The missing link in salmon flies

Beyond furand feather, the
Something deeper is at work when fishing a successful fly. It is not some arcane secret
100 COUNTRY ILLUSTRATED
PICTURES BY WILLIAM B CURRIE/PATRICK FONG
W
HEN fishing the River
Ness last July, catching a
grilse here and there, and
scanning the streams for
signs of heavier summer
fish, something seemed to be missing. I
found myself changing my fly often, searching in the fly boxes again and again for what
I hoped might be the vital, perfect fly. Nothing seemed to be right. My unease persisted.
It was not that I did not have plenty of
flies with me. Far from it. A plethora of boxes and swarms of salmon flies were to hand,
but the feeling that something was out of
tune would not go away. This feeling went
on for days. It began to obsess me. In the
not-too-distant past I would have solved the
problem on the spot by tying up a new fly of
my own, which I would fish with confidence;
but recently flies tied up in my fingers on the
river bank or in the fishing hut have begun to
lack elegance. They look distinctly untidy.
On the week in question I was fishing with
a local man, an excellent fisher, and described
to him the feeling that my fly seemed never
to be just right. He made me a generous offer.
If I would tell him what my favourite fly looked
like, and describe its materials, colours and
attributes, he would tie some up for me. An
interesting conversation developed.
I described the fly for which I longed—a
paradisal small hairwing with a silver or gold
body, a wing formed by sparse strands of
trailing hair, perhaps bucktail or, even better, a softer hair to let the fibres work in the
water. Where would the magic of that fly
lie? Perhaps in the colour, or in the way its
trailing fibres worked in the water.
This fly would have fine, trailing yellow
fibres, very sparse, with the longest fibres
doubling the length of the fly. Over these
yellow fibres would be added the mark of
perfection—a sparse layer of dark claret
hair, which would mix with the yellow and
trail behind the fly, responding to every nuance of the stream. Magnificent. On the
Ness, small flies like this have a great following in summer. Most of the fishers have
their favourite patterns. Our ghillie on the
Ness, a man of many salmon, swears by a
splendid small silver Ally’s Shrimp, which
he ties with a wisp of trailing orange hair.
What is this extraordinary world of flies,
endowed with such subtleties and nuances?
I can almost hear sceptical voices saying
that we are talking about salmon flies, not
great art. But salmon flies bring to the fishing experience something beyond fur and
feather. Our conversation on the banks of
the Ness, and others like it elsewhere, seem
to me to tap into a world of enthusiasm and
longing. It is also a world of promise, hope,
and no small measure of beauty.
Talk about salmon flies is an extraordinary kind of discourse. It is not about Nature, because salmon flies do not really hold
up a mirror to Nature, imitating fly life in the
way a trout fly would. At best we can conjecture that a fly might trigger a response from
salmon perhaps by touching off a sea memory of food, or the more distant memory of
the salmon’s juvenile life in the river.
Salmon flies in a sense have the extraordiANNIVERSARY 2006
missing link in salmonflies
within the river or its fish. The deeper element, says William B Currie, is in ourselves
Ness in summer or the Dee in late-spring.
They seemed to me as wonderful as summer
salmon flies could be. They were perfect.
This quest to find perfection reminded me
of an unusual incident. On the Dee one May,
unhappy with the flies in my box, I became
convinced of the need to tie a new fly with a
wisp or two of fine black hair, but the materials to hand were not exactly right. A local
shepherd came by, and his collie caught my
eye. It seemed to have exactly the necessary
colour and texture of hair. The dog, looking
apprehensive, was caught, comforted, and
clipped. The result: a tuft of soft black hair
which seemed to have the special tint and texture I longed for. There and then I tied up the
most attractive Stoat’s Tail—more precisely,
Collie’s Tail—with sparse trailing black hair
and a fibre or two of yellow bucktail. The finished fly lay in my hand, asking to be fished.
My confidence flooded back. I took a fish and
all was well with the world. When the shepherd passed by again, later in the week, I tried
for another magical strand or two of the collie’s hair, but the dog would have none of it.
This winter, waiting for spring and the
chance to fish my new,
skinny,
nary quality of working well because the
fisher is involved, as much as the fish. That
alone would account for my feeling that my
fishing was not in tune with things.
A week or two later a slim box arrived in
the post from Inverness. Inside were a dozen
little hairwing Claret Shrimps, tied for the
ANNIVERSARY 2006
Above: The treasured flies, a
set of Claret Shrimps, tied by
expert hands to the writer’s
precise specification for the
Ness in summer or the Dee
in spring. Right: Impromptu
self-help on the river bank.
101
Left: Plenty of flies; surely enough for anybody.
But will any of them be ‘just right’? Unless the
answer is Yes, the doubts will multiply. Above:
Fishing the New Pool on the Ness at Laggan.
sparsely-tied Claret Shrimps, there
has been time to wonder what goes
on in our heads when we identify a
fly as ‘just right’, or, conversely, feel
uneasy when the right fly is missing.
One would think one could turn
to some kind of science to check
the details, but I do not know of it.
There is, however, a rich tradition of talk, speculation, even
obsession about the choice of
flies. All the salmon fishers I
know veer between total confidence in a favoured fly and
anxiety lest they cannot find it
in their box. How often has
lunchtime conversation with
102
ghillie and friends on the banks of the Ness,
Helmsdale, Dee, and everywhere else that
salmon fishers meet, turned to flies? Usually
these are sessions rich in anecdote, opinion,
concern and some controversy. The conversations are not trivial. Sometimes they
touch on the essence, the compulsions and
the rewards of the quest for salmon.
These exchanges of ideas often reveal
bafflement. One or more of the party will
have a story of flies breaking every rule.
Mine include the time I tied up a fly for the
Helmsdale in spring, a Waddington with
straggly purple hair and no name. Nothing
could stop it. Rob Wilson, that talented
tacklemaker from Brora, was fishing with
me, and on about the fourth fish, he asked to
see my fly. He looked at it for a long time
and said, ‘It’s a BD.’ I was pleased to have a
fly with a divinity degree, but Rob replied
that he meant, ‘Bloody Disgrace!’
So it was. My fly had no merit save that it
ANNIVERSARY 2006
Did the fly have adivinitydegree,or
was the explanation more earthy?
took fish after fish that day. I fished the BD
on Helmsdale until it disintegrated and,
being a BD, I imagine it went straight to
heaven. Charlie McLaren, that talented
fisher from Altnaharra, was deflating on
the subject: ‘Fresh springers would take
your old hat if you swam it past them.’
Are we boxing in the dark when we
choose a salmon fly? Perhaps so, if we are
seeking a coherent explanation, as if from a
book of rules. An expert fishing friend, who
invented a successful fly named the Durham
Argus, confessed that he has no idea why the
fly was successful, except, possibly, that he
ANNIVERSARY 2006
liked it so much it was never off his line. It
seldom works for me. Enlightenment about
salmon fishing does not come from science,
or rules, or formulae. In fishing a successful
fly, something deeper is at work. It is not
some arcane secret concealed by the river or
its fish. The deeper element is ourselves.
So often, good salmon fishing expresses
itself in enthusiasm and confidence. At its
heart it is neither technique nor tackle, although these are essential for good fishing.
When I look at a box of beautifully tied flies
and see them as if they were endowed with
something special, some quality which speaks
to me as a fisher and gives me confidence
and encouragement, I think I am nearer the
truth. Salmon fishing is not unlike being
moved by a painting, even if we cannot articulate what the attraction is.
We cannot give a precise reason why we
think the flies in our box are in tune or out
of tune with our feelings. But the message is
there. Good fishing, in my experience,
above all makes us look inwards. In a sense,
it reels us in. The perfect fly is a catalyst,
triggering something in our psychology, an
instrument of self-knowledge.
My little box of flies, skilfully tied in Inverness, at one glance gives me confidence
and encouragement. It may be true that
none of our salmon flies has the right look
or colour; but the real truth is not in the
tackle succeeding or failing because of a
fibre or a tint. It is not in the fish, nor in the
river. It is within us. ‘The fault, dear Brutus,
■
is not in our stars, but in ourselves … ’
COUNTRY ILLUSTRATED 103