(^96) FLYLIFE
Short Casts
(^96) FLYLIFE
would hate to put the kibosh
on anybody starting a fly-tying
career, but I feel I should be
honest and give you the benefit of a
long-time fly-tier’s experience. I have
been tying flies for most of my life and
one of these days I will achieve a mile-
stone and tie one properly. I just need
the right instruction book.
First task, feather selection. Get used
to the fact that the exact feathers the
book says are needed, to tie the very
fly you want to make, are no longer
available. It doesn’t matter what they
are, they are no longer available and
haven’t been for 100 years.
The world’s best trout fly, for exam-
ple, one that guarantees a fish every
cast in any water in the world, must
include anal feather from male purple
kookenfluffer. Note also that the last
male purple kookenfluffer known to
exist died in London Zoo in 1913,
where it had been kept under lock
and key for 40 years to protect it from
trout fly tiers. Try dead budgerigar
as substitute. Make note to explain to
I
ON TYING FLIES
Bryan Pratt
family where budgie has gone.
Also need seven fibres from inner
ear of Albanian short-fanged scream-
ing mouse but discover last scream-
ing mouse died in 1929 and nobody
has skin to sell for less than $10,000.
Try common rat as substitute. Ignore
strange rash that develops on hands 24
hours later.
Put hook in vice and proceed with
tying until hook falls out. All vices are
designed to let hook fall out at critical
moment. Put hook back in. Make note
to sell vice.
Argue with wife about use of seal’s
fur. Explain only shave them, not shoot
them. Wife walks out in huff. Make
note to cook own dinner tonight.
Tie wings in but discover on comple-
tion now upside down. Wonder how
bird ever flew in first place.
Keep tying until eye of hook is unfor-
tunately covered by thread, and whip
finish tool won’t work. Undo head.
Continue tying until thread breaks.
All threads have weak sections,
designed to break just as fly nears
Next day we were up early and head-
ed to the same lake. It was a perfect
morning: the fog had all but lifted, the
sun’s rays danced off the water and a
trout that was fossicking about with its
tail in the air only metres away became
our first target. But the fly was met with
a refusal, several times, so we left this
fish and went further around the lake.
After several minutes spent observ-
ing, I tied a favourite Red Tag variant
on my mate’s tippet. A cast was made
to where I knew a fish had returned
several times on its beat. I handed Les
the rod telling him not to move it, and
then proceeded along the bank a little
way trying to locate another fish whilst
keeping an eye on his fly.
“Get ready, here he comes,” I shout-
ed, having noticed a pressure wave
heading towards his fly. We watched
as the fish charged in to where the trap
had been set. Upon reaching the little
Red Tag the trout paused, then his big
lips appeared and with deliberate and
precise ease he engulfed the fly. Watch-
ing Les, I realised that although the fish
had risen right in front of him, he wasn’t
certain that his fly had been taken.
“Lift, lift, lift!” I yelled excitedly, to
which he struck and was met with
a line-screaming run. Some spectacu-
lar leaps and an awesome battle fol-
lowed, including several heart-sinking
moments when the line went slack mid-
fight, all ending with exuberant cries of
success filling the morning air.
It couldn’t get any better. Like two
proud peacocks we headed back to
camp. My mate had just landed his first
trout on fly, and I had delivered what
I’d promised. I was still the best fisher-
man in the world. (LOL)
Back at camp the old white-beard-
ed fellow was meandering about and
asked if we’d done any good. “Yep,”
said Les, “I got a 4 pounder.”
A melee of stories went back and
forth between us, until I realised we
hadn’t exchanged names...
“Anyway, my name’s Kerry,” I said,
with hand outstretched. “I’m Peter,” he
replied, offering his hand on a peculiar
angle. (An injury apparently sustained
not when casting but while demonstrat-
ing his skateboarding skills).
It just clicked. “Peter Morse?” I asked
sheepishly.
“Yes, that’s right, Peter Morse.”
My excitement levels jumped, and he
could see it. “Oh don’t get too excited,
I’m nothing special,” he laughed.
That night, over beer and wine
under the shelter of our fox-wing, we
heard stories I’ll never forget. Yes, we
talked flies and all things fly fishing.
We solved all the world’s problems too
— quite easy, really. In general we just
had one hell of a time.
Thank you Peter. Your advice will
prove invaluable. And thank you too,
for the signed copy of your book.
The next evening we went back to
that same lake and Peter came over to
fish alongside us. The weather wasn’t
as favourable and the fish were hard to
spot. It took a while but I finally found
a tail within a metre of the shore, made
the cast, and sure enough he took the fly
and the hook was set. However, on the
first blistering run the trout was gone.
Peter asked from across the way
what went wrong. “Poor reel manage-
ment, line backlash, and he broke the
four pound tippet,” I told him. He gave
a chuckle and said, “Well you can chalk
that up to shit-happens.”
I now claim that Peter Morse went
fishing with the best fisherman in the
world. (LOL)
Might I add that if you ever have the
pleasure of fishing and learning from
Peter Morse, make sure you take plenty
of floatant...
A trip that couldn’t get any better
truly became the most memorable of
my life. The pleasure of meeting such
a fly-fishing mentor is beyond words.
Rob, you’re next. Where are you fish-
ing? (LOL) ■
lu
(lu)
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