First Fly....

On Feb 11, 5:20*pm, riverman wrote:
Anyone remember the first self-tied fly that they ever caught a fish
on?

Mine was a #16 Adams in a stocked pond in South Africa. Sloppy wings,
although they were the best I could do, and the body was grey/green
with coch-y-bonddu hackle. Textbook stalk and cast, and a fat 14"
trout saw it land near the school, and took it smoothly. It all felt
so...natural.. *I still have the fly, and if it weren't for the fact
that it was my first catch, I'd be embarassed at how poorly it was
tied.

*Anyone else?

--riverman

Mine was a partridge and orange, dressed with sewing thread and a
feather from a pillow. I wrote a story about it, but I can't find it
right now.

Found it;

Short, less than five miles long, flowing down a very steep incline,
mostly through a winding bed of blank rock, the stream was very
difficult to negotiate. In a couple of places it flowed through steep
sided rock ravines, and when the stream was in flood, these places
were more or less impossible to reach. Over countless years the
rushing water had gouged out hollows in the softer rock, and formed
the occasional larger pool, or undercut bank. Trees, which lined the
stream, occasionally fell and blocked the flow at a particular point,
causing build-ups of silt and various debris, and sometimes forming a
deeper pool, which was almost guaranteed to hold a trout.

Although the features of the stream changed with every flood, the
basic contours remained, and once its secrets had been discovered, it
was no great problem to find a few fish. Catching them was quite
another matter. These fish were all wild, and extremely wary. One of
the best methods on this stream was the upstream worm.

This technique is dying out nowadays, many places having banned worm
fishing in any case, and there are fewer and fewer people who have
practised it. Basically quite simple, a worm which has been toughened
in sphagnum moss for a day or two, is carefully threaded onto a hook,
this is then cast upstream using a leader and fly-line, without any
other weight, and allowed to trundle back down towards the angler, at
the whim of the current, searching out likely places.

Many people used various worm tackles at one time, the Pennell or
Stewart tackles being the most popular. Odd that one of the most
famous of all fly-fishermen should be mainly remembered by many,for
the worm tackle he invented, or more accurately, stole from somebody
else!

Considerable skill is required to maintain contact with the worm,
without affecting its course in an unnatural manner. Casting must also
be carried out with some circumspection, as even a toughened worm will
fly off the hook when subjected to more than extremely limited
velocities.

Soft-actioned rods, and the ability to cast a very short line gently
are essential here. My "rod" was a hazel branch cut from a bush beside
the stream, with two bent wire rings whipped on, and my "fly-line" was
a piece of courlene baling cord. Attached to this was a straight piece
of nylon about a yard long, 3lb test. Initially I had used gut, which
had been given to me, but it was a nuisance, as it continually broke
( nobody had told me you had to soak it before use ), and was
difficult to cast straight. Accordingly I had invested vast sums of
money at the local shop for a spool of nylon, and some decent hooks.

Fly-fishing was extremely difficult on the stream, in places, it was
so overgrown, that casting was more or less impossible. Even lobbing a
worm was extremely difficult.

Apart from its population of trout, the stream was also teeming with
minnows. Most pools, especially the deeper ones on the bends, had a
large shoal of these fish, and this perhaps explained why some of the
trout were abnormally large. Most moorland becks in the vicinity had
their share of trout, but these were invariably small large headed
creatures, suffering constant under-nourishment, and as a result.
would often grab anything remotely resembling food, and swallow it
immediately. No particular challenge, and hardly worth the trouble
anyway, as they were usually only five or six to the pound.

Not so the trout here. They were relatively large well formed fish,
half pounders being quite common, and with an occasional larger fish.
They were also most particular in their feeding habits. Carelessness
on the part of the angler would cause them to simply disappear and
sulk for hours. Their wariness increased to the point where it was
virtually impossible to approach them. Virtually nobody fished the
stream, most apparently thinking there were no fish in it, and while
the access was so difficult.

Despite a number of experiments, my success rate with flies was not
particularly brilliant, in actual fact, zero. My flies were admittedly
relatively crude affairs, made of sewing cotton and the feathers from
various pillows, and similar sources. My initial enthusiasm for fly-
fishing had cooled somewhat in the face of these difficulties, my
original conviction that the fish would leap out of the water to take
my offerings having suffered more than a few dampeners, and my success
with worms effectively prevented any prolonged trials.

For some reason, I decided to try a fly on this particular day. I have
no idea why, my diary contains a few brief notes, but at that time I
did not bother writing much, simply the fish caught, perhaps the water
conditions, any animals or other interesting things I saw. Even the
few notes I made in this "diary", a rather scrappy school notebook
which I used for three years, are now faded and difficult to decipher.
More than once the notebook made intimate contact with the rushing
water, usually accompanied by my person, as I once again attempted to
negotiate some particularly difficult bend by climbing around the rock
face. This did nothing whatsoever to improve the legibility of the
notes therein contained.

Attached to the page with several layers of yellowing sellotape, are a
piece of faded trout skin, still recognisable as such, and the fly
which did the damage. Rusted almost completely away now, the bend,
point and barb are hardly discernible, just a reddish-brown smear, but
the dressing is still quite clear. Fourteen strands of partridge
hackle, two with broken tips, painstakingly tied in individually, ( I
did not know how to wind hackles at the time), and what was once
orange sewing thread, now a dirty brown shade, the hook is a size ten.

Below these, are the lines, "Three fish on worms, caught a monster on
the orange fly! Got soaked again. Ruined my trousers and shoes. Mother
was very annoyed. Must make some more of these".

Just as well I do not need the notes. Clear in my mind, as if it were
yesterday, I can see the sharp bend and undercut rock face, and myself
perched on a treacherous rock ledge some fifteen feet below, and on
the other side of the stream. Fifteen feet was a hell of a cast with
my makeshift gear, and I can no longer recall what exactly made me
think I could do it, or why I was perched on this particular rock
ledge in the first place. My usual technique at this spot was to lower
my worm in from above the undercut, and allow it to trundle down with
the current.

Around this time I had read Stewart´s "The Practical Angler" for the
first time, (I have read it at least a hundred times since, I know it
more or less off by heart), and was perhaps determined to try his
method, I am no longer sure, it is over forty years ago now.

Working my way up the stream, I had covered about three miles, and had
a couple of reasonable fish on worms, but on reaching this spot, for
some reason, I decided to have a go with a fly. For some time I sat
fiddling with the gear, taking off the hook, and placing it in my
pocket, before mulling over my "selection" of flies. Fourteen flies
were at that time in my proud possession. Carefully mounted on sponge
glued into a "St Bruno" tobacco box, they sat awaiting their
deployment.

Two of these were "professional" flies tied to very fragile gut, which
I had been given, and far too precious to be attached to my line. They
were chiefly used as objects of wonderment, as I tried to figure out
how anybody managed to fashion such delicate objects, and attempted
unsuccessfully to emulate them.

Although recognisable as flies, the rest were, as I already mentioned,
rather crude affairs tied with sewing thread, and pillow feathers.
Mostly on size ten hooks, as I was unable to hold the smaller ones
very well, and the thread was too thick to tie much on them anyway.To
date, no suitable feathers had surfaced, which would allow me to tie
any of Stewart´s spiders, and I did not know what they looked like in
any case. There were no illustrations in my copy of his book, and the
directions were very difficult to follow.

After a while I chose the "Orange fly", I know now that this was a
"Partridge and Orange", but at the time, my knowledge in this respect
was sadly lacking.

Climbing around the rock face, I reached the narrow ledge, and holding
on to a bush which, apparently defying gravity and nature, sprouted
directly from a tiny crevice in the rock face, with my left hand,
leaning out as far as I could, I whipped out the line, and cast.

My line hit the rock face just above the undercut, and the fly floated
down right at the top of the streamy water which ran under the rock
into the pool. Rather annoyed, I started to pull myself back towards
the bush, when the incredible occurred. My fly, untreated as it was
( nobody had told me you had to wet them first either), which had been
floating down the stream, disappeared in a large ring.

More by luck than good judgement, and engaged as I was in pulling
back, I set the hook, and an absolute monster of a fish shot out of
the water in front of me, dived again, and disappeared under the
undercut, my rod bending, and the line throbbing.

All my line was out, and the knot with which it was tied to the butt
of my rod was slowly but surely slipping up the rod. My left hand was
still gripping the bush, I was helpless. Drastic measures were called
for, there was no way I was going to lose such a fish, regardless of
the consequences. My mother had scolded me quite a few times for
coming home soaked, with my clothes and shoes ruined, but there was no
help for it. Throwing caution to the winds, I let go of the bush, and
launched myself into the stream.

After a while, standing waist deep in the freezing water, I managed to
gain a semblance of control over the fish. It did not jump again,
large browns very rarely do, I suppose its initial leap was because of
the way I had hooked it, and is certainly not typical behaviour.

Some time later, as always it is impossible to say how long, one is so
engrossed that time has no meaning, I waded downstream to the next
sandy area, and beached the fish, which I had fought to a standstill.

Seldom have I seen such a beautiful creature. It was dark green on its
back, with deep silver flanks, spotted with large red spots,
surrounded by a halo of white. Very difficult to describe the beauty
of such a fish. This was the first time in my life that I was tempted
to put a fish back.

Overcoming the ridiculous impulse, my family would be most grateful
for the food, I killed it, although not without considerable remorse.
I packed up my gear, placed my fly carefully in my box, and set off
for home. As ever, the magnificent colours had faded somewhat in
death, but my family duly admired the fish, expressing amazement at
its great size, although I fear their interest was more in regard to
the amount of edible protein involved than the beauty of the
packaging.

Mother did not scold me, although she was annoyed that I had ruined my
trousers again, ( I only had two pairs). She helped me clean the fish,
and we dined on it the same evening. It was too big for the pan, and
so was baked in the oven with onions and herbs from the garden, and a
little butter. The strip of skin was removed from the remains, and
mounted in my book with sellotape, along with the fly. I did not eat
any of the fish, but I was pleased that my family enjoyed it.

Although it was never weighed, the fish was about three pounds. Still
one of my most memorable fish.

Often I sit and look at the flies in my boxes, unfortunately my "St
Bruno" tin has long since disappeared, and ponder on the circumstances
which caused me to start doing all these things. Why fly-fishing and
tying became an obsession. It is not really difficult to discover why,
the incident described is only one of many, and anybody who has
experienced it, will need no other reasons or explanations. For those
of you who have maybe not had such experiences, then I hope this story
will at least give you a glimpse of what is in store for you when you
go fishing.

Sitting writing this on a pleasant Sunday morning in July, I have just
been out to the garden and cut myself a nice long hazel branch. Quite
a while since I have been fishing, for various reasons it has not been
possible. My wife is asleep upstairs, she is not very well, and I have
decided to sneak out to the local stream for an hour. I have a few
hooks, a length of nylon,a piece of fly-line, two old rod rings, and
some silk in my jacket pocket. I will tie something up on the stream,
assemble my gear, and we shall see what we shall see.

Fortunately, there are no rock faces to be circumnavigated, I have a
nice pair of waders, and now possess several pairs of trousers, my
wife is not the scolding type either. It will not be quite the same,
but it will doubtless be fun.

Tight Lines! ~ Mike Connor

The Magic Flybox

Once, long ago, I used to carry all my flies, inside an old tin box,
it survived a lot of drownings, and being dropped upon the rocks,
it only held about fifty flies, but this made the choice less hard,
that old battered dented fly box, really was my calling card.

When I arrived upon the water, the regulars would always grin,
"here comes that kid with the battered gear, and flies in an old tin".
this quite good natured banter often made me wish I had good gear,
and as I got older, but no wiser, I gave in to this impulse I fear.

Years later, I marched into a shop, and bought the finest box I found,
even after all this time, it has no dents, and has not been drowned.
It holds a couple of hundred flies, all the latest ties and trends,
but it is not quite the same somehow, my old tin box and I were
friends.

When I was wondering what to do, or what fly at last to mount,
for some strange reason, on my old tin box, I could always count,
the limited range of patterns, sitting neatly stuck in rows of foam,
fooled hordes of fish in many waters, where I was wont to roam.

Now I catch a lot more fish of course, and I can now afford good gear,
but I often miss my old tin box, and the youthful dreams of
yesteryear.
I have quite a few fly-boxes now, some large and quite expensive,
but I think often of my old tin box, and then become quite pensive.

My old cane rods have long since gone, replaced by shiny plastic.
they do not have the same too heavy, and slow feel, but cast fantastic
Most of my old gear is gone now, I can not recall exactly where it
went,
but for years my old tin box still sat upon my desk, reminding me of
times well spent.

Strange as well, when I opened it, and looked at the rows of well used
flies,
I remembered each and every fish I caught on them, could picture still
their lies,
I can not do this with my larger boxes, many of the flies therein are
new,
there are hundreds of them, and as I said, my old tin box had but a
few.

We moved house some years ago, and when we unpacked our stuff at last,
my old tin box could not be found, it too was now part of things long
past,
I still have the memories of course, good job these weren´t kept in a
tin,
but I still wonder if my old tin box is working still, or landed
simply in the bin.

I can picture it exactly in my mind, and still see the rows of well
used flies,
all I have to do is sit a moment, and think back awhile, and close my
eyes
often when I can not sleep, I visualise the box, and all the fish it
caught for me,
and I drift gently off to sleep, my box transports me then to dreaming
happily.

If you own such a magic box, take care of it, for such a box is very
hard to find,
some never own a box like this, and others may, but to its magic then
are blind.
a worthless piece of tin some think, not fit for use upon the lakes
and streams
poor souls, they never realise that such a box is not for flies, it is
for dreams.

Tight lines! ~ Mike Connor