Diaries from The One Fly, the Strangest Fishing Contest in America

It’s unattainable to fly fish in earnest with out obsessing over the flies themselves. We tie and purchase and reinvent them, and since we’re sure to both lose them or put on them out, there isn’t any such factor as too many flies. 

Positive, you would possibly have the ability to get away with only a pocketful. However the actually possessed tote unholy numbers of fly packing containers to the river, the place they are often analyzed alongside the day’s situations. Then comes the swapping, the ritualistic fly adjustments that both restore our confidence or ship us spiraling. Some days we’ll re-rig too many instances to rely.   

However what if you happen to solely had one?

Therein lies the foundation of the insanity that drives the Jackson Gap One Fly. Now in its thirty eighth yr, the charity occasion attracts greater than 160 anglers to the Snake River close to Jackson, the place they compete for bragging rights and prizes whereas donating giant sums of cash to their patron saint: the Snake River cutthroat.

The competitors includes 40 four-man groups vying for a prime two-day rating. Anglers fish with guides from drift boats on assigned river beats, they usually rack up factors primarily based on the quantity and dimension of the trout they catch and launch. There’s only one cardinal rule that makes the One Fly one of many hardest and quirkiest fishing contests in America at present. 

As a result of after you tie on a single fly, you’re dedicated for the day. Make the mistaken decide and also you’re in for a beatdown. Lose the fly and also you’re achieved. Finito. Recreation over.

Praying on a Kidney Stone

Sept. 4, 3 p.m.

I’m sitting within the Jackson Library when two texts are available fast succession: “Will name you shortly … Could have a gap.”

The 2 messages are from John Holland, the president of the Jackson Gap One Fly Basis and one of many major coordinators of the occasion I’m right here to cowl … and hopefully, possibly, compete in. It begins in three days. I’m not precisely holding my breath; I’ve already had to surrender a last-minute spot on a crew on account of my standing as a former fly-fishing information. However Holland says this can be a completely different crew, and his third textual content mentions one thing about well being points. I’m surprisingly excited by the dire information, and I hear from the crew’s captain later that afternoon.

“So right here’s the deal,” he says. “We’ve got a man who has a kidney stone and may not have the ability to fish this weekend.”

“Bummer,” I say. It’s a lie however I promote it properly. “I imply I’m out there if you happen to want somebody to…”

“Nicely, that’s the factor, we simply don’t know but. He was alleged to get it eliminated tomorrow they usually needed to reschedule … so he’s gonna must go it himself or … look, we’ll simply preserve you posted. Sorry I can’t provide you with a agency reply proper now, however I ought to know one thing tomorrow. Name you then?” 

Sept. 4, 6:15 p.m.

From the library, I drive over Teton Move to Victor, Idaho, the place my good buddy Joe Harris lives. A information for WorldCast Anglers, Joe’s been harassing trout professionally right here for the final 14 years. Along with being one in all my closest buddies from faculty, he’s one of many fishiest people I’ve ever met. At 6 foot 3 and 270 kilos, the North Carolina native is a mule on the oars, and like all good information, he understands what makes fish tick. What units Joe aside, although, is his prey drive, and his compulsive capability for studying.

So I’m not stunned after I stroll into Joe’s lounge to seek out him ranting a few dry fly. On the far facet of the room sits Mike Janssen, one in all Joe’s mentors and a fellow information at WorldCast. He’s been concerned with the One Fly for greater than twenty years, and he’s right here to purchase a handful of froth bugs from Joe. As a result of in a city like Victor, each fly fisherman is a junkie, each tier a provider, and phrase will get round about who has the very best dope.

“That is my buddy, Dac,” Joe says. “We went to Sewanee collectively. He’s right here to put in writing in regards to the One Fly.”

“Ah, no method. That’s superior, man!” Janssen says as we shake fingers. “Does that imply you’re fishing it?”

“Nicely, I hoped I would have the ability to, however I’m probably not certain,” I say. I inform him in regards to the kidney stone, and admit that though I’ve by no means met the man, I’m actually hoping he recovers … on Sunday night time. “I don’t know whether or not to be pressured or excited at this level.”

“Sounds such as you’re already on the curler coaster,” Janssen grins. “Welcome to the One Fly.”

Heartbreak on 4X

The man with the kidney stone recovers in time, which implies I’ll be spectating on Saturday as an alternative of collaborating. My comfort, although, is an opportunity to fish a warm-up occasion with a choose group of anglers earlier than the true competitors begins.

The bonus day commemorated a particular yr for the Jackson Gap One Fly Basis. As a result of in April, the American Museum of Fly Fishing named the non-profit because the recipient of its 2024 Heritage Award. That is the best honor given by the Museum, in accordance with AMFF board president Fred Polhemus, who says the award honors the One Fly’s function in American fly-fishing tradition (extra on this in a minute) and due to the heaps of conservation {dollars} it generates yearly. And within the spirit of custom, the organizers added yet one more restriction to Friday’s warm-up occasion: Along with being restricted to a single fly, each angler must use a bamboo rod.

The night time earlier than the derby occurred, the AMFF’s curator handed me a 60-year-old Farlow’s Midge. The 2-piece, split-cane rod was handmade in Scotland and designed by the legendary Lee Wulff, one of many sport’s best academics and conservationists. I used to be each honored and nervous to make use of it; I’d by no means caught a fish on a bamboo rod earlier than.

Sept. 6, 4 a.m. 

I haven’t gotten a wink of sleep so I would as effectively rise up and forged the Midge. 

It’s pitch black out as I rig up within the yard by headlamp, however after a couple of false casts I kill the sunshine. I don’t want to observe the road unfurl. I can really feel the previous rod loading within the bones of my hand.  

Sept. 6, 9 a.m.

After assembly my boat mate, Jason Scott, and our information, Luca Damian, on the town, we drive into Grand Teton Nationwide Park to launch the boat. Scott and I are more than pleased to fish small dry flies, and we choose two completely different mayfly patterns that Damian suggests. 

Utilizing a bamboo rod to throw small dries is a fragile fashion of fishing that wants a delicate contact. And though I ask if we should always fish with 2- or 3X tippet (the equal of 10.5- and eight.5-pound-test line) “simply in case,” I discover it arduous to disagree with Damian, who assures us that fishing 4X (which assessments at about 6 kilos) is the reply. We’ll get extra seems, he says.

I don’t suppose he was mistaken. Scott and I’ve raised a couple of small cutties, and we’re each on the board by mid-morning. A chill hangs over the river, which appears to sluggish the chew over the subsequent couple hours, and I might positively use some extra caffeine. However my casting stroke feels easy and my confidence within the size-16 dry fly is rising. 

Sept 6, 12:30 p.m.

We’re drifting by means of a deep run that drops off a gravel bar when a fish prices up at Scott’s fly and misses. We hoot on the bluebird sky as Damian catches an eddy, and when he drops the anchor I give Scott a glance that claims, “All yours, dude.” 

A lifelong fisherman who simply obtained again from steelheading in B.C., it’s a pleasure to observe him work. Scott wades out into the run and casts upstream, and after a couple of quick drifts he comes tight to a cutthroat. We will inform it isn’t the fish when it lands in Damian’s web, however it’s nonetheless a stable 12-incher — a scoreable trout.

Now it’s my flip to see if any gamers are dwelling. It takes me a bit longer to seek out the appropriate line, a sluggish seam that’s simply far sufficient away to make mending unattainable. A fish eats my dry and I elevate the rod and whiff. Too early, I suppose, or possibly the fish simply missed it. 

And at this level, a seasoned One Fly veteran would have taken a second to patiently examine the fly and the chief for any nicks or frays. Cutthroat have tough mouths, and since 4X is on the lighter facet, it’s all the time sensible, if you wish to preserve your fly, to triple-check your chief and retie your knots.

However no. Not this keen bastard. Feeling slighted by a pea-brained fish, I pull my cap down over my brow and take one step again earlier than casting once more. It’s the identical actual drift and the trout eats in the identical spot, rising with a splash because it sucks down the fly. I elevate up on the Midge. The hookset feels pure and oh-so-sweet, after which the tippet breaks and my fly departs, nonetheless fixed to the trout’s higher lip. The bamboo rod turns lifeless in my hand as I stand knee-deep in chilly water and disgrace. 

Sept. 6, 3:30 p.m.

I don’t suppose these guys can inform I’ve been sulking for DQing myself so early within the day — one of many few advantages of being caught within the again. 

We explored a again channel about an hour in the past, and I cheered Scott on as he sight-casted to an 18-incher in ankle-deep water. However now that the chew has actually picked up, I’m getting bored with watching him rail on fish. I can’t consider I didn’t carry any beer.

With simply minutes on the clock I catch two small trout on a hopper. They don’t rely towards my rating, however that’s alright. I launch the second fish and look towards the Tetons, which really feel impossibly near the riverbank. There are worse locations to be humbled.    

Constructing the Cash Machine

The primary Jackson Gap One Fly competitors was held in 1986. It was conceived and developed by two native fishing guides, Jack Dennis and Paul Bruun. The founding editor of the Jackson Gap Each day and a member of the Fly-Fishing Corridor of Fame, Bruun calls his buddy Dennis “the Father of the One Fly.” 

Bruun says that Dennis, a pioneering fly tyer and an early ambassador of the game, was already designing quasi-indestructible flies that might survive a full day’s thrashing. He’d additionally heard in regards to the well-known One Shot Antelope Hunt in Lander, the place groups of hunters are given only one bullet for the day they usually race to carry again the largest buck. It appeared pure to translate this to the trout stream, so Dennis gathered a bunch of guides, enterprise associates, and longtime shoppers.

“It began out as only a enjoyable factor to do, and all of us obtained into it. You knew everyone again then, and we had been nonetheless fishing Royal Wulffs and Trudes,” Bruun says in regards to the first few years he guided within the competitors. “I bear in mind one yr I had this man, a filmmaker. He hooked a 22-and-a-half-inch fish on the Sheep Gulch boat ramp, and we landed it in entrance of everybody … however that was earlier than the guides obtained any prizes. I peaked too quickly.”

The occasion blossomed. And because the small Wyoming city reworked through the 90s right into a vacationer hub (and a second dwelling enclave for prime earners and Hollywood glitterati) there was no scarcity of individuals signing as much as fish the tourney. To call a handful of fly-fishing icons and celebrities who’ve competed over time: Curt Gowdy, Joan Wulff, Tom Brokaw, Mike Lawson, Tom Skerritt, George Anderson, Stu Apte, and Joe Humphries.

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However Bruun says the One Fly didn’t begin out as a charity occasion. And it may need been a one-off deal if not for a tragedy that occurred through the first hour of the first-ever competitors. A information, Peter Crosby, was wading with shoppers when his raft obtained away from him. Crosby, who had a spouse and two children at dwelling, went chasing after his boat in his waders and drowned.

“That was almost the top of the One Fly earlier than it even obtained began,” says Bruun. However by the point the organizers gathered that night time, their grief had catalyzed into one thing else. “We stated, ‘We will’t let this go.’ So, for fairly some time, all of the proceeds went to his household.”

This gave the 1987 One Fly, and each that adopted, a trigger to rally round, and its organizers carried that momentum into the conservation realm.

“It simply grew from there,” Bruun says, and he provides that a number of copycat occasions have cropped up in several fisheries over time. “It was the appropriate idea on the proper time.”

That progress has solely accelerated, with a line of hopeful anglers ready to cough up the dough to type a crew. The charity occasion, and significantly the public sale that kicks it off, persistently brings in six figures — thanks in no small half to the vitality of Holland, the JHOFF president. This yr they raised almost half one million {dollars} to learn rivers and wild fish, and to this point, the muse has leveraged matching grants to fund roughly $25 million in conservation initiatives all through the West.

Now, when that type of cash is in play, individuals speak. And there are rumblings of concern in regards to the One Fly’s future. Some fear that the sheer quantity of {dollars} fueling the enjoyable might flip the occasion into one thing extra akin to a polo match that’s reserved for the wealthiest steady homeowners.

However even in gentle of those undercurrents, Bruun says the essence of the One Fly stays the identical. Camaraderie, competitors, and the love of untamed trout are nonetheless the driving forces. And who cares if some individuals need to throw some cash round if all of it results in the river?

By the Pores and skin of My Tooth

Sept. 7, 9 p.m.

Our dinner is winding down at a tavern in Jackson, and I’m sitting with Holland and his teammates. Between us are about 4 empty bottles of rattling good crimson wine. I’m heat within the cheeks and deep in dialog when Fred Polhemus from the Museum walks as much as our desk. He’s hunched over and somewhat sunburned.

“John,” Polhemus says, “I want you to seek out somebody to take my spot tomorrow. I’ve obtained a nasty hip, I’m in critical ache, and I simply can’t get again in a drift boat.”

Holland assures him he’ll determine one thing out. Then he seems over at me.

“Nicely. Time to lace ‘em up. Appears such as you’re fishing the South Fork.”

Sept. 8, 7 a.m.

Stevie Ray Vaughan is blaring as I pull into the American Legion in Swan Valley. I see my buddy Joe instantly. I let him know final night time that I used to be pulled off the bench, and he flags me over to his truck.

“Right here you go, dude,” he says and drops an olive streamer in my hand. “It’s heeeaavy. Fish it on 10 toes of 0X and jig the shit out of it. They’re not the place they need to be alongside the cutbanks. Most of our fish yesterday got here off shallow gravel.”

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I look down on the fly, possibly the hundredth I’ve bummed from Joe over time. I’ve been catching trout on his streamer patterns since we had been youngsters in Tennessee, however I don’t must remind him. And I actually don’t must carry up scores. He’s main the pack of 82 guides and effectively on his option to profitable the factor.

“Get ‘em, Joe.”

Sept. 8, 7:55 a.m.

I’m on the ramp speaking technique with Jim Fisher, who’s in his twenty second yr fishing the One Fly, and our information Brenda Swinney, who’s been engaged on the South Fork for longer than that. I do know it’s finally my choice to decide on a fly, however out of respect for a veteran information, I don’t need to inform Swinney tips on how to run her personal program. I additionally know that she is aware of Joe, and I really feel like I can drop a touch.  

“I imply, I do prefer to fish streamers. And I bumped into Joe earlier, he gave me a fly,” I say. “However when you have a favourite sample …”

“No,” Swinney says with a smile. “You need to fish Joe’s streamer.” 

Sept. 8, 10 a.m.

Fisher and I’ve hit the two-hour mark and we’ve but to catch a fish. It’s windier than an Oklahoma trailer park and there isn’t a cloud within the sky. Joe’s fly is doing its job, although. I hooked and misplaced a stable fish within the first hour, and I’ve had a pair quick strikes since then.

Fisher, who’s lifeless drifting a stonefly nymph from the bow, doesn’t appear too fearful. A retired decide from Michigan with a pointy humorousness, he’s blissful sufficient telling tales. His crew has additionally gained the newbie division final yr, and I can acknowledge an excellent angler after I see one. I determine if he’s not catching fish, possibly it’s only a powerful morning. 

Sept. 8, midday

I nonetheless haven’t caught a factor, and the fishing has, one way or the other, gotten suckier. So I’m casting like a maniac. I’m hammering every bit of water I can attain. I’m altering my cadence and jigging and crawling and twitching the fly, and nothing appears to be working. It doesn’t assist that I can’t shake the one shot I had this morning. How did I not stick that fish?

Fisher’s nonetheless scoreless, too, his two whitefish value zilch in a trout-fishing competitors. And the truth that he’s getting skunked on a rubberlegs stonefly nymph, which needs to be automated, is troubling all three of us. The boat’s getting quieter by the minute. Fisher tries to lighten the temper.

“When do you suppose the fish will begin biting, Brenda?”

“Oh. About 12:15,” she replies.

Sept. 8, 12:30 p.m.

I’m talking much less and fewer. And I’m questioning if I’ve sufficient cigarettes to make it by means of the afternoon when Swinney says one thing like, “Nicely, we’d as effectively take an extended lunch because the fishing is so sluggish.” I inform myself to not be a chomper, a kind of guys who simply desires to catch ‘em, catch ‘em, catch ‘em. It’s okay, man. Chill out.

But it surely’s not okay. We’ve got a brutally lengthy lunch.

Sept. 8, 1:30 p.m.

“When do you suppose the fish will begin biting, Brenda?”

“1:45,” she says. 

It’s nonetheless kind of humorous, however I’m not laughing. My shoulder is sore, my mind feels mushy, and I can really feel myself cooking within the solar. Water and sunscreen are nowhere close to prime of thoughts. As a result of there might be a fish proper there.

There isn’t. And I’m nonetheless having daymares in regards to the trout I didn’t land this morning.

Sept. 8, 2 p.m. 

Fisher and I are each scoreless with two hours left, and there’s an actual chance I gained’t catch a single fish at present. I’ve gone from panicking to having a full-blown character disaster. 

Usually, getting skunked wouldn’t trouble me. It’s occurred earlier than and it’ll occur once more. However that is completely different. I’m competing. And the truth that I, an out of doors author at an esteemed publication, would possibly fail to catch a trout on one of many West’s most efficient tailwaters is past embarrassing. I’m a fraud.

The one comforting thought is that I can promote all my fly rods and disappear, possibly persuade the spouse to maneuver to Hawaii. I might all the time take up browsing.

Sept. 8, 2:30 p.m.

I’m nonetheless a fishless, anxious wreck. Swinney slides over to some comfortable water close to a shelf and drops anchor on the prime of a future. It’s an ideal time for a smoke break, and as I dig one out of my breast pocket, I discover a mass of clouds constructing overhead. 

The climate turns in minutes, the solar awash in grey. Then the thunder rolls because the river gods flip a holy change within the sky.

I’m midway by means of my cigarette when Fisher lands a trout. I suck the Marlboro down prefer it’s my final minute on Earth and begin fishing once more. It doesn’t take lengthy, however I virtually don’t consider it when my line lastly tightens. I skip the trout into the online, and it’s a dink however it’s a fish. A fucking superb fish.

As we’re coming across the subsequent bend, Fisher’s bobber drops and we are able to inform instantly it’s a toad. He retains the fish out of the wooden and it makes a stable run within the present. Swinney rows down after it and at last nets the 19-inch cutbow. She’s relieved, Fisher is stoked, and I lastly really feel like myself once more.

Sept. 8, 3:55 p.m.

Our ninth-inning luck has continued. Fisher is on fireplace up entrance, and each inside bend holds a trout that desires to crush Joe’s streamer. I’ve landed six fish and hooked 9 within the remaining hour. I’ve moved a pair extra, together with a tank of a brown that turned away on the final second.

It could’ve been good to catch her and add to my mediocre one-day complete, which places me within the backside third of the remaining rankings. However I’ll discover it straightforward sufficient to shrug off my very own rating at tonight’s banquet, when Joe is known as prime information with probably the most factors netted over two days. 

Moreover, I nonetheless have my fly. Together with the information that someplace, sometime, it’ll get eaten once more.