probably due to an inadequate whip finish and skimping on head glue. I sank into a crouch, cradling my head in my arms. “What is it, dude?” Mike asked, the tip of his rod dipping with what must have been his second nibble in as much time. “I just lost an hour of my life,” I groused back. Maybe Dad was right. Maybe a lesson wasn’t such a bad idea. Again, I let pride get the better of me, and instead of inquiring about the next class offered at the fly shop, I dropped $25 on new supplies. I got stronger hackle pliers, sharper scissors, a variety of hook sizes and styles. I scoured the internet for new patterns, tried my best to follow YouTube tutorials and watched four more flies fall apart before one finally remained intact. Even it returned to my fly box resembling a shipwreck survivor. Fishing season was nearly over by the time I tied anything that remotely resembled even the cheapest bulk flies in my fly box. A Carey Special straight from the book included in the kit Mom gifted, it won a distinguished place in the band of my hat until a branch along the Blackfoot claimed it. My next wooly bugger came out more convincing than the one I’d destroyed up Rock Creek, and so far, it’s held together. Occasionally I’ll add a little personal flair, like a different colored hackle or a larger tail. They won’t be winning any beauty pageants, but I haven’t felt this challenged by fly fishing in years. I’m still a long ways from attempting to replicate that old fly of Grandpa’s, but I’ll get there. Perhaps after a class or two. Q photo by Cathrine L. Walters
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Missoula Independent
explorer 2014