Rio Montalon: a fishing adventure in Valsugana

Three anglers, three generations and three very different personalities, all brought together by the same passion for fly fishing, a thirst for adventure and a love of the natural world.

I’m Marco, 58 and the oldest of the group. Then there’s my son Matteo, 15, with all the boundless energy of his teenage years, and our great friend Edoardo, 30, strong, level-headed and a companion on many adventures.

Despite my age, I’m still the craziest of the three. My desire to explore the outdoors, fuelled by my passion for fishing and photography, is unstoppable. It is simply my way of life. I have been working as a fishing guide for more than ten years and, believe me, I have seen a lot of water flow beneath the bridge. Yet my curiosity and desire to discover new places to cast my flies still inspire me to dream up adventures like the one I am about to share.

For me, fly fishing is not simply about going fishing. It is so much more than that. Of course, there is the technical side: approaching the river, choosing the right equipment, reading the water, understanding insects, knowing the best times to fish and recognising how the changing seasons transform the behaviour of the fish. Then there is the setting itself, the landscape through which the water flows and the unique character of every stream.

But what excites me most these days is experiencing all of this with true friends and sharing our passion.

I also enjoy fishing alone, clearing my mind and immersing myself in the river in complete solitude. On those occasions, I focus on technique, challenge myself and set my sights on a bigger fish.

Still, whenever I can, I create opportunities to share these experiences with friends and, of course, with my son, who fortunately often joins me on these explorations.

And so, one morning in July, an idea suddenly came to me: why not head away for a couple of days, spend a night in the mountains in a tent and, naturally, explore a new mountain stream?

On impulse, I sent a message to my friend Edo, sharing an idea we had already talked about the previous year. Incredibly, he replied within minutes with a detailed voice message suggesting three different mountain streams in Valsugana. It was almost as if he had been waiting for me.

It felt a little like spotting an inviting current, casting your favourite fly straight into it and watching a trout suddenly materialise from nowhere to take your imitation.

No sooner said than done. We checked the weather forecast and set off on Thursday afternoon, loaded like pack mules with a tent, sleeping bags, more than enough food and what was, in truth, an extremely minimal selection of fishing gear.

After parking our cars just above Rifugio Carlettini in Val Campelle, we began the steep climb along a woodland trail. The sound of the stream accompanied us throughout the walk, flowing quite close to the path in places. Every now and then, we peered down to see whether we could spot a trout, but this first stretch was steep, rugged and thick with vegetation.

We could not wait to reach the Piana di Montalon, where we planned to fish and pitch our tent. Matteo was also eager to get there, although not for the fishing. His main concern was the barbecue. Teenagers are always hungry!

Edoardo and I found a place to settle for the night, in a clearing near a privately owned mountain hut. It is worth mentioning that wild camping is prohibited throughout Trentino unless you are on private land and have the owner’s permission.

Meanwhile, Matteo was already busy with the grill, sausages, local luganega sausage meat and peppers.

Down in the valley, the summer of 2026 was bringing days of intense heat. Up here, however, the air was decidedly chilly. As we ate, we pulled on every thermal layer we had packed in our rucksacks. Evening descended quickly, accompanied by a few drops of rain which, thankfully, soon passed.

Before darkness fell, we were already inside the tent, buried deep in our sleeping bags to keep out the cold.

The following morning, the sky was perfectly clear. The sun warmed the tent and soon persuaded us to get outside. Rio Montalon was there waiting for us, and we had it entirely to ourselves. All around us, the mountains revealed their full beauty in the clear light of a summer morning.

We packed everything away, had a quick breakfast and hid our belongings in the woods beside the stream. We then followed the water downstream for about a kilometre, planning to fish our way back up, as good practice dictates on small, crystal-clear waters like these.

We immediately noticed that the water level was quite low. Sadly, along the first stretch we did not see a single fish, probably because the stream did not form any small pools where salmonids could find shelter.

Edoardo was fishing with a Tenkara rod, keeping everything exceptionally light and minimal. Matteo and I took turns with the same rod. I had chosen a classic 8’6” four-weight with a 0.10 mm tippet, although even that felt excessive for such a small stream. A 7’6” three-weight would probably have been a better choice.

When we reached a section where the stream formed a series of beautiful little pools, the trout and numerous Arctic char living there immediately rose as soon as we presented a dry fly just above them.

The key was to remain unseen, approaching slowly from behind and taking care not to cast a shadow across the water, which could frighten the fish and send them darting beneath the rocks.

On waters like these, the first cast is crucial. It must be precise, delicate and perfectly targeted at the spot where you believe the fish is holding. Reading the water is essential, and there is often no second chance because the trout has already disappeared.

Arctic char tend to be a little more forgiving. They are certainly less wary than trout and generally easier to approach.

When fishing small mountain streams like this one, we take turns at each pool. I fish one, then step back and let my friend take the next. We watch one another and help with the landing net whenever necessary.

For me, this is one of the most rewarding ways to experience fishing with friends. Everyone gets a turn. You learn to wait patiently, to observe and to share in the excitement when your fishing companion lands a fish.

We caught plenty of fish throughout the section we explored, even in places where you would never imagine one could be hiding. Naturally, the fish are quite small at this altitude. They have only a few months each year in which to feed abundantly, so their growth is slow. During the long winter, their metabolism almost comes to a standstill as they wait for the snow to melt and for summer and its insects to return.

The morning passed quickly, and the largest fish we caught was no more than thirty centimetres long. That was perfectly fine with us. We had discovered a clean, thriving stream, home to healthy fish of all sizes and beautiful colours.

For the record, I even caught a pure marble trout. Who knows how it had reached such an altitude?!

At around one o’clock, we stopped for lunch, followed by a well-deserved rest in the shade of the fir trees. The gentle murmur of the stream soon lulled us to sleep.

Before long, it was time to make our way back down into the valley. A walk of around two hours lay ahead of us, with a few stops along the way to eat wild blueberries and steal another glance at the stream. A beautiful evening hatch had begun, and several fish were rising at the surface.

Through these few lines, I would like to convey the idea that catch-and-release fly fishing is not simply about catching fish in a stream, lake or river.

It is about sharing a passion and the experiences that come with it. It is about reconnecting with nature, something we all need so deeply. It is meditation, a generous exchange with your fishing companions and an opportunity to share knowledge. Rivalry and jealousy fade away, and you find yourself genuinely celebrating your friend’s success.

We often tease one another and laugh until our sides hurt. Someone might fall into the water, lose a fish because of a clumsy attempt with the landing net, cast a fly straight into a branch instead of the river, or spend what feels like an eternity untangling a hopeless knot.

These moments strengthen friendships that, at least in my experience, extend far beyond fishing. They grow into something deeper, inspiring conversations, journeys and dreams.

After all, shared passions bring people together.

Photos: Marco Simonini - Matteo Simonini

Marco Simonini