People who tie their own flies often have a tendency to break away from standard patterns. Perhaps they don’t have all the specified materials or just want to update old classic flies. Maybe they just saw an interesting material in the sale bin at the fly shop. In any event, tying your own flies comes with a license to experiment.
Sometimes your flies are determined by interesting materials in the fly-shop sale bin.
I do this from time to time, not so much because I want to invent something new, but mostly so I can fish with flies the trout haven’t already seen that morning. I figure the fish that wanted the standard patterns have already been caught; I am after the ones who desired something different.
Typically, this urge to modify my favorite flies sets in during the winter when the fishing can be erratic and the weather less welcoming. As often as not, I will work on nymphs and streamers because I tend to use them more often. I like fishing dry flies but have found that I can get through the season with just a few patterns. My nymph box, however, looks like the flies were reproducing between trips.
One winter I picked a beadhead nymph pattern to see what I could do to make it better. The size and form looked good to me, so I decided to experiment with colors.
Some mornings are better suited to tying flies rather than fishing them.
I usually don’t go in for overly bright flies as I never see anything like that in the stream. Sure, a caddis larva can be a vibrant green, but other than that, aquatic insects are best described as drab.
After some deliberation, I settled on dubbing the body in a color that looked like a mix of dog hair and dryer lint run through a blender. That wasn’t what I used, but after thinking about it, perhaps I will try that next time. Not wanting to fill my box with flies that don’t work, I only tied three in size twelve and headed to the river. I often test my flies on Humility Creek as I’ve found the fish there are beyond picky; if I catch one there I can assume the fly works anywhere.
On this winter morning, the weather necessitated that I layer up in thermal underwear, chamois shirt, vest, and an outer shell that I wore over my waders. For those who remember the original Michelin Man, that was approximately my profile.
Once in the water, I noticed without checking my thermometer that it was cold. I’m smart that way. My toes quickly went numb and ice formed in the eyes of my fly rod.
Humility Creek earns its name on cold, winter mornings.
But I had come to try the new unnamed nymph and these were the perfect conditions for it to earn a spot in my crowded fly box. Tying on the first one, I began drifting it in a deep pool and nothing happened. No flash of fish turning to look, not the first tap.
So I added a split shot.
Now, my fly was bumping bottom where I figured the fish were likely huddled up shivering. I felt something solid, responded with a hookset, and found myself fast into a submerged snag. After some deliberation about wading out and reaching two feet deep in cold water to pull it loose, I simply broke off and tied on my second unnamed fly.
Again I added a split shot hoping the fly might drift into the mouth of a yawning trout. I had yet to see one feed so this seemed my best bet.
After moving to another pool, I drifted the nymph repeatedly. On the first drift, nothing. Second drift, same thing. But on the third drift, I felt a tap, set the hook, and was hung again.
By now, my fingers were getting numb and rigging up for the third time was less fun than you might expect. When I had my tippet replaced and went to my fly box for my third and last unnamed nymph, it was gone.
Perhaps it had seen the fate of the first two and decided to escape. I never know exactly what nymphs are thinking, especially when they are still unnamed and I haven’t fished with them much. But in any event, this one was gone.
A fish only its mother could be proud of.
I fished out the morning with some different nymphs, finally catching a couple small fish that only their mothers would be proud of. Lunch and a cup of coffee was sounding better than the thought of another pool, so I made my way back to the truck.
Getting unlayered was more difficult than getting layered in the first place when you factor in numb fingers and stiff joints. First, off came the fishing sling, then the coat, and finally the waders. As I slid the waders off, I felt a pinprick on my ankle.
Rubbing my leg, there was a small lump like I had picked up a pebble. I pulled up my jeans and found that third unnamed fly, stuck to my sock.
Marveling at its ability to navigate all my layers, I started trying to trace its path from my box to the sock. The fly would have had to travel inside my zipped coat, through an insulated vest, down my waders without snagging, back up the sock inside my pants, all without snagging until it reached the point where I found it.
Impressive by any standard for an inanimate object to travel that distance without snagging and finish the trip by defying gravity and climbing my sock. I unhooked the fly and returned it to my box with no confidence it would stay there.
After a morning of testing the pattern under adverse conditions and catching no fish on it, I’m not sure it will earn a spot in my fly box. But if it does, I’m naming it Houdini.
Jim Mize finds many of his fly creations catch him better than they catch fish. You can purchase Jim’s award-winning book, The Jon Boat Years, at https://uscpress.com/The-Jon-Boat-Years or buy autographed copies at www.acreektricklesthroughit.com.
