A Long Day of Fishing 

By Nigel Payne, TBoy Guest Writer 

This writing is compiled from random notes (jotting my chicken scratches, ideas, memories, etc.) on receipts, fast food wrappers, napkins and other random crap I had readily at hand over a 20 day, seven-lake excursion. I might as well have been drawing the Vitruvian Man, on loose leaf with crayon. Hopefully, to deliver to you in a format that might be worth a second of your time to read.

It’s been a long hot day (at least for me) — 9 hours of no fish biting … kicking backwards, stripping, switching flies every 5th cast. However, Bobber Boy over there has got something figured out. He’s catching fish in abundance. Every time I look over my shoulder he’s got another one on. I putter on over and ask, “Hey man, what are you using?” with a snark reply, he says “a fly.” “You don’t say?!” “Fucking asshole,” I mutter, under my breath, “what the hell has he got that I don’t?” I ask myself.

At this point I’ve exhausted hundreds of flies from my fly boxes. I’ve changed stripping tactics — slow, fast and everything in between. I’m familiar with every aquatic insect in that body of water … let alone the region. I know there’s fish down there — big fish. I’ve seen hundreds of ’em over the course of the days and weeks I’ve been out here. These fish … they just don’t want to bite what I have to offer … and its aggravating. There has to be a technique I am missing. I surmise that on his line he’s got a special bobber … a “strike indicator” — used by fly fishing elites. He’s doing something different; so I wait and I watch.

Yeah, I think I’ve got it figured out now. His bopper‘s maybe two feet off the bottom and just dangling flies off a subsurface shelf; right in the strike zone — no stripping required. But he’s using a different knot. It’s extremely hard to tell from 20 feet away, but he’s tied on his flies with a perfection loop (something that’s in my repertoire) but a loop knot is something I don’t usually do … that’s a saltwater tactic — the good ol’ “set and forget” method that many anglers are familiar with … a method I tend to avoid because it’s as mind-numbingly boring as reading the terms and conditions of the software of your favorite cell phone. The minute you take your eyes off that bobber, you know it’s going to dip. The kicker? — it won’t dip until you do! So, It’s a game of cat and mouse … a game that every angler is familiar with.

The wind’s picking up again. At least it’s just short gusts before things settle back to a glass-like state. I’m getting hungry … dinner, a fire and it’s off to the Vice. Midges. I know it’s midges … the larva size 22 hook — small little buggers. I mean you could pile 10 of them on a dime and still be able to read the text on the coin. I grab my cheap net (you know) the kind you win at the carnival with your little goldfish. With a little luck I’ll scoop a couple out of the water. Yep, this is the one. I put it in a disposable fly box (the kind they give you for free and head up to the vise).

It’s dark now. Headlamps on. A lit cigarette dangles out the corner of my mouth. Smoke thread upwards like stitching into ribbons over my shoulder — almost like the bow on a rudimentary gift (except I’d hardly call kicking around in Washington’s mountainous Northeastern Highlands and not touching a fish for 9 hours a “gift”). But I can’t think of another place I’d rather be right now. Here I am, hunched over the vise-size 22 scud hook, pinched tight between the rotary vice’s nimble little jaws. Man, I’ve come a long way! No more stripping broken headphones for copper wire to counter wrap abdomens … or picking up feathers from dead birds (because they want to charge me $15 for a single pheasant tail feather at the fly shop). At this point, the wind laments through the trees and billows off the lake (which I already coined the “Bearing Sea”). The wind could whip up white caps to a surprising 14 -18 inches high like the prior day. That may not sound that impressive until you realize you’re in a one man, inflatable, man-powered watercraft where your feet waddle in the water up to your knees while your ass is 6 inches above the surface. Then they start to look pretty gnarly. Conditions make a weak stomach decide to disregard its lunch. Most Anglers hightail to their tents or pickups; but I’m not “most anglers.” I’m about as far as you can get to a fair-weather fisherman.

As I twist up the second attempt, I begin muttering to myself “thank God I’m not twisting up any Hackle or Marabou.” A good gust of wind makes tying small feathers on smaller hooks remarkably difficult. I whip, finish, lick my fingers, wet the fly, crimp the barb (this is a gentleman’s game you see so I fish barb-less) and set it next to my little bug I caught earlier. “We’re close really close,” I’m murmuring, “it needs hackle … it needs some legs!” I let the fly dry and toss those attempts into my fly box (they’ll get used eventually). Undoubtedly, I’ll break the fly off. Its just a matter of time. I now have the confidence to connect with a fish.

The fishes are close but not close enough. I repeat the same process but when I get to the end of the fly, I take some black, Dry Fly Saddle Hackle. I only do two wraps. I think to myself: “this will suffice … not too many … otherwise I’ll crowd the eye.” Before I inevitably trap the fibers down and whip finish, I pull out a small pair of scissors and begin to sculpt and trim the fly, thus ensuring a natural profile for the legs. A small dollop of head cement on my Bodkin (a thin point piece of metal, with a handle) to add to the fly’s realism … a christening perhaps. This ensures she won’t unwind after the first couple of hungry nabs from a bow, a tiger or a hungry brown trout.

As I wait for the glue to dry, I crack a cold one. I toss another log on the sputtering hearth of a well-lit fire. I take a swig and pull another smoke out of the crush-proof box. I light it with the existing butt that’s beginning to extinguish itself. I lick my fingers and wet the fly. I almost giggle. I’m more than pleasantly surprised — I’m ecstatic! I set that fly down to the actual bug on a used paper plate and it matches color, size, profile, antennas — everything! Maybe a computer could tell me that that doesn’t look like a real bug, but a hungry bow’s not going to let this scrumptious little damsel imitation pass by. I just need to put it in the right spot. As I take a long drag of my smoke, I soliloquy: “I’ll catch you tomorrow — you picky little shits! I’ll be knocking for your room service in no time.” But now it’s time to play cards (which is the real reason I dragged my friends out here) to make them shut off their cell phones and live a little. No worries. We’ll knock them dead in the morning.