The Fly-Fishing Cure
When everything in my life seemed to be going sideways, a solo fly-fishing trip offered the perfect temporary escape.
Photograph by Peter Bohler
Illustrations by Olivia Waller
When you lose your job, your wife loses her job, your daughter takes a bad fall at summer camp and needs knee surgery, and your 89-year-old father has a heart valve replaced, all in the span of three months, there is only one thing to do, at least if you’re me: Go fishing.
Nothing else focuses my mind like casting a fly to a sparkling spot on a gin-clear river, staring at it as it drifts along the water’s surface, and, with luck, watching a fish rise to take it. And so, last fall, when that series of unfortunate events befell me, I headed to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, for some piscine therapy. The greater Jackson area is home to a collection of holy-grail trout streams, including the Snake River, South Fork of the Snake, Henry’s Fork, and the Teton. Nowhere else can you chase some of the sport’s most coveted treasures in the same numbers and sizes: wild native cutthroat trout (famed for the gorgeous copper-colored slashes, or “cuts,” which give them their name), rainbow trout (known for their own eponymous markings and energetic fights), and brown trout (celebrated for their hulking size and aggressive takes). It’s not uncommon to land specimens a foot long or more, and the number of fish measuring 20 inches and up is remarkable. The rivers are cold and pure, the sky seems to stretch to Alpha Centauri, and bald eagles, moose, and other storybook critters frequently pop up as you drift downstream.
“I’m not a fisherman, but if I were, I wouldn’t reveal my favorite fishing spot. I believe that they can hang people in Wyoming for divulging this type of information.”
— Carl Pelletier, Superhost
You can camp out or sleep in a cabin, if you like, but one of the pleasures of fishing around Jackson Hole is that the town, a mix of Old West kitsch and ski-mountain glitz, is just a short drive away. You can fish in an outdoors idyll all day, enjoy a gourmet dinner, sip a cutting-edge cocktail, and then go to sleep in an impeccably designed alpine aerie. The experience is at once primitive and comfortable, wild and civilized. It’s outdoor adventure meets modern Western chic. My plan was to fish three of the area’s most celebrated streams and catch as many fish, and as many big fish, as possible.
At eight in the morning, Tim Warren, a local fishing guide, and his buddy Dean Burton picked me up, and we set out for a section of the Snake River just north of town that passes through Grand Teton National Park, directly beneath the park’s namesake peaks.
In less than a half hour, Tim had landed a memorable fish, a big 21-inch cutthroat, and I had netted a 14-incher — what I would have felt was a perfectly fine one, too, had my so-called friend not one-upped me. We took quick pictures of our catches, then released them. (Most fly-fishers adhere to a catch-and-release ethic.) “I guess our day is made,” Dean said. “Should we head to the bar?” By noon, we had notched 25 or so fish between us, a solid number for a full day. The only problem was that I kept catching fish in the 14-to-16-inch range, and Tim kept catching bigger ones.
At one point we were floating toward a gravel bar in the middle of the river when Dean spotted a full-grown, adult male bald eagle standing there. Haliaeetus leucocephalus normally stays high in the treetops, leaving mainly just to hunt or fish, and rarely lets us humans get close. But as our drift boat approached the raptor, he didn’t budge. Was he hurt? Confused? When we were ten yards away, we saw why he was so determined to stand his ground. Beneath his talons was a freshly caught cutthroat, over which he was standing guard. A fellow fisherman.
After lunch, Dean pulled into a side channel and spun the boat so it was facing upstream. In front of us was a sight every angler dreams of: dozens of little dimples on the surface of the water, the telltale signs of fish feasting on an insect hatch. The purest and most enjoyable way to fly-fish is to cast directly into the middle of their meal. It’s more like hunting than fishing, and the most thrilling part is that everything happens in front of your eyes.
It’s more like hunting than fishing, and the most thrilling part is that everything happens in front of your eyes.
Right away, I caught three cutthroats on consecutive casts — each around 14 inches. A few casts later, I watched my fly drift toward a fish I had just seen rise. As the fly passed over the spot I was targeting, the fish surfaced, his back rising out of the water, opened his mouth, and went for it. We could see he was at least 20 inches long, possibly longer. But I panicked, tried to set the hook too early, and missed him. At the end of the day, only one person had caught a big fish so far, and it wasn’t me.
If the Snake River is a blue run, in skiing parlance, Henry’s Fork is a black diamond. The brown trout and rainbow trout found there tend to be more selective than Snake River cutthroats and harder to catch. They are also generally much larger. On our second day, Tim and I headed to Henry’s Fork, near Ashton, Idaho, in search of my Moby Dick.
The fishing started slowly this time, but just before noon we got a hatch. Improbably enough, I made a solid cast to the first fish I targeted. My fly drifted straight toward him, and in three, two, one … he took it. When I had him a foot or so from the net, I could see he was a beautiful German brown, measuring almost exactly 20 inches. Naturally, I lost my cool, tried too hard to muscle him into the net, and popped the hook out of his mouth. But there were more fish feeding in the same run, and a few minutes later I landed one exactly like the one I’d just missed. A few klicks downstream, Tim followed that with a 21-inch brown. For the second day in a row, our day was made before lunch.
On my final day, I had planned to fish the Teton River, but the water level was unsuitably low, so I decided to head back to Henry’s Fork instead. At first that seemed like a mistake. As of lunchtime, we had put nothing notable in our nets. We decided to change tactics and try streamer fishing.
In streamer fishing, your fly is meant to imitate a small fish rather than an insect. Instead of floating on the surface, the fly sinks after you cast it, and you manipulate it underwater to make it appear to swim. The technique is particularly useful when insects aren’t hatching, and it often attracts big fish since small ones can’t take on such big prey.
Streamer fishing can be hard to master, and I’m not especially good at it. But with no insects hatching and time running out on my trip, I decided it was my best hope.
Before long, Tim looked downstream toward a wide, shallow flat. “Good streamer water,” he said. He told me to land my fly as close to the bank as possible, let it sink, then strip it back toward us.
After one particular shot, as I was stripping my fly back toward myself, I saw a fish dart out from under the bank and head for it, only to turn away at the last second. Something apparently didn’t seem right to him.
Just a few casts after that, however, a less discerning member of his kind came barreling out from under the bank, made a beeline for my fly, and struck it.
Moments later, I held in my hand a fat, beautiful 21-inch German brown, easily the best fish I’ve caught on a streamer and one of the best I’ve caught, period. Streamer fishermen have a saying: “The tug is the drug.” It refers to the fact that fish tend to eat a streamer with reckless abandon, creating a feeling on the other end of the line like no other. As of that fish, I get it.
The route back to Jackson took me over Teton Pass, an 8,432-foot-high mountain overlook with magical views of the town and the valley it sits in. When I got to the top, I pulled over to the side of the road. A storybook crescent moon had risen above me, and the lights of town glinted below. I turned off the engine, rolled down the windows, and sat there for a while. Just as I had hoped, my anxieties had quieted. My wife and I would get jobs soon thereafter. My father and daughter, I’m happy to report, both fully recovered. But at that moment, none of those things were on my mind. Nothing was.
If You Go
The greater Jackson Hole area has a little something for everyone.
Fishing
Three Rivers Ranch, where Tim Warren works, and Westbank Anglers, the shop Dean Burton guides out of, are two of the top fly-fishing outfitters in the area. Full-day trips, lunch included, start at $600.
Things to Do
Hikers will enjoy the ferry ride across Jenny Lake and the climb to Hidden Falls in Grand Teton National Park; mountain bikers can bomb the trails at Jackson Hole Mountain Resort; and Dave Hansen Whitewater leads scenic river and whitewater rafting trips.
Shopping
Check out the Legacy Gallery, which showcases pieces by local and nationally known artists, and Alpyn Beauty Bar, an apothecary featuring skincare products made from sustainably sourced ingredients grown in the nearby mountains.
Food and Drink
The Snake River Grill is arguably the best restaurant in town (try the signature smoked-salmon potato pancakes with sour cream), and the Million Dollar Cowboy Bar is a kitschy honky-tonk with live music several nights a week.
Lodging
To be near restaurants, galleries, and shops, stay right in Jackson. If you prefer a resort atmosphere, look in Teton Village, about 20 minutes away. To get more off the beaten path, search the nearby towns of Wilson, Wyoming, or Victor or Driggs, Idaho.
About the author: Jon Gluck is an editor at Medium.
