly. The second boat wasn’t so lucky — it got sucked underwater at the base of a rapid and required every ounce of our strength to haul it out. Thankfully, damage was minimal.

Worn out, we turned to the second portage. We scouted the trail, identified a camp site for the night, and left the boats in the water below the falls to fish later. The trail was hot, buggy, physically demanding — and, of course, rain began again, enough to dampen spirits.

Once camp was established, we fished. We hadn’t brought food to lighten the load, confident we could catch what we needed. Our confidence was rewarded: I landed a giant suribeme catfish, and Jay brought in a couple massive payara.

That evening, wet, tired, and filthy, we sat down for dinner. The suribeme sizzled in a cast-iron pan. A bottle of rum went around. Rain still fell, but inside that little circle there was laughter, warmth, and relief. The trip had shifted. The tension of waiting, the anxiety of the rising river — all melted into the satisfaction of newfound momentum. I realized the push upriver wasn’t just about distance or conquest. It was about embracing the process—the exertion, the frustration, the teamwork, and the reward. For the first time on this trip, the plan, the river, and our intentions were in harmony.

Beyond Corona for the First Time – Camp at Cattleback Falls

By midday the next day, we linked up with Terry and the rest of the crew. He brought more gear — cooking equipment, tarps, hammocks, water — all of which had to be portaged above Corona Falls, along with our two boats. It hurt. But with more hands on deck, the work went faster than expected. Soon, boats loaded and gear in place, we pushed off into the unknown.

The river upstream was incredible. The current was faster than we were used to, the channel narrower, the gradient steeper. Every bend held little eddies that looked like they could hold untold numbers of fish. Excitement built with every mile, the kind of thrill that comes from truly venturing somewhere new.

Arriving at Cattleback Falls, we set up camp. Sunshine finally allowed our soaked clothes to dry for a few hours. Yellow-rumped and red-rumped caciques cackled angrily from the trees next to our camp, clearly not pleased with our presence. Jay and I turned our attention to catching dinner — cootie, a local favorite, perfect “for fry.”

Then reality intruded. Sitting down for a moment, I glanced at my ankles and noticed small bugs burrowing in without me feeling a thing. Cobouras, our Macushi friends explained. They were ruthless, leaving only tiny blood dots, but their persistence was a distraction. Nobody could resist scratching, and the bites swelled immediately. We also removed a couple of ticks — the price of setting up camp in a pristine, remote jungle. Morale dipped briefly, but the distraction faded quickly.

Despite the bites, the ticks, and the sweat, there was an undeniable satisfaction: we were moving further than ever before. Every ache, every sting, every challenge was a reminder that we were in a new, beautiful place, blazing a path that no prior trip had taken us. We embraced the discomfort — or maybe we simply accepted it, gradually, until it no longer felt like discomfort at all. We weren’t observers anymore, and we weren’t there to conquer anything. We had become part of the system itself.

Cattleback Falls to Bamboo Falls

After a solid night’s rest at Cattleback, we began the portage toward Bamboo. This one was different. No jungle tunnel of vines, humidity, and insects clawing at you with every step. Instead, we carried gear across a broad rock face and scattered volcanic boulders.

It was exposed and sunlit — a welcome change — but the footing was unforgiving. Every step demanded attention. A slip on one of those slick, angled rocks would have meant a violent fall. Jay and I moved deliberately in our shoes. The Macushi moved barefoot. Calm. Efficient. Unbothered. Impressive.

We reloaded the boats in a bend pool above Cattleback and pushed upstream. Not long after, Bamboo Falls came into view.  It was staggering.  Corona was beautiful. Bamboo was something else — bigger, louder, layered with chutes and cascades. Jay and I stood silent for a moment. Even Trevon and Julie, seeing it for the first time themselves, wore that look of awe.

We landed the boats in a small eddy near the base of the rapids and stepped out onto the rocks, working our way upstream toward the main cascade. The roar of water filled the air. Mist passed across sunlit stone. If someone asked you to picture a wild Amazonian river scene, this would be it.

As we picked our way along the rapids, attention shifted to the slack pockets behind the rocks — pacu water.  Pacu are herbivorous piranha that hold in fast current and graze on aquatic vegetation. Instead of razor teeth most people associate with piranha, they have square, human-like teeth built for crushing plants. They grow large. They’re brilliant red. They look almost out of place in that whitewater.

Catching them with rod and reel in that current borders on pointless. Presentation is nearly impossible, and they’re not there to chase moving baits anyway. So, we did it the way the Macushi do — bow and arrow.  It was a blast working as a team – spotting, creeping, shooting, retrieving.  After an hour or so, we had enough pacu meat to feed the camp for a couple days.

Later that afternoon, we built camp once again. Pacu simmered into broth and was poured over farine.  After eating, we slipped into hammocks for a short siesta.  From mine, I watched Flavian sitting on a rock, fishing a little current break in front of camp, effortlessly catching cootie “for fry.”  That was when it settled in.

We weren’t visitors chasing novelty anymore. We weren’t clients being guided. We were functioning inside the same rhythm — carrying loads, shooting fish, building camp, eating what we caught, resting when it made sense to rest.  Over ten years of traveling together, something subtle had shifted. They say that Jay and I are “like them.” And while we will never claim their heritage or their lineage, what we share isn’t transactional. It’s earned familiarity. Shared hardship, repetition, and trust.

Look, I’m sensitive to a kind of neo-colonial vibe some might get when picturing a couple of “WEIRD (western, educated, industrialized, rich, democratic) guys” making their way through someone else’s world via native “paid labor.”   That ain’t us.  We were all part of a small tribe doing what tribes have always done — working, hunting, eating, laughing, and letting the river decide the rest.

The Descent – A Gradual Transition Toward “Reality”

After two nights at Bamboo Falls, it was time to head back.  Going downstream felt almost luxurious. What had taken three days of grinding effort to accomplish upriver took only a single long push. Current that had fought us now carried us. Portages that had demanded focus and coordination were handled with relative ease. We moved quickly, confidently — almost casually — retracing a route that had recently felt intimidating.

By late afternoon we were past Corona and setting up camp at Riverburst — a familiar site I’ve fished from on every previous trip. Returning there felt like stepping back into known territory. The jungle was still vast, still wild, but it now felt like we were on “vacation.”

The fishing was excellent. We landed many, including the largest redtail catfish any of us had ever seen — a true river giant. In any other context, that catch alone would have defined the trip. We celebrated it, photographed it, and watched it swim off – mildly disgruntled by the inconvenience.  It was awesome – but the sense that something shifted in the adventure became palpable.

Upstream, every bend felt like discovery. Every camp was new ground. Every meal felt earned in a different way. Back at Riverburst, even with giants bending rods, a quiet awareness began creeping in: we’d have to leave this wonderous place soon.

You can feel it before it’s spoken. Gear gets organized more deliberately. Conversations drift toward logistics. Flights. Connections. Responsibilities waiting at home.  The jungle doesn’t change — you do.

After a couple of nights at Riverburst, we motored downstream to base camp — Anteater — where the trip had begun and where we’d spend our final night before leaving the jungle. It’s the most developed camp along the river. The large billeting area with wood floors and a high ceiling felt almost luxurious. The shower did too. So did the benches and tables where we gathered to eat and talk.  It was all comfortable.  But it felt foreign.

Upstream, we had adapted to simplicity — hammocks under tarps, catching all our food, rarely able to wear clean and dry clothes, always a little crusty. Here, with solid floors beneath us and structure overhead, the edge had softened. The acceptance we’d earned was still there — but now reality was pressing in from the margins. The slow return to a world that doesn’t move with the river.

Conclusion – What the River Taught

On the flight home, somewhere between the jungle and New York, I realized the push upstream had very little to do with geography.  Yes, we went farther than we ever had. Yes, we saw new water, stood at the base of Bamboo Falls, and proved to ourselves that we could execute a demanding plan in tough conditions. But that’s not what will stay with me.

What will stay with me is the emotional arc:

The denial when the river rose.
The frustration when the vision started to dissolve.
The bargaining and quiet resentment when conditions wouldn’t cooperate.
The slow slide toward acceptance.

Acceptance, I’ve learned, isn’t passive. It isn’t resignation. It isn’t “fine, whatever.” Real acceptance is active. It’s choosing to embrace discomfort instead of merely tolerating it. It’s deciding that the bugs, the rain, the high and dirty water, the exhaustion — all of it — are not obstacles to the experience. They are the experience.  Once that shift happened, everything changed.

The river wasn’t against us. It never was. It simply was. And when we stopped trying to bend it toward our expectations and instead moved with it — physically and mentally — the trip unlocked in a way it hadn’t before.  We didn’t conquer anything upstream. We integrated.

That might be the biggest shift of all. Years ago — maybe even on earlier trips to this same river — I measured success by miles covered, fish landed, obstacles overcome. There was plenty of that on this one. But this time it didn’t feel like something that needed to be “successful” – if that makes sense.

The jungle doesn’t care what you had planned. You’re at its mercy – despite your best efforts to prove otherwise.  You either adjust or you don’t. When I finally stopped fighting it — stopped trying to force the trip I thought we were supposed to have — things settled. Not because the jungle gave me anything, but because I started moving with it instead of against it.

Yes, we pushed farther upstream than we ever had. But the real ground gained wasn’t on a map. It was the shift from expectation to acceptance — from trying to control the experience to stepping into it fully, discomfort and all. That’s what I’ll carry home.

Notes for Those Considering a trip to Guyana

Yeah, this was a super heady piece – even more so than my usual.  As I’ve said in a lot of my writing, I write more for myself than an audience – kind of a therapy to help me process and catalog what I experienced.  However, I’m sensitive to the fact that I have a little bit of reach and some folks reading this might be put off by booking a trip to Guyana.  I can almost hear some of you muttering, “You call that a vacation?”  Or, “That sounds wild, but definitely NOT for me!”  So, let me offer some caveats.

• Going that far upstream was a choice – it’s something the outfitter rarely does – and I’m sure you can understand why after reading this. It’s not for the faint of heart.  If you visited Guyana and just fished out of the 2 main camps, you’d have a mind-blowing adventure and rarely experience any sort of discomfort.
• As I mentioned a few times above – the bugs were abnormal.  When people ask me about my trips to Guyana, they always ask me about the bugs.  Sure, occasionally, you’ll get bitten by sand fleas or pull a tick off you after breaking trail through the jungle.  But you would experience the same thing if you fished the Everglades, the Appalachians, the Rockies, coastal Virginia, and countless other places in the “civilized world.”  In other words, it’s no big deal.  What we experienced was an anomaly.  However, you can beat the bugs by wearing long sleeve shirts, pants, wading socks, and shoes (I’ll bring these items the next time I go for insurance).  It’s liberating going barefoot – but also distracting if you encounter very wet conditions that spawn biting insect activity.
• This was my 5^th visit – I’ve encountered high water 2 times – this visit included. I’ve also NEVER experienced rain like what we encountered on this trip – the guides were surprised too.  Still, even with high and dirty water, the fishing is incredible.  I’ve heard that outfitters in Brazil and Columbia often cancel trips due to “poor conditions.”  That would never be necessary for Guyana.  Is it better when it’s lowish and clear?  Sure, but that comes with it’s own problems – like getting around without bottoming out the boat.  But unless you’re a mutant like Storm and can control the weather, you don’t get to choose your conditions.  You have to play the hand dealt to you – and I guarantee you’ll be amazed – even if you’re just ace high.