Memoirs of a Dry Fly Fisherman
Reflections on a Lifetime of Water and Fish
by David Brenna
June 2022
The man who keeps everything he learns locked up in his own breast will know far less than he who compares notes with his fellows. My reason for writing these random notes and recollections is they may remind other men of their interesting experiences, and perhaps induce them to write also. Theodore Gordon, 1903
Introduction:
The sojourn of a fly fisherman is not of itself unique. We begin with an inspiration, or a prodding of a mentor, father or friend. The experiences are very much shared; first trip, first cast, first fish. The journey is not, however, the same in all cases. I could never know your journey; even if we could sit on the bank of a river and tell endless stories to each other that are both familiar and similar to our own. And fly fishing is hardly unique in the stories kindred souls share. Every endeavor, in this strange experience of being human, has its committed, passionate advocates, who relate better to one another than they may to most others. So I will suspend with the effort to suggest that the tale I tell is special; only that it is mine.
It is fair to say, however, that fisherman carry a special place in the annals of tall tales.Captured fish are alway described in exaggeration, both size and number. Fisherman are nearly expected to lie. Sly and knowing winks are exchanged between listeners; we’re hearing from a fisherman. As a class of people, us who fish are suspect about that which we express.
These stories still must be told. And they are heartfelt. For a group of like minded folks, we are remarkably proficient in the weaving of tales. Obviously, I’m rather fond of the heritage of fly fishing literature; I’ll leave it to psychologists and sociologists to remedy the problem of tale telling.
My contribution is minor, my tale my own. I hope the reader is a fly fisherman; hence able to read with pleasure and discover another piece of the puzzle in their interest in unlocking the intricate mystery of fly fishing. But if not, may the joy I have encountered in the construction of my fishing tales inspire you to pick up rod and bait. If you travel the same road I have, I hope to join you streamside. I’ll bring the whiskey.
This memoir has chapters interspersed with two types of discussions: my musings of the theory, technique, and even the philosophy of fly fishing, specifically dry fly fishing. There are also chapters highlighting what I believe to be the best dry flies available (if you are tying) on Western trout rivers. With a couple of exceptions, the fly is designed to match a particular aquatic insects prevalent in rivers with actively feeding trout, but also able to serve as a “searching” pattern: the perspective is that these flies are effective and most likely were an attempt from anglers that “early on” observed and examined natural trout food to create artificial imitations complete with hook. But I include them, or modern variations, not as only a match of a hatch, but effective enough to lure trout to the bait, whether there is a hatch or not! One might conclude these patterns are the best for trout “looking up”, but not at a hatch. When possible, I try to share the original tier and history of the fly. What the reader will discover is that this memoir includes many of my fly fishing adventures, including concepts and philosophy plus chapters describing the history and use of selected dry flies.
A brief note about the depth of my love of flyfishing. This is my memoir, not a how-to guide. I encourage the reader to pursue the joy of fly fishing, not just the technical challenges, but the sheer joy. I hope you see in this book the saga of a flyfisherman.
Chapter 1 - Discovery on the Banks of Medicine Lake
My father was an insurance claims adjuster and one of the perks of the job was shopping at the “salvage company”; merchandise could be purchased at discount from payouts; the “sell off” of damaged goods. For years all kinds of toys, tools and sporting goods brought into our home smelled smoky; fire damaged. But my dad knew a bargain when he saw it.
He was not unlike the father in the movie The Christmas Story; thrilled with the hideous lamp not by it’s beauty or value; but because it was won. A bamboo fly rod, probably seven feet long, with a Pflueger auto-wind reel and level fly line, seemed some kind of bargain. He didn’t fly fish; at all. Didn’t even know what it was, really, and scolded my back yard attempted casts; presuming that the line should jet from the reel as it does with other fishing implements. But somehow I knew differently: the line was to be cast. No further insight was available.
Beginning fishing with cane pole from an early age, then a spinning rod and reel, but my fishing knowledge was limited. Growing up within easy biking distance of a lake in the suburbs of Minneapolis meant I could fish when I wanted, on the banks of Medicine Lake.
The bamboo rod: this was a fishing implement, that was sure. But it’s nature was confusing. I spent some time trying to “whip” the line about in the back yard, magazine pictures suggested that casting a fly meant sending the line down range with the near-weightless fly attached; and I wondered how one could ever fool a fish with a dressed hook tied directly to such a thick line; I thought it must have a magical ability to cause fish to leap from the water, grabbing a brightly colored offering from mid-air. it never occurred to me fly line and leader would create a workable solution.
With a lake within biking distance, and balanced tackle on my means of transportation, there was no large barrier to what was a singular obsession. Fishing the local lake with the newfound equipment; without success, I returned to bait and spinning rod.
Curt Gowdy and Joe Brooks were featured in a television program that would later become The American Sportsman. It was mesmerizing; awakened by their description of tackle and technique as they cast on a lake somewhere far away, for an unfamiliar fish. South America, and the quarry the rainbow trout. The fish were large. The videography was poor: televised fishing was yet to achieve a quality display of fishing prowess. There was time between the effective cast and the setting of the hook. And clearly, the fish was attached to a fly that was attached to monofilament: not the casting line. The puzzle revealed itself. The fishing began after the cast; the cast made the fishing possible.
Medicine Lake, which had yielded many a fine bluegill to bait, suddenly became a new adventure. A drug store purchased McGinty bee pattern, tied to a leader of monofilament sections, produced fish.
Curiosity switched from equipment to water. The shores of Medicine Lake that yielded panfish with soaked bait weren’t as productive with the bee imitation: it took a mentor, first of many, to reveal that the shallows, with lily pads and reeds that were nuisance with spinning gear, presented serious opportunity with a short cast of the fly rod. I also discovered store bought flies were in short supply, and other patterns caught fish, some more effectively.
Within a year I was tying flies with a pliers for a vise, held fast to the hook by wrapping thick rubber bands about the handle and clamping the handle between my knees. Bait hooks and sewing thread sufficed and no neighborhood pet, song bird or mothers sewing material was safe from my greed. My parents relinquished and bought me a beginning fly tying kit; it smelled smoky.
The world of fly-tying began to open up. Materials, hooks all pointed to a new area of discovery. The tying kit came with a few pages of instruction; basic stuff, hackle winding, the whip finish, proportional use of materials. The difference between dry fly and wet fly confused but intrigued me. Hook size mattered, and the presumption that bigger flies meant bigger fish was dispelled. Somewhere in this exploration came a magazine article on stream fishing for rainbow trout. The Minnesota fishing regulations pointed to streams with trout: two options; north to the shore of Superior or south to limestone bluffs along the Mississippi, and spring fed waters.
Mid-way through high school, with drivers license in hand, I began the exploration of the streams of Southern Minnesota, Northeast Iowa and Western Wisconsin, referred to today as the “driftless” area. These streams were heavily stocked and while I mostly pursued the trout in them with spinning rod and salmon eggs from a jar, I began to have some success with the fly rod. But the skills needed eluded me.
I would cast for an hour or two, uncertain of the selection of the fly, and, as hindsight now tells me, oblivious of the importance of presentation. The wrong fly landed in a heap of line on the tailout of a pool produced mostly frustration. I still vividly recall a poor cast from a high bank; the wrong side of the stream, and how the leader straightened, achieved an observable drag free drift of a No. 10 yellow Wooly Worm, and a fine rainbow surprised me, rising from below and engulfing my fly. It was a highlight of the day, even the season and a vivid memory still exists of the moment the trout took. Memories of taking fish on a fly are both vivid and long lasting.
The future sometimes reveals itself; observing water and other fishermen slowly taught me to pay attention to other anglers. Mentally capturing accomplished casting and execution took attention. There was a more elusive awareness than an hour of lesson here. Observation as a tool was a serious awakening, as well as the beginning of a commitment to sitting still and watching when fishing.
These were fiberglass fly rod days, and I had received a gift from a mentor; my ninth-grade English teacher, Fred Daugs. He was an avid angler, sometimes fly fishing, and he learned of my prowess on Medicine Lake by having me stay after class. I had been caught reading an outdoor magazine rather than paying attention to the lesson. As a great teacher, he also schooled some of us lucky pupils in the art of fishing. A seven-foot, South Bend fly rod and single action reel replaced the poor quality bamboo.
While Mr Daugs, as we called him, had been generous with his advice and gifts of equipment, his casting instruction had not helped much; flyfishing was only a passing interest to him. But my observations of an anonymous angler gave an image of what was possible. I began a life-long refinement of casting technique, and the visual capture of the written explanations I had found in library searches began to make sense. I stopped trying to overpower the rod, developed a feel for timing and rod dynamics.
A new Thompson vise and growing mound of materials littering the bench captivated the off days, the new SouthBend fiberglass rod began to come alive. I read every outdoor magazine I could find, ransacked the library for books on fly fishing, and began dreaming of big Western Rivers.
These early experiences continued to form my thinking about fishing and fish. I was very much a novice. Now I had a portrait of a world I could only begin to imagine. It was more than sport. It was more than entertaining oneself on water in summer heat. I could detect an allure; one not readily explained by anyone, and not one that others readily shared. I was odd, possibly, or I was onto something. I was sure my friends would grasp their heads in their hands at the suggestion of taking fish with rod and fly and exclaim “Why hadn’t I seen this for the beauty and grace and magnificence it truly is!!!”. But they didn’t. They had competing, sometimes compelling life draws that they expected would captivate my imagination. Even my fishing friends could hardly see the point, but then I had left many of them behind when I moved from a Zebco push button to a Mitchell spinning reel! I concluded that “each to his own” and began to hope that there were others like me.
Water, preferably moving, fish, solitude and a puzzle moved me, drew me closer, and caused a deepening curiosity.
In 1975, Washington State had friends and job options, and my life unfolded there. I can’t say I fished every available moment of the last 60 years: there was work, promotions, a family to raise. But no passion in my life has meant more than the pursuit of trout, in streams, with a fly. My growing knowledge corresponded to a broader, general public interest in the sport: it was a time of great growth in the fly fishing world.
As so many other anglers know, fly fishing can be discovered from a rich history of fly fishing literature, how-to manuals and periodicals. I read as much as my time and budget permitted, and the influence of authors on my maturation as a fly angler cannot be overstated. I’m sure my experience is not unique; every avid fly fisher researches equipment, flies and methods, as well as destinations.
Fly-fishing literature is rich and varied; perhaps no other pursuit has prompted so much personal sharing and written praise. For the initiate, the amount of guidance found in literature overwhelms. But there was no Internet to help discover this treasure; phone calls and trips to local libraries, along the route to another stream to explore, brought access to this literature. Famous names, historical and contemporary, shared my enthusiasm and had asked and answered many of my questions. Accessible reading options challenged my resources and competed with my growing equipment cache, but I realized that knowledge mattered as much as the tools.
It was a hard slog through the Field and Stream, Sports Afield and Outdoor Life magazines as these publications were broad appeals to all “woodsman”; the term for accomplished fisherman, hunters and campers of the time. Occasionally the article on fly fishing or destination trout streams caught my attention; indeed any article specific to the sport that was capturing my undying attention.
Then in the late 1970s a number of periodicals hit newsstands with the primary focus on fly-fishing. Maybe they had been there all along, but in 1978 the first issue of Flyfishing the West was published. There were others like me! Their passion was obvious, and their knowledge seemed endless! Across the Columbia River from my Washington home, in Astoria,OR, was a man named Dave Hughes, who worked for a local sporting goods store. I discovered he was a man of endless wisdom on the subject. I met him and he advised me on different aspects of the sport. I bought my first graphite rod at his suggestion. Later he appeared in an article in Flyfishing the West and his book on hatches released in 1987, remains as a constant guide. Abandoning all “gear” fishing wasn’t a conscious decision; it was simple calculus: fly-fishing had begun to consume all leisure time. Being on the water meant flyfishing.
The sport was gaining popularity and with the launch of such magazines as Flyfishing the West and Fly Fisherman there was a depth of knowledge, and an introduction to authors that would shape my passion. And give it sustenance. And meaning. Suddenly there was no end of advice and wisdom, on flies, waters, technique and tackle.
I am self taught. That is, I learned about fly fishing through literature. I picked up the casting techniques of the time, with my elbow firmly pressed against my side and understood the virtue of the tight loop and presentation. Along the way, I became a good caster, having benefited from so many experts in their writings, it’s hard to attribute. I confess that I only became an “expert” after many years casting experience, but today pride myself on a tight loop, accuracy and delicate presentation. And, along the way, I became a reasonably good instructor, having introduced the sport to many, and trained them to cast with efficacy.
Having limited expenses but a durable pickup truck with a canopy, gear rods gathered dust while I spent every day off exploring every watershed in Washington State that might hold trout. An occasional side trip to some hunting or fall/winter salmon/steelhead fishing, but otherwise at the bench in the off season and on the stream from July until November. As most new fly aficionados, I liked the visual feedback that came with taking trout on or near the top. The feedback to casting and presentation skills sharpen with each take. It’s a lesson I pass on to students. To take a fish on top reinforces that you did everything right: you read the water, made an effective cast, presented the fly drag-free to the correct holding water, had the correct pattern and fooled the quarry.
One day on a stream I came across an “elderly” gentleman, as mentioned, perhaps in his 40’s, and watched his casting. It was impressive. I watched as closely as I could and mentally repeated his motions. There was a more elusive lesson here. He waded and cast to water I would have walked past. His presentation was delicate, the line straightening before it gently landed on the water. It seemed from a distance that the fly was floating. The rise was unmistakable, but actually startled me. That hour of observation was a serious awakening, as well as the beginning of a commitment to sitting still and watching at some part of my day when fishing.
Now I had an image of what was possible. I began a life-long refinement of casting technique, and the visual capture of the written explanations I had found in library searches began to make sense. I stopped trying to overpower the rod, developed a feel for timing and rod dynamics.
A Thompson vise and growing mound of materials littering the bench captivated the off days, the new SouthBend fiberglass rod began to come alive. I read every outdoor magazine I could find, ransacked the library for books on fly fishing, and began dreaming of big Western Rivers.
Chapter 2 - The Renegade
What an odd fly. Doesn’t appear to imitate anything, at least nothing I’ve observed. Legend has it that one Taylor Williams of Sun Valley, Idaho created the Renegade in 1937: the legend maker is none other than Ernest Hemingway. Regardless of who originated the fly; they produced a remarkable pattern, all the more remarkable because, well, what the hell is it? The design must have had an inspiration of, oh, I don’t know, an alien life form exploring our habitable waters? If there is an insect even close in resemblance to the Renegade, few if any have ever seen it, let alone classified it. Some flyfishers of Idaho claim it works well during caddis fly emergence; but why? Caddis emergence (more on that later) is a bit of an oxymoron itself; if what I know about caddis says anything. I have no explanation: does the Renegade simply look “buggy”? Not a bug I know of. The only other good explanation is the fly resemblance to the famous bi-visibles, often fished in cross currents. Few would suggest that the bi-visible is a good imitation of the routine hatch of some genus of . . of . . . well, I just don’t know!
Well, really, what does that mean. And how does such a pattern end up such a popular trout fly? Just one way to explain that. It works.
As what will be discussed later, dry flies for trout can be imitations or attractors; fancy flies in the historical term. Some fancy flies have a certain structure suggesting aquatic or terrestrial insects trout encounter, think the Coachman. But the Renegade? It is a true attractor pattern, and deadly beyond its simple construction. Peacock herl has always been a material with properties that make it appeal to trout; and the Renegade certainly features a full body of peacock herl framed with brown and white. One might presume the Coachman would serve as well. If trout are responding to the Renegade, certainly the Coachman would perform as well or better. What of the Elk Hair Caddis; if the high floating, dancing Renegade is attracting fish during a “hatch” of caddis, wouldn’t you simply identify the fly and switch to the appropriately colored EHC? Well, no. The Renegade will take fish when those patterns need to stay in the box. Humpies? Wulffs? Go ahead and try them, but desperate times call for desperate measures, or put more directly, fish the Renegade!
Idaho cutthroat seem most taken with the fly, and indeed, it earns its reputation on big streams like the South Fork of the Snake. Alaska grayling have a particular affinity for the Renegade, and my experience with grayling is that they are rather particular, I would never say selective, and have a remarkably unusual behavior in rejecting a fly at the last possible instant. But the Westslope Cutt is connected to the Renegade. For whatever reason, the Renegade can turn an average day into a memorable one.
It was early October and the large orange caddis of that name were on the river, only female egg laying had just begun and trout were ignoring my patterns. Typical late summer hatches were about, with midges and blue-winged olives showing, but no trout seemed to care. My frustration mounted as it became clear that the October caddis “hatch” was a few days off, and I had only a day of fishing left of my trip. It was only natural that I turn to the Renegade.
It was a delightful, soft and placid afternoon. Without a fish showing, I worked a long stretch of river, shaded by the tall canyon walls, the water gin clear and finally, after feeling like I was fishing barren waters, fish began to cooperate. The first came as a bit of a surprise, moving at the fly on its first cast into likely looking water, quite a splashy rise, really, considering that I hadn’t turned a fish all day. Freeing the 13 incher and moving upstream a few feet, the Renegade performed again after just a few casts and I brought another West Slope Cutthroat of equal size to hand. My day suddenly was looking up!
Nothing apparent was on the water, at least that I could make out. Wind was minimal; not any terrestrials being tossed into the river. The day was cooling, and fish or not, the time on the river was beguiling. In the next three pools, less than a quarter mile of hiking and wading, another five fish came to the fly, and the whiskey back at camp was beginning to tempt me: I’d had a successful finish to a frustrating day. Maybe one more pool, upstream from this enchanted place, and then to camp.
There was a long, even shelf at the top of the pool I was approaching, pushing the current into a wall of Rocky Mountain granite and scouring out a deep, protective sanctuary. A seam, created by a boulder in the middle of the riffle dropping off of the shelf suggested a good holding spot and I decided I’d work this last stretch before caving to my desire for a cigar and stiff drink. A couple of long casts to understand the effect of the varied currents between me and the target, and I dropped the Renegade into the seam, between quick and not-so-quick currents, gave a small mend and watched the high floating imitation of nothing in particular drift into the shadows of the pool; rushing to the far wall. The rise wasn’t splashy. The first pressure on the 4 weight seemed average, then things changed. I was fast to a serious fish.
As I’ll contended throughout this book, the size of fish matters less and less to me as I’ve matured, learned the focal point of my passion, hooked and released more fish than can be counted, but that moment when a heavy fish, unexpected, turns to give you full effort, well, it defines happiness for me. West Slope cutthroat, in pristine Idaho mountain streams, have a short lifespan. The best circumstances provide for some fish in the four and even five year age range, at sizes of 16 to 18 inches. A few make it to six years; a fraction make it seven. My wife once hooked a fish that was probably two feet in length. We only caught a glimpse of it before it was gone. I’m sure I had one, briefly, of equal size years ago, but they are rare. This fish wasn’t trophy sized, but one for the books none-the-less.
I knew I had to chase the fish, and happily did so as my take out point was down stream. By now, I was close to my backing, rare in small Idaho streams, and I simply wanted to get a look at him; he would be brilliant; fish in this river alway are. Cutthroat rarely jump, and hardly account for themselves as well as a Brown trout, but this fish was determined, made multiple runs, and exhausted himself at the tail out of the downstream pool. I slid him carefully onto a small, sheltered, calm bathtub formed of small round rocks; he was too large to lift without risking harm to him; I reached for the fly, a twist and I pulled him as to get him upright. The last thing to do; lay my rod handle next to the broad, flaming red and spotted body, note where his tail brushed across the wrappings of the rod below the stripping guide, and turn his head into the current. He was off.
Back in camp, the tape told me that he was better than 20 inches; the best West Slope I’ve ever taken; on a fly that I can’t explain.
Chapter 3 - Theory of the Dry Fly
Humans are quite the visual creatures. Our senses, when compared with other species lack acuity with the exception of vision. Our hearing is only average in the world of fauna. Our olfactory skills are decidedly poor. While we might delight in the wondrous odors of a warm kitchen, our ability to detect much scent outside of that environment is quite limited. But vision is acute. Our ability to discern color, focus at significant distances, and examine greater detail in close range gives us a particular advantage as hunters. No doubt our ability to observe, and our mental capacity to categorize and compare, makes fly fishing possible.
I have long entertained a certain philosophy about the human response to fishing; fly fishing in particular. As a catch-and-release fisherman, over the years explaining my sport to new acquaintances took a familiar track. Why, they would ask, did I fish if I didn’t kill and eat the quarry? What possible sense does it make to spend huge resources on capturing food, and not partake? Something to consider.
The line of questioning from those without the experience of fly-fishing/catch-and-release reveal a complete disconnect to the outdoor world, and how fishermen, particularly fly fishers, engage in that world. Disdain for people who hunt and fish is virulent amongst a small minority of people, but a larger group of people simply have no connection to the skills that once assured our survival. More people fish and hunt in America than at any time in our history, and a wonderful specialization in these outdoor sports has taken root. At the same time, there are more people than ever that seem separated from these outdoor sports, although that may be changing.
There are many, in our modern times, that hike, camp and picnic in the out-of-doors. They photograph and admire the beauty. They walk along waterways and marvel at nature. But they stay observers, not participants. Hunters and fisherman bridge that gap. The quarry requires a deeper understanding of the wild. The pursuit of game pulls them toward something not easily defined. Answers to these queries by non-outdoorsman are sincere, while realizing that the answers never make sense; they have no context. “You can buy better fish at the market.” “The river is too fragile for us to kill every fish.” “I try to conserve the fish for others.” Blank stares.
But what is that exhilaration? Hunters know the heart-pounding experience of seeing game approach, and successfully harvesting the prey. They also know the reward of dressing, curing and butchering the prize, not to mention the ongoing joy of table fare. But in spite of my early fishing experiences, where the bag limit was carefully noted; and often filled, concentration was on how to fight, land and release fish, and I studied carefully the advice of experts on assuring survival; most importantly the barbless fly.
To be most honest, my first efforts at releasing fish came at the hands of my mother. Bringing home large catches of bluegills, having to clean and scale them, then sit down to a dinner of them convinced me to limit my take! Mom was clear; you catch it, you clean it. That was true for hunting as well. I had an option with fishing that I figured out: Don’t bring any home!
The elements of fly fishing passion are numerous. The out-of-doors, wilderness, is its own great reward, but I can hardly be expected to walk the trails without a fly rod in my hand. My initial trip out west, without fishing gear, was painful. No, I’m not a hiker or backcountry camper: hiking and camping are nice activities associated, in my mind, with access to trout waters.
There is, of course a remarkable artistic form in fly-fishing; the cast. It is rhythmic, almost like dancing, if you like that kind of thing, and proficiency rewards the angler in his objective: catching fish.
There is a grace and beauty in the cast that distinguishes it from other forms of fishing. Indeed, part of introducing people to flyfishing is the instruction in casting, and instructors benefit from its teaching as much, if not more than the student.
Casting doesn’t answer the query. Wild places, exploring and woodsmanship, casting. Then of course is entomology and fly tying. While fascinating subjects, and important to this book, they are more means to an end. What is it that has us standing in running water, even when unsuccessful, and feeling so involved, engaged, enlightened and alive?
Most hunters and fisherman would agree to the inherent and primitive joy of being the predator. Man, in part of his success as a species, came to learn the capture of food. It holds to reason that the drive to gather, capture and pursue game would be a reinforcing stimuli. As civilization advanced, the instinct to fish and hunt found expression in a more and more civilized form. And this provides the answer. We are in wonder at the progression of fly-fishing through history, and can hardly get enough of the words and formulations of authors long gone; yet one can sense their presence on the stream. Primitive urge coupled with a glorious and ongoing discovery. We are drawn to the river, and drawn to the sport.
Fly fishing was a natural evolution for this young outdoorsman, anxious to hunt, fish and explore. Growing up in the Midwest, with farm family roots, presented endless opportunity to walk the woods, wade water and seek game. Earlier experiences, particularly of catching fish, led me to the combined challenges of fly fishing. And it was both being the participant, and, somehow, the observer of fly fishing that continue to inspire, to this day. Bringing multiple skills to play, from the bench, to streamside. Reading water and casting. It is as engaging a human activity as I am aware of after over a half century of life.
Having the visual feedback of the effective drift and the resultant take make corrected presentations possible. Casting ability is required to keep pace with the ability to discern the best presentations and presentations come from careful trial and error, made possible by observation. It remains the sight of the fly and fish to the fly that excites. There is both expectation: and surprise. In how many endeavors do we anticipate the result, and yet are taken aback by the expectation becoming real. The trout surprises. You knew he was there, have spent years perfecting the knowledge of his whereabouts, what was required to cause him to move, the skills to bring these elements together: and yet; there he is! Such a surprise! And thrill.
No doubt the timing of my introduction and schooling in fly fishing contributed to my evolution as a dry fly fisher. In the 1960-70’s, wet fly fishing was hardly in vogue, and nymph fishing, while described in many books and magazines as an effective method to capture trout, was ill-defined. Short line or high stick nymphing were presented as methods of delivering important patterns of the day, but the challenges of “seeing” or “feeling” the take were evident. At some point many anglers discovered the use of an indicator, described as a clump of synthetic material connected to the leader with a simple half-hitch. When first trying the method, it provided the visual feedback needed, at least by me, to know the fish had been deceived, but the challenges of depth, current speed and free drift remained difficult to unravel. Nymphing can be successful with long leaders, and small weights, but they were clumsy to cast and not at all accurate; true effectiveness remains puzzling for many. It’s important to note that nymphing has advanced over recent years and now has many enthusiasts. I had always enjoyed some success with swinging nymph patterns as wet flies, but upstream presentation of nymphs was challenging, they lacked what mattered most; the visual experience of seeing fish to fly. I decided, not in some sudden moment of epiphany, but over time and trial, that I would remain a dry fly fisherman.
This was an important transition; and not without struggle. I knew that effective methods were at my disposal; I could be successful given conditions and knowledge; knowledge I had worked hard to accumulate, yet time after time I abandoned the obvious way in favor of the challenge. I wanted the fish to show itself. To be totally fooled. To be shocked when the bite of the hook was felt. The more difficult to bring a fish to the top; the more I enjoyed it! I had a problem and the only solution was more top-water action. And top water action came from bringing fish, even reluctant fish, to the top.
This is not to say I didn’t mature in the same manner as most fly fishermen. I had my big fish issue, and numbers still count today; great destinations lure me still with their promise of more, bigger! And of course, the fight of a good trout, on a light weight rod, is always thrilling. And how could I forget the Woolly Bugger, a fly I first discovered in the late 70s and put to good use for a summer or two. I fished it as I had most streamers, and found it effective on a dead drift as well; better than a nymph, because it produces strong strikes, easy to detect. To this day, in the one wet/nymph box I have among the many in my gear bag, a couple of bedraggled Woolly Buggers remain. Steelhead and salmon, along with Alaska rainbows require different equipment and flies. I spend time in those pursuits as well, and visiting my son in Alaska assures that I’ll always find time to chase big ‘bows, with huge flies, referred to by local Alaska fly guys as “half chickens”, with names like Dali Lama, and requiring a stiff, 7 weight rod and aggressive presentation. As time passed, however, it was the dry fly and rod that became my constant companion.
Trout seem to randomly decide that they should look up. It seems more likely to occur during a hatch, so we naturally assume that hatches “trigger” top water feeding behavior. Not so fast. Some of my best days with a top water fly came without a distinguishable hatch, with the occasional fish coming to the top, often on prompts that came and went before I could determine the source. Or, worst of all, splashy rises randomly occurring with no apparent, active hatch to identify and attempt a match. The Puzzle.
The experts used observations in a very sound, scientific approach. It is true that food availability makes trout look up, the insects are there, but can you see them? There are many fine authors that understand and approach trout water with the curiosity of the scientist, and deploy methods to identify the aquatic insects available to fish, and fish accordingly. I would be out of my league to comment on such approaches; particularly as it comes to nymph fishing, read their works and learn as I have. There’s much offered to the dedicated fly fisherman.
Solving the puzzle starts with good observations, but that can end discouragingly. Fish aren’t always triggering on the visible hatching insect. But look closely, closer still. Take time to watch a single fish. Sit down on a spot along the bank where you can watch. Notice floating forms and colors. Note that they aren’t always what you expect; and may not be triggering takes! Now that you are totally confused, think about what’s in your box. If you aren’t confident that you have a fly that matches what you've observed; look some more. If you still can’t zero in on what the fish are up to, you are still left with a few options.
Tiny midges, or even small mayflies may be drawing attention. Without spooking fish, can you identify a fly that is as small and prolific as a natural? Maybe the natural is not readily apparent; can you send a small alternative to the feeding fish and tempt them? And why not tempt them with something unexpected, but enticing enough to draw them?
Vincent Marinaro in his Modern Dry-fly Code (1950) makes such a discovery. His careful examination, then use of a cloth screen to sample the river, revealed many more insects in the surface film on the water than he had previously understood. Obvious, and large sized insect hatches captured the attention of fly fisherman of his time. Yet he was puzzled by fish rising when no visible hatch was available. Now, Marinaro’s observations, and contributions to dry fly fishing, particularly his development of patterns to match terrestrial insects consumed by trout, are much appreciated, and transfer well to all moving trout waters. Many Western waters, however, lack the ease of observations of trout that caused Marinaro, and his colleagues to note that trout feed on top even when hatches are not immediately apparent. In a casual day of fishing, an unobservant angler is likely to conclude, without a hatch drawing obvious attention from trout, that no fish would move to a dry fly. My own experience was just that; having been initially overwhelmed by the extreme gradient and water volume on many Western rivers, I fished along never noticing that fish were, indeed, rising all about. I’m not talking about multiple rises in glassy tailouts, or mid-channel activity and splashy, attention drawing takes: there were fish rising often, but in the heavy flow I missed them. When finally, much like Marinaro, I began to purposely sit and observe, I discovered that trout were rising constantly. This took me aback at first. What was the hatch? I couldn’t see it.
Often on big waters, a choppy riffle can be stared at for some time before one even notices rising fish. Our waters out West, with the exception of long tailouts and spring creeks, have fish that are not easy to spot. Even in tailouts, fish can hold in deeper water upstream, and only appear during hatches, or, often enough, they are there, but rarely show themselves. I remember to my astonishment that I could sit and observe, certain that no surface activity was occurring, when suddenly I’d see a flash, a brief interruption of the current, a swell of water where none had been a moment before. My God; the fish were everywhere; and actively feeding; on top!
Over the years, I’ve changed my conclusion about trout behavior related to surface activity. If fish have experienced hatching insects any time recently (and that encompasses most of the summer and fall months) and water conditions are within reasonable temperature and flow ranges and clarity, trout will look to feed on the surface; they will look up.
Colonel Harding answered part of the mystery of trout taking on the surface. The visual confinement of an underwater life and the constant struggle of a creature in such an environment means that any opportunity will be evaluated: unless the opportunity is obvious and readily available, in which case the hatch is on! That means, if the hatch is on, fish will key on the hatch. If a heavy migration of nymphs is underway, nymph feeding will dominate their behavior, and it’s time for me to head back to camp.
Given decent conditions for visibility and comfort, a trout will examine any opportunity. This is what Mainaro discovered; there were numerous proteins floating on or in the surface. His subsequent examination revealed certain preferences, but I believe, and fish by this maxim: if you can present a dry fly that triggers attention, your presentation is near perfect, and the fish are not captivated by some other phenomenon occurring (hatch or subsurface opportunity), fish will take dry flies at all times.
Chapter 4 - Griffiths Gnat
Created by co-founder of Trout Unlimited, George Griffith, the fly is a must-have in your box, regardless of how you rank the patterns or agree with my rating. What, pray tell, would you do should an evening hatch of midges appear? Oh, there are delicately tied exact imitations of midges, some quite perfect looking. Midges come in such a wide array of sizes and colors, often different from each watershed, sometimes varied even in the same watershed at the same time. A well appointed midge box should contain many choices of size, color and type. The insect ranges in size from 28 to 8, and, while mostly shades of green to black, can appear in tans, grays, even reds. The sweet spot seems to be size 18 and smaller, mostly black, but on close examination, there is a certain iridescence that brings green or red to mind. I tie hundreds of tiny exact imitations, with synthetic gills and CDC; imitations of emerging adults. Matching a hatch of midges with an imitation, rather than an impression, is a challenge. Toss away? Try your exact examples and see what happens. In the end you’ll be outfished by the guy with a handful of Griffith’s Gnats in sizes 18 to 22.
I have always loved the “technical” challenge of midge hatches, or, for that matter, the challenges of any very small aquatic insect that has concentrated the trout’s attention to a selective feeding frenzy. A brief digression to a story about spring in Colorado, having nothing to do with the fly in question.
Early April in Colorado, weather permitting, can be an amazing sight fishing experience. The Blue River, running through Breckenridge, is a mountain fishery and BIG rainbows move from Dillon Reservoir upstream to spawn. Fishing midge nymphs, like the Copper John, on a dead drift or under an indicator is the standard approach to most who fish the area, and on a trip with my son and brother, we spent a fair amount of our time dead drifting tiny nymphs. Midges do hatch during the spring (midges hatch year ‘round) and on a particularly still, mild afternoon on the Blue, we noticed some emerging midges attracting the attention of some nice trout. At one tailout, a large, male Rainbow had moved to the top and seemed totally unaffected by the passing anglers. When I finally had a chance to move into position to cast to this fish, he hardly paid attention. I could see the emerging midges; they were lighter colored than most hatches, and very small. The large trout stayed on station, sipping tiny treats with great regularity. Re-rigging with 7X tippet, and examining the smallest dry flies in my box, I began a variety of offerings, changing flies repeatedly; my quarry was quick to inform me of the imitative quality of the fly I chose, he wasn’t to be fooled by just any pattern. On two occasions, he literally bumped the fly as he inspected it: getting close!
My fishing partners had long abandoned me. Probably caught more fish that day as a result. But I’m who I am, and a six-plus pound Rainbow intent on feeding on the top, there, right in front of me, the prey almost communicating with the hunter, was too much for my ego and intellect to let go. In the process, I hooked and landed a lovely Brown trout of about 16 inches who had taken up station just below the big bow. Normally quite a pleasing result, I was only disturbed that it put the Rainbow down; but he returned after a few minutes needed rest; I didn’t move from where I stood. I’ll never be sure of how many tiny, emerger type flies I offered. There may have even been a Griffith’s Gnat. But finally, that beautiful fish rose slowly but determinedly the few inches to the surface and sucked in my fly.
We all make mistakes, and this was of the rookie nature. Rather than lift the tip and set the #24 midge emerger firmly in his lip; I reared back like I was setting up on a charging Sailfish. The leader didn’t have a chance, and the big rainbow decided I was now an annoyance and slipped into the deeper water. Calling it a day, I replayed the experience in my mind. I really didn’t need to reconsider my approach, my casting or my fly selection; just my high excitement about an encounter that was way too short! Funny, our failures sometimes define, and embed, our best memories.
What does that have to do with the Griffith’s Gnat? I can relate many hundreds of stories, less crystal clear in my mind, of fish lying just under the surface and methodically feeding on midges. Keep in mind, the closer the fish is to the surface, the less of a window of real clarity exists for them to examine the prey. Herein, I believe, lies the perfection of the Griffiths Gnat. The 97 degree cone of a window shrinks to mere inches for a fish with its dorsal fin piercing the surface. The decision point, a term I use to describe the phenomena of the time a trout has from noticing a surface disturbance, to actually engulfing a fly, is reduced to fractions of a second. The trout is, in my opinion, relying on a determination that the hatch of midges is available in great numbers, and selectivity is reduced to a split second confirmation that the insect is, indeed, part of the hundreds of midges drifting by. Seeing the surface disturbance, mostly in a calm, glassy mirrored surface just a few inches in front of the trout, lying only inches from the surface, is all that’s necessary for the fish to have confidence that the midge is in a direct line to an easy interception. Inspecting the precise size, shape and color is difficult in those circumstances, and the pre-window disturbance and trigger is enough for the trout, in most cases to make a decision. In the case of the Blue River monster that ultimately won the day, its inspection of my offerings clearly was exacting, and it took many an attempt to finally put the right fly in front of that huge trout. In most of these scenarios, selecting the fish I was to approach, tying on a Griffith’s Gnat and laying a precise cast put me fast to some great fish, again and again and again.
I recall, for instance, a day on a large tailout of a favorite river where pods of fish, numbering in the hundreds (well there were at least a hundred!) permitted me to wade among them and, standing in the same spot, hook and bring to hand at least 10 of them without putting any down. The fly? Griffith’s Gnat. Need I say more?
Well, only to add that this pattern is as simple to tie as can be imagined. Counter wrap a grizzly hackle across a wrapped body of peacock herl. That’s it. No, I don’t do anything different with this classic pattern than it’s original design, though I have seen them over dressed. With hook sizes at 22 or even smaller; keep it simple and sparse, the way I believe George Griffith intended. This can be a difficult fly to see in low light, and I’ve experimented with “hi-vis” versions: a small tuft of poly tied into the fly at mid-point. Frankly, the Gnat is a pattern to drop in a slow moving slick, near dusk, and lift your rod tip should a fish rise in the expected vicinity of your fly. You’ll catch fish!
What ranks the Griffith’s Gnat in the top dry flies for trout is as simple as this: midges hatch all the time on all trout waters. If you intend to take advantage of this fact, you had best have this fly in your box. You can tie a whole variety of close imitations hoping to have the exact pattern for the moment; or you can tie on the Griffith’s Gnat. I have heard theories that the fly imitates a midge cluster; a habit of the insect to bunch together upon returning to mate and lay eggs. My powers of observation, advanced through years of serious application, I can’t say for sure if this is the case, even if I can attest to catching trout repeatedly on Gnat’s that seem significantly larger than the naturals: I have complete confidence in this fly. If midges are in abundance, and trout are feeding close to the surface, tie one on!
Chapter 5 - Theory in Action
So, my premise of dry fly fishing, at some time over the last twenty years, dramatically changed, thanks to the thought provoking writings of fishing authors, and thanks to good fortune, and I like to think a certain curiosity coupled with discipline. I changed my view from fishing hatches, or being frustrated, to trying to ascertain if the fish were “looking up”. This simple change in the way I approached my craft had dramatic effect. Opportunity was constant. I could anticipate success most of the time, without fishing deep; which I dislike and find quite unsatisfying, even if I would have success measured by fish taken.
My dry fly fishing is now more dynamic. There are hatches. Those are easy. But hatches are not a constant (although I’m more inclined to think they are more common than we realize, and that only certain hatches raise the fish and our attention!) and between hatches, I fish dry flies with a different set of expectations and understanding. I expect fish will examine my dry flies.
The Genus Baetis (best know as Blue Winged Olives of BWO’s) serves as a good example for what I’m theorizing: they hatch all the time in Western waters. When a Baetis hatch is heavy, fish will move to feeding positions to concentrate on the hatch. Most of us who regularly fish these streams and rivers know that you will spot small mayflies, generally one of the six or more species of Baetis found in the West, almost every day. The hatches will be spotty, the flies small and they may be occasionally taken. But they are often ignored. It does mean the fish are looking up; they will examine a fly well presented. Knowing that aids the dedicated dry fly fisher to get serious about reading water and making good presentations.
Presentation is critically important. As is casting skill. Dry fly options extend from imitations that seem of interest to fish, even if not currently hatching, perhaps because the hatch occurred recently, or terrestrials are finding themselves in the water, or attractors entice fish into taking. Let’s explore this in more detail.
Presentation is a dry fly concept that has been thoroughly discussed and written about by most of the great fly fishing authors. I can’t say I have much to contribute, but must emphasize its importance. Perhaps the easiest way to think about presentation is to imagine the actual insect you are imitating: imagine dropping it in the water. Most of us have actually performed such an experiment. One late summer day on the Yakima, the hoppers were abundant, but I saw little action with my Muddler imitation. On a high bank, I observed a brace of trout, one clearly over twenty inches. The depth was probably four feet, the current strong but the surface remained smooth and the clarity was crystal. I captured a medium sized hopper, moved upstream some distance and tossed it, hard, on to the surface then raced down stream, back far enough so as not to disturb the fish. The hopper struggled briefly, then rode the current to his fate. What immediately struck me is the effect of the surface movement on the movement of the hopper. My fly, tied as it is to the leader, would not drift in the same manner. The natural was tossed and swung around, moving, I was afraid, out of the feeding lane of the fish. The hopper was being pushed by the current towards the bank: that would have been a problem for a presentation of an artificial as well. But as the hopper came within the visual range of the trout, a full two feet from the run of current that the large trout lay, the trout made a quick dash and engulfed the insect. I was so startled that I started to fall backwards!
My efforts that day came up empty. I couldn’t draw the same attention as the natural, the wind was calm enough that the surface stayed glassy even in that heavy flow and the only fish I saw take anything that day was the one “fooled” by the real thing. But the experience bore heavily on my thinking about presentations. It can be said that perfect presentation is perhaps impossible to achieve; given the difference between a free floating natural and the fly you are fishing. But the event gave me much to ponder. Clearly a “perfect” presentation drew attention even on a day of challenging dry fly conditions: blue sky, heat, little wind and gin clear flows. I try now to understand those conditions as requiring me to seek some advantage, perhaps a more rippled surface, choppy not smooth or in the shade of a high, bushy bank. Another occasion, on a different stream, also fishing a hopper pattern, led me to fish very tight against the bank, knowing the fly would be bounced by its initial landing and a short, but quite “buggy” presentation would result. My success that day reflected the learning I’d had on that earlier day of fishing.
The point is this: presentation will always be the most important element of success. And, as most of the best I’ve read on the subject emphasizes, it is a combination of understanding and reading water, fish behavior and the limitations on placing your fly on the water with free-drift excellence. And, of course to achieve this combination, you start with casting.
Again, great authors have written volumes on the cast. Without going into depth, I would relate that my attention to casting has never been more intense, and I feel, even after fifty years of experience, that I am still improving. I concentrate now, mostly, on aerial mends; the magic of line control in mid cast. This is not easy to master but probably contributes more to quality presentation than even one's knowledge of the stream and reading holding water. Of course, casting must be over productive water, but if the casting skills are lacking, no amount of fish concentration will completely make up for that. Now I’ve seen terrible casters catch fish: there are days when trout seem quite suicidal. There’s a statement by Carl McNeil in his excellent video, Casts that Catch Fish,that has stuck with me. Carl outrageously states that the presentation is more important than fly selection! While I might take that debate, he has an important point that I’d put differently: the best fly in your box will not catch fish if you can't present it properly!
Fly selection is another significant element in your success on the stream, and this book is mostly about flies that I find effective; not in matching the hatches, but in everyday fishing on productive water without hatches guiding your way. I think of fly selection in three sets of options: flies that trigger fish because of recent hatch activity, terrestrials and attractors. These distinctions are only my way of being systematic in my fishing, but you may find them helpful. Many of the flies discussed in this book fall into the category of “recent activity” dries. That is, a Quill Gordon can certainly be used as a match to a hatch of quills, but its color, shape and intricate ribbed body draw attention even without a recent, heavy hatch of the same. This is very true, also, of the Adams. And the Elk Hair, and other caddisflies, have the advantage of coming close to hatches that occur almost daily, but more attention is required to be effective with caddis patterns: they should stay in the general range of caddis that have been observed on the water for color and size.
Terrestrials offer opportunities when nothing else will produce. Hoppers and ants will attract attention during the right conditions and time of the year, and can often serve well as searching patterns. I find I fish them less than I have in the past. Hoppers in particular can be a challenge to cast, particularly in stiff winds, which is also the conditions needed for trout to notice.
Then there are the attractors; flies that move fish, though it’s improbable that the Renegade hatch is on! These are the moments for the true dry fly fisherman. Nothing is showing. The conditions are right, and if you’ve spent the time on the water as I have you know something, something many fly fishers don’t. Trout will respond to a great presentation of a fly that hardly seems to be matching anything in nature. I believe that there are plenty of terrestrial insects that trout take that are clear opportunities for imitation; ants, beetles, hoppers and even moths or butterflies (yes: i’ve seen it happen!). Attractor patterns, some famous such as the Royal Coachman, will bring trout to the surface with surprising regularity, even though these patterns are randomly effective, and can’t be selected by any rational method I’ve discovered. So herein presents opportunity for you, the committed dry fly fisher. Vincent Marinaro wrote an amazingly insightful book: Modern Dry-fly Code in 1950. He focused his attention on fishing dry flies, when the obvious opportunities, the hatch, were not apparent. His notions of terrestrial, and aquatic insects not readily apparent, were revolutionary. He approached the sport with a dedication to its artistic heritage, and wanted to bring fish to the top: a noble goal in my humble opinion! Marinaro did his fishing on the limestone creeks of Pennsylvania. While I have not had the privilege of fishing those waters, I understand them some from my experiences on mid-Western streams. Fish can be seen, and rises, and rise forms, are more readily noticed and examined. Marinaro, when discussing his observations and the dry fly, remarked regarding the debate between pattern and presentation “A sound fly in the hands of an artist-fisherman is the deadliest of combinations” and I believe him to be correct. Every noteworthy author I have encountered has concluded similarly: read water, perfect your casting, understand presentation and select the pattern. All elements must be considered.
Searching water with dry flies teaches the angler even when not particularly effective in every circumstance. As I’ve mentioned, presentation is everything. Reading water is not a hit-and-miss proposition.
Rivers are a world so different than our experience. My fascination with running water springs from curiosity; the mountains, snow melt, trickles of moving water, seeking stillness. Each pool a pause; short lived. Tumbling to the next hesitation, building, becoming its own dynamic environment. Trout live here. They know nothing of a world that isn’t in constant motion. Imagine. Life moving all about you, your whole being caught in a cascade of motion, sometimes deadly fast; clouded, stormy and unpredictable. A life at constant risk. The flow of water delivering what is required to survive; most importantly, sustenance. The mind of a trout, though primitive and basic, is hard to fathom. But it is the hunters imperative: know the mind of your prey. And if you are determined to encounter the trout on your terms, raise him to the top of his watery universe chancing a meal, then the attractor pattern is a weapon of choice. While never saying as much, I read Marinaro knowing he had penetrated the mind of his quarry. Very impressive guy!
I’ve read lots of theory on why certain patterns work, and the occasional availability of terrestrial insects can answer in many cases, but the surprise and delight of a splashy take casting a Royal Coachman is something to reward the dry fly guy! There is a wonderful expectation of surprise in dry fly fishing, like no other. I will quickly admit, that changing flies is a bit of an addiction for me. I always feel certain that there’s a pattern that will kill.
The psychology of the uncertain angler would make for an interesting study. This isn’t the scientific “match the hatch” rationale of changing patterns. Matching a pattern to obvious activity has its own challenges, and those that study it well will attest that seeing the natural and knowing the right pattern is hardly an exact science. Hatches do, however, narrow the options. Size, shape and color. The mantra for selecting the fly that matches the hatch. When you search with dry flies the challenge changes. Looking at the array of options in my fly box, something draws me to a pattern. Admittedly, after years of experience, I have my “go to” flies. But whatever I select, I have that odd feeling; this is the one. The trout: I know is there, immersed in that flow of rushing turbulence, will see this fly, this shape and color, and will be drawn, as I am, to this fly. Of course, two casts later and I wonder why in the world I wasted time on that fly; and I hurry to replace it with the fly, that I just know, is the right one. The science is gone. I still need my skills; but I’m now gaming; chance, wonderful chance.
On the Colonel Harding contribution. In 1931, in his book The Trout Fisher and the Trouts Point of View, Colonel E. W. Harding examined the visual world of the trout as no one had; at least for an angling readership. The science of light refraction was well known, but when applied to the world of the trout, Harding brought forward a set of facts that began to influence the way fly fishers thought about their prey. In simplest form, the trout lie in a watery world that even us humans can experience. If you lie on the bottom of a swimming pool, your vision, above water looking up is restricted to a cone of 97 degrees: a circular window looking through the water and into the air. At the surface of the water, the light refraction is such that there is a 10 degrees angle on the objects above the surface that come into view. The surface area not in the cone of vision for the trout; or the submerged and curious swimmer in the local swimming pool, is a mirrored reflection of the bottom of the pool. For the trout, this visual set of restrictions establishes a reality that fishermen need to understand, and it is at their peril if they refuse to take it into account when pursuing the trout.
Col Hardings work stands on its own, and much has been hypothesized as a result. For instance, the conclusion of many, examining the real physics of the Colonels description of trout vision, identify the importance of the wing color and shape of insects as they drift from outside the window, since the 10 degree light refraction permits the trout to see the wing of a mayfly before it drifts into the visual window where the trout can effectively identify the insect of interest. Of course, while I believe that to be true, and trout, clearly, have the ability to discern colors to a significant degree, then why would a trout ever take a para-tied fly with a wing post of fluorescent color (referred to as “hi-vis”), yet these patterns sell quite well and seem to fish effectively. Yet I’m not prepared to dismiss the importance of subtle color differences in insect imitations.
I have come to believe that the visual world of the trout is indeed the key to understanding the effectiveness of dry fly fishing, and even sheds light on why attractor patterns are effective. Color does matter. As does shape. It is a given formula for fly fisherman; I can’t remember the first time I heard it, but it is a mantra of effective fly selection: size, shape, color. How these particular parameters became imbedded in our lexicon, the mantra of selection, I cannot pretend to know; careful examination of the fly fishing literature reveals little insight or historical marker for this mantra, but the sheer power of the common sense of the proclamation seems to play a role: size, shape, color.
To dismiss any of these principles of effective fly selection is to dispel experience, expertise and accumulated wisdom of generations of dedicated anglers. I am want to tackle such a paragon of wisdom. However, I would postulate that there are enough exceptions to more than prove the rule, and some of those exceptions are worth exploring if one is to advance an understanding of the nature of trout and the dry fly.
Size is particularly significant in the matching of a hatch. Often I have cast the size 16 Baetis without success, switched to the same fly in size 18 and immediately begin taking fish. But fly size seems specifically connected to hatches, and for fish who are locked into selectivity mode: one size is all that is seen. Shape seems also connected to hatch response behavior, although might be less strict in the trout's mind. Take, for instance, the effectiveness of a crippled emerger. Nature has allowed for the shapes of hatching insects to have some variation and the trout seem to respond. Color, in my mind, is the strongest determinant in the selective response of the feeding trout to the hatch, as I describe later, I’ve often found that slight variations in color can matter greatly when matching the hatch.
But these three strictly defined variables apply mostly to hatches. The between-hatch behavior of trout nullify the value of these variables; and this is what intrigues me. Interestingly, I believe Col Hardings eye-opening discoveries illuminate the opportunities of the dry fly fisherman; not restrict it. But one must first take a leap, and imagine the world of the trout.
Let me attempt a summation of my thesis on dry fly fishing effectiveness. Trout live in a world we can only imagine, but a creature of millions of years of evolution has honed a particular set of skills for survival. What we know from Col Harding, and others, is that the visual world of the trout contrives to fine tune their survival skills. Trout have two visual experiences, vision being primary in their ability to feed; none of their other senses, at least in fish contained in moving water, are acute enough to provide much assistance (I doubt a trout can locate and eat a mayfly nymph through the sense of smell or hearing). The two visual worlds are the underwater world and the above water world, and those worlds are determined by the physics of light refraction. Evolutionally, why trout began feeding on top, remains a mystery, but one would assume the opportunity meets with the risk involved, and the visual capacity of trout is magnified in its evolutionary imperative. Fish vision is an interesting study of its own, and most research affirms remarkable visual acuity, including sensitive discernment of color, shade, tone. It will be assumed for these purposes that trout can see with great clarity, distinguish size, shape and color, even great detail, of their quarry; the very real ability to identify food from random flotsam on the water. A trout would hardly have survived millions of years if a leaf or twig could be mistaken for an insect. Indeed, as first pointed out by Marinaro, trout have rather discriminatory tastes for specific insects when many are plentiful; and visual acuity is the only explanation for their ability to select the mayfly from the ant.
Trout are primitive creatures: they are “selective” because it assures a full belly. When there is a hatch, aquatic insects are visually available, drifting, swimming to the surface, emerging and riding the surface tension. Trout become selective because the bounty is apparent. Why waste time examining insects that aren’t precisely what the hatch offers. Hatching is not a continuous activity; trout must be ever alert to other food sources during non-hatch periods.
Looking through a moving environment, and plainly seeing food items in the current flow, means that in-flow opportunities rank high as priorities; we’ve all been told, trout feed “mostly” subsurface. I’ve heard the figure as high at 90%: the scientific basis for that claim is rather spurious. But accepting that fact, trout also key on surface activity. Evidence abounds that the surface film of a moving river is abundant with insect protein, even if mostly rejected by the fish. But both because of hatches, and other floating insects, trout have learned to pay attention to the small window through the surface, and into the air above.
Now, and this is where the puzzle begins to reveal itself, fish have a very small window! The deeper they lie (assuming a glassy still moving surface) the larger the window, but the greater the exertion is required to rise to a food source. What that means, is that trout may see more surface feeding opportunities while holding in deeper water, but must expend more energy to take advantage of those feeding chances. This is an important consideration, and cannot be ignored when selecting flies for attracting fish in non-hatch situations.
While outside the window, the trout's visual world is the mirrored bottom of the stream. If the mirror is disturbed, the feedback to the fish is that something has landed or is floating on the surface. The trout knows this from experience, and can eventually confirm that knowledge when the item moves from the disturbance of the mirrored view to the clarity of what exactly the disturbance represents as it moves through the trout's vision of the above-surface window. This crossing of the item from a disturbance of the reflected vision of the bottom of the stream, to the actual, direct view of the item in the surface, is brief, and significantly transitional: from “seeing” only a disturbance, and possibly a portion of the item subsurface to a full view of the item and the chance for complete identification. I believe that this pre-window “disturbance” is a key trigger for trout feeding behavior.
Now, the trout must act. The trigger that caused his attention has come into full view. Only moments exist for decision. Hesitation is lost opportunity, but mistaken recklessness can be fatal. The trout can use the current to his advantage; drifting backwards and extending his view and examination. The expert dry fly fisher presents her fly well, mends to extend the drift, the deceit is complete, and the fish makes its move.
Let me emphasize here the short time available to the fish to act. I think surface feeding opportunities come from both the trout's visual acuity and the limitations of the underwater, visual world. While we accept that fish feed mostly subsurface, in a moving current, blurred vision is a given. A fish may see a drifting nymph for only a fraction of a second before the need to act. Now think about the mirrored surface of the river bottom. What about that vast, reflected world assists in the trout's survival, and makes possible the art of dry fly fishing? Not its glassy, constant, undulating flow. Imagine living in a world that was constantly moving past you, like standing between lanes of a free way. I would guess an accident would draw your attention.
Surface disturbance, including all manner of floating items. Something in that mirrored, reflected flow that breaks the reflected image. There’s not a hatch, but the disturbance draws attention. The trout has evolved to be a surface feeder. It may not be his only feeding activity, or even the predominant one. The surface disturbance has the added benefit for the trout of alerting it well before action is required, but even then, the action is fast, decision making at a premium.
If selectivity, the condition triggered by obvious and abundant opportunity, is the dominant stimulant, the fisherman is against all odds. You must match the target of the selectivity, or the trout will continue to feed and disregard your offering. But I believe that is not the normative parameter. Hatches are rare; at least those that trigger trout selectivity. Trout can ill afford to wait for a hatch, yet much of what is available subsurface and on top, is minimal fare, and the loss of energy ratio to protein gain leaves fish ever alert to better options. This state of the feeding trout makes it available, during much of its summer and fall “grazing” time, susceptible to the accomplished dry fly fisher.
Let’s describe our scenario. The active trout, alway looking for prey, lies in a water depth offering comfort, security and a flow of food. He feeds continuously. When nymph activity, either a drift or movement of nymphs to the surface, concentrates his attention, the imperative is to be selective: stay focused, feed on the size, shape and color of the predominant food source. The hatch ends. The trout pauses, but never finds comfort in abstaining. This is a struggle for survival, and the trout is a predator. What’s next on the menu. In my theorem, this is the time for the effective fly fisher to deploy an arsenal of patterns that draw attention from the trout.
We know that the disturbance on the mirrored surface, the flow of current constantly passing the fish, triggers attention. Trout would simply be unable to feed on the insects in the surface film, or riding on the surface, without some notification of their presence. This is why you can have confidence that the trout sees your fly! If a trout is lying in water of four to five feet in depth, the visual window for the trout extends a meager 20 inches, approximately, in front of him. Presuming a current speed of even a 2 feet per second, fairly leisurely, the elapsed time between an insect entering the window and reaching the position of the trout is just more than a second, the window is NOT when the trout determines an opportunity; it’s too late. A more typical surface stream speed is between 4 and 6 feet per second, reducing the time a trout has to respond to considerably less than a second. A disturbance in the surface film is the trigger. At that moment, even a poorly presented fly, of dubious attractive powers, and soon to be dragged, awkwardly, away from a free drift, is likely to draw attention. How long the attention remains rests, then, in great part, in the anglers skill of presentation; but that’s a different discussion.
Now the trout is alert. Size, shape and color mattered during the hatch, but this is different. Stay mindful: the trout may have many stimuli occurring almost at the same time; drifting nymphs, drowned terrestrials, other floating insects. But you have caught his attention. Whatever fly you have chosen, if your presentation is decent, the fish knows of your offering. The fly drifts quickly into the lane where the fish has measured, and is certain of his ability to capture your offering. Very quickly, the fly is in the visual window, where sub- and above surface images converge. The insect/imitation comes into focus. The trout has a split second to decide. I often see trout drift backward, letting the current move the fish, in order to inspect an offering; particularly during a hatch and even in response to naturals, then move back into their holding station. I would note that most of my observations of trout drifting with the current to inspect my fly more than momentarily is a bad sign: it’s unlikely that both my presentation and the details of the fly will hold up to such scrutiny. While it may thrill me, I’m not likely to see that fish rise to the fly.
It is, at this precise moment, why presentation is so all important. Our trout, in this illustration, still retains decision making authority over his actions. He can determine that the image above him is edible, or he can reject it. Be assured: in this critical micro-moment of decision, if your fly, or leader, or drift is in anyway suspect; our subject will simply move to the next item in the flow of water all around him. I describe this instant as the “window-to-take” moment: a very brief moment for a series of actions, preceded by carefully executed presentation by the angler. Trout “sees” the natural or your artificial for perhaps a few seconds, a disturbance on the mirrored window of the fishes world. Attending primarily, but not exclusively, to the disturbances being brought, by the current, to the fishes feeding lane, the item of interest enters the place where vision of the disturbance, more defined as it travels toward an intersection with the trout, is brought into focus in the refracted light cone of direct visual acuity of an object both in, and out of the water; partially wet, partially dry. The “window-to-take” is my description of the moment the object enters this brief drift where trout can examine and decide that the offering is food; or foil.
Here is where my theory of dry fly fishing is to the test. I conjecture that all things being equal, and near-perfect presentation, the pattern has a brief, almost infinitesimal moment to communicate its appeal. That time at the bench, fussing about the number of turns of hackle and the taper of the body, now matter. And they matter in surprising detail. For in this moment, trout, fishing skill, and the art of the fly tier, converge to set the stage for the climax we have sought. Will our subject succumb? Is the color of the selected dubbing just so? Does the shape of the artificial suggest a real meal?
What this means to me for the dry fly fisher is just this: your quarry is dependent on a momentary examination in a fast moving environment, and has evolved to such a degree that its weakness is revealed. The effective dry fly fisherman takes advantage of this knowledge by constructing detailed artificials at the bench, honed over the years of trial and error in response to observation. The water selected will hold the quarry. The effective angler has perfected his casting and presentation to a degree that there is confidence that the fly tied to exacting, tried and true specifications will drift to the window the trout is ever attuned to. The fly, presentation and selection of water comes together: the trout, its environment and visual focus create the window-to-take moment. Hang in limbo, dear reader. You have been here. In an instant you will know the joy of the hook up, or the disappointment of rejection. Pickup, backcast, forecast, mend and repeat.
Chapter 6 -- The Quill Gordon
Flyfishing is filled with mystery. The Quill Gordon, originated by Theodore Gordon, is one such mystery. Spend time looking at the pattern recipes from a wide variety of tiers and you will see what I mean.
The first reasonably tied dry fly to come off of my bench, as a teenager, and prove effective to this day, was the Quill Gordon. I’m not sure where I found the original pattern recipe, but my father had purchased a book of patterns for me, without color plates, that began me on my journey; the book probably smelled smoky. I believe an article in an outdoor magazine focused my attention on the fly, and I tied a few with different colored, loose hackle I had. Herter’s, the midwest catalogue company that was one of the only sources of fly tying material for me at the time, appropriated my allowance and lawn mowing money as quickly as it was earned, and when the recipe called for “dun” hackle, I went digging through the catalogue. There was, as I recall, a package deal of six hackle necks, and some color options. It seemed an expensive investment but I found that one of the colors offered was “dun”. I mailed in my order sheet with the selected items and a check written by my mom.
Herters hackle necks of the time were imported from India, and color/quality control was dismal by today’s standards, but the package did not disappoint, and the black, white/cream, brown, badger and grizzly necks were precisely as expected; the remaining neck, a tan or buff color, had to be the dun. The Catskill pattern performed well. Soon it was my dry fly of choice, and as my explorations of streams holding trout advanced, I could count on the fly to take fish. I was naive of most mayfly hatches as a young man, but by the time I moved to the West, the Quill Gordon was well enough established in my box, in multiple sizes, that it remained a “go to” pattern even if no western stream contained the actual insect the Quill Gordon was originally designed to imitate.
The Quill Gordon is the only fly to bear the name of Theodore Gordon, but it is hardly his only contribution to patterns or the sport. A prolific tier, Gordon defined the Catskill pattern, and took most of his ideas from British flies such as the Coachman. The Quill Gordon that is his namesake is still tied and used across America. The first mention of the fly in literature is in a letter to the Fishing Gazette editor, R. B. Marston, who describes the pattern in a margin note of the 1903 letter. The fly is described as having a quill body, “summer duck”, likely wood duck flank feathers for wings, and a “silver grey” hackle. The mystery begins with the color of the original pattern.
In the mid- to late-1800’s, Gordon would have explored local barnyards for the rooster feathers ideal for tying his Catskill patterns. Hen hackles are soft, often used in the wet fly patterns of the day (up to and including the present), but they were inferior to the cock feathers with their stiffer barbs. There is evidence that Halford’s initial dry flies were simply wet fly patterns, dried by the false cast, and floated briefly in presentation to feeding trout. British chalk streams being much flatter and slower than American streams, these patterns were less effective to Gordons taste. It was the patterns used by Halford that made their way to Gordon through correspondence between the two giants of early dry fly fishing. Gordons most important contribution was the use of the more sparsely tied, rooster hackle flies that improved buoyancy; critical to fishing the American rivers that ran faster, with greater chop. The Catskill tradition was born.
More on the mystery: many of the tiers today, and the historical record of the fly, suggest a blue dun hackle; that hackle and color being very much in favor. The blue color would have effectively matched the wing color of the sub-imbago (dun) Epeorus pleuralis; quite a distinguishing color characteristic and the mayfly commonly called today the Quill Gordon.
The word “dun” plays a significant role in trying to understand the color of the original pattern. As the descriptor of a color, dun refers to a certain breed of horses, duns, that have a decidedly tan or buff color; some grey tones highlighting the shade of light brown. It’s difficult to determine the origins of the use of the word “dun” to describe the subimago stage of the mayfly, but most entomological works add the term and attributes it to anglers. When the term was attributed remains uncertain, but like many of the common names of aquatic insects, it was anglers, not scientists that labeled the subimago stage, unique to mayflies (no other insect has two stages as an adult). In fact, the term dun as applied to the subimago mayfly stage is not found in the entomology literature until well after Halfords book in 1889. The scientific community began in the mid-1850’s to examine and write about insect taxonomy and since the subimago is unique to mayflies, it is easy to discover the time, in literature, when the science recognized the “anglers term” dun first appears; it’s not until 1942. This suggests that early dry fly fisherman coined the term “dun” for the mayflies subimago stage, not necessarily the color, since the use of the term in Halfords book includes references to many mayflies; and not to any specific color. I believe Halford, and perhaps his companions in pursuit of trout, appropriated the term to describe the subimago, or perhaps the whole species, since he includes references to dun nymphes. Other authors of the time, including Englefield and Skues also use the term dun to describe all mayflies, in all stages and color adjectives are applied to various sub-species. Also, the body and legs of the mayfly “Quill Gordon” are of a tan shade, sharply segmented with a darker brown rib. The wings of E.Pleuralis are blue grey, as are many mayfly duns or sub-imago's.
A bit more of the mystery is that the Andalusian Blue chicken, common to Spain and available in Britain by the 1840’s: undoubtedly finding its way onto fly tiers benches, was also sent to America, but Gordon complains in another letter to Marston in 1903 that the Andalusian bird was not available in America and the few he had obtained from Britain were more black than blue and “quite useless” to the fly tier. By 1913, just two years before his death, Gordon noted that he had obtained the Blue Andalusian chickens, and was inquiring about cross breeding in order to achieve the desired blue dun hackle. Of course, Harry Darbee, a protege of Gordon, gains considerable notoriety in achieving effective cross breeding of birds for the purpose of hackle later in the century, but Gordon’s efforts did seem to create the blue color; a sample was sent to Marston, but long after the original Quill Gordon was initially tied.
As a footnote, the Blue Andalusian birds never do become common in the development of genetic hackles for tying, and blue dun hackles today are mostly white roosters, dyed the familiar light, medium and dark blue “dun”. Natural dun saddles and necks are available, most notably from Whiting Farms; they run to a slight grey, or dirty white with a grey shade along the stem, such as a “badger” hackle; not the tan that I tie with, although I’m certain some genetic hackles labelled “natural dun” would have a tan coloration. I have been able to locate a “Darbee Tan Dun” cape that is very close, and I understand that there exist some natural dun colors, highly prized, and not available unless you work directly with the grower. There’s also “ginger” hackle that can have less yellow and more grey tone, bringing it closer to the color I associate with dun.
Was the original pattern tied with a grey hackle? Was the term “dun” first applied to the subimago stage of the mayfly because of its tan or buff coloration; the likely origins of the use of the word as a definition of a mayfly? It seems certain that the wing color of most mayflies inspired the popularity of the blue dun hackle. Was Gordon able to find grey hackle, the result of black roosters and white hens cross breeding, to construct his original? Was Gordon attempting to match the blue wing of the subimago?
While fascinating issues, the fact now is that the pattern is tied with both tan or natural and blue dun hackles, and some even deviate from the stripped peacock herl for the body. It is also likely that the original tail material was fibers of wood duck flank; the same as the wing material. My bench has always contained natural/tan dun colored hackle, and while I favor blue dun for many patterns, my Quill Gordon is tied with natural/tan dun.
Quill Gordon original as imagined and tied by the author.
Authors current version of the Quill Gordan, para-winged and Klinkhammer (emerger) style.
Whether you tie the Quill Gordon with blue or tan dun hackle, few flies will consistently work as well to imitate a long list of mayflies. Common names of mayflies include quill gordon, and even Western quill gordon, but the species are different. The advantage to the use of the fly here in the West, is that the likely insect the fish trigger on have two characteristics that make both the Quill Gordon and the Adams great search patterns. The first is size; both the genus Epeorus of the East and the multiple mayflies closely related in the West can run as large as size 12. The second, applying mostly to Western hatches, is that they hatch sporadically over a longer period of time, not within a week or two such as the quill gordon of the east. This makes them familiar to the trout from July through September, and I believe both the Quill Gordon and Adams benefit as fish takers because of this hatching behavior. As I have said, the untangling of the various scientific classifications and differences in mayfly species is overwhelming, and often changing, the use of common flies to take fish in Western rivers corresponds to the numerous mayfly types.
My variation on the Quill Gordon follows a progression over many years. Always a fan of the Catskill dry fly, my experimentation with the QG started with different quill bodies, different wing materials and finally arrived at a parachute-winged and hackled version. As I discuss in greater detail in describing the Adams, the final step was the Klinkhammer approach to tying this pattern.
I fish the Quill Gordon when I suspect, or know, that a recent hatch has attracted attention of the trout. My theory is that trout will continue to respond to hatch triggers for hours, even days after the height of the hatch, and any bug looking like a mayfly in shape and approximate size will bring fish to the surface. This is much to the advantage of the dry fly angler. Sometimes the Quill Gordon will work when a specific imitation of a recent hatch will not bring fish up; I’ve never been certain about why that is. It’s also wise to fish patterns one size larger than a recent hatch. For instance, if a Pale Evening Dun hatch was available the previous day and running a size 14, the Quill Gordon in #12 will work well the next morning. Of course the Quill Gordon is an excellent match to the PED! You needn’t always wait for the hatch later in the afternoon. The fly will also perform well between Green Drake hatches.
Years ago, as I learned the secrets of the Yakima, I was puzzled by the effectiveness of this fly in the fall. By that time in my life, I was beginning to understand hatches and recognize the occasion they offered. Normally, using a search pattern, such as the Quill Gordon, meant occasional hookups; not the constancy expected during hatches, but to my amazement, I would have periods of significant and intense activity with the fly. After some time I discovered what it was: the crane “hatch”. Crane flies, as near aquatic insects, are available to trout on some streams. Their long-legged, gangly appearance and short, segmented body, was enough so that my Quill Gordon, still tied Catskill style and often with over-long hackle, attracted quite the attention. I now tie a better imitation, but still use the tan/dun hackle, to great effect during the hatch. This “hatch” is more random and makes for some difficulty in trying to match. On the Yakima, in September, you’ll find crane flies, but they are likely depositing their eggs very near or over shorelines: not in mid-stream flow. I believe trout find them once they’ve dropped to their death, and are either close enough to be swept into the current, or get washed into the stream during following rains. It took many years of observation for me to discover the insect I was matching; they don’t present themselves in an obvious way, and trout often take them after they’ve drowned. Of course now, I mainly use the Quill Gordon in early to mid-summer fishing, but still have a few over tied, bushy examples that remind me of early days!
Chapter 7 - Western waters.
Three things are discussed in this book: wild rivers, dry flies for trout, and the experiences of a lifetime of trying. Western rivers is a short term for a large range of water types. There are more miles of fishable trout waters in western Montana alone, than all the rest of the trout waters in the rest of the country. And they vary from huge, deep flows (think the Clark Fork) to tiny spring creeks. It’s unfair to categorize western rivers as a particular “thing”, but they differ significantly from the streams of the mid-west or east: slower, smaller and presenting a different challenge. This isn’t a book about what’s inherently better, but is grounded in the big waters of the west, and that should be the context the reader uses to evaluate this work.
It would be a dream to explore, with ample time, the streams of Pennsylvania and New York. The New England salmon fisheries, the mid-west and the Catskills. Visit the famous AuSable and re-visit the Brule. Western waters are focused on here. The sheer volume of rivers, and vertical drop in Western streams make them a different fishing experience. Having grown up on small, slow moving streams of the mid-West, (Minnesota, Iowa and Wisconsin) the first approach to Western rivers caught me off. They were huge. They were fast. It didn’t seem possible that a fish holding in such waters could ever spy my fly and catch it before it was swept beyond reach. I was wrong. Trout are remarkable creatures, and they thrive in an environment hard to imagine as a land-born biped. Their grace, strength and “sleakness”, if there is such a word, are complemented by a beauty that is unmatched in nature. How does such a brilliantly colored creature disappear, apparently camouflaged, in crystal clear flowing water? I’m only peripherally interested in exploring the answer; but the result is part of the magic of trout, and Western rivers and their trout are indeed magic.
They are also challenging.
I love to wade. There are rivers that I spend time on that wade poorly; most of the year. A boat is called for. During much of the spring/summer fishing time, the Yakima flows, in most of the lower sections, bank-to-bank. Crossing the lower river in waders is ill advised most of the year. Fortunately both the Yakima and Naches, a tributary, have much reduced flows as the late summer, early fall arrive. The upper Yakima, being a tailwater, can fish well when waded as early as July. August can be great on the Naches. A few other streams that I haunt begin fishing well in mid- to late August. Floating the Yakima from spring runoff on can be very productive, and local guide services provide their clients plenty of access. A pontoon boat comes in handy from time to time, but use it only as transportation. Looking at a calendar, and knowing the rivers I spend most of my time on, except for an early spring opportunity to fish on top (February and March can have low, clear waters and sporadic hatches), the “season” for me is primarily late summer and fall. I’m not such a purist as to resist some low-land lakes and casting to rising, or sub-surface feeding fish, but big western rivers, at least that I know of, limit dry fly angling considerably. Growing up in the mid-west, slow, small streams can get fishy as early as April, and stay consistently good through the summer, with some doldrums expected on hot stretches of weather.
Even during the lower water summer/fall fishery, rivers are challenging to wade and longish casts are the norm rather than the exception. In spite okhf the curtailed “season”, there are plenty of opportunities (and both Montana and Idaho can be a surprisingly undaunting drive!). What Western rivers do offer is a diversity of habitat, insects and fish.
This book is about dry flies for trout, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t address, briefly, entomology. Knowing the basics about aquatic insects, and terrestrials available to trout, is enormously important. But cracking the code (Latin) for order, family, genus and species, is daunting. It's important for advancing knowledge and effectiveness on the stream to understand the basics about aquatic insects, but common names, often the name of a well known trout fly, helps in your observations of stream life, and what trout are keying on. The writing of such authors as Dave Hughes, John Gierach, Rick Hafele, Rene Harrop and others help sort through the confusion. Knowing the latin name for an insect may be interesting for a few of those that have the curiosity, but I’m fine with knowing that the family Euperous includes flies like the Quill Gordon and March Brown. A paperback copy of Hughes Matching the Hatch is in the fishing tote, and it serves me quite well, covering the main types of aquatic insects and patterns to match, relying on the common names and less on the scientific classifications. We are all much indebted to the work of authors who walk between the world of entomology and fly tying!
I admire the fly tiers that are featured in books and magazines, and now, online videos. There are some amazing, skilled tiers, and I can’t pretend to match their expertise. But I do offer a pragmatist approach to tying flies that catch fish. I’m a fan of historically important trout flies, but not a stickler for tying patterns according to historically accurate recipes. I’m also intrigued with all of the new materials available to fly tiers today and incorporate them when making sense to achieve a new design, or transform an existing pattern to one with more merit. I would likely fall in the category of a working man's fly tier: I tie flies in a way to improve my odds. While assembling what I believe are the best dry flies, with my modifications, I’m certain that other patterns could fit on this list, and likely the list would change over time. Not just in discovering new patterns, as with the Opal X Caddis, but in my ongoing interest in compelling trout to respond to topwater offerings.
Chapter 8 -Elk Hair Caddis
There is so much to say about Al Troth, and his contribution to dry fly fishing. It would be near criminal to leave the Elk Hair Caddis off of any list of great trout flies. I would be fascinated to learn what inspired Al Troth to conceive of the first Elk Hair Caddis, and what patterns and trials came from his bench as he worked to perfect it. At first look, it appears quite different than most dry flies. It has no tail, the body is not as tapered as most dry fly patterns, is wound with “palmered” hackle and the wing is tied back. To say that it is the opposite of the Catskill tradition, gets it right. It also has that curious haircut of a head! Of course, close examination of a natural caddis gives some clues as to the creators inspiration. The natural has no tail, it’s body barely tapers from thorax to end, and at rest, it’s wings lie over its body, described usually as “pup tent” shaped. The palmered hackle remains a mystery to me, whatever inspired the first version, the palmered hackle, in my opinion, is what separates this caddis imitation from most of the rest.
Palmering hackles on trout flies was not original to Troth. Indeed, Palmer flies date to the seventeenth century: Izaak Walton wrote of them in 1651, and likely learned of them even earlier. Catskill tiers in America incorporated the palmer hackle into dry flies with good effect. It's probably more difficult to trace the use of deer hair in trout patterns - it seems decidedly American. Joe Messenger Sr. seems to rank as an early innovator with his Irresistible, probably dating to the 1940’s. And of course the Gapen Muddler Minnow of the 1950’s barely pre-dated the 1957 origins of the EHC. It is the unique combination of the palmered hackle and clipped deer hair head and trailing wing that distinguishes this pattern.
Caddis flies are curious creatures, hatching in a variety of ways and their availability to the trout are also quite varied. One could, and indeed, many have, write volumes about the caddis fly, a creature that, particularly for the Western angler, is critical in understanding your quarry. A rather remarkable historical note: Troth designed the fly as a Pennsylvania fisherman and first fished it on Loyalsock Creek. I can’t imagine that Troth would have foreseen the value of his contribution to Western fly fishers, but there is no question that the pattern is as close to a required fly to rivers west of the Mississippi as there is.
One theme in this book that will be consistent throughout is the subtle variations of the fly I tie to enhance that original pattern. I would never claim these variations as to be separate and distinct flies; they were developed through years of tying and experimenting, but they began as patterns that were already established fish catchers. I offer my versions of the original because I truly believe they are an improvement. The variations came after years of tying the patterns and discovering slight improvements, testing those improvements streamside, and continuing their evolution. I never really started with the notion that I would improve the original, but in my constant love of trial and error, the very essence of the sport, I came to discover improvements that made my fishing success increase.
This is certainly true with the way I tie the Elk Hair Caddis. Until I read A.K.Best, I tied my EHC flies with elk hair. Made sense. But the truth is, deer hair is, all around, a better material for fly tying generally, and the Elk Hair Caddis improves, in my opinion, with deer hair substituted for the elk hair wing. Deer hair comes in many more natural colors, or at least it’s more readily available in various natural colors, ranging from light tan to dark grey (dun). Elk hair is brittle, difficult to stack and tie down. It has the same hollow structure that deer hair has, perhaps slightly more buoyant, but deer hair is so much easier to hold in place and tie firmly to the hook shank, that any advantages of elk hair are lost.
Another theme of my tying style is my minimalistic approach to material use. Less is more. The Elk Hair Caddis,as seen in most shops and in tying videos, is a rather bulky fly. The Palmer hackle is tied as one would come to expect with a barb size and fullness selected based on the size of hook. I find that a full two sizes smaller is a better choice in tying the EHC, and makes for a more effective imitation. The smaller hackle and fewer wraps means a tighter dubbed body, synthetic dubbing preferred. The result is a fly with a short, blunt shaped body much more the look of the natural. The wing is also sparse, though it should extend the full length of the hook shank. I also tie in the palmered hackle tip first at the top of the hook bend, then wrap forward, without a wire, mono or tinsel over-wrap, and spaced enough so that the body shape and color show through the palmering. The wing is thin and the clipped head, an important feature of this pattern, is distinct but not proportionally large: maybe the size of the hook eye.
Let’s think about my basic premise in presenting dry flies between hatches. I am intending to create a trigger for the fish. I have identified a quality holding position; one that at least one trout would be apt to inhabit. I have determined that caddis are active, and anticipate a return of females to the stream as the evening comes on; flies returning to deposit eggs. Fish are attuned to this fact, and are on alert for the beginning of the caddis “hatch”. As they constantly are, they watch for disturbance of the mirrored world beneath the surface; as well as other food sources in their limited visual world. Something disturbing the mirrored surface of the water. A standard EHC, hackle tips of palmered tie indenting the surface, is certainly an expected trigger, and as the fly moves across the boundary of the window, the convergent visual is that of a struggling caddis. With the improvements I have created for the EHC, the body of the insect is imitated as the fly hits the mirrored surface; I believe that enhances the trigger: a caddis has not only touched the water surface, but has crashed deeply into the surface; and is undoubtedly, to the trout, fatally compromised.
With such a strong trigger, the visual congruence of the fly as it enters the trout's window confirms: a low riding, half emerged caddis: surrendered to its fate. The trout has a moment to decide, and the angler's desired outcome weighs as favored.
The fall October caddis “hatch” is one of those magical circumstances on big western trout streams. Throughout the summer, it’s hard to miss the large, encased periwinkles clinging to rocks along the bottom. The hatch consists of a mass migration of the large sedge to the banks where pupating adults shed their casing and achieve adulthood almost simultaneously. As the afternoons in late September, early October settle in, the adult females begin to return to the river to deposit eggs. Trout will not key in on the October caddis when the egg laying just begins. the adult female is large, as large as size 6, and clumsy appearing, but they initially don’t seem to attract much attention. As the days following the hatch proceed, more and more females complete the cycle and the trout begin to notice. What follows is remarkable.
A common pattern for this amazing opportunity includes the Stimulator, in bright yellow or orange, the same pattern you’d likely use in June as a stonefly imitation. But the EHC, size 8 or even 6, with a soft orange dubbing and brown palmered hackle, brown/tan or even grey deer hair, is a “can’t miss” fly. I’ve had fish leap from the water and plunge down on top of my offering, as quickly as the fly hits the surface. Big trout, when this hatch is in full fury, are simply stupid, and the real challenge comes down to having enough orange EHC’s in our box; they will get chewed beyond recognition.
Chapter 9: The Dry Fly
For my purposes, I value the impressionistic dry fly as much as the imitative dry fly. Matching the hatch is truly a magnificent experience, but fooling trout with the Renegade is equally pleasing and in some sense, even more so. I have become so thoroughly enamored with the rising trout that I don’t distinguish between a trout that has believed my offering to be real or just became attracted to the foil. Quite honestly, my observations over so many years convinces me that the trout rising to feed is thoroughly fooled; shocked when his mouthful bites back. What the trout is convinced it sees is sometimes a mystery, particularly with patterns that have no natural examples. This is particularly important, because if there isn’t a hatch, and you want to dry fly fish anyway, the willingness of trout to respond matters greatly. In a lifetime of drifting insects, trout see many odd and contorted insects, aquatic and terrestrial, providing them a source of nourishment. So long as the selected fly comes to represent something edible, I’m content. No, actually thrilled.
Trout don’t “attack” dry flies. There are exceptions, but observations of decades confirms trout rising to the dry fly are behaving deliberately, and generally not aggressively except to beat competitors to the prey. If trout can be “provoked” to strike, and I firmly believe top-of-the-food-chain, apex predators like the Alaskan Rainbow can and are provoked to attack, it is not usually in response to a drag-free, drifting insect, helpless to its fate. Unless you are swinging a mouse pattern on the Kenai, the trout that rose to your fly is not attacking; it thinks its feeding. This is an important and unappreciated distinction. The wet fly swing takes advantage of the raw aggressiveness of trout; they are predators. To fool a fish with a dry fly, the angler should first determine that they are coaxing fish; not provoking them. Bigger is not always better, and flash should be reserved for streamers. There are interesting exceptions; we’ll talk about the Opal X Caddis in a bit!
Colonel Harding in his book “The Trouts Point of View” described the view of the dry fly from the fishes perspective. Here was a treatise on what our artificial offerings looked like to the quarry. And it made sense, in a common sense kind of way. Aquatic insects, particularly the mayfly, move from a watery world to our world of air, and the door to that new world is the surface of the water. Water and air come together. The insects that we are most interested in transition from swimming to flying. The fishes “window” on our world is truncated. Col. Harding described how the watery world presents a view of the world above, and through that view the fish sees shape, color and most importantly, size of insects. Trout are ancient creatures, evolved over millions of years. It is hard-wired into their small brains: be selective. It’s not particularly intelligent to feed only on a certain size, shape and color of food: it’s selective. It works. Each trout has inherited this selectivity, Col Harding explains, through millions of generations of ancestors, that trout behave in a predictable manner. Understand what the trout sees, and you understand the key to successful fishing.
What this means to the serious dry fly fisher is that imitations, of hatching insects, terrestrials or unknown, unfortunate, confused and helpless creatures (or vegetation?) that trout rise to, are successful hookups and if you can repeat it, then the fish have probably seen something very similar to whatever you are casting. Don’t get me wrong: I love a hatch and matching it with confidence to take trout. But if a Royal Coachman Trude is knockin’ em dead, I hope I have a few more in my box.
But what, exactly, is a dry fly. Lines have become somewhat blurred in the modern epistemology of dry flies. That is, it isn’t just a fly that floats. Generally, a fly that intentionally floats some portion above the surface tension of the water meets my definition. Venture further to say that intention is important here; having a fly by design show some part of its construction purposely buoyant. Then there is the intent of the fly construction related to it being imitative, of an insect fish expect to see, or attractive, a fly that has certain characteristics of some kind of natural insect, but not attempting to imitate an insect likely encountered by trout. Think of flies, on this list, like the Humpy, the Renegade or the Coachman. I hope to provide some clarity here about the kinds of dry flies that are commonly used, and group them in certain categories; not because these are the “standard” for describing such flies, but because it inevitably makes discussions about various dry flies easier. The classifications are not impervious: many of my example flies could be classed in multiple categories. But for new fly anglers, there’s lots to be confused about, and hopefully this will help reduce the confusion!
Addressing the most obvious first; there are the imitative patterns. These flies are a direct effort to match a specific hatching, or falling insect. And as long as we’re talking about it, “hatches” is a confusing term for the acolyte. The only hatches that advantage the dry fly fisherman are mayflies and midges. Stoneflies and caddis flies “hatch”, but usually by climbing from watery homes on to dry land, then they go through metamorphosis. This behavior does not make them available during their hatch. It is the female returning to the stream to deposit eggs that makes these “hatches” excite anglers: technically it's a “fall”. Fall is the term used to describe female aquatic insects, completing their life cycle of egg laying, and expiring on the water. Anglers do, however, refer to caddis and stonefly “hatches” all the time, sometimes confusing new anglers. Now some caddis do dramatically leave the bottom and emerge from the surface, rather than crawl from the bottom to the shore, but unlike mayflies and midges, their time on the surface, and thus available to trout are minimal. We fish the fall, but we call it the hatch. Try to keep up!
In imitating hatches, then, we are mostly imitating mayflies and midges, but mayfly spinner “falls” are also imitated. Spinners are the final metamorphosis of the mayfly, the only insect with two adult phases. Western spinner falls are targeted on certain rivers, but I confess while I’ve seen massive falls of mayfly spinners some evenings, I’ve rarely encountered trout interest on Western waters, though rumors of great Trico spinner falls intrigue me: I’ve yet to encounter one! Caddis and stonefly, however, are keyed on by trout during their return to the river, and imitative patterns make sense. It makes a perverted sense that us anglers would refer to these “falls” as “hatches” since we deploy the approaches we would for a mayfly or midge hatch.
In the world of imitations, fly tiers have explored every possible material and construct of trout fly to imitate the hatching (and falling) insect, with a great degree of success. The American dry fly, the Catskill as developed by Theodore Gordon and his contemporaries, is a classic approach to the imitative dry fly. Its construction is simple, the primary components being tail, body, wings and hackle. The tail is most often the same barbs of hackle feather used in the hackle, it being wound around the shank of the hook close to the eye. Wings vary greatly, classically being split (there is some controversy as to whether Gordon and other early Catskill tiers split the wings of their imitations, as observations would have discouraged such an approach), though mayfly duns have wings poised directly above the thorax and not opened at all, and the hackle is presumed to represent the insects legs, though these insects are blessed with only six legs, as most other arthropods, and a hackled hook has many more hackle barbs extending from the thorax. The classic dry fly floats on hackle tips and tail fibers; ideally the bend of the hook is barely breaking the surface. Why the fly is as effective as it is to the trout remains a bit of a mystery: the body may be visible while in the “window” of vision of the trout above the surface, and I have no doubt that the shape and color of the body matters a great deal, but the Catskill pattern, for all that sells it, remains difficult to analyze as to it’s fish taking abilities. I venture to guess that most trout taken on a Catskill dry are rising to a half sunk pattern; its body visible in the surface film. Catskill patterns lose their buoyancy quickly. It is, however, clearly an imitative pattern, and great care is taken in finding materials that match shape and color of these classic patterns.
Next on our list are the attractor patterns. Some may argue that attractor patterns are often imitating terrestrial or even aquatic insects, but are on the outside edge of exact imitations. I would argue that most of the attractor patterns are designed without a particular insect in mind, and are inspired, instead, by their combination of known, effective materials, colors or shapes. Whatever inspired the Renegade, the Humpy or even the Coachman, may not be available to us. I find that even some intended imitations of mayflies, such as the Compra-dun, are clearly inspirations. Fly tiers are an inventive and curious lot. Translating their observations of trout and insect behavior at the bench is time-honored, and while I could never claim to “invent” a new pattern, I take particular delight in modifications of existing patterns. Attractor patterns play an important role in the dedicated dry fly guys commitment to fishing on top. Without them, the between-hatch fishing would be limited to trying to bring fish to flies that were previously available; a strategy to be sure. Attractors, though, add an element that plays into my theory of trout “looking up”.
A note about the term “searching pattern”. Most of the flies I describe fall into the category of searching patterns. When nothing apparent is on the water, and fish are not rising in obvious pods, keying on specific insects, the dry fly angler is “searching”. His search is made more focused by skills of reading water, sometimes simply familiarity with a given stretch of river, casting skills and presentation. Searching may best be described as the quick ascent of the stream, not lingering on good holding water if nothing occurs, but usually sticking to a single pattern as the angler covers as much water as he can with a favorite pattern. I often turn to the Para-Adams for this purpose, but many attractor patterns serve me as well. How I arrive at the searching pattern for a particular day? Mostly I find myself selecting a pattern often used on the same stretch of water on prior trips. At some point in a day of frustration, I’ll begin the process of selecting different patterns to improve the day and that’s when attractor patterns really come into their own.
In addition to imitative and attractor patterns, there is a category of flies that refer more to their attitude in the water. Emerger is the term generally ascribed to flies that sit in the surface film; not fully “dry”; some of the design attributes intend to place the fly in a position that is both surface and subsurface. This innovation is, in my mind, one of the most important developments of recent times. I first remember encountering articles about “emergers” in the 1980’s, but no doubt some tiers were experimenting with these concepts before then. I think it’s important to distinguish the types of emergers commonly tied today, if only in order to have clarity in continuing discussions about fly design and how emergers are effectively deployed.
First, I would describe what may appear obvious, but in light of the theory I have espoused on trout vision and its utility to the angler, it deserves further discussion.
Aquatic insects spend most of their lives under water. They feed, usually, on vegetation or decaying vegetation on the bottom of the stream. What defines them for the fisherman, of course, it that they are the primary source of protein for trout, and as such, their imitation is critical to the sport. The aquatic insect, for some evolutionary reason, does not stay subsurface its entire life. It’s adulthood is spectacularly highlighted by its emergence, and the transformation is quite remarkable: from a browsing, subsurface creature of limited grace and no beauty, to a non-feeding, winged, air breathing creature displaying dazzling gossamer wings, erratic flight and subtle colors, often quite different than their subsurface shades. There is a transition; directly connected to the metamorphosis well described by entomologists, and of significant interest to the angler. When tiers first noticed and began incorporating the transition into their patterns is hard to discern. I would guess that trial and error, trying to keep a floating fly floating, might have had something to do with its discovery. I certainly had experiences where a floating pattern, not quite dry enough to stay on the surface, was eagerly taken by trout, somewhat to my surprise, and always to my delight.
Capturing the elements of a pattern that, by design hung in the surface of the stream was, I am certain, the inspiration of many a tier. Sadly, it never dawned on me that a different approach to the pattern construction might reveal a whole new set of opportunities: I had to read it in a magazine! The obvious advantage struck me immediately. It is all too apparent that an insect, in transition from sub surface to surface, struggling through metamorphosis, was completely at the mercy of the currents and fate. A fate just as easily identified by the trout. The reason I had rises to sinking dry flies wasn’t because they were sinking, but that they appeared just the opposite, as an insect emerging.
To understand better about emerging aquatic insects, I think its helpful to think about three types of emergers. I will immediately apologize to the author who first described and categorized the types of emerger patterns in common use today; I missed your book. I don’t claim any original expose’ here, but do need to spend some time helping the reader, assuming he or she also missed your book, understand the variability of the emerger. This topic has eluded me over time and I hope by writing my thoughts down I will have a reference point, when I am finally in possession of the book of emergers, to place my thinking in context!
The first is subsurface: the imitation hangs mostly below the surface, only a wing, or even just a loop of buoyant material, suspends the body of the fly beneath the surface film. These patterns are highly successful, but somewhat difficult to spot on the moving surface for the angler, once the fly has landed in the water. One may find it best to note the slight disturbance on the surface from the fly hitting the water and follow the current speed in the general area you would expect the fly to be sitting: if a rise occurs along the imagined drift; lift the rod tip. Subsurface patterns can be tied with CDC or synthetic yarn with high float properties, and are often just a loop or tuft of material at the top of the thorax. Clearly designed to imitate the insect emerging from the mayfly nymph, or the midge pupa, I first saw these patterns developed to be fully submerged; fished just under the surface on glassy runs where their subsurface position, that is fished wet, would attract attention as a nymph/pupa approaching “hatching”. The buoyancy of synthetics, and particularly cul-de-canard (CDC), a natural material, added an important element: the nymph/pupa now appeared to be in the position of an insect breaking free of its exoskeletal immature stage and greeting the air above: effective photographic evidence of the era confirmed that the posture being represented did exist in nature, and advances were quick in coming.
These patterns are particularly effective with fish rising to unseen (by the angler) hatches of midges, or if an occasional small mayfly, usually Baetis, is appearing, but isn’t attracting many fish as the adult. The trout, I am convinced, will expend energy to capture a sure thing; the fly is still submerged, and the trout can see that it’s unlikely to escape. I think trout that witness small, inconsequential and infrequent hatches of small insects, are not unaware of their presence, but lie deeper in the flow, most likely concentrating on the occasional nymph, Baetis are swimmer nymphs, heading towards the surface and easy to capture. A nymph stuck, or just penetrating the surface film is also a likely target. This stage of presentation has been well described in other works on hatching insects, and the dilemma of fishing the emerging nymph or offering the full dry fly certainly confounded many of my committed colleagues over the years. Conditions, of course, for observing these subtle stages of hatch activity exist primarily, here in the West, on spring creeks or slick tailouts, under exceptional circumstances.
The second type of emerger should be more specifically referred to as a cripple. This fly is constructed to ride in the surface film, often tied with a small tail of synthetic fiber to represent the exoskeletal shell, still attached and trailing to the nymph unable to break free. I’ve heard the term “stillborn” also attached to this particular pattern: either term, the description is of an insect not likely to survive, and presents a clear meal for the alert trout. I believe that this type of dry fly emerger has multiple “triggers” for trout as they are first seen as a disturbance to the mirrored bottom of the waters surface outside the trout window, and the shape, trailing shuck and helpless insect that comes into focus in the vision window is deadly effective at provoking takes. At first notice, the appointment is not quite right. Something is amiss. The full body of the nymph or pupa is neither sub surface or above. the exoskeletal shuck hangs from the body. Wings are still and the thorax has not lifted itself from the surface film. The disturbance is defined by the shape of the full insect. As the object enters the window-to-take position, more is revealed. Legs are splayed: wings unfurled. From the fishes perspective, the meal has already been served up.
If sight fishing, and a notable trout refuses your offering that seem to be otherwise acceptable to other fish currently on the rise, I suggest a cripple of the same pattern size, shape and color, with the trailing exoskeleton, as a convincing option that larger, more selective fish may succumb to. My reasoning? when a fish is lying very close to the surface, actively feeding and examining multiple offerings, the window-to-take may provide only inches of focused vision: seeing the object clearly both in and above the water, and the extra triggers involved in a fly that imitates a cripple may answer. The body lying full in the film, the complete image of a helpless offering as it enters the very short window-to-take moment of action for the trout, means that a cripple emerger becomes a go-to pattern for that particularly difficult, picky quarry!
The third emerger pattern, one that I have begun to adopt most of my dry flies to, is the parachute pattern, using the Klinkhamer style of tying. As more thoroughly described in the chapter on the Para-Adams, this style of tying has a number of advantages, the most significant of which is that it appears as an emerging adult insect. From the trout's perspective, the fly still hangs in the surface film. No exoskeleton imitation is required, the bug is simply in the final moment of stepping onto the surface; and very vulnerable! A standard parachute tie, of course, has this similar advantage, and I recommend it highly, especially if tying the Klinkhamer style pattern creates challenges to the tier. But the difference I’ve noticed for any effective dry fly, to be constructed with the emerger body, that is the body suspended sub surface, has moved me to tying all of my mayfly imitations in either a simple Catskill manner, without concern about selective trout, or as a parachute/Klinkhamer styled imitation: it matters a great deal! I have come to believe, and my experience bears this out, that if the trout are willing to respond to a dry fly, one that is yet to abscond from the watery trap is that much more a sure bet.
Chapter 10 - The Coachman
Creator of the Coachman, or so legend informs, is Tom Bosworth, the coachman to George First, William First and Queen Victoria of Britain. The fly was originally tied as a wet fly, and the wing was white duck primary wing fibers.Theodore Gordon, an American angler of fame considered, appropriately, the father of dry fly fishing in America, took many British patterns and converted them to dry flies. Mostly Gordon’s flies were made dry by the use of a stiffer, rooster hackle as opposed to hen hackle; the more commonly used hackling of the time. So Gordon converted the Coachman to a Catskill dry fly, along with numerous other patterns, in his evolution as the leader of American dry fly fishing. Once an established pattern in America, an example sent to Mary Orvis Marbury, (1878) that included a red silk “cumberbun” to strengthen the herl wrap, tied by John Hailey, the fly received the name Royal Coachman. Both the Coachman and Royal Coachman dry fly has undergone various winging approaches, from duck primaries, duck breast feathers, both fanned and split winged fibers and, most recently, the Wulff-type wings tied with hair: impala, buck tail or calf. Most of the wings tied are upright and split, but the “trude” or tied back white wing of hair or mallard breast is also used, and is one of my favored styles.
I find the Coachman, or occasionally the Royal version, to be proven and effective patterns for searching out trout. Peacock herl is an amazing tying material, even as it presents challenges to the tier. Herl is not a durable material; strategies for strengthening the wrap are numerous. I find the use of glues problematic; unless used very sparingly they can matt and destroy the tiny, iridescent fibers along the stem of the herl. Tiers use counter wraps of wire or tying thread to secure herl bodies, or create dubbing loops or “ropes” of herl. All of these approaches have merit, and I encourage including some measure of strengthening to peacock herl bodies. But the fact is that peacock herl is brittle and often a fly only lasts a few battles with trout before coming apart. I’ve learned to accept the fact that a well-tied Coachman catches fish, but not many before being destroyed.
It is interesting to me that the Royal Coachman achieves so much more notoriety than the simple Coachman. My experience argues for the later as a greater pattern, but for the reader, consider either pattern to have the fish-taking properties of a top fly.
My Coachman is like most of my patterns: tied sparsely with an emphasis on a full body and minimalist wing. Para- tied Coachman are both difficult to tie, and don’t seem to outfish the standard dry fly style. The fly is prone to sink; peacock herl itself absorbs water and, if counter wrapped with wire, the fly is simply less buoyant. Tying the Coachman as a parachute pattern means the fly is even more subject to soaking. The standard dry, still challenging to keep from going wet, does float a bit better and if the pattern is enhanced by its tendency to ride low in the water: this is a fly that does not ride on its hackle tips for too long! Of course, this will also make the fly effective as a swinging wet pattern, if you are so inclined, and I’ve taken many trout by permitting the long drift to sink the fly and swing through a fishy looking tailout. It’s a bit of a lazy thing to do; but I can relax my standards on occasion.
The Naches River in Eastern Washington is another regular destination for me. I find it fishes best in late summer through October. Unlike the Yakima, the Naches is not a tailwater; it flows free from the eastern slopes of the Cascades, the Pacific coastal mountains, and its headwaters along Mount Rainier. The Naches contain Westslope Cutthroat, a favorite of mine, and some Rainbows, mostly from hatchery stocks, although native reproduction occurs both from surviving hatchery stocks and steelhead offspring becoming resident. Significant progress has been made in restoring these important steelhead runs in recent years. There’s a concentrated fishery for stocked fish in the beginning of the season; sometime late June, and fishing the rivers hatches early is not possible because of closure. The river also runs wild, and while drifting can provide great access, a knowledgeable guide is a good idea.
Beginning in July, wading the fast waters of the Naches becomes possible, but August and later is best. The lower river has a five mile stretch covered by selective fishing regulations although any part of the river is remarkably uncrowded in late summer, partly because of its proximity to the Yakima; it isn’t near the fishery as the Yakima. Fish average smaller, eight to twelve inch trout being the norm, but the river contains many fish in the eighteen, even twenty inch range.
On a particularly warm, late August day, I was fishing a favorite stretch and one pool, even in low water conditions, ran deep and against a basalt rock wall where fish were feeding on a variety of insects; some late hatching caddis, the occasional terrestrial and the sporadic hatch of BWO’s. Most of the fish were small, and I was moving upstream towards holding water that might produce a bit more quality. At the head of that pool, the water flowed past a large boulder, creating a back eddy. For all dry fly fisherman, the reverse currents of a big back eddy are quite the challenge, and I intended to pass up on the location when a splashy rise caught my attention. I moved up and took a comfortable seat on the bank of free stones, downstream and on the opposite bank of the eddy, piled high from centuries of runoff: time to observe.
The fish showed itself again; sixteen inches or more, I determined. It was an interesting test. The fish had to be positioned in the eddy itself, probably along the edge of the current as it moved away from the fast, deep channel and began its rotation towards the back of the large obstruction. I saw a number of flies, mostly small BWO’s and some occasional caddis, but it was still too early in the day to see many returning females, so I ruled out attempts with either of those two flies. The Adams had worked for me earlier in the day; probably keying strikes from a fish memory of an evening or morning hatch over the last few days; I had seen no evidence of mayflies except for the small Baetis. There were hoppers jumping about when I approached the river. The eddy might trap a few of those if the wind, often a constant on the Naches, was up, but it was a rare calm day. Still, the trout, by now I suspected at least two of equal size, continued to make charging assaults on something with regularity. I failed to see what could be attracting their attention.
The fish presented an interesting challenge. Their rise came from the middle of the eddy; that is the first I could see them, and thus my speculation that they were head up in the back-most current of the eddy; pointing directly, at 90 degrees, to the main channel, and when feeding, would dash through the eddy to the edge of the fast chute of the channel taking insects just as the slow current met the fast. My presentation challenge was difficult; to say the least. If I approached close enough to keep a high rod tip, most of my line off the water, a routine approach to achieve a free drift in a back eddy, I would be approaching the fish head on, and would likely be seen. While I pondered my approach, I began to notice that some ants were moving about the bushes near the stream, as well as the occasional beetle. There was a constant buzzing of flies and bees as well, on this warm and still day. I decided that these two trout were finding a mixed variety of insects, and selectivity would take a back seat to an offering that met the requirement of such jaunty swimming! I considered and rejected the Renegade: the water was so clear that a wing form would probably be a better trigger. A trude-winged Coachman.
Now my challenge began to come into focus. I had to approach from the high bank but well below the position of the trout, still making regular rises. My cast would have to drop the fly at the top of the back eddy; only inches from the fast running current. If the cast didn’t land precisely, it would require me to rip it from the water and across the current between me and the back eddy if I was to not spook these trout. It would require an aerial mend wiggle cast: a hard forward stop and quick back-and-forth shooting of a few feet leaving enough line laying across the fast current with enough slack as to let my fly drift very slowly along the current line where the reverse current met fast water. If the “wiggle” closest to the fly was straightened out too quickly; the fly would rip from its drift and dive into the current. I had an opportunity for only a few inches of clean drift, but that, I knew, would be enough.
Let me use this particular example to expound on my theory of trout vision and the way it contributes to being able to succeed in the face of this challenge. The trout were probably resting in four feet of water, possibly less, and well hidden by the faster water racing along their right sides. But this protected position also was their vulnerability. Their vision window from that position was broken by a choppy surface both forward and to their right, downstream; thus I could stand on a high bank without being seen. Their vision window did, however, afford them excellent vision of the relatively calm surface of the back eddy. Given a window radius of approximately three and a half feet, with a back eddy that extended, from their position, to the left of their location about six feet. They could clearly see the bottom portion of the surface of the eddy. My target was about half way down from the top of the eddy, where the two opposite currents merged. Only inches from the edge of the trouts window. The window-to-take opportunity was less than a foot; and that was the drift I would need.
My theory of trout vision becomes actionable. These two fine fish were triggered by any disturbance just above the left edge of their window, in the mirrored surface of the top of the eddy, nearer to the large boulder. Any disturbance. The calm but mirrored surface would instantly indicate something was in the water. These trout were particularly vulnerable because they were required to move at the first sign of disturbance; there simply wasn’t any time to examine the insect as it entered their visual window; they needed clear vision of the quarry to power their way through the water and capture the insect before it was caught up in the fast current. Let’s further dissect the situation by example. Imagine an ant or beetle, crashing into the stream above the pool, as it floats helplessly down the current: in the fast current. It rides a path that takes it close enough to the reverse current to be deposited, momentarily, in the eddy itself, but for only a moment. This is a great example of trout locating a holding position not directly in the line of food being deposited, as Marinaro observed on the Letort. The position also provides for a level of abundance: the fast channel would move floating objects either towards the center apex of the flow dropping into the pool; or pushing items over the edge and concentrating them, for only a moment, on the edge of the flow, intersecting the eddy, but not enough for the item to be pushed into the backflow of the eddy. These fish were made available to me because of the effectiveness of their position for feeding, and my diagnosis of both their opportunity, and their vulnerability. Looking right, or downstream, their window was broken with choppy surface. Had the surface been smooth, I would have been seen as soon as I approached my casting position. They had to hold in the edge of the backflow at the bottom of the eddy; there was simply no other position affording them a view of the deposits from the fast channel and still permit them time to rise. Lying in the eddy proper would have given them a quick look at the insects: as they raced away into the current. For the fish, it was a clever solution, and their size certainly suggested it was prime holding water! I knew, that a properly presented attractor, likely imitating some terrestrial bug, would be examined for a fraction of a second, window-to-take time measured in milliseconds, and should my drift hold for only six or seven inches, the fish would be on!
All came together as I planned. A few stray casts required me to clumsily rip the line and fly from the surface, but between those attempts, one of the fish rose again, again I saw nothing on the surface, but had to surmise that it was of any number of insects being made available, and, more importantly, my off target casting and correction was not putting the fish down. Finally, a cast that performed; but the drift held for only a tiny moment, and a subsurface flash told me that the trout was inspired; but not easily fooled. A few more bad attempts on my part, and finally the Coachman landed, hesitated and moved, exactly with the current, the half foot required. A dramatic take, and the hook point found the mark. The good sized cutthroat dashed for the heavy flow, doubled up my 4 weight, and I moved cautiously into and down stream to bring him to hand. Admiring him briefly, I headed back to the high bank: could it be done again?
Most often, two fish in a good holding position means that only one will be taken, without a lengthy rest. But this situation provided me a rare double from the same position, the same presentation. Now practiced, my fly presented perfectly on the very next cast, and back-to-back fish were brought to hand. It had been a confirming experience. My years of angling brings such confidence in solving these problems; none of them less engaging than the previous! I recall the day with clarity, in part because of the beauty of the day, but most importantly because of the problem/solution experience: the amazing rise and aggressive take of two remarkable trout, and the satisfaction of effective casting, line control and managing the bad casts as well as the good casts. I remember as well the pleasure of fishing a pattern with such an amazing history, in a place so far from its birth, so many years past its glory days. While I fished another couple of hours upstream, as planned, I couldn’t keep from replaying the experience in my mind, over and over. Something about that moment and a five year old with a cane pole.
Chapter 11 - The Opal “X” Caddis
This is the most recent addition to the flies I love and use often. It came as a bit of a surprise to me, actually. I was, as always, exploring some patterns that might fill a gap I had discovered. Heavy caddis hatches are expected on many of my favorite streams, and the return of females to deposit eggs is what I rely on to put the trout on top and make them vulnerable to my presentations. But the adults don’t always play along with my planning. Also observed, that emergers, sometimes cripples, attracted the attention of trout even when adults were available. My theory on mayfly cripples is that trout recognize the struggling of a cripple, and know that a stillborn or struggling mayfly is less likely to leap into space at the last second and foil a dinner plan. And of course, the emergence of the adult caddis fly presents a particular problem.
As I study the caddis fly, it’s complete metamorphosis presents some problems for the dry-fly fanatic; and the trout. Firstly, many of the species prefer a rather casual approach to moving from larvae to adult. The pupae, seemingly vulnerable to the unwanted attention of the trout, mostly emerges from the aquatic environment to air and winged life the tedious way; crawling from water to dry land (rocks and branches semi-emerged) before competing final metamorphosis to adulthood. Like the stone or salmon fly, the “hatch” is not really a hatch at all. The hatch is the return (“fall”) of the adult after completion of mating as an adult.
It is true that some caddis flies exhibit a behavior loved by trout and fly fisherman alike: they explode from the bottom after pupating, with a buildup of air to aid in their launch, and crash through the surface film in full flight to safety. Presents little opportunity for the trout, but I’ve observed some remarkable feats of fish space launch, from watery launching pads, by trout determined to intercept the explosive takeoff of hatching caddis. This is a true hatch, like a mayfly emerging from the confines of the river's surface film into the air by stepping, oh so gently, into our world. But the caddis is not a delicate creature when leaving it’s watery world.
My question was a simple one. Why do trout seem to make splashy rises on insects that they have little chance to intercept? My observations have always confirmed the conservative nature of the trout; they rarely expend energy without expectation of reward. Watch even large trout, that should know better, fling themselves skyward for fluttering adult stoneflies, craneflies and October caddis and you recognize that there’s a risk reward calculation that tips the balance and triggers an aerial assault with limited chance for success; but for a size 14 sedge?
I had certainly understood the value of fishing “cripples” during a hatch; unfortunate emergers stuck in the surface film and doomed. Trout know this too, and my general interest in emerging flies is a result of realizing the increased ratio of reward-to-risk in any hatch. Insects struggling to free themselves of the surface film trap and/or pupal/nymphal husk raises the reward ratio. But what was the equivalent to the caddis emerger? What pattern captured that event?
I tried a few ideas on my own, including sparsely dressed tent winged caddis imitations trailing antron fibers to visually convince the fish of the dire situation the caddis found itself facing. To little success. I had tried Renegades, and even took some solace in soaking small Muddler Minnows and standard Adams. My answer came in a brief article, too long forgotten to cite, about a fly that is effective. The Opal X Caddis, hereafter referred to as simply the Opal X.
Dennis Potter is a fly designer in the mid-west. His pattern was built on the X-Caddis originated by western angler Craig Mathews, an emerging caddis dry fly with some merit; but Dennis added a feature that, in my mind, distinguishes the fly: the use of Opal tinsel, with its holographic coloring, is one of the few flies that give a nod to the value of new materials. The pattern with any other tinsel body can still produce results, but the Opal tinsel adds a dimension to this fly that takes it to a whole new level. The coloring suggests, in the correct light, the life blood, red of a newly emerged adult that will not survive, but is firmly stuck in the surface film and whose only fatal contribution is food for the predator. The selection of the tinsel for this fly is distinguishing, and warrants the greatest appreciation. Potter goes so far as to recommend the tinsel as a primary body material for many patterns,including the Elk Hair Caddis.
One of my favorite western trout streams is high-mountain, turbulent and crystal clear. In early fall, the hatches can be heavy and trout become focused on the surface. How could one ask for more! There’s almost always some surface activity and frequent hookups are the norm. As any angler would do, I begin to examine those rises that suggest a better sized fish, a bit more of a challenge, but, still.
A large, flat, mostly smooth boulder sat deeply submerged and on the far side of a deep, quickly moving stretch of tailout. The pool narrowed and thrust it’s full volume into a concentrated chute before cascading into the next run. The middle of the run offered a number of fish, looking up and willing to take a fly, there was first a shadow, then a flash, a fish working just below the large boulder. He seemed a more interesting specimen, perhaps larger than the 14-15 inch fish active in the rest of the pool. The position of the fish kept him well protected. He was stationed alongside the boulder. He could wait for offerings to be swept around the side of the boulder, and deposited to his waiting jaws a foot or so below the protection of the boulder. A very prized holding spot; no doubt.
The first thing I realized was the presentation challenge. It would require a 55+ foot cast, across a mid-stream current with variable speeds. No time, and too much line, to make an effective mend after an accurate cast; the mend would need to be aerial. The drift of the landed fly would take a sharp turn in the diverted current around the boulder, advance a foot or two, without drag if I hoped for any success, and hang for a moment or two in the slack water, where the fish would have watched and drifted backwards examining it before taking it. In the instant of the near perfect presentation, the fish would need to be not only fooled, but have the drag free presentation remain available; a fraction of a second longer and the fly would be ripped from its position and exposed as a fraud.
As I ponder all of this, I had another dilemma. There were a variety of hatching insects that afternoon, but I was most alerted to the light, tan caddis fluttering about. Their availability to the trout was limited as only a few were back to lay eggs, but the hatch had been heavy and there were clouds of the bugs in the air above the stream. Other insects seemed to be attracting more interest by other fish, small callibaetis and even some midges, but this big boy wasn’t charging through heavy current for a snack.
My experience with the Opal X was limited. I had first “discovered” the fly the previous year and had been impressed with the willingness of fish to respond to it in the case of certain caddis hatches. I had taken a nice fish earlier in the day on the Opal X, before the clouds of tan sedges had appeared. Perhaps a small tan EHC would turn the trick, but few adults had approached the water. The Opal X, size 14, seemed logical. I switched to a 6X fluorocarbon tippet for my nine foot 5X tapered leader, adding another three feet to the leader that was already approaching twelve feet with a 5X mono tippet. I knew I needed a near perfect cast, aerial mend of four to five feet, no time for a “fix” once the line was on the water, and then hope for the best.
I made an initial cast some four feet shy of the correct landing spot; intentionally. I wanted to see the effect on the drift from the large boulder pushing a heaving current back into the main channel of the tailout. I had read the water well, the cast would do what I wanted it to do.
Fifty-five feet. Precisely timed up-stream aerial mend of four feet, adding yards of fly line body to the main current, quickly swinging downstream and threatening the free drag of the fly. The fly. The Opal X Caddis. An imitation of a stillborn adult caddis. Helpless. Swinging past the boulder. Spotted by a fine example of a wild Westslope Cutthroat of eighteen inches, adjusting its fins to allow the current to carry him back as the fly moved overhead. Examining the fraud, but believing that it was opportunity. In the clear water, the final rush to inhale the imitation. The upper jaw emerged from the slick and inhaled the fly: the rod bent.
I have never “improved” on the Opal X Caddis. It isn’t in need of that. Put it in your box. Turn to it. It is a killer pattern. (Note, I’ve had comments on how sparsely I tie the Opal X. That’s true, but a light wire hook, the Polly tail and a few strands of deer hair for head and wings float this pattern quite well.)
Chapter ? - The Para-Adams
If you want a simple fly, the Adams tied as a traditional Catskill pattern, even sans wings, is a great all-around fly that can serve both as a searching pattern, or to match a hatch. Of course, as I approach many patterns in this book, I have seen my Adams evolve over time. Most significant of this evolution is the advent of the wide use of a parachute wing.
Authors version of original Adams.
The development of the parachute wing or post, and the hackle wrapped around the post, thus the “parachute” designation, dates to 1934 and tyer William Bush, who applied for a patent for a hook with a built-in post. However, the practice of tying the parachute fly seems to be traced to a young Scottish woman, Helen Todd who worked for Wallace and Kerr of Edinburgh, who then marketed the “parachute fly” in 1933. There remains some dispute on origins, materials and patterns using the parachute approach. As these flies gained popularity a couple of things happened. First, although they are still available, the fly hooks with the post built in (usually an extension of the hook’s eye, bent 90 degrees and welded in place) made the fly heavy and it lost the value of the parachute tie, which in large part is to enhance floatability. The hook construction approach became near obsolete. Secondly, materials, including synthetics, made the construction of the parachute post or wing more feasible. Once the technique of tying the hackle around a wing post became mainstream, almost every pattern imaginable was “para’d”; constructed with a stiff wing post and parachute hackle. I can’t really think of a dry fly pattern that hasn’t become a Para-something! And if I could, I’d be at my bench in a heartbeat. More later on tying in the parachute style: let’s next look at the history of the Adams; then my version.
There’s little dispute about the creation of the Adams. Leonard Halladay (1872-1952) a tier and lodge owner in the little town of Mayfield, Michigan, tied the first Adams in 1922. There are any number of historical records regarding the events that led to the flies development, and I commend them to my readers. A short version follows:
Halladay and his wife managed a small inn, also providing guiding services to the near-by streams for anglers seeking trout with the fly. One client, Mr. Charles F. Adams, is the flies namesake. There is a bit of confusion about whether Mr. Adams first described the pattern for Halladay to tie, thus making him its creator, or if Halladay had the inspiration. It is certain that Mr. Adams, in the summer of 1922, took the fly tied by Halladay to the Boardman River, and returned with a story of impressive results. Halladay claims to have named the fly Adams, because Mr. Adams had made first good use of the tie.
The original pattern is tied with grey wool, wings of barred Plymouth Rock (grizzly) rooster hackle tips, tied forward of the hackle, mixed barred Plymouth Rock and Road Island Red rooster hackles. The tail was golden pheasant tail strands. The Adams was proportionally tied with the hackle crowding the eye and a tapered body reaching near the bend.
The pattern was improved in the classic, American Catskill form, moving the hackle tip wings into the hackle wraps, incorporating them in a slightly fuller hackeling with a more tapered body. The body was now composed of Muskrat fur dubbing; a more buoyant material. The tail was altered to become fibers of the same mix as the hackles.
As mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, an Adams tied simply, without wings and using synthetic dubbing, remains a very effective pattern, and I highly recommend it to beginning tiers still learning the craft and wanting a pattern that fishes well, and schools the beginner to the importance of proportion and color. That simple pattern remains one I go to as a match to tiny mayflies of a grey or brown color, will serve as a match to slightly darker BWO’s and even, in sizes 20-24, match midges. The fly can even be used during a returning caddis “hatch”: the Adams will take fish. Few patterns come close to such versatility. And beyond its remarkable ability to fool fish actively feeding, the Adams is as an effective searching pattern as you can find.
If you can construct a parachute post wing and hackle, then you have the current, most popular and effective retail trout fly on the market today. The para-Adams fished by most anglers today is tied with mixed grizzly and brown hackle and the same fibers for a tail, a grey dubbed body, a wing of either synthetic white antron yarn or calf tail fibers. It is highly effective in all sizes, and everything said of the Catskill version can be said of today’s ParaAdams. When I first discovered and tied the ParaAdams, I was already a fan of the Adams. I discovered, no doubt in a fly fishing periodical, the parachute approach to tying dry flies and instantly recognized its utility. It took a number of years to perfect the tying method, and even now, tying a parachute pattern requires great concentration and dexterity. I grew more confident with my parachute tying methods and began converting all of my standard Catskill patterns to parachute ties.
As the reader knows, my lifetime of observing trout, reading the best anglers views and opinions, I developed my own theories of why trout are responsive to certain techniques. The parachute pattern fits my theory of trout vision, surface disturbance as a key trigger, and the transition from surface disturbance to fully seen insect/deception. The surface disturbance of a parachute tied fly, with its body lying in the surface film, the hackle appearing like insect legs, working desperately to climb the final millimeters to free itself from the water, the parachute fly achieves success as an attention getter.
Along with the challenge of tying a post wing and parachute hackle, I was frustrated with the tendency of some of the patterns coming off my bench to have the annoying habit of riding on its side. The weight of the post wing seemed to be the culprit, and after some adjusting and tying with less calf tail, the issue was mostly solved. My early attempts also relied on tying cement at the bottom of the post to assure the wound hackle would remain in place. Even as my tying method improved, it remained that an occasional tie preferred to ride the currents sidestroke.
The other difficulty I found is the selection of calf tail fibers. I began searching fly shops for calf tail that suited the requirements of a good ParaAdams; less “kinky” fibers, but still with good stiffness. I collected many examples, and even those that met my requirements would only contain the proper fibers on the lower half of the tail. The nature of calf tail fibers also makes it impossible to stack them effectively, meaning that each pattern was just slightly different from the previous one, with the selection and grooming of the wing post being a significant variable. Very incidentally, I came across a small patch of white calf body hair, and instantly improved my ParaAdams. Stacking calf body hair created a more uniform, consistent wing/post, and remains my favorite material for that purpose. But the most significant change to my ParaAdams was to come.
Reading an article in Flyfishing Magazine about an emerger pattern new to me, I discovered the Klinkhamer Special, an emerger, named for the Dutch tier Hans Van Klinken. The original pattern, the LT Caddis first tied in 1984, became the Klinkhamer Special, and is designed as a full floating emerger. Van Klinken originally bent longer shank hooks to set a platform for the wing post and parachute hackle, with peacock herl wrapping to hide the post/hackle material. The body extended down the bent shank in such a way that the hook and body (without a tail) hung below the surface in a true emerger form. I had seen full floating emerger patterns tied before; with scud nymph hooks. Rene’ Harrop working with CDC had mastered emerger patterns that were mostly sub-surface, but what struck me was the clear intention of the Klinkhamer to ride high, still leaving a distinct emerger form with the sub-surface body. It was clearly an emerger, but it was also a dry fly. This was before my formulation of the three types of emergers as described in the chapter on dry flies.
Author's example of para-Adams, Kinkhammer.
It wasn’t long before I began tying my Adams in this fashion to solve my perpetual “side floating”, lazy ParaAdams. It worked. The body slung below the surface almost guaranteed that my fly floated upright. Something else, quite unexpected, happened. The fly seemed irresistible to fish!
I formulated a theory of the effectiveness of the Klinkhamer style, and perhaps it extends to other emerger patterns. The family Heptageniidae is a “crawler” nymph with an unusual habit: they emerge from the nymphal husk sub surface, to the subimago stage, and swim to the surface as full developed adults in the dun stage. This, I postulated, would account for the appeal of the paraAdams tied Klinkhamer style. If the subimago is fully formed, with no trailing nymphal husk, then its struggle is to break through the surface, dry its wings and take flight. The emerger pattern represented by my paraAdam Klinkhamer is exactly that; an adult broaching the surface in full form, its abdomen the only part of its anatomy remaining subsurface for the moment; the moment we wish to deceive the trout. Now this is not to say that only crawler nymphs have this attitude as they hatch. The photographs of Ted (F) that i’ve mentioned earlier are an incredible record of hatching mayflies and clearly the process of stepping into the air takes on similar form across species.
At first I made due with scud or emerger type hooks. By that time, Partridge Hooks of London had developed and named a Klinkhamer-style hook, and I gave them a try. While they do have some advantages, including solid hook ups and extra body length for the subsurface presentation, the hooks are huge! Since the gap of the hook is quite small, and hook gap determines size, and the gap is out of proportion to the rest of the shank and parachute platform, a size 16 fully tied is closer to a size 12; presuming you tie the wing and hackles in size 12, and if, tied with #16 hackle and wing, it won’t float the large shank hook. The Partridge hook didn’t quite suit my purpose, although its use for the Klinkhamer Special is excellent. I also tie the Klinkhamer Para version of my Quill Gordon with the Partridge hook, in proportion, with some success. The Partridge hook took a back seat, on my bench to other fine wire nymph emerger hooks. Ultimately I settled on a Tiemco 206 BL.
The TMC 206 is very fine wire, and quite sharp. As all Tiemco hooks, it’s of very high quality. I find one thing about them to be a bit frustrating. The hook gap is wide, making for easy hook-ups. But with the fine, very sharp point, it is also easier for fish to twist themselves free. These long distant releases are mostly fine with me; it’s always been the thrill of the take that makes dry fly fishing so fun, but losing a particularly fine specimen when you’ve done everything right, does stick in the craw a bit. The 206 is not available in a barbed version; if it was I’d buy that hook and smash the barb, giving it a bit of holding leverage.
The emerger form of the TMC-206BL is similar to other emerger hooks, but in fine wire design. Additionally, the upturned eye helps in tying the ParaAdams, or any Klinkhamer-styled dry flies. I use it almost exclusively for dry flies, para-tied, in sizes 8 to 20. Orvis offers tiny dry fly hooks with an emerger bend as small as 22, but I prefer the shape and upturned eye of the Tiemco. Orvis also now offers a Klinkhamer hook, with a straight eye. I’ve only been tying with them a short time, and find them excellent, close to the TMC-206. Both hooks are highly recommended. Whatever pattern of dry fly that I construct with a wing post and parachute hackle is tied on the Tiemco 206BL.
I will note that since the initial draft of this chapter, Orvis has released a Klinkhamer hook that I have begun using. It fishes very well, and holds fish better than the Tiemco. I continue to tie with both, but the new Orvis hook is impressive.
Tying the ParaAdams, Klinkhamer style, requires a tricky mid-tie move: once the post and hackle (unwrapped) are tied in, the hook needs to be shifted in the vice to allow the dubbed body to be extended down the hook shank and built up forming a tapered body. The hook is re-shifted to its first position to create the thorax and wrap the hackles. This takes some practice, but the result is a durable, effective trout killer. A couple of other notes about this pattern as I tie it. Tying in the two hackles against the post includes wrapping the tying thread around post and hackle stems. I initially treated this step in the process with some additional head cement; but it adds weight. With practice, a few wraps around the base of the post and hackle butts, then back the wraps around the hook shank, completes a solid fly. Advancing the dubbing to cover the butt of the post and hackle creates the thorax. After wrapping the hackle around the base of the post (and the stems of the hackles themselves), the hackle tips are tied off and the thread whip-finished. Obviously, the tying thread should match the dubbing color and be “buried” in the thorax. Recently I have begun tying the dubbing off before wrapping the hackle, then using a lighter thread, wrapped on the post itself, and wrap and tie off the hackle on the post. It requires a second adjustment of the hook in the vise, but the results are a fly without captured hackle barbs in need of trimming.
The body of my ParaAdams varies from superfine dubbing to a more buggy looking, natural hares ear in gray. I have success with both approaches, but tend to prefer a very tight, almost segmented superfine dubbing. I have experimented with a VERY sparse tail of a few strands of light antron or Z-lon; representing a shedded skeletal shuck, but I haven’t really noticed the additional material to either hinder or enhance the flies effectiveness. The taper does seem to matter; the body should almost disappear into the hook shank at the bottom of the bend. If you examine the fly from under the surface, dropped in a clear glass full of water, you’ll notice that the tapered body is quite visible, with the above-the-surface image sitting atop a more muscular thorax shape. the effect is stunning. The parachute hackle dimples the surface film and the white wing post clearly represents emerging mayfly wings.
I tie many of my ParaAdams with synthetic materials, including foam and antron wing posts. These are effective enough and the added buoyancy is great in choppy waters, but calf body hair is my prefered material for the post. As you perfect the post and wrap of a parachute pattern, you’ll reduce the amount of calf hair needed to anchor the hackle and present a small, thin wing. As you know by now; I think sparse is best!
The Yakima River is not a dry fly fisherman’s heaven; perhaps it’s more a Mt Everest. Teaming with great fish, some in truly trophy size, it yields its bounty reluctantly. I don’t wish to admit the number of days skunked on the Yak. Still, I consider it my home water, and I’m willing to endure its abuses for the occasional magic experience. It was mid-July, and though the river was still suffering some high water from mountain run-off, the upper river was both clearing and wadable. I had in my possession a new Winston 4-weight, and I was eager to test it. I thought a few 12 inch bows would suffice. There is a favorite stretch, a bit of a hike, that has a long bend sending water against a rocky bank. Later in the year, the run along the bank is too low and clear for fish to feel safe holding there, but when the run is still full of water, both cover and feeding positions are ideal for trout migrating throughout the upper river.
Nothing was on the surface. Hatches had been plentiful already that year, typical big mayflies and plenty of caddis, but nothing showed itself that morning. I worked the pool below with nothing in response. The rod was working nicely, as I had anticipated when I first tested it at the shop. It would be a pleasant day of casting; my expectations were properly low. As is usual, I chose a size 12 ParaAdams to explore the current lines and riffles. By mid-day, at the tail of the run I had planned on exploring, I was sure I saw a flash below my fly on my first drift.
I adjusted my casting angle slightly, landed the fly with little disturbance, and made a quick mend. The fish rose quickly and I didn’t get any real look at it, but felt its weight as I lifted the rod. Solid. The fish ran down stream, and in the extra current of the early summer, I regretted not having a 5-weight. I had lots of room and after a spirited struggle, I brought a lovely 18+ inch rainbow to hand.
Released, I moved up to the next likely lie against the far bank/wall of the run and within a few casts brought another fine fish to the fly. This one twisted free just as I reached for it; it was either a twin of the first or the same fish! Two more times on that run, that magical day, i hooked and released fish of 19 to 20 inches: one of the best afternoons I’d ever experienced on the Yakima. I changed flies once; the third fish chewed my Adams to the point that the hackles streamed back against the body. Of course, an identical fly was tied on.
The ParaAdam has caught fish when nothing else will. The ParaAdams will bring trout to the top when only nymph fishing is advised. The ParaAdams contributes to my feeling confident as a dry fly fisherman. If I discover a better dry fly for almost any circumstance, I’ll write a book about it.
Chapter ? - Casting
This chapter will briefly cover the complexities of great casting. In my opinion, casting is the secret to effective dry fly fishing. There is some redundancy here, elements of casting have been discussed throughout the book. Let’s establish a scenario and develop the message of specific casting skills.
Presume you are fishing a four to six feet deep flat pool that extends for 100+ yeards. Lots of lies and loaded with trout. There’s a hatch on and fish are responding. You’ve identified a fish that you want to cast to. Now imagine that you can drop a natural on the water to determine the drift to the location that the fish has been rising. Recall our earlier discussion about the window of vision the trout has and, given the depth of the water, the visual window is not more than two feet. We know the trout will see the underside of the surface outside the “window” so an insect falling or hatching will be visible.
Our natural falls or surfaces to hatch a full four to six feet upstream of the visual window. That is five to seven feet above the location of the last rise of the fish you are observing. Its’ lie is most likely upstream from where you last saw it rise: it drifted back (road the current) before committing to taking the last fly. Remember the trout will drift backwards when the target insect enters the visual window before rising to take the meal. (The backward drift of the trout can vary depending on the individual trouts’ inspection of the prey, a distance that’s hard to predict but may sometimes be observed.) Now you need a cast at least seven feet ahead of where you last saw that trout rise, and the drift needs to be drag free. That’s asking alot.
If you are a serious dry fly angler, a drag free drift of more than six feet is a prerequisite, understanding that the variabilities in trout lies, water speed, current changes all lend to the challenge of good presentation, but for this exercise, the angler has few options but a long, drag free drift.
Carl McNeil in his video “Casts that Catch Fish ''outlines” the elements of the “aerial” mend, that is, mending the slack line before it lands on the water, providing for a longer drag free drift. I can’t emphasize enough the importance of this skill. If you have to do a “water mend” after the line is on the water, you WILL move the fly, and put an observant fish down. The smallest movement of the fly line will transfer movement to your fly and alert a trout, particularly a large, mature trout. The aerial mend is challenging, but not impossible and can be practiced. An aerial mend is when the angler completes the cast with a hard stop, and has some additional line in the hand opposite the casting hand. When a cast comes to complete stop, the line unfolding in the forward cast is now on target; that is, the end of the line and the attached fly is energized toward completion and will proceed to the target. But with some slack line in the non-casting hand (for most of us that’s the left hand) the cast can add slack line without changing the target. A quick flip of the rod tip with the release of the slack line, is the aerial mend. Slack line is added to the cast without changing the target. A slight snap to the right, will add slack line to the right of the cast. If you are casting upstream, that additional slack will NOT lengthen the downstream drift, the snap needs to put line slack upstream of the line about to land on the water.
It’s complicated. The wiggle cast is my answer to surface challenges that are not uniform. The “wiggle cast” is snapping the tip to the right and left in quick succession, adding a number of small bends in the line that straighten out as the drifting line continues after landing on the surface. Most surface flows, if studied closely, show that there are multiple speeds at the surface. If it is obvious that the flow between the angler and the desired drift is one smoothe speed, then you must choose an upstream flip to add slack that is upstream of the drift you desire.
Think of the aerial mend as having two options: multiple small added loops to extend your drift, or one larger upstream loop to extend the drag free drift across an obvious current between the angler and the desired/target current drift. As you can imagine, the wiggle aerial mend is effective in both situations, but will not provide as much drag free drift.
The Flip: Obviously the challenge, and where you will need to practice, is the sequence of a hard stop of the forward cast to send the line to the target, followed by a left/right or wiggle “flip” to add the additional slack line held in the non-casting hand. This is not an easy move! It requires lots of practice. Your goal is to not change the direction of the hard-stop target setting with enough time to release extra line into the cast creating additional slack to add length to your drag-free drift. Again, videos by Carl McNeil are helpful, and an experienced instructor is most helpful, if they have mastered the aerial mend themselves.
Snap-Cast: Let’s leave the aerial mend for a moment and talk about Lefty Kegh. Lefty is a legend, and his book “Presenting the Fly” is filled with tips that I keep discovering after multiple readings. I’m going to focus on one to support the approach we’ve been discussing. Lefty uses terms that are, unfortunately not common in the fly casting world. One of my favfoites from Lerty is the forward cast proclamation “start slow, finish fast”. It’s said i a variety of ways in his writings, but its a very important concept. In using the leverage of the rod, you want to wait until the line loop in the back cast has just straightened out, then begin the forward cast: “slowly”! Accelerate as the forward cast begins, and have maximum speed of the rod tip just as it nears the moment of full stop. The stop is critical, since it determines the path of the line towards the target. Lefty also talks about a quick “snap” as you stop the progress of the cast, but you have to fully stop! No sloppy slow down. I still wok on the “snap” at the end of both the backcast AND forward cast.
Now, on only now can you add the small flips creating the aerial mend. Sounds like you’ll need to practice! I still do!
Conclusion:
A lifetime of fishing led me to one firm conclusion; I want to catch fish on top. Many would argue with me but few would disagree with the thrill of fooling a worthy quarry in a pristine setting. I am not critical of those that fish in other ways, but would encourage, and often teach that dry fly fishing is incredibly rewarding. Take the time to learn casting, presentation and imitations. Observe water not just while fishing, but intentionally with no objective other than to learn. Tie your own flies. Know your time on the river, just as the time on this planet, is finite and end all too soon.