In fishing towns across the west, rumors and tall tales are flowing like cold Bud Light from the tap. Walk into just about any bar in one of these places and you’re likely to find a couple of good ‘ol boys with tattoos of things like elk antlers and American flags trading grainy cell-phone pictures between drags on a Marlboro. Stories lead to fantasies, and who cares if that guy was trolling at ninety feet, you could sure top him on a fly. Then there’s the guy who swears that he can catch ten pound browns whenever he wants. Bullheads are the only way to do it, and if you disagree, your thin cover will be blown and the “oh you’re one of them” comments and “you can’t be serious” looks will rapidly ensue. The conversation might come to a slightly more abrupt end than anticipated and any further prompting of fishing talk might be met with diversion towards ice augers, trolling rigs, or the party for Cody when he gets out of County. When you walk out of there you might have an inclination to dismiss anything they said as redneck rubbish, just a bunch of bubbas having a pissing contest to see whose story was better. (You’ve probably forgotten that just last night you were doing the same thing with a couple of your “civilized” fly-slinging compatriots after a few too many PBR’s.) Try as you might to ignore the outlandish stories, some part is going to stick in your fish-addled brain and bug you until you go prove your superior fishing prowess. And if that does happen, it won’t be until you’ve given up whatever idea it is as hopeless and most likely impossible. For me it was the 100 fish day.
By any measure, 100 fish in a day is an absurd notion. If you were to fish for twelve hours straight, you would need to average just over 8 landed per hour. It doesn’t sound completely out of the question, but when was the last time you fished all day through and had consistent action the entire time? A more realistic fishing day might be more like six to eight hours, in which case your average would have to go up to 12-16 FPH. The more you think about it, the less likely it seems, particularly when you factor in all the time you spend without a fly in the water. The odds certainly aren’t stacked in anyone’s favor on this one. After thinking about it for a while, I decided that it just wasn’t going to happen and so I pushed it somewhere into the “yeah, right” folder in the back of my head.
One unpromising March day a few seasons back, my good friend and usual fishing partner Andrew Drasch and I headed down the Snake River to wet a line. Our choice of area was pretty arbitrary, as neither of us had much of any experience on that river, and pretty much consisted of finding a plowed turnout on the highway and postholing down to the water. With a light snow falling, we worked our way through some runs and side channels until we found a few fish. None of them were all that large, but I’ll be damned if they didn’t go for almost every cast. We both knew it was way too good to be true and wouldn’t last long. With the snowfall steadily increasing and the prospect of a nasty drive home looming in the back of my mind I looked at Andrew and immediately knew the answer. This pod is massive and they’re not done eating. Without a word spoken, we decided we weren’t going anywhere. Whipping midge dry-droppers into a frenzy, we landed cutty after cutty until our gloves were soaked through and fingers lost feeling. Another silent conference and it was decided the fingers would have to wait. Warming them back up later would hurt, but that was later, this action was now and it was happening regardless of how cold we were. We fished until it was too dark to see dries, then switched to double-nymphs on indicators in the fading light and still the fish ate. We were in a war of attrition at that point and finally had to concede defeat when at last it got too dark even for indicators. If we had some of those fancy glow-in-the-dark thingamabobbers, we might have considered fighting on till we froze solid or the fish gave it up. The truly hardened angler might have lobbed streamers in the dark but I suppose everyone’s got a breaking point.
Trudging back to the truck through the driving snow, neither of us said much and it wasn’t until we were well on our way home before our brains thawed enough to comprehend what had transpired. Did we really just do that? Looking back, the numbers just didn’t seem possible. I had stopped counting somewhere around thirty, and that had been early. We’d fished for around five hours, four-ish of which were productive. Andrew had also stopped counting at some point but as we slowly regained our wits it became clear that one of two things had occurred. We had either just landed well over a hundred cuts in that short time or were both suffering from severe hypothermia that was causing hallucinations. Of course the hypothermia idea was immediately thrown out in favor of the 100 fish day. The good ‘ol boys were never going to believe this one.
To this day I’m not sure how many fish we landed, maybe 100, maybe not. It doesn’t really matter though, because I don’t remember every one with their distinct spot patterns, how hard they fought, or which fly they took. They all blend together into the memory of one of the most incredible days an angler can ask for. The frozen fingers, aching arm, and deep stinging line groove all somehow add to it, a badge of honor saying “Yeah, you earned this.” Some days are remembered for tough presentations to picky fish where just one landed makes the day. That day was different, just pure unadulterated fun and earned reward or just dumb luck, I know it won’t come again. Even so, every time I head down the canyon and it’s snowing like hell, a little voice in the back of my mind whispers, “What if?”
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