How i Won the One Fly

8/3/2019 How i Won the One Fly

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HOW I WON THE ONE FLY (ALMOST)

by Joseph Daniel, WILD ON THE FLY

Okay, lets be certain about this right from the get-go. I did NOTwin the 2007 Jackson Hole One Fly. That well-deserved honor goesto Dennis Butcher who handily took the individual title with anawesome day of angling on the South Fork of the Snake whichresulted not only in several very high scoring fish, but three inparticular that would be the envy of any long-rodder.

But did I come close? Well, as suggested in the old adage abouthorseshoes and hand grenades; close really doesnt count formuch in most things. Still, I did come in sixth-place overall out of 160 anglers, and second place was really just one good fish away.And of the two rivers fished, the Snake and the South Fork, I hadhighest individual score of any angler on the Snake.

But first? Well first place was as distant as a dream, as improbableas that rare moment when man beats the best of nature, when aonce-in-a-lifetime fish not only takes the fly but is successfullyfought and landed and does it on demand, under imposingconditions.

Winning the One Fly has been compared by some to winning amajor golf tournament. But beyond the oft-repeated analogybetween a proper golf swing and a proper fly cast let the club(rod) do the work, dont overpower the stroke, feel the rod (club)load, follow through a golf tournament is a walk in the parkcompared to the One Fly. That is unless the fairways undulate andflow like current and the cup on each green is alive and elusive, andeats golf balls but only sometimes, if they look right and rollproperly. And if you hit a ball out of bounds and cant find it then


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youre through, forget about taking a stroke, youre finished.

Not to put too serious of a spin on it this is, after all, a fun event but playing in the One Fly to win can be as physically and

mentally challenging as any game out there... and oh so different.

A BITTERSWEET BEGINNING

The One Fly began in Jackson Hole, Wyoming in1986 as a publicitystunt to promote the idea of catch-and-release fishing, and maybesell some more guided trips. It was organized by then local guidesand now fishing celebrities, Jack Dennis and Paul Bruun, and their

friend Dan Abrams. But according to Dennis, the original idea hadits genesis nearly a decade earlier when angling legend Lee Wulff published a story in Outdoor Life called If You Only Had One Fly.The article asked famous anglers what their choice would be if theycould only fish with one fly. It also fired up the imagination of Jack,his announcer friend Curt Gowdy (who was already a big fan of theFlorida saltwater fly fishing contests), and particularly Paul Brunn.For years Brunn schemed and lobbied on the idea of a fresh water

fly fishing contest for trout where competitors could use only onefly. But he could never seem to find enough interested participantsor guides.

But finally, leveraging the economic argument that the event justmight help stimulate sorely needed autumn guiding business forthe valley, the first One Fly eventually came about. Unfortunately itwas an ill-fated beginning, marked by the tragic death of guide

Peter Crosby. Coming out of retirement to fill in as a guide, Crosbylost his raft to the rivers strong current on the morning of the firstday of the contest. He ran down the shore in hip boots chasing afterit, his tracks ending at the edge of a high bank. Did the bank giveway? Did he jump in after the raft? No one knows for sure, but his


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drowned body neck broken was recovered downstream later thatday.

Jack Dennis was certain that this was the start and the end of the

One Fly, but from day one the event seemed to be blessed with thesupport of personalities bigger than life. The first was DickCarlsburg, an original contestant and a founding participant of other unusual sporting competitions like the 2 Shot Goose contest.Carlsburgs huge enthusiasm embodied the fledgling spirit of theOne Fly and would not let it die. He rallied the troops after Crosbysdeath and formed the One Fly Foundation to raise funds to sendPeters daughters to college.

The event now had a cause and that proved the catalyst to get itstarted. That first year there were 10 teams, the next year 20, thefollowing 28. Carlsburg continued to wield his influence and Dennishis contacts, and soon they were attracting reel celebrities like LeeWulff and George Anderson, and real celebrities like test pilotChuck Yeager and television star Merlin Olsen. By the early 90s theevent had grow large enough that it badly needed the control anddirection of an experienced executive. Enter Denny Andersen, atough-talking, tough-acting former CEO who truly made thingshappen. Under his control as Chairman of the One Fly Board thecompetition flourished, and after successfully graduating both of Crosbys daughters it turned its fund-raising efforts towardsfisheries conservation.

Anderson passed away from lung cancer in 2004 and in hisindomitable style he choreographed the spreading of his own asheson the South Fork during a fishing outing he arranged for a dozenof his best One Fly buddies. He even posthumously spoke to eachof them in appreciative personal missives read during theceremony. Anderson was succeeded by One Fly President Tom


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Smith and then by current Chairman (and original Board member) John Mortenson, each colorful characters and competent managersin their own right.

In 22 years the One Fly has grown from the improbable scheme of a couple of hungry fishing guides to an extremely popular event,and successful non-profit foundation, that has contributed literallymillions of dollars towards the betterment of trout and trouthabitat, as defined in their mission statement. Probably the singlemost important component to its long-term success is that it isheld in one of the most beautiful natural environments on earth. Infact the scenic sensory overload is for me one of the real challengesof the event. Just try keeping your eye glued on your fly as you driftbelow the spectacular grandeur of the Tetons. It cant be done.

THE MECHANICS

So how does it all work? The One Fly is simple in concept anddevilish in the details. It consists of 40 teams of four individuals perteam. Only one team member can be a professional angler (i.e.

guide). The event is conducted over two days using eight stretchesof the Snake River in Wyoming and two stretches of the South Forkin Idaho. Each team can have only one member (determined byteam decision) per day fish the South Fork, a river which hashistorically returned much higher daily scores due to itspreponderance of larger fish. Which stretch of which river is fishedby which team member on which day is determined randomly by adraw, therein establishing the serendipitous nature of the event.You could, by chance, draw two less-productive stretches of theSnake and have a pretty challenging time racking up a high score.Or you could be lucky and draw a South Fork stretch and a goodSnake stretch and have at least a reasonable opportunity if being atop contender.


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Once your stretches of river have been determined you are pairedeach day (again, randomly) with a member from another team, andboth of you fish with the same guide from the same boat. Theguides, who act as neutral judges for both anglers, usually knowthat particular section of river quite well and can be invaluable toyour overall success. With 160 anglers in the event there may be asmany as six competing boats on any one stretch of the river at thesame time. So once again, the element of chance invades; draw thebetter guide for that stretch and your chances improve.

Each days competition begins exactly at 8:30 am. Prior to thatyouve had breakfast with all the guides and competitors at thefamous Gunbarrel restaurant in Jackson Hole, youve met yourboatmate and guide for the day, driven to your put-in, donnedwaders and boots, strung up your rod (floating lines only), andworked out your rotation. In order to insure equal time in the frontof the boat, anglers rotate positions on whatever schedule theyagree to (usually on the half-hour), with the person in front havingthe choice of where to fish. This schedule and hierarchy stays in

play whether floating or wading.

At that point its down to two final and critical decisions: what flyand what leader. As the name implies and the whole premise of the event you only get one fly. Lose it and youre out of thecompetition for that day. Period. A different fly and a differentpattern may be used on the second day of the event. Anyconventional fly pattern (wet, dry, nymph, streamer, etc.) may be

used on either day as long as it is no larger than size #6 and is 3Xor shorter in length (which, incidentally, rules out most bigstreamers).Flies must be tied on a single barbless hook or on ahook with the barb pushed down. Lead or other metal-moldedheads, cone heads and dumbbell lead eyes are prohibited, but asingle metal or glass bead is allowed.


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If you succeed in fishing all day and you also catch a lot of fish,your fly will undoubtedly take a serious beating, no matter how wellits tied. Nonetheless, repair of flies during the day may only bedone with the use of glue or adhesive, no thread or fly tyingmaterials may be used. Flies, however, may be morphed down inany manner (i.e. trimming a dry fly or a streamer down into anymph).

As you might imagine, there is a brisk boutique business of OneFly flies. For weeks before the event renowned fly tiers around thecountry are tweaking special patterns and devising ways to bombproof the perfect fly for their clients. In fact many nowinternationally-popular flies found their fame as prototypes for theOne Fly, like Guy Turcks Tarantula, Scott Sanchezs Convertible andhis Double Bunny, Will Dornans Red Ant, and Ken BurkholdersClub Sandwich. During all of the pre-event festivities local tyingcelebrities show up carrying large fly boxes like they were thenuclear football briefcase that accompanies the U.S. President.Orders are delivered and major dollars change hands all in the

hopes of the perfect one fly.

Your terminal tackle is, of course, somewhat determined by your flychoice, but competitors constantly struggle with the quandary of strength vs. stealth. The bottom line here (pardon the pun) is thatyour leader is your weakest link. In other words, all your hopes anddreams, the entire cost of your trip, your reputation as an angler,your mental health, everything! rests on the tensile strength of a

gossamer wisp of nylon. Dont take this decision lightly.

If youre fishing a streamer (like I did on day one) you need to beusing something just shy of cable to ensure you dont lose your fly.Figure you could be making two or three casts a minute all day longbanging the banks for fish. If you keep up the competitive spirit,


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and your arm doesnt give out first, thats potentially a thousandcasts or more over the course of a day. There is no leader or tippetmaterial on earth that can take that abuse without weakening at thehinge formed at the knot, or abrading on the inevitable rocks andbranches along the shore.

I finally resorted to a 5 0X leader with a short length of 1XSuperflourocarbon tippet attached with a blood knot. Thefluorocarbon was thinner (less visible) but more abrasion-resistantthan the mono and the blood knot provided a perfect stop for thesplit shot I used all day trying to find the right depth for fish. I re-tied on my fly religiously every hour, and/or after every fish, andthe whole rig at least three times during the day. Although this wastime-consuming and I ran the risk of tying a bad knot I feltreasonably confident that at least my line wouldnt break. On daytwo I used the same rig but scaled everything back a couple of weight classes as I chose to use a dry fly and needed tippet lightenough to not sink my fly or spook fish too badly.

The One Fly really begins for most teams with a day or two of practice before the start of the event. Competitors roll into town ineverything from beat-up fish cars to private jets, and its probablymore of the latter. Forget that Czechoslovakian high-stick, multi-nymph, river-dredging contest for juvenile delinquent trout andgrayling. This is a real angling competition, an Americanchampionship of traditional fly fishing on big rivers for big trout.Anyone can compete, but getting on a team may be the biggest

challenge of all. And its not cheap. The standard team fee is$5,000, a sponsor team is $10,000. Make no bones about it, theOne Fly exists to raise money for conservation and its not shyabout that mission. That stance does create some grousing about itbeing a rich mans event, and in some ways that is true, but only tothe extent that you have to pay to play. This is a serious fundraiser


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and the event is in the enviable position of having a long waiting listof anglers willing to pony up the entry fee.

The One Fly Board, in association with the US Forest Service, the

Bureau of Land Management and several other governmentalagencies (who all share in funds generated from the event), hasdetermined that the carrying capacity of the Snake and South ForkRivers for the competition is a maximum of 40 teams (which is 80boats}. Many of the teams have been around for years and althoughindividual team members change with great frequency, teamcaptains zealously guard who gets those positions. Some of theteams are clearly corporate entities which a company might sponsorto reward favored employees or treat important customers. Thoseteams seem to have different members every year and are rarely inthe hunt for top honors. But a review of the past few years of teamrosters reveals plenty of very serious anglers, including some bignames in the fly fishing community, most of who return annually forthe event. Only a few spots for new teams open up each year andthose are awarded based on some very subjective criteria

established by the One Fly Board, including past association withthe event. So its a bit of a Catch 22 and not clearly defined as tohow you can compete, but your best chance is probably snagging aspot on an already established regular team (sell hard on yoursuperior fishing and/or fly tying skills, and agree to carryeveryones stuff!), or forming your own team at the sponsor level(i.e. more money for the event). Either of those or find out whichsponsor teams are in your industry and become a very good

customer. For further reference, there is a page entitled How to GetInvolved on the One Fly web site ( www.jhonefly.com ).

HOW I GOT HERE

I was lucky. A friend of mine was invited in 2002 as one of those


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favored customers of Merrill Lynch (which sponsored three teamsthat year). He in turn threw my name in the hat when they neededanother angler. Clearly out of my league demographically, I wentalong anyway, posing as a high roller who knew how to fish. We allhad a blast and I made several good friends I still connect withtoday (one of the truly wonderful perks of the One Fly), but webasically stunk as a team. I think we came in close to last and mypersonal score wasnt much better. But the real bonus for me wasthat I met Captain Marvel (aka. Scott Ralston, former Vietnam jetfighter pilot, and at the time Western Managing Director for MerrillLynch). Under Scotts tutelage Merrill Lynch made a serious

commitment to the One Fly from 1998 to 2002 and helped take theorganization to a new level of professionalism and fund generation.Because of this contribution to the One Fly, and the fact that he had

just been elected to the Board, Captain Marvel was allowed toresurrect one of the Merrill Lynch team positions in 2003 under thenew name Marvels Muddlers. For some reason (Scott desperatelyneeded new team members!) I got invited back that year and Ibrought along another friend as well. But we didnt exactly blow

em away that year either. Despite bad weather Scott and my frienddid pretty good, and I had an okay first day fishing a black woolybugger. But on day two the river blew out and I didnt catch a singlefish. Not one. We ended up in 26 th place out of 40 teams

Scott was gracious enough to extend the invitation but business gotin the way for me for the next two years and then Scott himself hadto take a bye for a year due to family obligations. So it was with

great enthusiasm that I answered in the affirmative when the callcame from Captain Marvel early last spring that the Muddlers wereback on the roster and did I want to get serious and really try andwin. I figured I was damn lucky to get another chance to be in theOne Fly and I would make it happen come hell or high water.


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And thats exactly what did happen, hell and high water. Extremelyhot and dry conditions had forced Idaho potato farmers to makemaximum water calls for irrigation. This depleted the surplusstorage in Palisades Reservoir to an historic low resulting in itstailwater, the South Fork we fish in the One Fly, to be reduced to amere trickle of warm, off-color, weedy water hardly conducive toits famous trout population. The subsequent demands from JacksonLake created exactly the opposite condition on the Snake and theriver ran extremely high and cloudy as the Bureau of Reclamationattempted to replenish Palisades. This was all further exacerbatedby several days of violent weather just before the event, including

even a rare tornado warning just south of Jackson Hole. Thosestorms caused flash flooding in some of the Snakes tributaries, andthe collapse of an earthen bank at Hoback Junction which pouredmuddy sludge into the lower sections of the river. All-in-all itwasnt looking good condition-wise for the 2007 One Fly.

My schedule was still demanding enough that all I could managewas a half-day practice session before the actual competition. As

my plane lined up for a landing in Jackson Hole we flew over theswollen Snake just above the very section of river I would be fishingan hour later. The water looked like glacial melt and was spillingfrom the riverbank everywhere.

I went immediately from the airport to the Snake River Anglers flyshop at Dornans where I bought a fishing license and met Scottand my other two team members, Ken Burkholder and Lewis

Crosley. They were all three dressed in worn jeans and fleece,wearing dark polarized sunglasses and the same gimme caps withsome strange symbol, and frankly, looking like theyd been rodehard and put away wet. Truth be told there might have been a bit of a hangover effect contributing to their haggard appearance, but Iwas suddenly regretting my sport coat, pressed chinos and leather


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loafers. I approached my motley team with the wariness of a newdog in a strange neighborhood and got about the equivalentreaction. Everyone was polite but reserved, and although Scottmanaged the requisite Havent seen you in awhile! greeting, it wasobvious that this was not a happy crew.

Ken tossed me a team cap with the funny looking, upside-down,one-eyed happy face symbol. Its a fermata, you know, the musicalsymbol for duration, for holding on. he explained, as if I shouldknow that, or even more puzzling, its relevance to fly fishing or theOne Fly. Hmmm.

We tossed my gear into Kens truck and headed to the boat launchfor the Deadmans to Moose section of the river. On the drive Ilearned the reason for my teammates malaise. To put it bluntly(hey, they did), the fishing had sucked. Ken and Lewis had alreadyfished two days, one on the South Fork and one on the Snake, andScott had joined them on the Snake. Both days had been horriblewith so few fish caught that basically no intelligence was gatheredthat might help in the actual competition. This was disconcerting tosay the least, but like all fisherman blinded by eternal optimism Iwas sure that it would be different that day. Only it wasnt. The daywas bright and sunny (not good), the water was high and really off-colored (also not good), and three guys (Lewis took the afternoonoff) who at least secretly pride themselves on being pretty goodanglers couldnt catch one fish between them out of a river chockfull of dim-witted cutthroat, despite throwing just about everything

they had in their combined fly boxes (definitely not good).

Then I learned that I had drawn the Snake for both of my days, Scottand Ken having grabbed the two spots on the South Fork. Fairenough, I was the new guy again, but if the fishing was going to bethis tough I was in for a very long next two days.


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We all went to the One Fly auction and pre-event dinner that nightwith no illusions. I was just hoping I wouldnt embarrass myself orlet my team down too badly. Scott, Ken and Lewis had fishedtogether as a team two years before and had done well enough totake third place overall. Scotts dream has always been to win thisthing and he had recruited Ken, who is a guide in Idaho and a well-known and accomplished fly tier, as his professional. Lewis is aclient of Kens from Broken Arrow, Oklahoma and wields a prettymean stick himself. So yeah, I was feeling a little intimidated, andafter the practice session not at all confident.

The meals and activities surrounding the One Fly are all very wellstaged, with the dinner the night before the event a specialhighlight. It begins with a silent auction of sporting books, fishinggear, clothing, gifts and wine, and progresses into a live auction of even more premium gear, exotic fishing trips, artwork, dinners,cigars, wine and custom fishing furniture. There is a $25-a-ticketraffle for a tricked-out drift boat from Clackacraft, and even a BigFish Pool to bet on yourself or your favorite angler for biggest fish

caught during the competition. The evening raises about $130,000for the One Fly Foundation, which when combined with entry fees,donations and matching grants from National Fish & WildlifeFoundation adds up on average to an astounding half-milliondollars or more per year. This then goes to multiple recipientsincluding non-profit conservation organizations, state agencies,and private individuals working on habitat restoration. Fishconservationists take note: there are some years the One Fly

Foundation actually generates more money than requests forfunding. Get your application in today!

I sat with Lewis at our team table watching the auction and sippingthe One Fly Pinot Noir bottled especially for the event by Rex HillWinery and bearing a custom label featuring a cutthroat painting by


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local artist Jeff Currier. Scott was working the crowd and Ken wasbeing worked by the crowd, especially those wanting a peek intothe half-dozen fly boxes of Burkholder magic hed brought withhim to sell that night. Lewis and I inspected Kens goods and talkedabout possible fly choices for the following day but after ourmiserable performance that afternoon I hadnt a clue.

Before I had left for Jackson Hole I had contracted with Colorado flytying phenom Charlie Craven to tie me up a half-dozen each of adurable, bead-headed, rubber-legged, black wooly bugger like Idused in my second One Fly, and then something else in the foamhopper/ Chernobyl Ant genre, which is de rigueur as an attractordry fly in the Jackson Hole region and a variation of which has wonthe One Fly as many times as any other style of fly. Charlie deliveredwith some wild versions of his BC Hopper and an absolutely perfectbugger pattern tied to One Fly perfection. So at least I had those inmy back pocket.

DAY ONE

The next morning dawned crystal clear with the promise of yetanother hot, sunny day. We ate breakfast at the Gunbarrel with allthe other competitors and then hooked up with our guides andboatmates. Scott took off to the South Fork under our combineddirectives to bring home the bacon. Poor Lewis had drawn thesame stretch we had fished the day before so he left a littledubious, and Ken and I had no idea what to expect from ourassigned stretches. I was, of course, still completely in the darkabout fly choice.

My fishing partner for the day was Douglas Daft, former CEO andChairman of Coke and fishing, of course, on the Coca Cola team. Hewas an amiable Australian national now living as a resident in New


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York City.

Our guide was Chris Brylinski, who specialized on the lower river,particularly the Pritchard to West Table section, which was our

assigned stretch for the day. Chris was pretty much a no-nonsenseguy and was somewhat reserved at first as we went through therequisite client/guide repartee feeling each other out. As if it wasntenough that the river was high and fishing slow, we also discoveredfrom Chris that we would be fishing below the major mudslide thathad occurred a couple of days earlier, turning the Hoback River intoa chocolate milkshake at its confluence with the Snake. As soon aswe arrived at the put-in we all waded out into the river to try andgauge just how much visibility we (the fish) would have. We figuredmaybe 12 to 18 inches, but hopefully it would improve during theday.

With all the mud-stained water I was starting to lean towards astreamer, which I love to fish, but I could tell Chris was consideringthe bluebird day and thinking more attractor dry fly. This wasagony, as now we had water clarity conditions to contend with thatwere even worse than the day before. Although certainly notrequired, its highly advantageous if both competitors in the sameboat fish with the same style of fly (i.e. both on a dry fly or both ona streamer or both on a nymph). That way the guide can optimizewhere and how he positions the boat and selects the best water tostop and wade fish. I sort of sensed that Doug was agreeing withChris on the choice of a dry fly and I could feel myself wavering.

Then Chris made the first of many good suggestions.

Hey, we have 20 minutes or so before the competition starts andtheres a really good little backwater just around the corner thatalways has fish. Lets float down there quickly, try out a couple of dry flies, and then make your decision.


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When Douglas and I both failed to get a single rise on either aParachute Adams or a Chernobyl Ant, that sealed the deal for me. Iquickly re-rigged with a heavier leader and tied on one of CharlieCravens black wooly buggers. Id finally made my decision for goodor for bad. If it was going to be a poor-visibility day Id rather atleast be prospecting every good lie I could with a streamer andactively fishing it rather than passively blind-casting a dry fly inwater where I wasnt even sure a fish could see. Doug agreed andswitched also, tying on a black and yellow streamer Chris had.Game on!

Ten minutes later I hooked a cutthroat in a small eddy behind asunken log and put the first fish in the boat. At 14 inches it wasnta particularly high-scoring fish but it did a world of good for myconfidence.

To earn points in the One Fly you obviously have to catch fish. Everytrout caught is worth two points, but to be counted in the score therelease of each fish must be witnessed by the guide. A fish isconsidered caught if either the angler or the guide touches theleader while it is still hooked. A 50 point bonus can be earned forcatching between 30 and 39 fish, 100 bonus points for 40 to 49fish, and 150 bonus points for over 50 fish (these are usually dinks fish under 12-inches but hey, its happened!). The angler mayselect up to eight fish over 12 inches long to measure during theday. The largest six fish will each earn a bonus score (on top of their regular 2 points) based on length. This is where the real points

can be scored as they increase exponentially the bigger the fish. A12-inch fish earns 10 bonus points, a 16-incher 60 points, an 18-incher 100 points, and a 20-incher 150 points. Catch a 24-inchhog and youve just racked up 300 points! And finally, on each of the two days of competition, if you dont lose your fly youll earn anadditional 25 point bonus.


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Doug and I settled into an almost aerobic level of fishing, casting toevery little eddy, backwater and piece of structure we could find.This was going to be a game of finding fish, and with high, off-color water that meant non-stop casting. Frankly, to have anychance of winning the One Fly, this is the only way you can fish,regardless of conditions. You have to find and convert everyopportunity because you can be assured that somebody else will bedoing so on their stretch.

Chris was a fabulous boatman, keeping us the perfect distanceoffshore and endlessly holding us against the current in the betterruns to thoroughly work the water. It seemed the harder we fishedthe harder he worked I liked that. We all knew this was going tobe a tough day but we were determined to make the best of it.

Doug scored next with a smaller fish from the rear of the boat andthen Chris stopped at the bottom of a beautiful long glide with twopools formed by submerged rock bars in the middle of the river.Since it was time for a rotation he sent Doug to the honey hole atthe top of the run and I fished up from the bottom. He told us thiswater held several big trout and we ought to be able to at least findone of them. Doug wasted little time and my attention was divertedby an excited yelp. I looked up to see him leaning backward againsthis rod, which was bent deep at the butt and pulsing with the throbof a larger fish. Chris was running towards him with his landing netand measuring tube. I shouted encouragement and kept on fishing,but inside I seethed. Why him and not me? It was the unspoken

tension being played out in 80 boats that day. You wanted yourboatmate to do well, just not better than you. There are only a fewopportunities on any given stretch of water on any given day for abig fish. When one of them goes to your partner, and he converts,its one less for you. Ouch.


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Dougs fish measured out at 18 inches and suddenly he had wellover 100 points. I upped my resolve and fished harder, coveringliterally every inch of the rest of the run and then back downthrough where Doug had struck gold. Nobody else home.

We climbed back into the boat and continued down river. I hadnoticed that Dougs fish had hit in a deep trough well out in theriver channel, so wherever I could discern similar holding water Icovered it with a cast or two instead of just banging the banks. Thisworked pretty well from the stern as I could get big swings usingthe boats momentum. On one such cast in the middle of a wideslow flat pouring off a lateral rock ledge I had a smashing strike andwas suddenly onto a good fish.

Alright, my turn!

Chris instantly began looking for a place to land the fish but first wehad to navigate through some faster water, fish in tow, before hecould get his anchor secure and the boat stopped. Even then wewere on the edge of a strong, deep current and for a critical

moment both of us froze trying to decide what to do. The fishsensed the pause and surged back up against the current creatingdangerous slack in the line. And then suddenly it was gone.

Losing a big fish anytime is tough; losing a big fish in the One Fly iscrushing. In my case I had been fishing so hard for so little returnthat coming unglued from this beast felt like dropping the winningtouchdown pass. Would it have been worth 80-points, 100-points,

more? Well never know, and of course I imagined the worst. Chrisimmediately began admonishing himself for not moving faster withthe net but the fault was all mine. I had lost contact for a moment,and in fast water with a strong fish on a barbless hook, hey, thatswhat happens. Its fishing dude, suck it up.


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I marched back upstream along the shore to a point across fromwhere I thought I had hooked up. Taking a single step betweencasts I worked back down the run steelhead-style, making longcasts just slightly downstream and then, with a big upstream mend,swinging my streamer across the flat. The technique worked and Istarted getting grabs. I landed a 15-incher (42 points) and a smallerfish just under measurable length. It wasnt exactly compensationfor losing Mr. Big, but it took away a little of the sting.

I wish I could say the day improved but it really didnt. This was journeyman fishing, blue collar labor for minimum wages, andDoug and I worked our butts off. He was a pretty good fishermanfor a suit! By the 4:30 pm bell I had landed two more fish, one ameasurable 14-incher (32 points) for a total of 135 points. Douglanded one more measurable fish and with his 18-incher from thatmorning ended up with 161 points. And amazingly, we both keptour flies despite some very liberal risk taking during the day.

Risk management is a huge part of One Fly strategy and can be thedownfall of even the most skilled angler. Many a famous long-rodder has found himself sitting humbly in the back of the boattwiddling his thumbs and looking at a long day ahead aftersnapping off his fly an hour into the contest. Remember, you loseyour fly youre out. Losing it in the morning is catastrophic, losing itnear the end of the day is less so, although at the very least itmeans 25 fewer points (thats about the same as catching a 14-inchfish or a dozen dinks).

Some competitors will simply stop fishing when they feel theres agreater chance of losing their fly than there is of catching anotherlarge-enough fish, or enough additional small fish, to be worthmore than 25 points. But thats usually the conservative tactic of the brokers and financial institution guys; they live in a world of


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calculated risk. Personally, I dont buy that philosophy because Idont think fishing is that calculated. theres always the chance fora trophy fish on the very next cast. And in the One Fly everyadditional point is precious. You need to keep trying to add to yourtotal score until the very last minute of the last day, as youllunderstand better at the end of this story.

That said, you still have to weigh the value of trying to cast your flyonto a dinner plate-size piece of soft water just upstream of apartially submerged tree. You know theres a big fish there becausethats the kind of structure lunker cutthroat love. I remembercasting my fly once into just such a perilous environment and thenchickening-out and yanking it off the water at exactly the sametime the open maw of an absolute monster broke the surface rightwhere it had been. Bottom line: if you want to win you have to takeenough risks to catch a few big fish. That means youre likely to getsnagged several times during the day and how you react when thathappens will either make you a hero or a zero.

Within moments of beginning our days float with Chris Brylinski hewanted to know if we were familiar with, and were willing toexecute, the time-honored tomahawk. This radical course of action sometimes becomes necessary when an angler snags his flyon or near the shore in fast enough water that the guide cantimmediately slow down the boat. In that event the angler must hurlhis rod towards the bank as if throwing a tomahawk in thehopes that it will remain there until the boat can be beached and he

can walk back upstream to retrieve said rod, and more importantly,his fly.

Fortunately I never had to tomahawk my rod but I did personally goflying out the back of the boat once into waist deep water when Ifelt I was too far from shore for such a toss and I was already deep


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into my backing from snagging on a shoreline rock. Those kinds of moments give you the absolute willies, but they are the stuff of legend at the One Fly. Stories abound of guides climbing trees andanglers diving to the bottom to retrieve flies, even tales of fishbreaking off and the fly popping back to the surface afterdislodging from its piscine predator (another good argument forbarbless hooks and foam-bodied flies!).

Doug and I had given it our best and both of us collapsed intoChriss truck for the ride back to town. We would later learn that thehighest score that day for that stretch of river was 197, so at leastwe knew that no one had done a whole lot better. This was littleconsolation however when I got back to the Gunbarrel and checkedthe leaders board to find that Lewis and Ken had scored 27 and147 respectively. Ken had patched together a pretty decent dayconsidering the conditions but poor Lewis had spent eight long,painful hours catching one small fish. Fortunately he kept his fly. Itwas all up to Scott now, and the three of us commiserated with coldbeers waiting for his return.

The South Fork is a fat hour from Jackson Hole so competitorsfishing that river are the last to get back. Most of the scores beingposted on the board were comparable to ours, or worse, but as thefirst of the South Fork anglers began to arrive there were a handfulof big numbers being chalked up, including two scores in the 500sand one in the 600s! Somebody was finding big fish.

Scott finally pulled up and we could tell by his hangdog face that ithad not gone well. One-hundred-ninety-five points certainly not abad score for the day, but not a good one for the South Fork.Fishing a size 18 lightning bug dry fly, as suggested by his guide,Scott had caught an astounding 27 fish, which probably was morethan anyone that day. But they were all small and he had only been


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able to measure a few. It was a strange performance on a riverknown more for its fish size than numbers.

Marvels Muddlers had earned a combined team score of 505 points

on day one, which surprisingly was enough to put us in eighth placeout of the 40 teams. We were still in the hunt, but the first placeteam already had twice as many points, and second place was over300 points ahead. It was time to regroup.

Our team meeting was held over large tumblers of Smirnoff andCrown Royal back at the rental condo. It was, as always, a rhetoricaldiscussion of fly choice. We had within our midst one of the more

innovative fly tiers on the block in the apparition of Mr. KenBurkholder. I for one was going to take advantage of the resourceand grilled Burky on what he was seeing on the water and what hehad in the form of imitation. A humble and unassuming man, Kendoes not make proclamations unless it has to do with arcane musictheory (remember the fermata?) or the Boise State Broncos footballteam, so getting him to make a definitive suggestion on one of hisflies was not that easy. The best I could extract was a yeah, thatmight be a good choice, or that one could work, but readingbetween the lines and trusting my own instincts I soon settled on abig size 10 Hecuba Cripple he had dubbed the Hangdy-Downdy. Itwas a beautifully tied and reassuringly utilitarian-looking fly (seepage 39) with a foam hunchback for added flotation and aparachute wing of white polar bear fur for visibility. Wrapped withpale peach and tangerine Japanese silk floss for the body and a post

wing of dark dun hackle, it also featured abdominal wisps of Daricenylon-plus brown needlecraft fibers imitating a stuck shuck, andthe same for the tail. Tied to ride high on the surface yet pierce thefilm at the same time (hence the name) like a mayfly trying toemerge, it was truly a piece of faux entomological art and I wassmitten. Ken simply allowed as to how hed caught a few fish on


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it.

But he also confirmed to seeing a few of the big Western mayflies(also known as Giant or Great Blue-Winged Red Quills, Timpanoga

hecuba hecuba) hatching in some of the slower backwater glidesover the last few days. Aha! That sorely-wrought piece of actualintelligence, plus the rumor that it might cloud up the next day,plus the fact that I really didnt relish slinging a streamer again allday, made the decision easy. Unless my guide had some trulycompelling reason why not, I was going with Burkys Hangdy-Downdy Hecuba Cripple. I collapsed into bed that night bone-tiredand whiskey-infused, but at least Id made my decision, allowingme to sleep like the dead (well maybe the bone-tired part and theCrown had a little to do with it, but it was a peaceful sleepnonetheless).

DAY TWO

Breakfast the next morning at the Gunbarrel was all business withmost of the competitors steeled for the task at hand. The good

news was that the rumored change in weather had occurred and thesky was overcast. Perfect conditions for a Hecuba hatch!

My fishing partner for the day was Geoffrey Fry, a Wyoming nativenow living and working in San Francisco. Geoffs family had onceowned the Crescent H Ranch just outside of Jackson Hole and hehad guided on the private spring creeks there and on the Snake as akid.

Our boatman was even more entrenched in the angling history of the valley. As a third-generation Snake River fly fishing guide with17 years of experience, Boots Allen is already somewhat of a locallegend. His grandfather, father and uncle were all guides andoutfitters in the Jackson Hole area, as are several of his cousins


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today. It is an Allen family tradition. Boots had already won the OneFly twice in the guides division and was known as a take-no-prisoners kind of contestant. He was also very strategic in hisapproach and ushered us out of breakfast early, wanting to be thefirst boat on the water.

Our beat for the day was Moose to Wilson, historically one of themore productive sections of river, with lots of braids and sidechannels and several spring creek tributaries. So, we had one of themost renowned guides on the river, one of the best stretches of water, and a cool, cloudy day. No more time for excuses, it was nowor never.

As we launched we had a quick discussion on fly choice and allthree of us were immediately talking dry flies. I showed Boots theBurkholder Hecuba and he loved it. Go for it, was his immediateresponse. Alright! A man who can make a decision. Geoff tied on asimilar parachute mayfly pattern Boots had in his box and that wasthat. We were committed.

Boots rowed hard for the first 20-minutes or so to get well outahead of the rest of the boats on that stretch and then at 8:30 amon the dot he pulled us over to a little side channel flowing behind anarrow island. I was up first and wade-fished down the top of theglide while Boots and Geoff pulled the boat through a shallow riffleto the deeper water below. On my third cast a spectacular 17-inchcutty sucked down the Hecuba in classic form just inches off thebank and ripped downstream with me in hot pursuit. We bothspilled over the riffle to where Boots was waiting net in hand. It tooka solid ten minutes of careful battle to land this bad boy, and I wasa nervous wreck the whole time, but Boots finally made the graband I was on the board with 82 points in the first half-hour of theday!


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After a couple more rotations where both Geoff and I caught severalsmaller fish from the bank, Boots rowed us through a beautiful,meandering braid with deep cuts and small pools that looked sofishy I was salivating. At we rounded a corner the braid split arounda tiny hummock forming two deep eddies. Drifting quickly, I hadonly seconds to choose and cast to the left side. Geoff, in the backof the boat, cast to the right side and neatly picked my pocket as an18-inch slab smashed his fly, now almost directly beside me.

Arrgh! This was a new torture. Being usurped by the guy in theback. We had to anchor the boat for a good 20-muinutes whileGeoff kept his fish from bolting into the main river channel. Hefinally got it landed and it was high-fives all around, but Imashamed to admit that once again I was insanely jealous inside.What is it about the One Fly that brings out such ruthlesscompetition in otherwise lovable people?

I got a chance to return the injustice on the next rotation when,fishing from the back, I admittedly poached some waterdownstream while the boat was turned around and Geoff waslanding a fish. I discovered that day that the fishiest water on theriver for my fly seemed to be where it flowed across a very shallowgravel bar into a deeper dark blue pool or cut. Probably perfectHecuba hatching environment. This was exactly what presenteditself as Geoff was preoccupied, and I proceeded to lure my ownrichly-colored 18-inch scorer from the depths followed by another12-incher on the very next cast.

Oh baby! This was turning into a fine day. My new goal was to break300 points. If I could come back with that score I could come backwith my head held high. And the best news was the esteemed Mr.Burkholder himself was on the South Fork that day and sure toshatter the hopes and records of everyone else with the magic of


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one of his creations. Maybe Marvels Muddlers still had game.

We ate a quick lunch in the boat at the mouth of one of the springcreeks that had been a bonanza for Boots the day before, but all the

fish there must have had sore mouths because we were only able tocatch one. We continued on downriver banging the banks for thenext hour or so and picking up quite a few smaller fish, althoughnothing measurable. Burkys Hangdy-Downdy was an absolute hitand it was proving to be quite durable as well. At one point westopped and waded around a small 100-foot long island and Icaught seven dinks in a row. My overall fish count was now over 20and I was drifting into one of those rare fishing rhythms where itseems you can do no wrong.

During my next stint in the front of the boat we stopped at a placewhere the river became very braided and flowed between islands of head-high willow. I chose to fish three small runs just off the mainchannel and Geoff waded a little higher up but still within eyesightso Boots could watch us both. The lowest braid had a wide, shallowgravel bar at the top that spilled over into a lateral pool maybe 30-feet wide. Although it looked perfect I carefully fished all thesurrounding water first, catching one small fish in the process. As Iwaded into the mouth of the good braid I saw a big fish roll justbelow the gravel bar.

Gotcha!

I started to cast when I saw another fish surface ten feet to the

right, then one way up high at the head of the run. Whoa, slowdown here buckwheat, sometuns goin on.

I decided to go for the big fish just in case I might otherwise spookhim by hooking one of the others first. I threw a long cast high uponto the edge of the gravel and got a perfect drift back in return. As


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the fly passed over where I had seen the big fish roll the watersparted and a wide-shouldered, green and gold leviathan explodedon my offering and missed. I let out an involuntary shriek butkept my cool enough not to strike, letting the fly drift harmlesslyout of the pool. My scream had alerted Boots who was upstreamwith Geoff and he shrugged his shoulders in question.

I got Mr Big here, I shouted back. Be ready.

Three casts later I came tight with a heavy fish that stayed deep andthen made a spirited run down the braid towards the main river.

This might be him, I yelled to Boots, who was already running myway with the net. I managed to keep the fish out of the main riverand steered him into a pool lower down from where I hooked him.He turned out to be only 13-inches long but so fat I could hardlyhold him in one hand. A nice fish indeed, but definitely not Mr Big.

I decided to rest the pool for a few minutes and Boots walked backup to join Geoff. When I couldnt stand it any longer I started

casting from right to left making sure to cover all of the water. As Ineared the head of the run I saw the big fish roll again ten feethigher up along the left side. I carefully dropped my fly six inchesabove him and within seconds I was back on the bull.

Okay, this is the real Mr Big, I shouted at Boots who was onceagain sprinting my way. The fish made a spectacular leap and thenbooked it downstream towards the mouth of the braid with no

intention of stopping. Boots and I followed, laughing and yellinglike two kids and trying to keep from getting tangled in the fly line.I couldnt believe my good fortune but I also couldnt believe I wasgoing to land this fish. If he made it to the main channel and outinto the heavy current he would be gone.


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I finally stopped him just feet before the braid ended and somehowcoaxed him back into the lowest pool where we duked it out forawhile before Boots finally scooped him safely into the net on aboutthe fifth try. Both of us were shaking with adrenalin and excitement,and it took a moment to settle down. The fish measured 19 -inches and was thick and heavy like the last one. His multihuedsides went from irredescent green-grey on his back blending tolemon yellow along his belly, and were peppered with thousands of tiny black spots. His fins were an angry orange. What a spectacularspecimen of Snake River Finespot Cutthroat Trout!

Like a junkie I walked back to the pool. I knew there were still fishthere and I couldnt get enough. Geoff was hovering in thebackground and I imagined I could feel him oozing the sameresentment I had held for him earlier in the day. A better man wouldhave graciously offered up the pool to his boat partner, but this waswar. I made three more casts and just when my latent Catholic-school guilt was about to get the better of me I hooked up again,and in an almost exact replay of my battle with Mr Big I went

chasing after yet another hot fish headed for the river. I thoughtBoots might collapse this time after all the repeated running andhullabaloo but he dutifully and expertly netted this third cutty. Itonly scored 15-inches but it filled out my dance card with sixmeasurable fish, and my point total was now somewhere north of 400. I was so in the zone it was unbelievable.

We had about a half-hour left and it was Geoffs rotation, so I

concentrated on catching the four trout I needed to earn the 50-point bonus for 30 caught fish. They came one at a time, plus anextra, from below a long wide gravel bar less than a half-mile fromthe take-out. Burkys Hangdy-Downdy was like manna from heavento these flood-starved cutthroat and if I could find the right water Icould find the fish.


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It should have been over at that point but unbelievably it wasnt. Wemade one last stop at some thin braids within sight of the boatramp. Boots escorted Geoff up into the one good pool while I stoodthere perplexed at how to fish a small, deep eddy with threedifferent currents entering from dissimilar directions. It looked fishyenough but there was no way to get a decent drift. Finally, I justpulled off ten feet of extra line from my reel, made a short, sloppycast to the head of the eddy and then mended the whole mess of line back onto itself. These gymnastics resulted in a drag-free driftof exactly one foot but it was enough to seduce one final suitor tothe charms of Miss Hecuba. Trouble is these Snake River dandies

get royally pissed off when they discover theyve been duped, andfor the fifth time that day I was forced to hightail it downstream atfull speed, encumbered by wading boots, waders and the necessaryaccoutrements. It was not a pretty sight but the result certainly was a final 17-inch finespot large enough to replace one of my smallermeasurable catches and sweetening my total by 72 points. Bootsstood there with a Cheshire grin from ear to ear and Geoff justshook his head, then proffered up genuine congratulations. It was

my day and he had the character to handle it with class. Cant say Iwould have been as good-natured!

So, I had caught a lot of big fish, I had earned a bonus for quantity,and I had kept my fly all day but I had no idea what my score was.Boots did the math as we drifted to the take-out, announcing theresults with great theatrics. My final tally was 586 points; Geoff hadscored 222, for a boat total of 808. I had no idea yet what my score

might mean but we all suddenly realized that Boots might be in therunning again for top guide honors.

Back at the Gunbarrel it was pandemonium. There was a rumorcirculating that Geoffs team member Dennis Butcher, who hadgarnered only 47 points the day before on the Snake, had scored


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over 900 points today on the lower South Fork. The One Fly doesntexhibit the scoreboard at the end of the second day, waiting insteadto present the final tallies at the Awards Banquet that evening, soeverything was still hearsay. But it was evident that some big fishhad been caught and some big scores attained.

I was the first to return and I greeted Lewis who had fought backthat day with a respectable 109 points on another tough section of the Snake. Scott was next with 81 points from the equally difficultCanyon section of the Snake. He had been forced to endure someserious rapids and fish from a raft instead of a driftboat due to thehigh water, and he was not happy. We headed back to the condo towait for Ken, who we were sure was the subject of one of the bigscore rumors.

We were well into the libations and fish stories when Ken finallywalked quietly through the door. His look of abject misery wasenough to quell any smartass remarks and we respectfully listenedto his story in disbelief. He had started his day off thinking aboutfishing one of his famous Rainbow Warrior streamers but had beenswayed by his guide (the same guide who had talked Scott into thelightning bug the day before) to try one of his new convertiblestyle patterns that he guaranteed was the hottest thing on the river.The guide was so persuasive and insistent that Ken, ever the gentlesoul, had relented and had gone with the guides suggestion.Usually that course of action is not a bad thing, given that most of the One Fly guides have fished a particular stretch of water

hundreds of times and know it intimately. Two years before Scotthad followed his guides suggestion and had scored 553 points onthe upper South Fork.

Well, as it turned out Ken and Scotts overly ambitious guide thisyear was really more of a Henrys Fork expert and actually not that


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familiar with the South Fork. The result was that Ken soon foundhimself going gonzo over some very big fish that were attracted tothe fly but simply wouldnt commit and eat. He finally, out of frustration, converted his fly from a purple wooly bugger streamerto a purple, rubber-legged stonefly nymph per the guidesdirections, but to little avail. He eventually ended the day with 131points on a section of the river that had produced a high score of 541 yesterday and one of 574 that day.

Well so much for the Muddlers chance at fame and fortune. I toldKen about how well his Hangdy-Downdy had performed and thatlightened his mood considerably, because in the end Ken is allabout the fly. Which only made me more incredulous why he hadntused one of his own on the South Fork? But therein may lie the truecurse of the One Fly; it turns rational, talented anglers intoquivering blobs of self doubt and indecision, or as fly tier ScotSanchez once described it, It's wild how people who make high-dollar corporate decisions every day can be brought to their kneesby the momentary dilemma of which fly to tie on to fool a lowly

trout.

REFLECTION

We headed off to the Awards Banquet bruised and beaten buthappier to be there than any place on earth. For me it had been oneof my most memorable days fishing and I had reached new levels of focus and what those who meditate would call a higher sense of knowingness. And I think I now understand what Ken meant withhis fermata symbolism. It was for holding on, for holding on to yourfish, holding on to your fly, and holding on to your team. Thatsbeautiful Burky!

We applauded enthusiastically as Dennis Butcher received first place


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honors for 953 total points and his incredible 906 points that dayon the lower South Fork which included, among three othermonsters, a 23-inch fish, a 22-inch fish, and a 20-inch fish! DaveDeardorff came in second with 855 points and was high rod on theupper South Fork on day one. Walter Ungerman came in third with806 points and was second highest rod on the lower South Fork onday one. Jim Swafford took fourth with 794 points and high rod onthe lower South Fork on day one. Simon Everett finished fifth with757 points and high rod on the upper South Fork on day two. Andme, in sixth place with 721 points and high rod overall for bothdays on the Snake.

That the five guys ahead of me each had a day on the South Fork ischeap solace to my fragile ego. They performed no less, and Imsure in many cases quite a bit more, putting their games together,converting opportunities and managing risks, and most important

just holding on. After my experience that second day I am in awe of their prowess.

Walter Ungermans Team USA (yeah, those high stickin Czech-styleguys) won the overall team competition with 2,279 total points.Geoffs (and Dennis Butchers) team the Fishscalers came in secondwith 1,613 points, Simon Everetts Thomas & Thomas team came inthird with 1,514 points, and Dave Deardorffs L.A. Rods team camein fourth with 1,498 points. Marvels Muddlers somehow moved upto fifth place overall with 1,411 points, which isnt half badconsidering the drama!

And finally, on the South Fork Cole Sutheimer took first place in theIdaho guides division with 1,697 points. And my guide the secondday, Boots Allen, missed winning the top Wyoming guides honorfor the third time by a measly 12 points with a total two-day boatscore of 1,142 to Dean Burtons winning 1,154 points. Damn Geoff


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(and whoever the other two guys are who fished with Boots on dayone), we left him shy by just one 13-inch fish!

So, to bring it all the way back to the original analogy; like a golf

tournament the One Fly is rife with coulda, woulda, shouldasituations. Youre always just one shot or one fish away from glory,and the same thing can spell disaster. So did I almost win the OneFly? Sure, almost like Ive almost hit a hole-in-one! So close, andyet,,,

AUTHORS NOTE: There are myriad stories surrounding the One Fly.I choose to tell mine because it is what I know, but to do justice to

the men and women who have competed in the event, nurtured andsupported its growth, and lent great personality and spirit to itscontinued existence, would take countless more words and surelyI have already written far too long. Suffice it to say that the One Flyis a rich weave of unique experiences and individual efforts, andmine is just one amongst thousands.

Documents

How i Won the One Fly