A New Fly
A new fly means potential. It is a promise yet to be kept. Working in a fly shop, I see the truth of this in nearly every angler that walks through our doors. They float or are drawn to the fly bins. They drift over the tying materials. They browse—imagining the satisfaction of a cast well executed, the joy of covering a rising fish, the thrill of the take. Their selections are a combination of deliberation and impulse. On the one hand, they are restocking old favorites (these, too, count as new). The more organized have lists. The truly fastidious bring in their fly boxes, restocking rows to the exact count they will need for the trip, the week, the season. On the other hand, they are looking for something they have not seen, something they think (just maybe) the fish have not seen either. Maybe they are buying or tying or both for some new water, somewhere beyond their home range. “I hear purple is the thing in the evening light on the Owyhee. Anything from #18 down to #24.” Maybe it’s not just a new fly, but a new fish, too. “They tell me those bulls on the Metolious are vicious. I heard you just throw something white that swims and hold on. You got something to fit that bill?” Whatever the strategy, whatever the personality of the angler, a new fly always levels distinctions through the force of its optimism. And, that makes anglers optimists, too.
Fly tying is my optimistic choice. I don’t choose this route because I am a particularly skilled at tying flies. I don’t go this way for the art either. Art and skill have their place in this world. I am a great admirer of both. No, I am drawn to the tie because of its options. Because, despite what people say—and many people say many things—there are no rules in tying flies. Sure, there are patterns, recipes, traditions. Sure, there are debates about presentation versus imitation; natural versus synthetic; sparse versus bulk; movement versus profile; size, hook type, length, color, etc.. All these variations only confirm that the world remains full of many things, like opinions and assholes. This makes fly tying no more unique than any other hobby or skill or art. But, at the end of the day, the options in tying open the doors for imagination and that is enough for me. Indeed, in the quiet unwind of the day, hunkered at the tying bench, I wrap and stack a poor alchemist’s blend of materials along the shank of a hook, imagining how my creation will swim, imagining how some fool fish will take my creation for a philosophers’ stone.
Here, then, are yet two more examples of angler optimism: that the world of imagination and anticipation provides a refuge against the odds of disappointment, and that this new pattern (even if it is an old pattern, even if it defies all the asshole rules of the game) will result in treasure. There is an absurdity to such optimism—there is an audacity to it, too. Absurd because an angler’s optimism seeks to prescribe order to an orderless world long before we’ve engaged in the endeavor. Audacious because, despite an ever increasing record of defeats and embarrassments in our game of fishing, we persist. So, with absurdity and audacity we forge on, casting into the current, fueled by the simple optimisms only a new fly can bring.
