There’s a warning and a promise in the below; the warning is for those that have never tied flies, and the promise is for those that do..
When you find something really special, you don’t linger, you don’t think about it, you don’t wonder – you pounce. Worry about storage later.
For those thinking that fly tying is a quaint way of extending your trout season, and how a couple fingers of old malt would go well with a half dozen Adam’s – think again. I’ve mentioned it a number of times in the past – just ensuring you were listening is all.
It’s guaranteed that items you take for granted will vanish with little warning – it’s our unique curse as almost nothing is made for fly fishing, we borrow it from some other industry. If chenille sweaters are out of fashion, or Corvette seats are no longer lined with vinyl tubing, we’ll suffer the loss of something dear.
In part, I’ve tried to show you where these materials are made and what industry they’re made for, in doing so, illustrating how precarious our position is – we represent a tiny fraction of the business to a manufacturer, as our contribution is limited to the purchase of a 3 yard card.
There’s a certain prophecy in my material aberration; both natural and synthetic materials are vulnerable to fashion, the economy, and government regulation. When Belding-Cortescelli pulled Nymo from production there was a howl heard worldwide – the equivalent of Danville thread vanishing overnight.
Polar bear, seal fur, Heron, Jay, and all of the materials popularized in Atlantic Salmon flies vanished with equal ease. Both Polar bear and seal were “in my lifetime” as a tyer – now we’re using substitutes for the substitute and glad we can get that.
It wasn’t so sudden that we couldn’t try to stock up, most did their best, and some ensured they had a lifetime supply, the rest hoped the substitute was cheap and half as effective – most were not.
I had the good fortune of being schooled by the masters of their day, and while my young eyes got big as saucers when they produced materials – all had the same prophetic speech, “stock up as much as you can, as anything can vanish at the whim of a manufacturer or the government.”
It’s all part of the mastery aspect, you’re going to burn 4 ounces due to a poor dye, 6 more ounces to excessive heat, or the phone ringing – you’ll loose another half pound to the moths, and your favorite dog will eat at least two of your precious hides when you’re not looking.
If you’re really lucky that’ll leave you that last pound for your own use.
Witness the below confession as a “money” fly hangs in the balance; colors no longer made and one last chance to stock up. Sure I’m crazy, just like Popeye stockpiling spinach.
Cal Bird had the most influence on my tying, one of those rare luxuries afforded by proximity. I remember him ordering teal flank by the pound – when 4 ounces would represent a typical tyer’s lifetime.
Cal was a professional tyer – he didn’t sell his work commercially, rather he’d tinker with materials, colors, and flies, as a regular part of his day. Never satisfied and always on the tip of some discovery known only to him. Occasionally we’d all get to see some of his efforts – his tools, flies, and the ever-present packet of materials he’d press into your hand so you could try some.
He was “paying it forward” – empowering the next generation of young hopefuls with some of the materials forever gone – that we’d all benefit from his calculated purchases of yesteryear. It’s a special quality shared by Cal and a lot of old timer’s, a knowing wink and something rare pressed into your hand.
It’s all part of the tradition – once limited to the “father-son” legacy, now practiced by those interested in passing on something more tangible than a silly fly with their first name attached.
In another couple of decades I’ll be stove up and content to sit in the sunshine jawboning. If I’m really lucky there’ll be a couple of new guys at the casting club – alternately swearing and snapping thread – with The Desire, but absent the skills, so I can do the same.
While you’re giggling, make sure you remember what happened to Z-Lon, and in the intervening 23 years how much of the 586 pounds does Bett’s have left?