Tying a Fly

Not sure if I can romanticize about tying a fly, but I do think about it often. I’ve been thinking about it more lately because I ran across my fly-tying box and brought it into the house. I thought, since I was going to be laid up for a bit, I might try to get back into it. I used to spend winters tying as many as I could in preparation for the next season of fly fishing. Everything from #20 scuds to beautiful #14 elk-hair caddis and San Juan worms to a Cami-dog fly originated by my friend John Swens using the latest clippings from his cocker spaniel (named Cami). Another friend, Loren Nakayama, came up with the Miracle Mile special while we were snowed in for a day drinking beer, vodka and tying the craziest flies we could think of. My contribution to the day was the Bevo Special made from various jigs, worms, and lures that I sacrificed for our drunken creative day on the river. We actually caught fish on all of them, but I’m not really sure I remember catching a fish on the Bevo Special, I think it knocked the fish out when I tried to set the hook and it snagged it along the back. I still have the fly in my game room as a talking point when someone asks what the heck it is. Not sure I have ever gotten serious about tying these con job marvels, but I certainly had fun passing the time watching shows and tying through the winter.

I came into fly fishing in my late twenties. Not sure why I didn’t get into it during high school as I had the opportunity growing up in Kremmling Colorado where it took about fifteen minutes to be at any numbers of holes along the Colorado river and not far from the head waters in Rocky Mountain National Park. We also had the Troublesome River, the Muddy, and the Blue, and don’t forget the numerous shoreline spots on the Williams Fork Reservoir and the Green Mountain Dam and reservoir. When I started driving, the Yampa River was within reach along with Rabbit Ears and Gore passes and their many creeks, beaver ponds, and small lakes. Where most boys were thinking about mischief, finding some beer, or a cute girl to be with, I was locked into fishing. Problem was back then, I still had a lot of Texas fishing left in me, so I was using worms, hoppers, and Mepps spinners. I knew of friends fishing on their ranches with fly rods in the back country with their dads on horseback, but that wasn’t accessible to me. Every once in a while, I’d find some fly laying on the ground or caught in a willow that a fisherman had lost. I even found a leather pouch filled with flies that I had no names for but discovered later were caddis, scuds, Glo-bugs, bead-head pheasants, red San Juan worms, nymphs, May flies, a Royal Coachman, and a beautiful, tied frog all of which I still have today. I was always reluctant to use them as they became a prized possession and a source of model for me to tie flies closely resembling them later on. I’m sure the guy that lost it was upset and probably looked for hours to find it. Other things found included pocketknives, clippers, leader, swivels, sunglasses and best of all for a sixteen-year-old boy standing in a river, was a six-pak of Hamms beers floating on a peace of wood. That was the score of a lifetime, Mark and I downed them within a couple of hours while sitting on the bank of the Sugarloaf creek.

Now I’d like to tie flies for the artistic approach. Not sure I’ll ever use flies again, but I’m sure bass and crappie would still strike a fly if presented to them. I’ve never tied a hopper or a minnow, but if I could perfect those, I’m sure there would be days filled with fun from the pontoon casting a fly. Might even figure something out like we used to do on the North Platte during fast flow releases from the dam using a spinning rod and a double dropper fly setup and sinking them. Would be fun to try even if it was a fools errand attempt at fooling these East Texas fish into believing the fly was some kind of new delicacy. The thought being that a fish is a fish and an insect is still an insect. If nothing else, I could use an ant fly, God knows we have enough of them down here. Maybe after I’m healed up from this foot surgery and am walking without pain, we might even head back to Wyoming and fish my old stomping grounds along the Miracle Mile of the North Platte River. Of course, the limits are only what I set, so maybe I shouldn’t worry about what someone else thinks and simply explore the possibilities in my head. Surely something will catch a fish.

I’m not a purist having to have the most expensive bamboo rod, highest dollar reel with bearings so smooth you don’t hear the movement, and I certainly don’t adhere to the strictest of traditional methods, using nothing but a dry fly to lure a fish up from the bottom to strike. No I’m more the guy that sees a rubber worm and wonders about sticking a small portion of it on the back of a Adams Parachute and casting it with a spinning rod and reel and hoping to have some bass wonder what the hell just invaded my space and rely on that territorialism to eat my hand-tied invention not worrying about whether I’ll need to log the kind of cast I used or the drift in what kind of flow the water was running in, then documenting the depth of the fly as to try and recreate it ten years from now in the same spot on the same setup. Nope, I’d be more like, damn that actually worked, let’s eat!