Flyfishing fun

[Guest Mike Connor]

Short, less than five miles long, flowing down a very steep incline, mostly

through a winding bed of blank rock, the stream was very difficult to

negotiate. In a couple of places it flowed through steep sided rock

ravines, and when the stream was in flood, these places were more or less

impossible to reach. Over countless years the rushing water had gouged out

hollows in the softer rock, and formed the occasional larger pool, or

undercut bank. Trees, which lined the stream, occasionally fell, and blocked

the flow at a particular point, causing build-ups of silt and various

debris, and sometimes forming a deeper pool, which was almost guaranteed to

hold a trout.

 

Although the features of the stream changed with every flood, the basic

contours remained, and once its secrets had been discovered, it was no great

problem to find a few fish. Catching them was quite another matter. These

fish were all wild, and extremely wary. One of the best methods on this

stream was the upstream worm.

 

This technique is dying out nowadays, many places having banned worm fishing

in any case, and there are fewer and fewer people who have practised it.

Basically quite simple, a worm which has been toughened in sphagnum moss for

a day or two, is carefully threaded onto a hook, this is then cast upstream

using a leader and fly-line, without any other weight, and allowed to

trundle back down towards the angler, at the whim of the current, searching

out likely places.

 

Many people used various worm tackles at one time, the Pennell or Stewart

tackles being the most popular. Odd that one of the most famous of all

fly-fishermen should be mainly remembered by many for the worm tackle he

invented.

 

Considerable skill is required to maintain contact with the worm, without

affecting its course in an unnatural manner. Casting must also be carried

out with some circumspection, as even a toughened worm will fly off the hook

when subjected to more than extremely limited velocities.

 

Soft-actioned rods, and the ability to cast a very short line gently are

essential here. My "rod" was a hazel branch cut from a bush beside the

stream, with two bent wire rings whipped on, and my "fly-line" was a piece

of courlene baling cord. Attached to this was a straight piece of nylon

about a yard long, 3lb test. Initially I had used gut, which had been given

to me, but it was a nuisance, as it continually broke ( nobody had told me

you had to soak it before use ), and was difficult to cast straight.

Accordingly I had invested vast sums of money at the local shop for a spool

of nylon, and some decent hooks.

 

Fly-fishing was extremely difficult on the stream, in places, it was so

overgrown, that casting was more or less impossible. Even lobbing a worm was

extremely difficult.

 

Apart from its population of trout, the stream was also teeming with

minnows. Most pools, especially the deeper ones on the bends, had a large

shoal of these fish, and this perhaps explained why some of the trout were

abnormally large. Most moorland becks in the vicinity had their share of

trout, but these were invariably small large headed creatures, suffering

constant under-nourishment, and as a result. would often grab anything

remotely resembling food, and swallow it immediately. No particular

challenge, and hardly worth the trouble anyway, as they were usually only

five or six to the pound.

 

Not so the trout here. They were relatively large well formed fish, half

pounders being quite common, and with an occasional larger fish. They were

also most particular in their feeding habits. Carelessness on the part of

the angler would cause them to simply disappear, and sulk for hours. Their

wariness increased to the point where it was virtually impossible to

approach them. Virtually nobody fished the stream, most apparently thinking

there were no fish in it, and while the access was so difficult.

 

Despite a number of experiments, my success rate with flies was not

particularly brilliant, in actual fact, zero. My flies were admittedly

relatively crude affairs, made of sewing cotton and the feathers from

various pillows, and similar sources. My initial enthusiasm for fly-fishing

had cooled somewhat in the face of these difficulties, my original

conviction that the fish would leap out of the water to take my offerings

having suffered more than a few dampeners, and my success with worms

effectively prevented any prolonged trials.

 

For some reason, I decided to try a fly on this particular day. I have no

idea why, my diary contains a few brief notes, but at that time I did not

bother writing much, simply the fish caught, perhaps the water conditions,

any animals or other interesting things I saw. Even the few notes I made in

this "diary", a rather scrappy school notebook which I used for three

years, are now faded and difficult to decipher. More than once the notebook

made intimate contact with the rushing water, usually accompanied by my

person, as I once again attempted to negotiate some particularly difficult

bend, by climbing around the rock face. This did nothing whatsoever to

improve the legibility of the notes therein contained.

 

Attached to the page with several layers of yellowing sellotape, are a piece

of faded trout skin, still recognisable as such, and the fly which did the

damage. Rusted almost completely away now, the bend, point and barb are

hardly discernible, just a reddish-brown smear, but the dressing is still

quite clear. Fourteen strands of partridge hackle, two with broken tips,

painstakingly tied in individually, ( I did not know how to wind hackles at

the time), and what was once orange sewing thread, now a dirty brown shade,

the hook is a size ten.

 

Below these, are the lines, "Three fish on worms, caught a monster on the

orange fly! Got soaked again. Ruined my trousers and shoes. Mother was very

annoyed. Tie some more of these".

 

Just as well I do not need the notes. Clear in my mind, as if it were

yesterday, I can see the sharp bend and undercut rock face, and myself

perched on a treacherous rock ledge some fifteen feet below, and on the

other side of the stream. Fifteen feet was a hell of a cast with my

makeshift gear, and I can no longer recall what exactly made me think I

could do it, or why I was perched on this particular rock ledge in the first

place. My usual technique at this spot was to lower my worm in from above

the undercut, and allow it to trundle down with the current.

 

Around this time I had read Stewart´s "The Practical Angler" for the first

time, (I have read it a hundred times since, I know it more or less off by

heart), and was perhaps determined to try his method, I am no longer sure.

 

Working my way up the stream, I had covered about three miles, and had a

couple of reasonable fish on worms, but on reaching this spot, for some

reason, I decided to have a go with a fly. For some time I sat fiddling

with the gear, taking off the hook, and placing it in my pocket, before

mulling over my "selection" of flies. Fourteen flies were at that time in

my proud possession. Carefully mounted on sponge glued into a "St Bruno"

tobacco box, they sat awaiting their deployment.

 

Two of these were "professional" flies tied to very fragile gut, which I had

been given, and far too precious to be attached to my line. They were

chiefly used as objects of wonderment, as I tried to figure out how anybody

managed to fashion such delicate objects, and attempted unsuccessfully to

emulate them.

 

Although recognisable as flies, the rest were, as I already mentioned,

rather crude affairs tied with sewing thread, and pillow feathers. Mostly on

size ten hooks, as I was unable to hold the smaller ones very well, and the

thread was too thick to tie much on them anyway.To date, no suitable

feathers had surfaced, which would allow me to tie any of Stewart´s spiders,

and I did not know what they looked like in any case. There were no

illustrations in my copy of his book, and the directions were very difficult

to follow.

 

After a while I chose the "Orange fly", I know now that this was a

"Partridge and orange", but at the time, my knowledge in this respect was

sadly lacking.

 

Climbing around the rock face, I reached the narrow ledge, and holding on to

a bush which, apparently defying gravity and nature, sprouted directly from

a tiny crevice in the rock face, with my left hand, leaning out as far as I

could, I whipped out the line, and cast.

 

My line hit the rock face just above the undercut, and the fly floated down

right at the top of the streamy water which ran under the rock into the

pool. Rather annoyed, I started to pull myself back towards the bush, when

the incredible occurred. My fly, untreated as it was ( nobody had told me

you had to wet them first either), which had been floating down the stream,

disappeared in a large ring.

 

More by luck than good judgement, and engaged as I was in pulling back, I

set the hook, and an absolute monster of a fish shot out of the water in

front of me, dived again, and disappeared under the undercut, my rod

bending, and the line throbbing.

 

All my line was out, and the knot with which it was tied to the butt of my

rod was slowly but surely slipping up the rod. My left hand was still

gripping the bush, I was helpless. Drastic measures were called for, there

was no way I was going to lose such a fish, regardless of the consequences.

My mother had scolded me quite a few times for coming home soaked, with my

clothes and shoes ruined, but there was no help for it. Throwing caution to

the winds, I let go of the bush, and launched myself into the stream.

 

After a while, standing waist deep in the freezing water, I managed to gain

a semblance of control over the fish. It did not jump again, large browns

very rarely do, I suppose its initial leap was because of the way I had

hooked it, and is certainly not typical behaviour.

 

Some time later, as always it is impossible to say how long, one is so

engrossed that time has no meaning, I waded downstream to the next sandy

area, and beached the fish, which I had fought to a standstill.

 

Seldom have I seen such a beautiful creature. It was dark green on its back,

with deep silver flanks, spotted with large red spots, surrounded by a halo

of white. Very difficult to describe the beauty of such a fish. This was

the first time in my life that I was tempted to put the fish back.

 

Overcoming the ridiculous impulse, my family would be most grateful for the

food, I killed it, although not without considerable remorse. I packed up

my gear, placed my fly carefully in my box, and set off for home. As ever,

the magnificent colours had faded somewhat in death, but my family duly

admired the fish, expressing amazement at its great size, although I fear

their interest was more in regard to the amount of edible protein involved

than the beauty of the packaging.

 

Mother did not scold me, although she was annoyed that I had ruined my

trousers again, ( I only had two pairs). She helped me clean the fish, and

we dined on it the same evening. It was too big for the pan, and so was

baked in the oven with onions and herbs from the garden, and a little

butter. The strip of skin was removed from the remains, and mounted in my

book with sellotape, along with the fly. I did not eat any of the fish, but

I was pleased that my family enjoyed it.

 

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

my most memorable fish.

 

Often I sit and look at the flies in my boxes, unfortunately my "St Bruno"

tin has long since disappeared, and ponder on the circumstances which caused

me to start doing all these things. Why fly-fishing and tying became an

obsession. It is not really difficult to discover why, the incident

described is only one of many, and anybody who has experienced it, will need

no other reasons or explanations. For those of you who have maybe not had

such experiences, then I hope this story will at least give you a glimpse of

what is in store for you when you go fishing.

 

Sitting writing this on a pleasant Sunday morning in July, I have just been

out to the garden and cut myself a nice long hazel branch. Quite a while

since I have been fishing, for various reasons it has not been possible. My

wife is asleep upstairs, she is not very well, and I have decided to sneak

out to the local stream for an hour. I have a few hooks, a length of nylon,a

piece of fly-line, two old rod rings, and some silk in my jacket pocket. I

will tie something up on the stream, assemble my gear, and we shall see what

we shall see.

 

Fortunately, there are no rock faces to be circumnavigated, I have a nice

pair of waders, and now possess several pairs of trousers, my wife is not

the scolding type either. It will not be quite the same, but it will

doubtless be fun.

 

TL

MC

[Guest Newt]

Mike - thank you for that. One of the better angling pieces I have ever read. It reminds me of some of the great articles they run in the Field & Stream magazine over here.

 

I can sit here and see the boy, the water, and the gear quite clearly. I can almost feel his emotions. And I've never gone after trout with a fly.

 

Wonderful stuff.

[Guest Mike Connor]

I can sit here and see the boy, the water, and the gear quite clearly. I can almost feel his emotions. And I've never gone after trout with a fly.

<END QUOTE>

 

Glad you enjoyed it.

 

I have it on excellent authority, and in writing, that my articles are rubbish ! Several magazine editors subscribe to this opinion it seems!

 

Just as well I am not dependent on such opinions! I much prefer yours in any case!

 

TL

MC

[Guest Nightwing]

That being the case, Mike, several magazine editors need to remove their head from their nether regions. Yours is some of the best I have read, and I have read a great deal.

The most recent in particular, really struck home as I cut my fishing teeth on a small woodland trout stream that flowed through the wood behind my boyhood home, and while the details differ, the story you wrote could have been one of my own. Thanks for bringing some of my own memories back to the top.

[Guest Mike Connor]

Originally posted by Nightwing:

Thanks for bringing some of my own memories back to the top.[/b]

Entirely my pleasure. Remembering and writing about these things is almost as pleasurable as actually doing them was.

 

Indeed, my conclusions in this regard tend to the theory that while many people go fishing, for a multitude of reasons, with time, the dreams and memories are one of the most important parts of it all.

 

Regardless of skill and knowledge aquired, and regardless of equipment used, or fish pursued, everybody who fishes has dreams and memories. These provide actual spiritual sustenance, as does fishing itself, in a way impossible to describe. Sometimes almost a religious feeling.

 

They are priceless moments of freedom, joy, and escape, from what is often otherwise a depressing and even desperate environment.

 

Not wishing to criticise others, and not in any way attempting to "blow my own horn". I do miss a bit of passion in many magazine writings. All very cold and clinical, and leaving one with the impression that the author wrote mainly for the money.

 

Another good reasn for being "non-commercial" !

 

TL

MC