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Welcome to Fly Fish Online!
Welcome to Fly Fish Online, The Ultimate Fly Fishing Community! Feel free to post your introduction in the Message Boards then start posting questions, fishing reports, tips and everything related to fly fishing!
By registering to the site you will have access to the message board topics, private communications with other members, fishing reports, polls, articles, and access to many other special fly fishing related features.
This is a multi-species on the fly fishing website so it does not matter which species you prefer, we here at Fly Fish Online want to hear about it!
Fly Fishing
Contrary to popular belief, fly fishing does not involve casting bits of carrion attached to strings out into sweltering summer air in the hopes of catching flies. If you guessed that fly fishing involves using something that looks or acts like a fly, you're mostly correct. Basically, when one is fly fishing, one uses a lure shaped like a fish's natural prey - for instance, an insect that has gotten caught in the current of a stream - in order to excite the animal out of hiding. These lures are called "flies," and they are attached to a hook or set of hooks. There's no bait involved, only carefully constructed simulations. That's right - no gooey worm mess, no chopped up bits of clam, no having to worry about whether or not you cleaned out your tackle box.
There's a bit more skill involved in fly fishing than just slapping some kind of meat on a hook and tossing it into the water, but this is all part of the fun. Before you can even start fishing, you have to either construct or purchase the fly-lures, which can be somewhat time consuming but is generally not very expensive. Originally, these lures were made out of feathers or fur tied to a hook, which was then attached to a very thin, tapering line called a “tippet,” which may be as much as two to three meters (6 to 9 feet) in length.
The fisherman (or woman!) casts the rod back and forth, causing the "fly" - that is, the lure - to whirl around in the water, imitating the prey of the target fish (which is quite often than not trout or a related species). This is done by basically using the weight of the line to “throw” the lure into the water, without a horrendous splash. Instead, the fly lands gracefully – and stealthily – so that the fish never know what hit them!
Fly fishing rods can be anywhere between six feet (two meters) long and fourteen feet (four meters) long, and are constructed from a variety of materials. Earlier in the history of fly fishing, rods were made of greenheart or bamboo, both relatively flexible types of wood. In modern times, it is more common to see fiberglass or graphite fishing rods. Graphite rods are probably the most versatile, as they can run the gamut of high-performance, ultra light rods to the heavy-duty sal*****er fishing rods that can withstand rough surf, high winds, and enormously heavy fish.
Of course, this is only the very beginning. There’s lots more information to be had on this exciting sport. Now that you’ve gotten your feet wet, check out the navigation links to the right and let’s jump right in!
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The sticky myth of head cement |
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The sticky myth of head cementUsing head cement to put that finishing touch on your perfect fly is a relatively new idea. As far as I can determine, using head cement to secure the head wrappings on a fly is somewhere between 30 and 50 years old.
Frederic Halford, Theodore Gordon, and Charles Cotton never used it. Certainly not Dame Juliana Berners—our first writer on the subject of flies and fly fishing. Even if they thought about it, our earliest fly fishing legends would probably figure they were too busy tying their flies with their fingertips and then tying them onto horse hair next to a stream to bother with another impediment to getting on with the fishing.
I stopped using head cement entirely when I began tying flies on the streamside. Things got too urgent next to the water to bother with the extra step of applying glue. Also, whenever I did think about glue, it had dried to a substance resembling bullet-proof glass. Today, on all flies No. 2 through 24, fresh or sal*****er, I leave the glue off.
To be sure, the first time I abstained for gluing my flies, I was filled with some angst, like that fateful moment when dad removed the training wheels off my first bike. My first concern was that the flies would unravel after the first fish or snag, leaving me with a fly all tangled up in its own devices with herl and wire and hackle creating a spectacle that even a fish would find amusing.
But after four years of not using cement, I’ve never had a fly head unravel. I figured I’d lose the fly to a fish or to a bad cast or just become disinterested in the pattern before the head unraveled. As it turns out, the amount of thread and the whip finish knot are more than enough to secure material as is—which may be one reason why early golf manufacturers used this knot with no additional glue to secure the heads of their heavy wood drivers and fairway woods.
In the process, I've learned to devote more attention to other parts of the fly that we all know unravel far too often—material tied in at the tail. There I’ll often use tighter wraps, single hitches or counter-wound wire to secure material I suspect will cause trouble on the water.
Now there might be a few exceptions. Bulkier flies tied with stacks of deer hair, calf tail or similar heavy material might need a little glue to help secure the materials. Maybe. But here, too, I’ve learned to use half hitches throughout the tying process of these flies, where I know that broken thread during the tying process is all too common. And I guess I can’t argue with those who tie flies with epoxy-formed bodies. Obviously these kinds of flies need some serious glue.
There are other advantages to glue-less fly tying. I no longer need to devise increasingly clever ways to deliver the glue. I grew tired of constantly cleaning off the little needles of built up glue. I tried small syringes because I had seen others do this, but I could never figure out how to keep the needles free of dried glue. More often then not, I would end up soaking the head of the fly with too much glue, necessitating a minor cleaning operation on the stream while tying the tippet on, usually followed by the foulest language a fish ever heard after the tiniest piece of dried glue that remained severed the knot.
I have no real technique to pass along other than leaving off the head cement. One thing I sometimes do is make four wraps on the head followed by two more on top of these. I suspect even this is unnecessary, however, especially on the smaller flies. I don’t wrap additional thread on the head either, thinking more thread secures more material. In fact, through the years, I’ve been decreasing substantially the amount of thread at this point. In the process I save a good deal of time that I add into tying the next fly.
--Toney J. Sisk
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If the wading boot fits . . . |
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If the wading boot fits . . . I have never stepped into a pair of wading boots that I didn't want to jump out of immediately. Take a walk through any fly shop or take a peek at a popular flyfishing catalog, and you'll find dozens of flyfishing boots. These boots have always made me wonder, Are people fishing with these boots or backpacking?
To be sure, flyfishing boots do have some good uses. They help protect you from a rattlesnake bite. And they do keep you from walking over rocks and sticks with just neoprene. Other than that, I've found them far too expensive, superfluous and uncomfortable. Let's look at this more carefully.
If the wading boot doesn't fit . . .First things first: how the boot fits is very important, which is especially true of sports. A boot or shoe not fitting well will impact your sport sooner than the shoe you wear under your desk at work. If you need some arch support, or a snug heel or a wide toe area, it makes a lot of sense to expect it from a wading boot or shoe as much as from a running shoe, say, or just a simple walking shoe. We fisherman walk a lot over uneven tough terrain, and we shouldn't expect anything less than the right fit around our feet.
The second criteria of a good boot is cost. We want the best quality we can afford, with nothing too expensive and silly that the marketing department threw in. I suppose, this is pretty much how we approach any buying decision, so you've learned nothing new here.
Now, what if we had the most comfortable boot possible--at no cost. This would be even better. One solution, wear your running or walking shoes into the current, then dry them in the drier afterwards. Possible. But your wife will come running down the stairs worrying that a cat got left in the drier. She might even think less of old shoes being dried in the drier. Better, wear somebody else's shoes into the current. Hmm. . . .
If the other person's shoe fits . . .Like a lot of people, I bought my first wading boot, which didn't fit when I bought my next waders. This is a pretty typical pattern: the shoes will always outlast the wader, then fits poorly when you buy a new wader with a stocking foot of a different thickness. So I started shopping for a new boot, until my brother offered to hand me down some running shoes that didn't fit him right, thinking quite naturally that I would be running in them. They turned out to be two sizes too large, until I looked at my hanging waders, and got a thought.
I put on the waders and put on the shoes, and my feet immediately went into foot heaven at the thought of effortless walking and wading. Being a backpacker, I knew I didn't need the typical wading boots, bulky, thick, excessively supportive. I'm carrying a wading vest, a pole, and 300 flies, and maybe a protein bar--not an expedition pack. I don't need that much support, not even over rough terrain.
If the wading shoe could be made to fit . . .My mind immediately went to work configuring the shoe for water work. You can't simply wear a walking or running shoe into the water and expect a good experience. They have to be made slip proof, and...well...that's about it. But there are a few other things to keep in mind when making a running shoe or wading shoe fit to be fished in.
Suddenly finding myself in a frugal and resourceful (OK, cheap) state of mind, I didn't want to buy wading felt for $10. So I looked around for the right piece of carpeting to do the work. Not all carpeting is right, as I learned. Outdoor carpeting, resembling thin green felt, is too thin and tears apart too easily after a month or so on the water. Home carpeting is often too thick. I didn't want to fish with any more water soaked in than I needed to. So I settled on discarded pieces of carpeting from work used to carpet my office. This turned out to be thin and tough enough for the job. Look around. You'll find something. When you do, stash away a few yards, enough to last a few lifetimes. (Don't let your wife find it, or it'll disappear into the garbage, probably out of vengeance for smelling up her drier.)
The best glue I could find was the stuff used for the usual felt job: barge cement. I begrudgingly bought a few tubes of this. (Ok, so my wading shoes did end up costing the price of glue.) One more thing I needed was a heavy duty rug cutter, like a box cutter or heavy duty scissors. When the job is complete, the rug pieces will probably last a couple of seasons, with some minor repairs or gluing up of edges along the way. One tip: Cut out a cardboard pattern to use as a template for cutting sole pieces from the carpeting, and then stash the template away for future use. You'll save yourself a ton of time when it comes to tearing off the old rotted rug piece and gluing on a new one.
Now, cruising the internet, you'll find wading shoes that are built upon comfortable walking shoes and even nice contoured sandals. A good alternative, at a hefty price. Buy these if you want comfort and don't want to spend a half hour peeling dried glue off your finger tips.
I prefer to craft my own, though. For me, flyfishing is a sport that encourages me to think how I can make something work before I buy something. (Like the Styrofoam float tube I made once . . . well, let's not go there.).
Now, a critical part part of the shoe crafting is crafting new friends. These are the people who wear a shoe two sizes larger than yours. Never lose touch with them. Make sure they are on your Christmas list. Send them the presents you don't like, such as the flyfishing tie, the flyfishing belt, the flyfishing underwear (actually, save those). Be sure to ask them if their shoe size has changed (So you know who to take off your Christmas list). Maybe bring your kids over to their house on occasion. Remind him that all he needs to do is throw his old shoes in the corner of the garage for a later pickup. If they move, offer to pay Federal Express for regular shoe deliveries.
In time, you'll get as good at this. You'll know who has what type of running shoe you want, like a sturdy Brooks running shoe size 12, with a nylon mesh that dries quickly, helps drain water, and is lighter in weight. Be careful though, or you'll get an elbow in your side from your wife at a party if you ask, like I did, how old someone's shoe is, and mildly suggest they look pretty old and maybe he should look at the shoe sale at the outlet mall. Oh, and don't think you can save money on wading shoes by picking something cheap up at a shoe store for a glue job. I dare you to go into a snooty shoe store with your waders in hand and start trying on shoes. I dare you.
--Toney J. Sisk
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Casting thoughts |
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Casting thoughtsThese are a few of my attitudes on casting (actually, my only thoughts). I don't want to give you basic instruction on casting. I'm really not that good of a caster. I know some will say that just to show their modesty, but really, I'm only mediocre. There are many sites devoted to casting, some good, more that are bad, and some terrible--and many, many books, thousands of books spanning almost 400 years. For an excellent treatise on the sport and art of casting, look at the Fly Casting Forum.
Here are just a few things I've learned along the way, in case you're asking.
Stop fishingFishing is the worst time to practice your casting. The point I want to make is that you need to practice correctly and consistently.
By "correctly," I mean you need to practice like many sports suggest, frequently, but not too long. This last point is important. If you want to learn how to cast well, practice for only short periods, say a half hour. And only practice one or two things you want to work on. If you practice past the point when you start getting tired and bored, you are only training your brain bad habits. And we all know how tricky the brain is and how easily it gets deceived and coerced into bad patterns.
On Monday, say, work on a having a strong, straight wrist that doesn't bend too far toward your backcast, making sure your grip on the fly rod handle doesn't go past your ear, which would cause the fly line to drop down too far behind you. As you practice this, watch the fly line travel straight back behind you, and maybe up a little.
On Wednesday, work on your line hand, focusing on keeping the line taught and in control. Or maybe work on long distance casting. Or maybe work on perfecting your timing, matching the power of your stroke with the distance the stroke travels. Or maybe have some real fun and practice getting the highest backcast you can, maybe a cast nearly vertical behind you. It can be done. On occasion, I've been able to cast 30 feet of line with my back to the wall of my house. (And I've also had to to get the ladder out to retrieve a few flies from the shingles.) Or maybe have even more fun keeping circles and helixes of line in the air with 10 feet of line, 20 feet of line, 30 feet, until it all collapses around you. You can actually learn some good things about control this way. Or maybe work on your accuracy by casting to hoola hoops in the yard like the pros so that you can hit those difficult spots between the weeds on your favorite lake. On Friday . . . well, skip Friday, and just go fishing over the weekend.
You don't need to practice like this all the time. But if you do this for a month, say, your casting will remarkably improve.
Play in the windStrong winds will cause you to rethink everything, which will cause you to focus on basics even more carefully. Many flyfishers stay home when they know the winds will be strong.
But this is one of the best times to be out. True, it is harder to fish in a float tube in a strong wind, but you can anchor your tube, or cast from shore--an unfortunate lost art (See the next section). If you are fishing tight to shore in a river, use a held roll cast. I invented this cast, as well as a thousand other flyfishers. When the line is behind you in a normal roll cast, hold half of the loop back by reaching over with your non-casting hand. This will keep the loop in place just prior to the forward cast. The wind will play less with the line.
In stronger winds, my favorite trick is to position myself so that a modest length of line, say 20 feet, is being lofted and held in the air by the wind, like a flag waving in front of you in the position of a back cast. Then cast the line sharply forward, and toward the surface of the water. A normal backcast isn't required since the wind is holding the line up for you. Make your loops a little tighter than usual to rifle the line into the wind a little better. You can afford to hit the water a little harder than usual, without creating a mild explosion on the water. Unlike a calm day, the fish won't be as startled by a hard cast.
Cast from shoreCasting from the shores of a lake or river will put to test the above two lessons you've learned. Primarily, it will test your ability to keep a firm wrist during the backcast so that you can keep the line very high behind you.
There are lots of bushes and hills behind you, so keep that cast high. With practice, you can cast with a 20 to 30-foot high behind you.
Casting from lake shores is a tremendous way to focus on fish. It is much like fishing a river, except generally in a lake, fish are cruising and moving in your direction, hopefully, so it is easier to spot them.
Stop castingOne final thought: stop casting and start fishing. You practice casting so you don't have to think too much about casting while you are fishing. Concentrating on the fishing is hard enough without worrying about whether your wrist is firm enough, or your back cast is high enough, or your shoulder is square enough, or your foot placement is right (which it never is anyway when you are fishing), or your face is staring at your wrist at the end of good backcast. In time, any corrections to your casting will happen automatically as the fishing happens.
--Toney J. Sisk
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A fly by any other name |
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A fly by any other name What is it about the other person's fly? Anglers are always asking what I have on, as if my fly is somehow better than what they have on. I'm not one to take the familiar stance that mine is buggier than yours. So I at least try to be helpful by describing the fly rather than naming it, which usually doesn't help the conversation much.
"Well, it has a pheasant filoplume feather for the tail, the little dangling feather at the base of the broad tail feathers, with the same tail feather half palmered over herl . . . ," and so on. I love to tie flies from the skin of a pheasant. Such a huge and beautiful skin with dozens of unique types of feathers that have never seen a hook and thread. I'm not even sure filoplume is found on a pheasant, or maybe it is just a type of down feather, but it is the only name I have for the frailest feathers buried deep beneath the tail feathers of a pheasant.
"What do you call it?" Here, I always have to pause. I guess I should give it a name since I fish it all the time and catch about every fish that swims, including ocean sculpins, flounders, brook trout, bass and crappie. "Uh, the Predator."
"Really?"
"Yep."
"Cool. How you tie it again?" This is when I try to find an exit out of the conversation as soon as possible. Not because I don't want to talk or get along. I really do. But half a life ago my fly tying started to diverge into a unique personal style that just about everyone puzzles at when I happen to share a fly tying moment. In truth, though, anyone who has tied flies as long as I have, develops their own style and approaches, if they aren't too committed to the usual. Wait. That is a good name for a fly, The Usual. Well, I guess not. Its taken.
Me, I don't name a fly until the fly has proven itself. And even then, I won't name a fly until I actually like the fly. Let's face it: under most cir*****stances just about any random collection of fur and feathers and even lint from your navel will catch fish under some cir*****stances (maybe under most, but I don't dare go down this road too far with myself or you).
I once tied a fly using fur from my cat and a feather I found from a duck pond. I spun some deer hair on with other materials I don't recall, and made the whole furry contraption as big and stupid looking as possible. (I was reminded of a bass bug pattern called a hair ball.) This is nothing nature ever intended. Then I went out in search of bass. Within 15 minutes I had my bass. I never fished that fly again, and to be honest I don't know if it is because I felt ashamed, or if I didn't like the unacceptable implications that tying totally random stupid idiot flies has for my sport, or because of the complexities of the random and chaotic tying procedures I couldn't ever duplicate the fly. And I'll be damned if I reach into my navel again to retrieve dubbing material.
I guess, If you name a fly, then you can't conveniently forget a fly. Now the Predator is one of only a few flies I have chosen to name, and the only reason I named it was because I gave it to someone, and I needed a way to talk about the fly. If I said something like, "Hey how did that fly work, with the pheasant rump, herl, and filoplume?" he would probably stop bringing beer. Naming things is part of communication and relationships, sort of the socio/philosophy of flyfishing nomenclature.
The last thing I want to do is give names to flies with slight variations from the original. An Adams is an Adams is an Adams, whether the tail has chicken feathers or moose hair. And you don't call it the Western Adams, or Tom, Dick or Harry's Adams just because you have cloned it for fast moving western streams. It is the only decent thing to do. Now, you wouldn't catch someone doing this with such a venerable fly as an Adams, but you see it on other flies all the time. This must have something to do with our deep desire to announce ourselves to the world, to leave a mark, to belong to something or, more likely, to let everyone know you belong to something important.
Now there is an opposite tendency which is perfectly OK, I think. I tie a few standard patterns, such as an Adams. But it is not the usual Adams. I segment the grey muskrat body with the olive tying thread, and I build up the thorax fairly thick with the muskrat right up to the eye before wrapping the brown and grizzly hackle through the muskrat. Then I clip the underside of the hackle so the fly's body lies flush on the water. The point is it is still an Adams, just tweaked to suit. I don't get cute and call it a Clipped Adams or Adams Emerger or Wayward Adams.
If I started naming my flies I would go through an entire dictionary of words. I have thousands of flies I've tied over the years. I have fly boxes everywhere in my house. I don't dare give them away because they are historical, or better, to use a modern cool word, archival. Well, at least they have memories.
Besides, and this is the most important reason I have for not naming all my flies: My flies are in an eternal state of flux. I never tie the same fly twice, except for a few rare standby flies that I need when all else fails (like the Adams, woolly bugger, cahil, that kind of thing). I’m always experimenting, and coming up with that unique fly that no one has ever seen (like everyone else who has tied flies for longer than a few decades). And once you tweak a fly, older versions just fill up my fly box until I need to clean house or until someone comes along who wants to learn fly fishing. Fly fishing, I suspect, is like baseball or golf in that 50 to 90 percent of the success is a function of the fly fisher's confidence, respect, obsession in little things like the new way you tied in the tail in the fly you have on. Most of this is silly of course and non-founded, but if it keeps your head in the game, why not?
Another mild and barely defensible argument can be made for not naming flies. If you name a fly, you become committed to tying the same pattern over and over again, and maybe not adjust your flies to the water conditions and insects on the water. Maybe that's why I tend to tie fluffy nymphs and trim them along the stream with a pair of scissors I keep in a vest pocket. And maybe that's why I sometimes have a hard time communicating with other flyfishers I meet along the stream.
"Whatchausing?"
"Uhh, mayfly pattern..."
"Really, which one?"
"Uh, Royal Adams." I can sense their brain twisting after something like this. An Adams with a red belly, hmmm. I can see them at the bench that night trying to tie one up.
Or I'll get even nastier. "Well, its a male zug bug pattern."
"I didn't know they had a male zug pattern."
"Oh, yeah. The males are emerging right now. See? Look there. Male patterns are getting pretty popular now. See ya. Enjoy the fishing." Something like that. I wish I could tell them that a gender-specific searching pattern makes no sense, unlike tying a male trico pattern that some tiers do.
Then there are the other folks who have tied every fly that exists, and have all those flies with them, and ten thousand more with as many names. I call them the analytic anglers. Never mind that they are catching more fish than I. That's not the point. The point is . . . well, I'm not sure what the point is, but they can be difficult people to fish with sometimes.
"Whatchagoton?" I asked stupidly of a particularly obsessive fishing friend of mine.
"Well, I started out with a #14 flavilinea nymph, poxyback green drake, then jumped to a darker olive emerger with some olive badger, until I realized that flav duns were coming off, so I switched to a thin paradrake. The paradrake did it. Should of known. Someday I'll master the flavs."
Bastard.
Now, I do some strange things, too. Like I've tied flies that were way too beautiful to fish. I still have them, all 30 of them, in 5 sizes and 6 patterns. Mayflies with beautifully cut wings cut from a pattern I applied to various primary features. These things are the flies themselves, quite beautiful. But I after I was done designing and crafting them, I suspected that they wouldn't cast well enough. They would probably propeller in the air; though in truth, I never gave it a try. After all, to try would mean to get these little darlings wet, or worse, stuck in a trout. Let's face it: We are all a little weird inside. Normal is boring.
Then there is the perfect streamer I've tied, with a long yellow grizzly hackle tied over a wool body, not dubbed in, but just lying flat along the entire length of the fly, like stuffing to give the small fish some depth. The gills are two pheasant rump feathers, with some red wool underneath for gills. Along the top is blue wool. The wool unites all the other materials with interlocking fibers. Sort of a poor man's Atlantic salmon pattern. The whole effect is beautiful, but I can't remember how exactly I tied the details of the fly, and since this is the only one I've tied, if I actually fished it, I might lose all information about how I tied it. I know. Stupid.
And there is my fly of marabou, stripped herl, gold wire, and a light yellow/pink fur ala Tups Indispensable. I desperately want to catch a fish with this fly, but I haven't yet, and I've been fishing it constantly for over 4 months. I know I should stop, but, like you, I like to experiment, and maybe prove some silly psychological truth, like fishing success is 50 percent confidence. So I'm trying to make a fly effective by pure use of mind and will. I know. Stupid. I have to be very careful here. One rule of flyfishing is that no matter how idiotic the fly, if you hang it in front of fish long enough, something is going to bite--which you shouldn't take as some sort of validation of the value of the fly. It is human nature to all too quickly validate our thinking with the flimsiest of excuses mixed with flitting bits of reality.
Now, I'm not really this anal in my tying. Well, OK, let's be honest again: Being anal obsessive about things you enjoy can be a LOT of fun.
Somehow, though, not naming flies encourages me to focus on the fly and its fly-ness. I'm not sure exactly what that means. I think it means that we shouldn't lose sight of the fact that we should tie flies from the perspective of the fish, not from our vane desire to codify and list out things while impressing others. Bear with me here.
I sometimes tie along the streamside, where all human vanity must be arrested if you are to respond to what is happening in the water. There, you must focus on the basics. This is not the place for fussing over the color of the mayfly's tail. Now, I'm talking about having just a few basic fly tying materials, not a large kit that is more a home kit carried out onto the stream. I have just a few materials in a pouch, with some hooks, and lots of marabou dyed different shades of olive from dark brown olive to a very light olive. I figure I can tie most bugs with these shades, with a minimum of tying procedures. I also have little swatches of fur, wire, and some other things. I leave the goose biots at home.
Now, when I spot my mayfly on the water, I go to work. Usually, I can capture the nymph or dun. And when I do, I put it in my collections vile--alive. I practice catch and release for insects. Mayflies are the cutest bugs. I'm hoping to pick up extra karma points this way, and maybe I'll be forgiven for all the ants and mosquitoes I've stepped on or swatted on the way to the river.
You don't want to get too complicated with a fly pattern when the hook is being held by only a locking forceps. The best you can do is a dubbed body of fur or marabou with a soft hackle collar (maybe a little dry hackle), or maybe marabou for all parts of the fly, but that's enough challenge for me on the water. Maybe, I'll pick up a few materials from the ground, a breast feather, and a little fox fur stuck on a bush, just to add a little adventure to the fly. I probably have a better, nicer imitation buried in my vest in one of many fly boxes. But I'm having fun this way, which is the only reason I'm on the water in the first place. I'm taken back a few centuries to the years when Dame Juliana Berners was laying down her favorite flies, one per month. Judging by the simplicity of those flies, I imagine she wasn't at a vice, but was probably using her fingers, maybe at the streamside as well. I'm also reminded of those living tiers who tie with their fingers, creating flies finer than most people could produce with a $600 Renzetti. My flies, though, are pretty ratty, or worse, in comparison.
Naming the fly you produce under these cir*****stances wouldn't make a lot of sense. First of all, the typical fly (and certainly my own) will be a fairly rude affair and out of line with current fly expectations. Not that it won't be effective. I mean, I tie the fly according to the insect in front of me. The hue is fairly close, the size is good, the shape about right, and its got that fuzzy buggy look that tiers strive for and that the fish aren't complaining about. Like I already said, you only name a fly if you want to communicate with someone about the fly, and if you showed such a stream-tied fly to someone, they would probably laugh as its rough form. Giving it a name at this point would forever label you as bizarre.
"Hey, remember that fly you showed me. What was it called again, The cedar tree nymph, or the tricky tied trico?"
"No, not really. I only tied the one. Did you lose it in a trout? " I would reply.
"No. Thank God, I lost it in a tree first."
See what I mean? I keep it to myself. And I certainly don't want to answer a question like "What material did you use?"
I don't want to respond with, "Well, let's see, I found some fox fur on a bush, and a wood duck feather next to the lake, and with a little marabou that I always have with me . . . ." I have enough social stresses as it is.
And how can you name a fly that you could not duplicate at the tying vice. I mean, I don't tie such ratty flies with my home vice. I have some pride. The best I could do with a name is call it a dark olive baetis nymph, with no additional naming effort. I mean I couldn't call it the "Fly I tied to look like that fly over there."
Besides, I just can't get my fingers to duplicate a fly. I always want to change it up, add materials, tie a material in a slightly different way, maybe with the tail tied in at a different angle, maybe with a new feather that I've never seen before under some old familiar feathers, or a feather I found next to a duck pond. Each one is different, and not because of lack of consistency on my part (well, maybe some of that, too. I'm not Art Flick).
Perhaps I should name them Dark Olive baetis, variation 1, variation 2, like a great symphony. Oh, well. Or perhaps I should have titled this article Confession of a bad tier. Maybe then I would have a lot less explaining to do, and feel a little more normal.
--All the flies I tie this year go waisted next year because I have a whole new set of flies and new designs. Not that this is always critical. I fish a lot of freestone creeks, where matching the hatch isn't always critical, and where anything coming by close to the size of the fish's head is toast.
--Toney J. Sisk
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Three things are certain: |
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Three things are certain:
Small fish, aching muscles, beer.
Guess which one I want.
Can't catch anything
With my CDC quill fly.
Need woolly buggers
Bull rushes stirring,
Quiet pond and fearful bait--
Bass big as Buicks.
In winter snow deep
Deep the tiny fly must go,
Around the rocks slow.
Small little fishy
Grow stronger and slippery.
Don't find my hook now.
Evening moon on me:
I am a man you need to seek,
Not a trout to be.
For once can't there be
A lone trout looking up at me
Moving fins toward me.
The sun leaves me now
Lonely smells and riffles now--
Now a rise will rise.
A lonely caddis
Here, now there, seems everywhere
but no fly for me.
Now the loneliness
Across the cactus and scrub
Of the meadowlark.
The tires on the road,
Garbage cans against dumpsters--
The song of the thrush.
A winter river
Many anadromous trout--
The sound of cold rain.
No one walks this way
No one fishes near these stones--
except birds and I.
The rain, the wind, night
Some things that try my fishing
and makes the trout laugh.
The moon sees me now
The birds and weasels see me--
And now the trout do.
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The Fish |
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The Fish
by John P. Sisk (1914-1997)
Where mighty waters
Roll and swish
Is called the creature
Called the fish;
The which is known
For stoic look
And an appetite
For a barbed hook;
While some debate
The fish's reason
Pragmatics trap
Him out of season;
And there are those
That take him whole
With lemon in
A casserole--
But in a pool
Or in a dish,
The fact remains
He is a fish.
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Flyfishing from a kayak |
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Flyfishing from a kayak You’re probably thinking, Who in their right mind would flyfish from something as finicky and unstable as a kayak? How would you control the line? What happens if you catch a fish, a big fish, a salmon maybe? How do you perform an Eskimo roll while attempting to boat a fish as big as your leg?
OK. There are some challenges--enough to deter most normal people. And you certainly don’t want to go out right away and buy a kayak just because you think you are going to fish from it. You buy kayaks because you want to enjoy a nice trip on a flat piece of water, maybe with the family. If you told a salesperson that you want a kayak to flyfish from, he probably won’t call you a nut in front of you. And he knows he’ll probably lose a sale if he chases you out of the store with a paddle. More likely, he'll probably assume you've been browsing the internet too much.
Why a kayakIf you can surmount all these initial obstacles, you are left with one significant advantage to fly fishing in a kayak: You can cover great distances swiftly and easily. On certain lakes, this advantage begins to outweigh the disadvantages. You only flyfish from a kayak on those waters you wouldn’t dare take a float tube because of distances and where you can’t legally take a motored craft. Beyond a few hundred yards, the only float tubers who won’t exhaust themselves have the stamina and legs of Lance Armstrong.
A pram will get you a little further than a float tube, but try rowing a 100 pound one backward for a mile. Your back will curse you. But in a small 35 pound kayak, you can go for miles with a decent paddling technique, at twice the speed and comfort of anything that doesn't have pistons or a spinnaker. Speed itself is not the advantage you're after. Primarily, speed in a kayak translates into ease of paddling.
Your relatively streamlined position on the water will let you battle strong winds more confidently than in another type of craft. Float tubes and prams certainly have their place. I love fishing from them for the advantages they offer, especially in close quarters, on smaller lakes, or when standing feels good.
Kayaking is also the stealthiest way to fish. There are no noisy oars clanging against the hull of a boat, no noisy propellers to spook fish, no flippers to send out alarming vibrations that bass hear a hundred yards away. To make my kayak even stealthier, I've adopted a trick that pram owners use--dampening the sound of oars using soft materials. I've glued a very thin neoprene sleeve around the ends of my paddle to dampen the sound of the paddle when I place it on the top of the *****pit when fishing. This arrangement also makes a comfortable arm rest while fishing.
So if you want to reach those far weeds where no one else dares venture, slip into a little kayak. First, though, what kind of kayak are we talking about?
Types of Kayaks for flyfishingIf you already own a kayak, there is no point in buying another one simply because you are thinking of flyfishing from one. (Well, OK, I bought a short kayak for the purpose of fishing from one, with a thought to watching my 5 year old daughter race around in one.) If you don’t own a kayak, then the best one for flyfishing with a thought towards other kinds of recreation is the shortest flat water kayak you can buy, maybe around 9 feet, which is also the size that will fit all members of your family from a 4 year old to a 46 year old.
The shorter length is ideal for controlling the boat while fishing. A 16 foot ocean-cruising type, while sleek like a yacht on the water, will be somewhat limited in maneuverability. Now, a salesperson will be quick to tell you a short kayak won’t track as well or go as fast as a longer one, which is true. But a short kayak tracks reasonably well and is reasonably fast for the short to 3 mile lake trips you are likely to take—and you’ll spend $1,000 less for one and haul around 20 less pounds.
Tracking ability works against the fishing purpose, which is be speedy while having a good amount of maneuverability to get you out and around all sorts of interesting fishing waters, shallow bays, the bulrushes and tules, and those little intriguing floating islands of weeds on some lakes.
The shorter length will help you in other ways as well. Retrieving your fly from the shore brush may not be possible in a long kayak given the tightness of shore brush. And you don't want to get out of a kayak near shore too often just for the price of your dearly departed Dahlberg Diver. Good fishing water means unpredictable shore lines that will cause a spill if you step out too often. But a short kayak can pretty much slip into any confined place for all kinds of little shore chores.
With a 9 foot boat, you almost have the maneuverability of a white water kayak while still being able to go in a straight line to reach that enticing big splash next to that clump of tules a quarter mile away. Just don’t try paddling on a lake with a white water kayak. You’ll probably paddle yourself in circles and wonder how you are going to get back to shore. (My apologies to white water enthusiasts who could probably paddle circles around me and go straighter.)
Most of my experience has been with a sit-in kayak. I prefer these because they keep me drier and because, well . . . others weren't available to me. And they are very short, which is ideal for my fishing. However, A sit-on-top of kayak is favored by a growing culture of fishers. The advantages of this kind of kayak is ease of entry while still staying very stable and low in the water. Some come equipped with many features for fishing, such as rod holders and fittings for fish finders. Many of these are designed for short ocean adventures while chasing stripped bass, tuna, and many other ocean species, but they can also be used in fresh water for close fishing work.
Flyfishing tactics—fresh waterDon’t fight the wind. This is an important lesson I've learned that makes flyfishing from a kayak easier, or for that matter makes any flyfishing easier. To be sure, when the wind is too strong, fishing is over. A strong wind will blow you too fast over the water for fishing purposes, even for trolling. A real strong gust could rip the paddle out of your hand if you don’t know what you're doing, and might rip it out anyway if you do know what you're doing.
In the more frequent slight winds, you want to orient yourself so that you are moving parallel to the shoreline without too many adjustments. Normally, the wind is blowing not directly into shore, but at an angle. As long you are casting ahead of yourself as you move along, you will minimize dragging your fly. This is similar to fishing a river from a boat.
If you are being blown more directly into shore, position yourself 100 feet from shore. As you move closer into casting position, first cast directly into shore. The advantage of doing this is you are fishing the area where you're kayak is likely to be in a few minutes. As in most types of fishing, don't step or paddle into water until you've fished the water in case there are fish present. As you get closer to shore, start casting at shallower angles until your casts become nearly parallel to shore, forcing you to retreat or get a face full of shore brush.
Now this assumes you are target fishing; that is, fishing a dry or emerger along the shore or floating weeds and tules. A lot of my fishing done this way is for bass who are very structure oriented. For trout, too, I prefer to target them rather than just troll the deep water. Trolling the deep water works in a kayak, too; but there isn't a new strategy for kayakers: just let the line out and sail away. A little uneventful for me, but it is certainly possible. You may find that the kayak will blow you more quickly over the water for trolling purpose than it would a float tube.
Invariably, the wind will push you into awkward positions and angles. This is where a short maneuverable kayak is especially helpful. For minor adjustments, I grab the paddle with just one hand and brace it against my chest. With a quick pull of the handle, I’ve moved out far enough from shore to cast again, while still holding the fly rod in the other hand. This takes some getting used to. As in float tube or pram fishing, you don’t want to let go of the fly rod at all if you can help it. With practice, you can even continue fishing while maneuvering with the other hand. You can get rather creative and still tell yourself you are fishing.
Another trick is to use pool gloves while fishing, which give some extra resistance. With a small kayak, paddling this way for a few short strokes actually works. Of course, beyond a few strokes, you’ll feel a strain in your shoulder or wrist, and you may want to put the paddle down.
The trick is to avoid placing the paddle down while actively fishing. With some creativity you may even find ways of making a quick 1 or 2 strokes with both hands on the paddle, while still holding onto the fly rod. Since you are in a kayak, one or two strokes will send you quite a distance. That’s why minor adjustments with a single stroke or pool gloves often work best. Remember, I am talking about minor adjustments to help you cheat the wind a bit.
Nevertheless, accept the fact that the wind is going to twist you around a bit. But with some practice and observations, you'll begin to notice that the wind twists the kayak in somewhat predictable ways. Or at least it will twist you only so far until the kayak begins to stabilize its orientation to shore.
Usually, all you have to do is twist your body and adjust your arms and wrists a bit to maintain as straight a line as you can--little tricks, often very creative, that flyfishers normally devise in any type of fishing. One way or the other, you'll be able to orient the kayak and yourself with one minor adjustment trick or another without too much fuss. Just remember the cardinal rule: Keep the fly in the water to maximize the amount of time you are fishing.
As in all flyfishing, you need to do something with the line that is off the reel. The spray skirt often sold with kayaks is ideal for this. You don’t need to attach it around the *****pit unless you experience strong wind and waves, in which case you probably aren’t fishing anyway. Just lay the skirt loosely on your lap to catch all the loose line. Without some kind of skirt, stripped line will fall between your legs and get wrapped around things, giving you line control problems and frustrations as you try to handle the fish that is heading into the next county. Handle the line or the fish will handle it for you.
In short time, you'll get used to line manipulation. If you don't, you are going to look pretty silly with a paddle, rod, and line all competing for equal time with just two hands. Remember: flyfishing is a lesson in mastering line manipulation so that you maximize the amount of time your fingers and fly are fishing productive water.
You have one more may to cheat an unmanageable wind: Skip to the other side of the lake. Because you are in a kayak, doing this becomes much easier than in any other boat that doesn't have a motor or a sail. Kayakers don't realize this right away. You can always beat the water toward new territory.
Fly fishing tactics—salt waterThe tactics for fishing salt water are largely the same as fresh water, except for those fearsome tides. First of all, know what the hell you are doing in the salt water. Take a class in kayaking and navigation. Even if you aren’t planning an over-night trip in a dinky 9 foot dingy, the same cautions apply:
- Know which way the tides are going.
- Listen to local marine weather forecasts, not just the weather reports on TV.
- Stay away from sea lions. They are frightening beasts up close, and have been known to bump and turn kayaks.
- Hell, stay away from any animal bigger than you.
Now that you are a competent sea-faring flyfishing kayaker, there are a few strategies specific to salt water. If the tide is slack, fish the water like it were a lake. I don’t want to get into specific tactics for specific fish, but keep in mind that fish can be anywhere, even within feet of the shore in one foot of water. But generally, the kings are going to be down deep. You probably don't want to hook one anyway, unless you want to take a quick ride into the shipping channels. Coho and cutthroats are typically the species flyfishers chase since they stay up higher in the water column.
If you are in a tide, fish like you were in a river. The feeling is a little different until you get used to it. Basically, the fly, your boat, and the water are traveling at the same speed. (Now with some wind, this will change.) So the fly isn’t going to drag much. Instead it will sink, which is a little unexpected. So it is like fishing in a moving lake. Well, something like that.
What if you catch a big fish? Well, good for you. The big fish isn’t going to turn your boat over. (You did take a kayaking course, right? And you did practice paddling in rough weather, right?). Nine foot kayaks are fairly stable. But you could get pulled around a bit. The worse thing that can happen is that no one will believe you that a 30 pound king pulled you into the path of a tanker.
What about anchoring my boat?Get realistic? You aren’t in a row boat. And don’t’ bring a little float tube anchor. Kayaking has enough lines you have to manage to worry about one more to get tangled in. Besides, if you are like me, you are way too impatient to bother with anchoring a boat. Anchoring assumes you want to fish one spot for an extended length of time, but I figure my skills as a flyfisher haven't been honed to the point where I don't manage to scare a bass after at least a half dozen casts, which would necessitate paddling backwards and dredging up the anchor throughout the day.
Another neat trick is tying your kayak to surface weeds with a short line. On one end of a short 6 foot line tie a loop. This you will tie to a pond lily or other weed with a simple line looped within the loop so that the line can be easily undone. Usually all you need to do, though, is yank on the line to rip it free from the weed stalk.
Tie the other end of a six foot section of line to the kayak, maybe on a cleat. I tie the other end around a line the circles the under the lip of the *****pit. This way I can also adjust the position of the line to angle me in different directions depending on what the wind is doing.
Another trick is park or lodge yourself into the edge of mat of pond lilies, which can hold you in a pretty stiff wind. Or simply saddle up to a clump of floating tules. Make sure you fish that floating clump first. Floating clumps are moving ambush points for bass.
You can also cheat the wind with a sea anchor, which is like a floating sack you drag in the water behind you to act as a wind brake. This works ok, but they are a little fussy to work with. You don’t want too much fuss in a kayak when you have other things to distract you, like the paddle and all the lines that go with seafaring and fly fishing.
What if you have to put the fly rod down?Invariably you’ll need to put the fly rod down. Normally, you can just put the rod on your lap, maybe with the reel between your legs. But there will be those times when you’ll want to secure the fly rod from falling out of the boat. Flies have a nasty tendency to grab some weeds in the water, and as the wind blows you around, the fly rod can begin to move.
The trick I use is to sew together two pieces of Velcro onto a strap, which is then attached to the boat or your belt with another chord. Then you just join the Velcro straps around the fly rod.
Some precautions about flyfishing from a kayakIf you are new to kayaking, take a course in basic kayaking. Then, near home, when high winds are forecast for your area, take off to a local lake and get in the water. It is time to get a little scared. Start getting into bigger and bigger waves until you feel comfortable in one and two foot waves.
At first, it might be best to stay in shallow water where you can stand up if you tip over, and where any strong wind is likely to blow you into the shore anyway. Make sure you get the wind at your back with waves behind you and at different angles, causing you to start twisting and surfing a little in your kayak. This can be unnerving at first, until it starts becoming fun. That's right, you can actually begin to have fun in bigger and bigger waves, and will even look forward to a giant one to see what it will do to your boat.
I remember my first afternoon in a kayak. A small six inch wave sent fear through me all the way to my toes. But in short time I was getting used to the new feeling and was eagerly seeking out bigger and bigger waves, up to three and four feet, and riding the surf of the larger ones.
Small flat water kayaks can feel a little tipsy at first, unlike float tubes and pontoon boats. As you get more comfortable in a kayak, you'll discover that they are extremely stable and forgiving in waves, but you need a little experience to sense this.
The point of all these water exercises, besides the eventual fun, is that they make you a safe kayaker. When you find yourself two miles from your car, and a very nasty wind comes up pushing 1 foot waves with white crests, you want to know that you can get home fairly easily and safely—and even have fun doing it. This degree of water safety seems less important in float tubes, where you are less likely to be out too far from shore anyway. But in a kayak, you could be a few miles away from the safety of the parking lot.
Spend some practice times on a warm windless day spilling your kayak. Yes, with you in it. Practice getting back in it. You could buy one of those paddle bags that help you do this, but usually you can get by without one.
And don't forget the following:
- An extra paddle. I just take half of another cheaper kayak paddle, wedged under the seat. If you loose your main paddle in a strong wind and you don’t have a backup to retrieve your primary paddle, you are in serious trouble.
- A signaling devise. It is the law in most states anyway. I take small flares, signaling mirror, and a large safety whistle. (I don’t know why I have the whistle, but it felt right at the time I bought it. I'm not even sure why I have the flares, but they seem like a fairly cool thing to take just in case that oil tanker misses me on his radar. Kayakers can be fairly stealthy on the water.)
- Basic survival gear that fits in a small pouch: fire starters, signal mirror. Stuff like that that you can read about all over the internet.
- A kayak pump, for bailing out the water in case you tip the kayak.
- Large sponge for small bailing jobs.
- Water proof bags, the kind that river guides bring. These mainly serve to add air pockets to the kayak. One way or the other you want float bags to fill in most of the empty space in the kayak.
Important Make sure you lash everything down. Every item in the boat needs to be tied to something. I use short pieces of rope fixed to small carabineers that I attach to the rigging on top of the kayak.
These are just normal precautions for any kayaking. Because you are further from shore than in a float tube or pram, you should think a little more about safety.
Flyfishing from a kayak takes a little getting used to, as does any new type of flyfishing. One of the challenging aspects of any flyfishing is the amount of creative challenge you bring to it--and fly fishing from a kayak has much to offer here. Most people you talk to will be genuinely interested in what you have to say about fishing this way. Kayakers will be especially impressed, since they themselves might be flyfishers but have never thought about fishing this way.
There are some strategies and movements to work out and think through. And it takes a couple of trips before you begin to feel you are handling things right; that is, before you begin to feel that you aren’t spending too much time trying to figure out how to do everything. But in short time, you'll be fishing nearly as efficiently as anyone in a float tube or pram, and fishing further from anyone who doesn't have a motor or jib sail.
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Characters in the stream |
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Characters in the stream We've all seen them--Characters. Fellow flyfishers who have given us pause--either because they inspire us, humor us . . . or cause us to run the other way. The following is a collection of people I've seen or fished with who strike me as interesting fishing characters (some bizarre, a few possibly insane). None of these characters remotely resemble you or me, keep in mind. And it is not relevant that some of them catch more fish than you or me. That's not the point. The point is . . . well, I'm not sure what the point is, but follow along anyway.
The Entomologist This one knows bugs. All bugs. Doesn't even have to make up bug names. Can pronounce the scientific names of all bugs, as evidenced by his pointing out that you cannot pronounce any of them correctly. Has one fly box for every species of midge, caddis, and stonefly. Two for mayflies. Three for spinners. His six "summer boxes" have dozens of grasshoppers with three colors of legs, ants in three shades of cinnamon, locusts (in preparation for the 17th year hatch) and billions of beetles. He has no Wooly Buggers. Often seen peering into small streams, exploring two-inch fingerlings with the same excitement as the Rambo type (see below) fighting a 38-inch steelhead. Sometimes dons scuba gear in two inches of water, getting animated about little pink eggs. Has an uncanny knack of pulling fish out of any water, including city creeks. He can pull a 12-inch brook trout out of your bathtub.
The Connected Crowd This is the walkie-talkie/shortwave flyfisher, possibly touting a GPS and mapping software on his car laptop or palm-sized digital assistance. If he doesn't have a fly on a line, he is researching fly fishing online, and has his browser's favorites set to every flyfishing and insect database in existence. Where spotted: steelhead streams. He needs a worthy adversary. This one has the stalking skills of a sniper, that's why he brings a friend as a spotter with a walkie-talkie. Some may even be shortwave pirates on the lam, occasionally seen throwing dipoles in trees, launching their thoughts over USB and FM, watching their 6 for the FCC.
Rambo with a Fly Rod A very courageous trouting warrior. He has fished where no man has fished before. Has his proven steelhead flies pinned into the wall above his bed, to "impress the girls." Has been known to follow a small drainage for four days with a 50 pound pack on his back, with a compass or GPS in one hand and a fly rod in the other, catching 18-inch indigenous cutthroat trout, the color of which has never been seen before. Doesn't even have to lie as he sucks all the air out of the club house proclaiming his gift to flyfishing godliness. When not in the mountains, is sometimes seen with the Connected Crowd.
Average Joe This one has just started out fly fishing 10 years ago, dropped the sport for five years, and is picking it up again, and again, and again each season. Has 6 types of flies, but fishes with only a Royal Wulff, but is beginning to think about bead-head nymphs. Will dutifully listen to anything you have to save about fishing, but won't understand anything you have to say about fishing. Will automatically assume you are a better fisherman and worth listening to because . . . well . . . you're the one doing all the talking and he is nice enough to not tell you to shut up.
The Terminator Has the cunning of backyard cat. Tee shirt reads, "I practice catch and kill." Bumper sticker reads "My other car is pan-fried fish." Fish is food--no ifs, ands or buts. One thing is certain: this one is getting plenty of Omega-3 fatty acids and will outlive you or me. He wants big fish, really big fish, and catches them with one of five flies: black woolly bugger, red woolly bugger, brown woolly bugger, olive woolly bugger, and a yellow woolly bugger. Could easily beat the crap out of 12 Entomologists. Sometimes seen with the Rambo type. Show him a chironomid and he'll punch you. Mention that he should try an Ephemerella pattern, and he'll beat you up, thinking you just called him a homosexual.
No Fish Guy This is the person who is dutiful about all aspects of the sport. Practices casting on occasion, studies bugs to an extent, buys reasonable flies, kicked over a rock once to see what was underneath and then decided what he saw resembled bugs in books but nothing he or anyone else has ever tied. Catches small fish, but seems happy anyway. Also known as most everybody.
The Old Man This man fished with Theodore Gordon, so he says. He probably has. He ties Bumblepuppies, Tup Indispensables and *****-y-bundhu patterns just for laughs and shows them to the "chironomid kids", as he calls the young kids on his once favorite lake, which he'll constantly tell you was His lake until flyfishers started becoming more numerous than the midges. Being resourceful with materials at hand when need be, he has been known to tie with dog hair, but mainly ties with starling wings and bizarre parts of mammals and birds from English parts of the world. Sometimes found crouching next to a stream tossing ancient flies to a trout named George, who has been caught and released hundreds of times with the old man's flies. The fish will soon die of old age or boredom.
The Agnostic For him there are no fish here, no fish there, no fish anywhere. When confronted with an unsuccessful day of fishing, he assumes the fish weren't present. Sometimes suspects winter kill or human intervention. If it's true that 10 percent of the fishermen are catching 90 percent of the trout, then the Agnostic assumes the remaining 90 percent of the fishermen are catching not much more than nothing (and probably using attractors). Disturbingly familiar person. Though not to be confused with you or me.
The Shop Guy This person has the finest flies, all tied by people who don't fish and who live in countries not easily pronounced. Easily recognized by the plethora of clothes and gear more expensive than the cheap stuff you have. Sometimes donning the latest design in fly vest/bag combinations complete with hydration system and possibly a radio, if not a GPS. Knows the cfs of every river and creek within a thousand miles. By definition, shop people are very nice people, but like many, won't shut up. Can sometimes be seen with the Connected Crowd.
The Woolly Bugger Guy Has only one fly box. Doesn't like the fact that 90 percent of the fish are caught by 10 percent of the flyfishers, and plans to do something about this with Woolly Buggers. Ten percent of the flyfishers are getting really pissed.
The Paranoid Schizophrenic He keeps a gun in his waders because, after all, "there are some strange people out here." After giving you a cautious glance, if he decides you aren't the enemy, he'll talk your head off. Commiserate with him on all issues, or you're fish bait.
The Well-Traveled Angler This one has been on every stream in every continent on the earth. He has fished in more places with unpronounceable names than you can find in an atlas or online. "Then there was the wild anadromous brook trout in Lake Abacikerizeryz on the northern ridge of the Ural mountains in Russia. You won't find that place even on the internet." He would rather talk your ear raw than fish. A great fisherman. Just ask him.
The Beginner After talking to the Shop Guy, this one appears on the stream with half-a-shop worth of gear: Gortex hat, coat, gloves, vest, underwear; fly rods named after exotic metals and polymers and geometric shapes; boots that actually fit well and don a podiatrist's endorsement; flies beautifully tied (unlike the crap you and I tie) by people in countries who are in the news a little too often for vague political reasons. Sometimes seen fighting a fish bigger than you and I will ever hope to catch, running up and down the river like he has just stuck the devil. Damn it.
Little Girls and Boys Will stand on the edge of a lake as patient as a young tree. Staring at a metronome would be more stimulating than looking at them casting. For kids, fly fishing is fly casting, especially false casting. Don't giggle too much. With enough time, they will eventually catch a big fish on the most technical water in three states. Of course, they will love to learn more about flyfishing from you. Act intelligent around them. Someday, if not now, they will become better than you in most ways that are important.
The Other Guy Stands in the middle of the stream, not fishing. Not doing anything. Just staring at the edge of the stream. Looks around more than fishes. Bends down on occasion. If you are lucky, you'll see him raise his arm for a single cast toward a crease in the current only he, the fish and a nearby rock know about, and then catches the largest fish in three states. He knows you're watching. He knows what fly you are going to use before you do. The only reason you see him is that he probably allowed it. Don't bother being like him. You can't.
The Liar Talks a lot. Fishes little. Needs more friends than fish. You don't need friends. You need to fish.
The Drunken Flyfisher A member of the Liar Crowd. Also a member of the Woolly Bugger Crowd. Has been seen with Rambo types. They catch more and bigger fish than you and I do.
The Hummer Guy Can blaze a trail to the last pristine lake in five states with a simple axle shift. Be careful, though; he could also be a member of the Drunken Flyfisher, the Liar, the Rambo, or the Wooly Bugger Crowds. Fishes with dry flies the size of a small bird. Catches fish the size of a small whale.
The Girlfriend Doesn't have a clue how to impart the kind of precise action to a fly that took you 15 years to learn. Doesn't understand mayfly entomology. Thinks a spinner is something you do in the parking lot. A nymph is something she'd rather not talk about. Catches more fish than you do. Don't get her started on fly fishing. Has tendency to learn quicker than you did, and manages to stay put long enough on the edge of a stream and catch the fish you missed.
The Morally Superior Doesn't even fish. Don't talk to him. When he asks why you hurt fish, tell him "I fish; therefore I am." Be careful, though. He may be right. If a fish ever spoke one word to me, I'd hang up my gear for life.
Former Presidents Write books that publishers are obliged to publish--or else! Often seen with unseen dark figures. Don't walk up to such people and ask how the fishing is going, or you'll be staring at a Glock.
The Flyfishing Worm Slinger Fishes with bait at the end of a fly line. Easily spotted by his casting style, which consists of a kind of lobbing stroke one would use to cast a tomato. Easily confused with the Rambo type, but generally smaller in build. Don't get mad. Get even. Tie a piece of red yarn on your hook and fish it like a worm. Tell yourself it's a leech if this bothers you.
The Elated One Sees poetry in everything. Irony is afoot. The rising fish and the bent supplicant branches are messages only he can decipher. Just say Hello and walk on. Or introduce him to the Terminator.
The e-Bay flyfisher Approaches the sport a little more carefully, knowing that anything bought on e-Bay will be cheap and of the highest quality, even if it never arrives. A frugal bargain hunter on e-bay will typically own the most expensive equipment but somehow still look uncomfortable in his new trappings, sort of like a hobo trying to look well-heeled in an Armani that he found rooted in a dumpster.
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City Bass |
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City Bass You wouldn't call this a park exactly. Its only name is probably just a parcel number in the local city hall. By anyone's standards, it's worse than forgotten--it's boring. You wouldn't take your dog to pee here.
Poplar trees, like monstrous weeds, line one side, a railroad track atop a tall dirt berm protects the other, and a parking lot buttressed by a few dumpsters behind a small shopping center defines this forgotten land. And in the far corner, a small pond sits, adorned with the usual beer cans, plastic bags, condoms, and odd pieces of lumber fallen down from a child's fort or built up for a hobo or two. The pond's only purpose seems little more than to occupy a random piece of earth's curvature.
Some have evidently tried to grow the ancient parcel and pond with occasional native plantings, which are quickly assaulted by the more arrogant weeds. Perhaps the urban weeds decided that they are more deserving of the title of Natural, or at least Native, according to some internal homesteading logic known only to plants and rocks and things pastoral that don't care what we think or how we like to label things.
I started roaming around this piece of city land more than half a life ago when it was, if not better, at least bigger. Then, the shopping center was just a small store dreaming about mall-dom, and the railroad tracks were, well, railroad tracks. Unless you are Arlo Guthrie, or a hobo, not much can be said about railroad tracks.
I wasn't thinking about hobos or epic singers when I started fishing here. Mainly, I was thinking about the worm at the end of my pole, and small black bass, crappie and other spinies coming to the log I was perched on. Other than bass, birds and mosquitoes, the only other life I saw was an occasional old man planted on another log with a rod poking through the scrub, well hidden as if the woods would soon take home one of their own. One could argue that old fishing men are a lot like bass. Both seem to tolerate an equal degree of squalor and boredom in their environment. Both will live where others won't. Both say to the world, Go fish elsewhere for your precious trout and fancy gear and leave my world alone.
I must have listened, because I evolved into a sophisticated flyfisher, with expensive lines, hand-tied leaders, dozens of nifty ways to present them, and hundreds of unique fly patterns I invented, of which only a half dozen are actually worth a damn (which are probably the same half dozen a thousand other flyfishers invented). My expensive gear inclined me toward very fine waters indeed, in mystical lands far far away. I figured out early in my flyfishing life that any fly waters more than 1,000 minds distant was necessarily mystical.
Not that these great waters have always produce great experiences. Nothing is more depressing as bending a dry line over a distant and mythical creek, using one's own flies with the cleverest quill or biot bodies and CDC or other pretentious material―only to get skunked and trying desperately to enjoy the countryside, which is staring back at you as if to say, I hope you brought something else besides pretty flies after you poked your nose into my brochure, city boy.
Fine flies and fine water are supposed to be a surefire guarantee against, if not failure, at least boredom. When you see small frogs on lily pads disappear in a hail of water, and you put on your favorite frog pattern (which for me is usually a Dahlberg diver) or damsel pattern , you are supposed to catch that irascible spiny ray. Right? But when you don't stick those fish, the water is yet another piece of still water with no creatures apparent except the one staring back at you dumbly as you peer through the water pondering where in hell the fish are.
Not that I always catch bass in my small city pond. Far from it. I enjoy getting skunked here as much as anywhere else. I guess I have some faith that even in this water, so small that it worries more about evaporation than pollution, there is a big fish. Talk to any fishery biologist, and he'll tell you about the huge fish he finds while snorkeling or electro-shocking in nearby creeks that you thought held only frogs, minnows and beer cans. Which leads me to a theory on these bass waters:
Theory: A dirty piece of water in a filthy city always holds one huge bass that no one is catching.
Including me. Now, when I'm not catching fish here, I don't worry about failure so much. After all, I'm here mainly so I don't have to do something more responsible, like blow leaves off the roof or visit the in-laws. No fish―mission accomplished. Which leads to another theory of bass fishing:
Theory: Catching no fish on the shitiest little pond on the planet is better than mowing the lawn, washing dishes, visiting relatives or about a thousand other things that mature us.
Now, not worrying about catching bass has some advantages, such as an enhanced ability to observe. Sort of like a blind person acquiring heightened skills of perception. Well, maybe not like that. But through the years, I've found solace filtering out the sounds of the city and finding new sounds to occupy myself, and all new theories and attitudes to supplement all the theories and attitudes nurtured by a lifetime of reading and thinking about fishing with a fly.
One sound that is pervasive here are bird songs. Indeed, the birds seem to yell here. The usual birds are well represented. The chickadees, robins, crows, yellow-winged blackbirds with their squeaky-hinge call, even an occasional eagle, let loose with all their sounds at once as if nothing could ease them. As I recall, the birds didn't always sing so loud, when the area was larger and there were fewer housing developments; but memories about such matters are often suspect and are easily muddled with the sentiments and societal influences that accompany growing up.
Or is my mind filtering out what it doesn't like, or is it simply not able to use words to see what is actually there, like I guess most minds do, if you listen to modern thought about how our minds and attitudes relate to or fail to relate to what's actually around us. I went to college to think like this. Pay attention. It gets better.
When I leave this wasteland and fish the typical flyfishing waters as displayed in magazines and do*****entaries, I hear fewer birds. Consider a heavily forested land, maybe a wilderness. At times, these can be nearly devoid of all noise and become quite lonely, with maybe a single bird call punctuating the loneliness. One day I counted the number of distinct birds I heard in my urban parcel (and in a few other city parks and back yards) and compared the number to the average number in more natural settings, and the figure turned out to be three to one in favor of the city.
Now, this is not science, mind you, and an ornithologist would probably say that not only have I been smelling too much city smog, if not smoking something worse, but the city birds I've been hearing are common song sparrows, finches, robins and like denizens whose quality of song is no match for natural bird tones. Whatever.
Granted, the real woods have a superior floral life, no matter how you measure it. Not that the birds care about this so much. Unlike us, they don't need an appropriate setting. Berries and bugs and twigs to build a nest are the only necessary trappings the birds need, and any weed patch worth the name has more than enough of that.
Granted, too, the creatures in the pond are by no measure superior to anything nature manages elsewhere. All manner of fish have been dumped here through the years, probably because no self-respecting biologist would bother seeding a pond having the consistency of ink and a quality of summer algae that would make an alligator gag. Kids' goldfish, an old man's bass bucketed from some other pond, maybe a caiman or other monster, and a million bluegills―all have found a home here through the years. And lots of bass . . . well, some bass anyway. Mainly black bass, those odd small bass that are . . . well, black with funny reddish colors. For a while I thought they were crappie and was all excited about doing some crappie fishing, until I got smarter about spiny rays.
It is hard to say when the bass arrived. In the early days of the railroad many ponds like these were created when the tracks were built up. Early engineers probably didn't think much about trickles of water while building up the railroad berm, and the water did what waters does best―patiently collected into a pond until its waters spill over into a creek or sinks into the earth. Forward thinking biologists came by later to seed the pond with whatever was popular at the time. Or just as likely they decided they had more important water to seed (which they did), and left people like old men dumping in their bass, hoping that trout fishers would look elsewhere.
I don't fool around with flies on this pond. I'm not one of those sophisticated subsurface bass flyfishers. Just one standby for me: a Dahlberg Diver. They'll eat this fly or they'll have no fly for dinner. What bass, though, doesn't like this fly. The Dahlberg diver is the perfect fly for bass. It represents anything from a frog, a tadpole or floundering fish, to a small bird, a cute baby duck, a small turtle (I suppose), or maybe even a kid's tossed hotdog. Sort of the Adams of bass bugs. My favorite color is the natural color of the deer hide. Whether I fish for bass on this city pond or on the finest water half-a-country away, the sight of a bass with a chainsaw's temperament ripping my Dahlberg always makes my heart pause.
Now the Dahlberg Diver isn't the key here. It's just a convenient fly that seems to swim right, is reasonably easy to tie and casts well. Most other big flies would probably work as well, including one roughly fashioned from broom bristles and cat hair if one were going for an impressionistic mouse look. Which leads to my third theory of bass fishing:
Theory: No matter how stupid the fly, whether its constructed of deer hair, cat hair, sofa lint, or Christmas ornaments, will catch a big bass if you let it hang on the water long enough and try to forget about it.
Nevertheless, the largest fish in this pond isn't likely to show itself, unless you are as patient as a log, or you're an old man whose old muscles and simple ways have proven to him not only how effective but also how incredibly easy it is to be as patient as log. You just sit. Sure, people have heard stories about this pond. What pond doesn't have a story knocking about in some people's heads, begging to be a legend.
But typically, fisher folks leave frustrated from these simple waters and head off to known prime water in a distant state where expectations match the view, and sometimes the fish. You can't blame them. The splash they heard starting out the fishing day on my pond wasn't the special fish they were looking for. Probably just a diving duck. The splash they heard during the day, wasn't the spiny Sasquatch either. Probably a turtle. The splash they heard after they tossed their gear into the back of their truck as the last piece of dusk vanished, after they cursed at the lake and vowed never to return, that was the fish they missed. Which leads to my last theory:
Theory: One ancient man in a leaky boat fishing at 1 am will catch the biggest bass within three states in the smallest little piss-hole of a pond in the middle of a filthy city.
The old man will not tell anyone nor will anyone care where he is so early in the morning. For me, I just try to catch a moment of peace on the pond, however ephemeral and unpredictable it may be. It takes special skills (or lack thereof) to find a quiet moment while sitting in an abandoned field in the middle of a filthy city that is trying to offend you.
At times, if my mind shuts down sufficiently, after the light of the day and the noises of the city deaden, I can hear what's left of the natural forces rise a bit. At those times I might sit quietly in my float tube staring at my favorite corner of the city pond, my mind suspending for a moment its conditioning as to what constitutes proper fishing water. Because we can't bear too much stark reality of such settings, we often fall prey to the capacity of our imaginations to summon up superior water. This time, though, I want to pause and watch a few callibaetis rise, or lovely damsel nymphs like mermaids swim by, or a simple duck pop back up as we stare at each other with about the same amount of reason.
Between the two trees that block all signs of civilization, next to that half sunken log, near the shadow of a large rock, I toss my Diver, wait an excruciatingly long minute that is probably more like three seconds, twitch the line, and then jerk my muscles back as the deer hair disappears in a cloud of water. Ten minutes later I release the two-pounder back to his predatory ways, swimming among the debris, algae and city brine.
Then just as quickly the spell is broken and I see my city pond for what it is―a abandoned park whose only purpose is to do nothing but slowly change in unknown directions. Perhaps nature is trying to recall its own, using a timetable only rocks and turtles and old men understand. If I'm lucky, or live long enough, perhaps I'll witness the return of the pond. In the meantime, I'll be content to listen to it a little harder each time I visit, and pick up a few pieces of trash on the way out.
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Phenton's Flies |
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Phenton's Flies “He’s chasing them again, all over the grounds.” Stephen had to hold the phone away from his ear while the shrill voice continued. “I’m sorry. You’re going to have to come down. We don’t need him stirring up the chickens and frightening the other patients.” Stephen was afraid of something like this, not that it was entirely unexpected. After all, she was talking about someone few could perceive as remotely normal—his dad. Stephen apologized to the voice, got in his car and began the two hour trip to the Woodside Recovery Center.
As he got closer to the ragged line of distant trees that told him the center wasn’t too much further, he thought about his choice of facilities. This had seemed the ideal place for his dad to rest a little. Out in the country, plenty of fresh air, some mountains nearby and even near a river they’d often fished together—the perfect setting to spend some time getting over things.
Stopping his car in the middle of an old trestle bridge, he overlooked a small river. The setting looked familiar, if not a little boring. A thin river in a narrow valley in a part of the country with little flyfishing history. Hardly the kind of adventuresome river, Stephen suspected, a flyfisher would chirp about. In fact, this might have been the river over which he had cast his first fly with his dad. It was hard to tell. After so many years of fishing, many of the rivers began to look alike. Trying to look deeper into the stream, he saw no archetypal hatch of significant mayflies or even caddis that he could report on as a way to relieve his old man’s present collection of anxieties.
Yet, a single mayfly did rise. Or was it a caddis? He stared hard at the insect and decided its erratic flight pattern must mark it as a caddis. “If it’s crazy, it’s a caddis,” his dad would often say, attempting to make his son see deeper into the water. But usually Stephen would just smile agreeably while his father talked about how a particular rise pattern indicates this and that form of this or that insect on this or that time of day at this or that time of the year, as he watched his father attack the water as if the devil demanded it. His dad could have thrown a rock in the water and proclaim that a stonefly hatch was on and Stephen would dutifully tie on the biggest Royal Wulff in his box.
Or his dad would point to a mayfly sitting on his son’s shoulder and proclaim, “Flavilinea,” and Stephen would look suitably impressed. “See those wings?” his father would begin. “Like a bird’s wing. A small cloud, when you hold it up. They don’t have mouth parts, the adults. All they want to do is dance in the sky.” Stephen couldn’t get past the idea of any animal sacrificing eating in order to fly. He didn’t bother looking up the fly later in one of his dad’s many books. His dad was always right about most things anyway. Most things, except anxiety disorders.
“Everybody has a little of that,” his dad exclaimed to a therapist whom he and Stephen visited one day. “What’s so special about it. Just give me a pill, for God’s sake.” He paused, then added, “I just need some time alone, like everybody . . . And maybe some more fishing.”
“Dad, you locked yourself in the basement for four days,” Stephen exclaimed.
“I was working on a salmon pattern. You don’t spend four seconds on full‑dress salmon patterns like you do your woolly buggers, boy.”
“Dad, don’t make jokes. You were screaming down there.”
Pondering the uneventful and boring river, Stephen was thankful that his dad wasn’t screaming at the center, just chasing chickens, and God knows what else. Stephen continued on and soon came to the center where he was ushered by a receptionist to an upstairs door on which hung the single title, “Director.”
He knocked.
“Come in,” said the familiar voice, though somewhat less shrill this time.
Stephen opened the door. “I’m Stephen, Mr. Phenton’s son.”
“Yes, yes. Come on in. I’m the director of these facilities. I hope I didn’t startle you when we chatted over the phone. Thanks for coming down. Please have a seat.”
Chatted? Stephen thought a psychotic drumming was more accurate. He walked toward a huge overstuffed chair in the middle of the room, and sank into it. Feeling buried and vulnerable in the huge chair, he looked up at a gigantic portrait of a nurse captured by a thick wood and plaster frame on the wall behind the director’s desk.
“Let me start by saying we do enjoy having Mr. Phenton here, but he’s been getting involved in some . . . well, unusual activity that I haven’t seen before and, hoping this will be his last month here, we want everything to run smoothly. It is our exit policy, you know.”
“I see.”
“When he arrived, he seemed pleasant, which we like to see, and he handled the group sessions well, and he was doing OK on the Xanax. You know, some patients with his condition will spend the standard three month stay in their rooms afraid to go anywhere. We wanted him to take on some responsibilities, and he immediately started taking care of some of the grounds, and took a particular liking to our pond. So we let him take care of it, though admittedly, I don’t know what you do to take care of a pond.” She paused and adjusted something on her desk. “I sat with him one day, you know, and he showed me all the feathers he collects, all kinds and sizes, which I guess is good, though I don’t know what you do with feathers. We don’t have any feather crafts here. I’d rather he’d pick up some of the trash that can collect down there.”
“I understand you there.” Stephen shifted his weight in a vain attempt to relax in the huge chair.
“Anyway, he started following the chickens around, and one day the other patients started complaining about him picking up the birds. One day, the chickens and even some of the ducks started squawking and running around. Patients were tripping over themselves chasing them down. Now, the chickens are part of an experimental program to help some of our patients externalize while learning basic responsibilities, and some of the birds have stopped laying eggs.”
“Really?”
“His condition can go the other direction, you know, and we are just a medium level facility with no experience in special populations. There are better places for his condition if it gets worse. You talk to him, will you?”
Stephen thanked the director, and proceeded to find his way out to the grounds. He walked along a narrow cemented path, passing by a small group of male patients sitting silently around a table, each of their eyes following him as he found his way to the pond. He saw a shape bent over the edge of the pond.
“Hi, Dad.”
His father appeared not to hear or notice him. Stephen touched him on the shoulder. “Dad?”
Mr. Phenton stood up startled. “Son! Glad to see you. How are you doing?” They shook hands. Stephen noticed a small box in his hand.
“Fine. How have you been?”
“Good. They’ve let me take care of the pond. I’ve been moving some plants around, a little shade for the brookies. Imagine, there are brookies in this nut house. Small, but brookies nevertheless.” He looked out over his pond and grinned with satisfaction.
“This is hardly a nut house, Dad.”
“Brook trout. Imagine. Watch this.” Mr. Phenton took the lid off the box he was holding and showed Stephen.
Stephen’s eyes showed cautious surprise. “Are these . . . flies? But, where. . . .”
“Is anyone looking?” asked his father quietly. Stephen looked carefully around, then realizing that he had given up his clandestine ways more than half a life ago, shook his head and returned his gaze to the box.
“Watch.” Mr. Phenton took a fly from the box and flung it into the pond. Presently a fish sipped the fly and disappeared. Stephen didn’t know whether to be pleasantly surprised or confused at this. Was this fishing? He looked into the box again and noticed something odd about the flies. They looked very well tied, as all his dad’s flies had been, but they had no hooks.
“Did you tie these. . . on hooks?” asked Stephen.
“No. Hat pins, which I shortened up a bit. You can’t get a proper hook in this place. But a lot of the ladies here have hat pins, so I use those. There is actually quite a bit of fly tying material here and there, if you look carefully enough. I use forceps from the nurse’s office for a vice, and I made up a bobbin from some sewing things I found in one of those silly craft rooms where everybody gets their brains and arthritis cured. The first flies were pretty crude, but I got better. “
“But there’s no hook,” said Stephen.
“Watch, I’ll throw three out.” Mr. Phenton threw the flies out, and suddenly, three fish appeared and sipped them down. A moment later, one of the flies reappeared on the water. “Look. He spit one back. My first refusal.”
“Amazing,” said Stephen. “How did you get them to float?”
“Chicken hackle.”
“The nurse mentioned you had been chasing the birds around.”
“It’s not high grade stuff, but you can’t be picky here. That’s the way they do it in England, you know. No killing valuable chickens, those Brits. I tried getting CDC feathers from the ducks, but ducks are a lot less tolerant of having those particular feathers plucked.”
“I can imagine. The little animals must be terrified of you around here.” Feeling a little uncomfortable commiserating about bird harassing, Stephen thought this would be a good time to leave. “Look Dad, I just dropped by to see how you were doing. Can you walk me back to the car?”
They walked back up the cement path to the car. Half way up the path, Stephen asked, “Dad, you are going to be good, right? The director is concerned about you. And I don’t think she appreciates you touching the wildlife.” Stephen felt he had to pass along some information or warning.
“Will you look at that?” exclaimed Mr. Phenton. Sitting around a table nearby were four women, one with an enormous hat. The hat was nearly a yard wide, with complicated folds, fancy velvet material, gold embroidery, artificial flowers, large plumes of ostrich and other fowl, and lace cascading off the side. As they approached the table, Mr. Phenton stopped. “Excuse me, ladies, but that is a wonderful hat. Where did you get it?”
The lady looked startled. No one had ever inquired about her hat in such a direct and familiar way before. “Well, if you must know,” she replied, “I made it.” The ladies quickly returned to their conversation.
“Well, you ladies have a great day,” said Mr. Phenton. The two continued toward the center’s gate.
Mr. Phenton turned to his son. “Did you see all the materials on that hat? Now that’s a fly tier’s dream. She must be a milliner.”
“I suppose. Dad, you take care OK, and stay away from the animals. You don’t want to get in any more trouble with the director.”
Mr. Phenton was looking back toward the ladies. “What a fantastic hat.”
“I’ll see you in few weeks. OK, Dad?”
“OK, son.” They shook hands again.
A month later, two weeks before Mr. Phenton was due to leave the center, Stephen visited again. He immediately went down to the pond to check on his dad, and found him bent over the pond again.
“Hi, Dad.” Mr. Phenton jumped up again.
“Son! Hello. Come here.” Stephen walked closer. “Watch,” his dad said. “Over there.”
Stephen peered 30 feet down the edge of the pond. Suddenly a fish jumped much further out of the water than he though a fish could jump. “Did you throw a fly down there?”
“No. Watch.” Suddenly another fished jumped, this time a little higher. Stephen didn’t know what to think.
“OK. Is there a hatch on?”
“No. Watch.” A third fish jumped, this time almost twice the distance of the other two. Stephen scanned the area above the pond, but saw no insects flying to explain the odd behavior. He regretted he didn’t have his father’s ability to see things below, on or above the water. “Look at the branches hanging over the water,” said Mr. Phenton.
Stephen peered into the branches and began to see something above the water. “What in the world? . . . Are those flies hanging on the branches? Did you put them there?”
“Yes, with the help of a little sewing thread. One is at three inches. All the fish can reach that one. Some can reach the other fly at six inches. No fish has touched the one a foot and a half above the water, yet.”
“Amazing. Is that. . . uh. . . legal? I mean, you could hang a fish, couldn’t you?”
Mr. Phenton brought out his box of flies. These flies were different than the last ones Stephen saw. He picked one up and held it up to the sky, as his father had taught him many years ago. They appeared to be tied on the same type of pin as the earlier ones. “These are fantastic. I can’t believe you tied these.” Stephen marveled at the chocolate-colored bodies, the velvet colors, with unusual gold and silver braiding, purple tails, and wings of a delicate yellow, all perfectly proportioned like the mayflies his father had tied for him throughout his life. “I’ve never seen material like this,” Stephen exclaimed.
“Did you notice the *****-y-bundhu wings?” asked his father.
“The what?”
“Never mind. I found different materials here and there. If you look closely, you’ll find most materials nearby.”
Both sat on a bench and watched the fish jump. After about 30 minutes they began to notice a larger fish jumping at the highest fly. “He almost got that one. That’s my favorite fly so far,” remarked Mr. Phenton. “Ostrich, beaver fur, silk, and pea*****. Maybe I’ll have to string it up higher.”
“Maybe so. Look, Dad, I’d love to stay and watch the show some more, but I need to get back.”
“All right, son”
“Remember, you’ll be leaving in two weeks.”
Mr. Phenton continued sitting, pondering his fish.
“You take care of the fish,” said Stephen. “I’ll find my way out.” Stephen put his hand on his dad’s shoulder, then got up and left.
After walking a little way down the path, he was nearly knocked down by the lady in the great hat, who stormed by him and headed directly toward his dad.
“You! You there, Phenton!” She shrilled. She hovered over him like a giant bird, her great hat casting a shadow over him.
“I hear you had one of my hats. What in God’s earth are you doing with one of my hats?” Stephen heard the exchange and shielded himself next to some bushes so as not to embarrass his father.
“Well, I. . . ” stuttered Mr. Phenton.
“I, nothing. You leave my stuff alone. I want my hat back, or. . . I’ll speak to the director. I will. What gives you the right, you, you, nut? Damn you, Phenton!” She stormed off, her arms flailing like a giant flustered bird.
Mr. Phenton looked at the retreating hat lady, then turned his |
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