I’m a bit superstitious. I won’t pick up a penny unless it’s heads up — a lucky penny. When I fly fish, I always make sure I have a lucky penny in my vest, too, along with my lucky ring. And I’ve been very lucky. I’ve broken 22 International Game Fish Association (IGFA) world records, all by fly fishing; 14 of them are still current records. However, the less superstitious would say that luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity. In other words, you make your own luck. If you’re lucky, it can’t hurt to be prepared, too. I can’t tell you how to be lucky, but I can tell you how to prepare for seeking an IGFA world record on a fly rod.
World Records
As luck would have it, the very first king salmon I ever caught on a fly was an IGFA all-tackle length world record. Length records were instituted by the IGFA to promote the release of world record fish and is awarded for the longest fish, not the heaviest, so the fish can be released unharmed, not killed and weighed. I caught my all-tackle length world record in California’s Smith River, once famous for its prolific Chinook runs with fish up to 65 pounds.
After I saw an article with photos of gear fisherman landing 50-pluspound fish on the Smith, I did a little research and hatched a plan. I contacted local guide Andy Martin, who guides for salmon and steelhead on both the Smith River in Northern California and the Chetco River just over the Oregon border. Andy assured me that the Smith River kings could be caught by fly fishing, but explained that the fish hadn’t arrived in big numbers yet. A few weeks later, Andy called to tell me that kings were entering the river. “You might want to get up here right now,” he said. When a fishing guide calls you to tell you that now’s the right time, it’s best to drop everything, hop on a plane, and get your butt there.
A few days later, I found myself at the Ship Ashore Motel in Crescent City, located on the bank of the Smith at the river’s mouth. That night, as the sole patron of the motel’s bar and grill, I began to second-guess my plan, but the good news was that when I asked the bartender if I could watch the Lakers game, he handed me the channel changer. Maybe it was the damp, wet, gloomy December weather, but the whole place took on the vibe of bygone days from a long-lost era. The dusty old Chinook fish mounts on the wall told the story of a once-great fishery that legendary North Coast fly fisher Bill Schaadt said he “never thought would end.” The great Chinook runs did end, 50 years ago, but here I was. Just a vestige of the good old days was all I wished for. I’d be happy with just one fish. It rained all night, a light rain that swelled the river, but luckily didn’t blow it out. As I stood outside the motel before sunrise in the rain, waiting for Andy to pick me up, doubts about my plan crept back in. Maybe this was a colossal waste of time and money. But as we made the short drive to the river, Andy seemed quite optimistic and downright chipper about the day’s prospects.
We arrived in his drift boat at the Cattle Crossing Hole, a couple river miles up from the ocean, shrouded in thick, drizzling mist. Big kings began rolling up and down the pool, and that got my heart racing. Silvery-fresh from the ocean, they most likely had arrived on last night’s tide. I hooked up on my very first cast and immediately felt a massive pull. The fish ran up and down the pool four times, as if deciding what to do, then bolted downstream, toward the sea. We followed the fish for over a mile, the ensuing tug-of-war with my 11-weight rod and tarpon reel lasting almost an hour before Andy slid the net under it. He rowed to shore, and we measured and photographed the fish: 111 centimeters, nose to tail fork. After I held that great fish by its broom-sized tail and watched it swim away, I exhaled and looked around. The clouds had dissipated, and the low December sun was shining. It was a moment and a catch I’ll never forget.
That fish held the early Chinook catch-and-release all-tackle length world record from 2011 until 2015, when Stephen Selway caught and measured a 116-centimeter king from the Yelcho River in Chile, a record that stands to this day.
The IGFA created the all-tackle length world record category in 2011, offering anglers a catch-and-release world record opportunity for 174 species of freshwater and saltwater fish “chosen specifically for ability to be safely handled and released alive.” To qualify, the fish must be released and “swim away on their own and in good condition.” The use of gaffs to land fish is prohibited, and nets must not exceed eight feet in length. Using a rubber net minimizes removal of the fish’s scales. A good rule when handling the fish responsibly, as the record category encourages, is to hold your breath for as long as you hold the fish out of water.
Last year, the IGFA added a new catch-and-release category specifically for fly fishing: the all-tackle length fly world record. The name is an oxymoron, because the fish must be caught while adhering to strict IGFA fly-fishing rules, with a maximum tippet strength of 20 pounds. Existing all-tackle length world record fish that were caught by fly fishing were automatically converted to the new category.
To claim an all-tackle length fly world record, a fish must be measured and photographed on an official IGFA measuring device, which is essentially a giant tape measure in centimeters with a right-angle plastic stop on one end where the fish’s nose is placed. To break an existing record, the fish must measure a least two centimeters more than the existing record. A fish equal in length to the existing record or one measuring less than two centimeters longer is considered a tie. A fish that measures between centimeter increments is counted at the lower increment. For documentation, photos of the full length of the fish on the measuring device, clearly showing the nose and the tail, the angler with the fish, and the rod and reel used for the catch are required. In addition to the photos, I always take a video of the release to show that the fish swam away alive and well.
Lessons Learned
The first time I fly fished for steelhead was with Andy on Oregon’s Chetco River. Very early in the morning, he trailered the drift boat down a ridiculously steep, rutted-out dirt road to the put-in near the headwaters. Once he launched the boat, he maneuvered only about 50 feet downstream and anchored. The river canyon was in deep shade, and the run was filled with frothing white water. “Cast upstream, just past that log, and let it drift down,” he said. On the third cast, the indicator shot down just as it passed the log. The fish sped downstream into the backing. Andy pulled the anchor, and we chased it. When the fish settled down a bit, Andy beached the boat, and I jumped out to fight from shore. Once I applied more pressure, the fish went berserk, darted all over the place, then shook off the hook. I turned to Andy and said, “I don’t think it was that big,” trying to console myself. But Andy knew better. “That was a big steelhead,” he replied.
The weather turned clear and sunny, and for the rest of the day, the next day, and the final day of my trip, we didn’t get another bite. The fish of a thousand casts, indeed.
A year later, when I got a call from Andy, my ears perked up. “If you can get up here right now, I think you’ll do pretty well fly fishing.” The river was running low and clear, but one of Andy’s guides, Rye Phillips, who specializes in fly fishing, knew where the steelhead were stacked up like cordwood, anxiously waiting for the river to rise so they could push upstream. I made it up to Brookings, Oregon, at the mouth of the Chetco River, by the end of the week.
Rye launched the boat before sunrise, and I felt as if we were on a stealthy Navy SEAL operation to get to the spot without anyone knowing our whereabouts. Rye brought along his trusty black Lab, Sockeye, whom I immediately considered a good luck charm. The fish were right where Rye thought they’d be, shimmering silver bullets barely visible through watery windowpanes in the glare.
I’ve always said that rule number one is find the fish. And for any fish, your hookup odds increase exponentially if you can sight fish. Andy was right. In three days of sight fishing, drifting nymphs, I hooked 21 steelhead and landed 12. And I caught a 20-pound king as a bonus.
When we’d catch a big steelhead, Rye would hold it on my IGFA measuring device, and I’d take a quick photo. Our longest measured 75 centimeters to the tail fork, a tie for the all-tackle length catch-and-release record at the time. Since steelhead can’t be easily differentiated from rainbow trout, the IGFA places them both in the same category: rainbow trout.
The current IGFA all-tackle length rainbow trout world record is a real whopper: 94 centimeters, from the Ohau River, in New Zealand, caught by Mark Armistead in 2020 on a Glo Bug using a spinning rod and reel. Today, the all-tackle length fly world record stands at 78 centimeters, caught by James Schmid at Jurassic Lake, Argentina in 2021. My guess is the record will fall to a steelhead sometime soon.
In the summer, Rye works with Andy and guides out of Gustavus, Alaska, a city so remote it can be reached only by boat or plane, even though it’s only 45 miles east of Juneau, the state capital. In the summer of 2014, Rye guided 76-yearold Jack McGuire to a barn-door-sized halibut that would have shattered the existing all-tackle world record by 23 pounds, if numerous IGFA rules hadn’t been violated. (The all-tackle world record is the heaviest fish of a particular species caught either by conventional or fly techniques.) From Rye’s experience with these rule violations, I learned about mistakes to avoid.
Jack and his three friends went out with Captain Rye on a 28-foot charter boat, and Rye dropped anchor in 130 feet of water at Icy Strait, just north of the mouth of Glacier Bay, near Lemesurier Island. Rye sent down a big chunk of octopus on a size 16/0 circle hook, using 100-pound line with a 240-pound leader, and dangled it right off the bottom. It wasn’t long until Jack was hooked up. The enormous fish soon tired Jack, who handed off the rod to one of his buddies to rest his arms. Then the rod was handed back to him. This was the first rule violation. According to the IGFA: “From the time that a fish strikes or takes a bait or lure, the angler must hook, fight, and land or boat the fish without the aid of another person.” Once the fish is ready to be landed, other persons are allowed to touch only the leader, and for this kind of record, one person (or more persons) can gaff the fish.
After an extended battle, when it was time to boat the monster, Rye used his .410 shotgun to subdue the fish (another violation), as was his habit for monster halibut, to prevent injuries to passengers on the boat deck. Then he harpooned the fish to pull it on board (another violation — only gaffs or nets are allowed).
The colossal halibut weighed 482 pounds and measured 95 inches in length, but the current world record still stands at 459 pounds, caught by Jack Tragis at Dutch Harbor, Alaska, in June 1996. I’m somewhat familiar with that fish, since every time I walk by the bronze replica of it that’s displayed at Anchorage International Airport, I pose for a picture standing next to it.
Lesson learned: to break an IGFA world record, you’ve got to be prepared before you catch it by knowing the rules and knowing the specific documentation that’s required. The IGFA’s International Angling Rules and World Record Requirements, including their International Flyfishing Rules, are detailed at their website (www.igfa.org) and in their annual World Record Game Fishes publication.
Tippet Class Records
My first world record was a tippet class record for sockeye salmon. After I explained to my wife what I was up to, she asked, “How much is this going to cost?” “Not that much,” I sheepishly replied. The actual costs are: IGFA annual membership, $50; annual scale certification, $40; IGFA measuring device, $55; and world record application fee, $50.
For fly fishing, the IGFA offers tippet class world records for 70 freshwater and 126 saltwater fish species, a record based solely on the weight of the fish. There are seven tippet classes for each species: 2, 4, 6, 8, 12, 16, and 20 pounds, and there are both men and women’s records for each tippet class. The actual tippet class categories are set using the metric system (1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 8, and 10 kilograms) which actually correspond to 2.2, 4.4, 6.61, 8.81, 13.22, 17.63, and 22.04 pounds, so in fact, the line can test up to the kilogram rating.
The fish must be weighed on a certified scale. Your scale can be precertified by sending it to the IGFA for testing, a certification that is good for one year. Or you can send your scale in after-the-fact for testing by the IGFA.

The best weighing method, sanctioned by the IGFA, is simply to weigh the fish in a big rubber net, then subtract the weight of the net. Hanging a fish by the jaw to weigh it on a Boga Grip-style scale is considered a big no-no, because this can seriously harm the fish.
Two “disinterested” witnesses of the catch and the weighing are preferred by the IGFA. A measurement of the length and girth of the fish is also required.
The IGFA details the photo requirements for tippet class records as follows: “Photographs showing the full length of the fish, the rod and reel used to make the catch, and the scale used to weigh the fish must accompany each record application. A photograph of the angler with the fish is also required.” The IGFA says, “When photographing a fish lying on its side, the surface beneath the fish should be smooth and a ruler or marked tape placed beside the fish if possible.” I’ve had good results for IGFA tippet records by measuring and photographing the length of the fish using the IGFA measuring device, then taking a photo of the girth measurement using a tape measure. The IGFA also likes to see a photograph of the fish as it’s being weighed.
To qualify for a tippet class record, you’ll need to send in your entire leader, with fly attached. The “class tippet,” which is the tippet that will be tested, must be at least 15 inches in length, measured inside the adjoining knots. If you’re fishing for toothy fish, you’re allowed to use a “shock tippet” (aka “bite tippet”) of any material (for example, wire is OK) and any breaking strength, but it must be no longer than 12 inches, measured from the eye of the hook to the class tippet, including the knot joining the shock tippet to the class tippet.
When submitting your record, you must decide which tippet class (based on the manufacturer’s tippet strength rating) you’re applying for. The IGFA will test the tippet strength. If it overtests its class, your application can be considered for the next-heaviest line class. If it undertests, the submission will not be considered for the lower class.
IGFA angler recognition coordinator Nick Haddad explains how tippet strength is tested: “We test the line five times with an Instron Model 5543 Tensile Strength machine. This machine is the cream of the crop when it comes to measuring tensile strength. The average of those five breaks determines the line’s actual breaking strength, and the line class that a record catch will be placed in.” For fly-fishing tippet class records, the fish must weigh at least one-half the tippet’s breaking strength. For example, for the 20-pound tippet class record, the f ish must weigh a minimum of 10 pounds. If you’re serious about a record for a particular tippet class, IGFA members can send in a tippet sample to have it pretested ($40).
To defeat an existing record for fish weighing 25 pounds or less, the fish must weigh at least two ounces more than the existing record. A catch that matches the weight or beats it by less than two ounces is considered a tie. To break an existing record for fish weighing more than 25 pounds, the new record must weigh at least one-half of 1 percent more than the existing fish.
Have a Plan
What initially drew me to Alaska, and in particular, to the Kenai River, was the world-record-sized fish (king, sockeye, and pink salmon). My research had suggested that it held the potential for a world record for pink salmon. But when I asked a local Kenai fisherman, “Do you know of any good pink salmon spots?” he looked at me like I was crazy. “Why would you want to catch pink salmon?” he replied. Most Alaska residents are meat fishers, fishing to fill their freezers, and they’re picky. Some prefer the flavor of sockeye, others coho, but the flesh of pinks is considered subpar by connoisseurs. However, being from California, where salmon are all but extinct, I especially enjoy fly fishing for pinks because of their eagerness to bite. Of the five species of Pacific salmon (pink, red, silver, chum, and king), pinks are by far the most aggressive toward a fly.
On the Kenai River, pinks run every other year on even-numbered years, their in-river numbers peaking during the month of August. Their run is the most prolific salmon run on the river, estimated at three million fish returning to spawn, with females averaging four pounds and males six pounds.
It turned out that I had been lucky. When I arrived in Alaska in August 2016, I saw an article in the Peninsula Clarion about unusually large pink salmon being caught. “We’ve observed this in the in-river sport fishery and confirmed for sure in the commercial fishery,” fisheries biologist Jason Pawluk was quoted as saying. “The pound average per fish is an order of magnitude difference than it has been in previous years.”
The reason for the larger-sized pinks wasn’t exactly clear. Some attributed it to climate change and warmer water conditions. The total size of the run was only about 30 percent of normal, so some theorized that with two million fewer fish, the 2016 fish, which had been in salt water for two years, simply had more to eat in the ocean and therefore grew much larger than normal.
A local fly-fishing guide turned me on to a spot on the Kenai River that, when the water level and timing were right, was just loaded with pinks. It was essentially a huge back eddy in a side channel from the main stem where the water flowed clockwise, like water draining down a sink, in the opposite direction from the main current. The pinks would stack up in the pool, facing into the current, resting and rejuvenating before continuing their upriver journey.
There was only one problem: others knew about the spot, too — in particular, three guys from Philadelphia who spent every day of their 10-day Alaskan vacation fishing at the pool, and they got up early. They staked out the sweet spot, “the bucket,” where they’d get the best drift. The only time they weren’t hooked up was when they were taking a break.
I remembered them because they were also there two years ago, at the very same pool, when I arrived to fish it and found them already there. I had taken a cordial approach and asked them if I could fish the far end.
“Look,” one of them said, “I’m fishing here, Joe is fishing right there, and Bill will be right over there, got it?”
But having a plan pays off. I decided just to watch and see what they were doing, because it was obviously working, and I learned a lot from those guys. Most of the time, all three were hooked up simultaneously. Rather than cast and strip flies, which often results in foul-hooked fish in such a heavily populated pool, they were drifting streamers under strike indicators, roll casting with switch rods, since the shoreline trees didn’t allow for a back cast. That way, all hookups were actual biters, eliminating the arm-exhausting exercise of reeling in foul-hooked fish in the heavy current, which can be especially arduous if the fish makes a run out into the stronger main current. I watched as they caught pink after pink, with an occasional silver. Once they all had their limits of silvers (two each) they’d call it a day, usually by midafternoon.
So in 2016, in search of my record pink, and knowing their predictable schedule, I’d arrive midafternoon, wait for them to leave, then have the pool all to myself. Then I’d fish until late evening — it’s still light at 10:00 p.m. in Alaska in August.
Unlike a pool filled with trout that are easily put down by heavy pressure, here, fresh throngs of pinks would arrive every hour, replacing those that had moved on upriver, replenishing the pool with eager fish. Once I figured out the logistics and adopted my plan, in f ive days of fishing spread out over two weeks, that one honey hole produced five new pink salmon tippet class records (for the 6, 8, 12, 16, and 20-pound tippet classes), with pinks weighing from 10 to 11-3/4 pounds and a new all-tackle length world record (70 centimeters), which is now the current all-tackle length fly world record for pink salmon. A key to the whole operation was invaluable assistance from my wife, Yvonne, in netting, measuring, weighing, and photographing the fish. “There’s a lot of pressure on the netter,” when it comes to netting big fish in heavy current, she always says.
The Anchorage Daily News reported that in 2016, the Kenai saw the largest pink salmon in 42 years. Luckily, I’d found myself at the right spot at the right time, then figured out how best to exploit my luck.
The IGFA
The IGFA is the only international organization responsible for all saltwater and freshwater angling world records. It was formed in 1939, but it wasn’t until 1978 that the IGFA established the fly-fishing category, starting records handed down to them by Field and Stream magazine, which had compiled the fly-fishing records up to that point.
In the United States, a competing organization, the Fresh Water Fishing Hall of Fame and Museum, also compiles what it calls the “World Fresh Water Sportfishing Records of North America,” but once I investigated it, I found no comparison between the organizations. For the quality of their website, publications, and the magnitude and gravitas of their records, the IGFA really is the gold standard. But if I’m ever in Hayward, Wisconsin, I’ll definitely stop by and check out the Freshwater Hall of Fame’s 143-foot long, four-story-high, walk-through muskie sculpture and get a picture standing next to their fiberglass bluegill the size of a dinghy. They do offer fly-fishing catch-and-release records for a variety of tippet classes per species (2, 4, 6, 8, 10, 12, 16, and “unlimited” pounds, which is an interesting concept), but I found their requirement of a “clear non-digital photo” to be a bit archaic, and their statement about their catch-and-release records being “largely an honor program” gives them less clout.
Ernest Hemingway was one of the IGFA’s founding fathers and was the organization’s vice president from 1940 until his death in 1961. During the 1940s and 1950s, he relished time on his beloved boat Pilar off the Cuban coast and found respite from the pressures of writing on the sea, fishing for marlin and sailfish. It’s been said that Hemingway’s greatest catches would have shattered world records, but since he was an IGFA vice president, he wasn’t allowed to hold any official records.
Hemingway’s accumulating physical and mental struggles, exacerbated by his hard drinking, led to his suicide in 1961, at Ketchum, Idaho. His Cuban compatriots collected the Pilar’s anchors, chains, and propellers to have them melted down for sculptor Fernando Martin, who cast a bust of Hemingway that now stares out from the safe harbor of Cojimar, past the moss-covered stone walls of an old Spanish fort, toward Hemingway’s “great blue river” of the Gulf Stream.Hemingway realized that sport fishing really isn’t a sport. He wrote: “There are only three sports, mountain climbing, motor racing, and bull fighting, all others being games.” Fly fishing really is just a game, and the rules are the ones we make for ourselves. But to chase world records, you’ve got to play by the IGFA rules of the game. And either be lucky or make your own luck.