I recently read an essay by Jim Harrison entitled “Old Fly Fishing.” Jim was a prolific poet, novelist, and essayist, and his edgy writing style reflected a life of unique adventure. Growing up hunting and fishing in Northern Michigan, he spent many of his later years fishing the waters of Montana. Five years before his passing in 2016, his essay detailed a perspective of fly fishing through the eyes of a 73-year old. From issues of mobility and durability that defined his life then, he concluded that old fly fishing was gentler at his age and less aggressive than it once had been. And since I am now of that same age, I could relate to much of what he was reflecting
upon.

There was a time in life when my goal to catch a trout out of every trout river that flowed dominated my aspirations. Then, as fly fishing expanded to many other fish throughout the world, I was consumed by the desire to catch each one of those species wherever they swam. And though those desires were impractical to accomplish on many levels, I was fortunate enough to follow through on some. In the back of my mind, however, it was always exciting to know that so many other possibilities existed. But then, time flew by. Now I am 73, and like Harrison expressed, old fly fishing to me is likewise less aggressive and much more gentle. I no longer seek fish of dreams, I seek remembrances of bygone fishing experiences in the peacefulness I find paddling my kayak through local marginal water.  

The other night I was looking for a few small stripers in a small creek near my home when a young fellow in his twenties called out to me in the kayak and asked if I could help him. He was fishing with a spinning rod and apparently he didn’t fish that much. As it happened his line was tangled in his open-faced reel, and he hoped I could untangle it for him. I glided over to the bank, and drawing on my spinning reel experiences from the past, I was able to get him back on track. While working on his snarl, he preemptively apologized for the fragrance of pot that wafted in my direction. Although it didn’t matter to me, he assured that he had a medical marijuana card. “Cancer,” he said, while showing me an attached bag under his sweatshirt. The kid’s name was Louis.

After telling him how sorry I was to hear about that, Louis educated me that colon cancer is on the rise among young people there days. Although there are many theories, no one is really sure why either. I listened to his story, and it humbled me. He said he was okay with the prognosis, and laughed that now he could do “anything he wanted.” A brave kid, I thought, as I departed for the take out before it got dark. On my way back, I found myself wishing I could give Louis a year or two, and as one more sunset dissipated from my waning years, I was more thankful than ever for the fly fishing life I was able to live. 

Sometime around 1953, when I was 10 years old, I was introduced to the hobby of fly tying by my uncle Gust Nies. I clearly remember the day he brought me a shoebox full of equipment and materials and presenting them to me he said, "I am too old and can no longer do this and it's time to pass it on to someone younger." I was thrilled and had no idea how long this hobby would follow me throughout my life.

Enter Mr. Tuck McCann, (gentlemen on the left in the coveralls, pic#1). Tuck was a retired coal miner living in Roundup, Montana and was helping supplement his Social Security by tying flies for sale. My uncle knew him and introduced me to Tuck hoping that he would teach me how to tie flies for the fish that lived in the upper Musselshell River regions. It was an interesting classroom. Tuck lived in a very modest one bedroom house with a coal fired stove in the kitchen. His tiny fly tying table and chair was  situated in front of his "one bedroom window" that had a nice southern exposure. I can remember sitting on the end of his bed and watching him tie flies as he explained to me how to put everything together. I would go every Saturday morning around 10 AM, ride my bike to and from his house, and return home sometime in mid afternoon. I can't remember ever having him tell me to sit in the chair and tie a fly. I only watched him work his magic with hooks, thread, natural hair and natural feathers. There were no synthetics in those days! These special Saturdays lasted for about three years and then my family moved from Roundup to Hardin.

I am so remorseful that I did not keep in touch with Tuck, but I was a freshman in high school so that's my poor excuse!! However, I put flowers on his grave every memorial day. The book you see in the background of his picture was a 1922 Hardy Bros. of England fishing catalog that he gave me. I could not believe the pictures of the flies being sold in that catalog. The one in the upper left-hand corner is called a "Durham Ranger" and it was burned into my mind from the first time I saw it. I do remember, clearly thinking to myself, boy, I sure wish I could tie something like that someday!

Fast forward 65 years.
For the last 20 years I have attempted to tie these very special Atlantic Salmon Flies. I am far from proficient. However I am proud of the fact that I have been able to duplicate them in a lesser than perfect presentation. I realized a few years ago, that at my age, my steadiness at the fly tying vice was starting to be compromised and if I ever wanted to be able to actually fish with these beauties, I had better tie some up before I ran out of time. So pics#2 & #3 show you the last of my "fishing dozen" that I have been able to produce for the coming season. Left to right: Jock Scott, Durham Ranger, Cyclone Ranger (my own invention) and Silver Doctor.  When I was producing my "presentation flies," in the boxes, I spent much more time trying to make them perfect. I recently counted 37 that I have gifted to my friends and relatives over the past years.

So I close my lifelong hobby story and hope you have enjoyed it as much as I have had creating it. All I have left to do is catch one fish on one of these special Flies and then turn it loose and thank Uncle Gust and Tuck McCann.