The history of fly tying has been characterized since its very beginning by periods of explosive energy followed by spells of quiescence. Possibly the most active juncture began in the mid-1800s in England when interest in the dry fly began to gain momentum. Spurred by the sight of trout rising to floating insects, anglers would bend on a fresh wet fly and cast it upstream in the hope it would alight so softly that the surface film would keep it afloat for a few seconds. Sometimes the ruse worked and when it did the rising trout would often take the fly. But it was a hit and miss proposition and it wasn't until Halford and others worked out a method of winding hackles collar-style, bristling at right angles to the hook's shank, that dry flies became consistent floaters. Then the dry fly movement took off like gangbusters. Fly dressers sought to produce flies that mimicked nature as closely as possible. "Exact imitations" became the goal and a vast array of materials was tried experimentally to achieve that end. Someone even tried to fashion mayfly wings cut to shape from fish scales -- presumably those of carp.
The popularity of the dry fly on the chalk streams of England led to a virtual cult following. Meanwhile, on the banks of the Itchen -- not far from the Test -- G.E.M. Skues was proving that effectiveness of nymph fishing and he soon acquired a considerable following of true believers. Eventually, battle lines were drawn and a virtual war was waged between advocates of the floater and promoters of the sunken fly. In the autocratic scheme of British angling at that time, it was no surprise that some clubs would permit the use of only the dry fly -- fished upstream -- on their waters.
It wasn't long before Skues was banished from his beloved Itchen and was obliged to take a rod on the Nadder. Although he complained bitterly about his new chalk stream, it produced larger trout for him than had the Itchen. Eventually, cooler heads began to prevail and the ridiculous controversy ground grudgingly to a halt with no apparent winners on either side.
In America wet fly fishing had been the order of the day and when word of the new dry fly drifted across the Atlantic it was received with enthusiasm. Theodore Gordon began to correspond with Halford, Marston, Skues and others gleaning much information from these pioneers. Gordon was subsequently provided with samples of the new British flies and from these he adapted his own versions for the faster-floating streams of his experience. His dry flies were sparser than those of the British, with slender bodies, stiffer hackles and often dressed with split wings of rolled wood duck breast feathers. Thus was the Catskill style born and its use still persists today.
The importing of British flies for use on our streams made a problem we were not prepared to face: the entomology of streams in the British Isles is vastly different from that of ours but we treated the matter as if they were similar. Many of the English patterns didn't work on our streams simply because our trout did not recognize them as familiar food. And to worsen the situation we began to assign the names of British patterns to our own aquatic insects which we felt bore a resemblance. Thus, in this cart-before-the-horse procedure, our March Brown (the natural) was so named because someone thought it looked somewhat like the English March Brown pattern. Never mind that our March Brown is Stenonema vicarium while the Brits' is Rhithrogena haarupi. Close, but no cigar. Slowly, we began to abandon the English patterns in favor of new flies representing our own aquatic insects.
In England Dr. Francis Ward began researching the trout's perspective of insects floating on the surface, taking into account the physical laws governing the refraction of light -- the bending of light rays entering the water. In 1931 Colonel E. W. Harding expanded Dr. Ward's studies in a landmark book titled The Flyfisher and the Trout's Point of View. Heretofore, most anglers assumed that if they could plainly see a mayfly floating on the surface of clear water, a trout lying beneath the surface could see the insect with equal clarity. Col. Harding proved this assumption to be fundamentally in error, but with a few strings attached.
Harding indicated that a trout had an uninhibited view of objects beneath the surface, provided the water remained clear. But looking upward, its view of anything in the element of air, i.e., on or above the surface, was dependent upon the extent to which the refraction of light would permit. Its vision to the outside world was said to be defined by the shape of a cone with its apex at the trout's eyes and a circular window at the surface on the other end. Since the angle of the cone is a fixed 97 degrees the area of the window enlarges or shrinks according to the trout's distance from the surface.
Outside the area of the trout's window it sees the underside of the surface film as a silvery mirror, reflecting the bottom of the stream in shallow water. Only when a floating insect drifts into the trout's window can it be clearly seen by the trout. Outside the window the imprint of the insect bearing upon the elastic film is plainly seen on the underside of the mirror. Ward and Harding called this imprint the "light-pattern" and it is generally regarded as the initial stimulus of the rise.
It was learned that the light-pattern may vary broadly among the various floating insects and a few -- such as grasshoppers, beetles and inchworms -- have light-patterns distinctly their own. Those of mayfly duns differ markedly from those of spent spinners and the sprawling legs of caddisflies produce a different imprint than the on-the-toes image made by mayfly duns.
The findings of Ward and Harding brought about significant setback to the "exact imitation" school, from which it never fully recovered. If a trout in moving water gets an undistorted view of a floating insect only in the brief instant it passes through the center of the window, then why bother with unnecessary detail? That was the attitude of most successful fly tyers and it generally holds to this day. In the U.S. such authors as Edward R. Hewitt and Vincent Marinaro expanded upon the material provided by Ward and Harding. To my mind the finest assessment of these matters was covered by Marinaro in Chapter 3 of his classic book A Modern Dry Fly Code. Here he takes an otherwise dry, scientific subject and converts it into a living, breathing on-stream experience.
Reading Marinaro many years ago motivated me to build a small glass slant-tank, through which I could get a trout's underwater view of floating insects and/or fly patterns representing them. It was a revelation.
I shot many macro-photographs of both insects and fly patterns viewed from a trout's perspective. When projected onto a wide screen, the detail shown gave credence to the writings of the researchers. I was particularly fascinated by a magnified cross-section of the surface film. It is a relatively thick, multi-layered skin which stretches like a drum-head from bank to bank in river and lake. It allows our dry flies to float and often prevents our leaders from sinking. And it proved some of our old assumptions to be off the mark.
For example, one ancient shibolleth assured us that using stiff hackle would cause our dry flies to sit up "on their toes."
Actually, flies will perform this way on a hard surface but on water the sharp points of the hackle barbs pointing directly downward will penetrate the film, leaving the job of support to the lateral barbules. This may be observed when a hackled dry fly is dropped into a glass of water. Actually this penetration may be beneficial to such dries as tailless skaters, holding them upright on the surface and preventing rolling. When I began tying flies immediately following World War II there was virtually no word of endangered animal species.
Material suppliers stocked -- and we purchased -- just about every conceivable kind of animal hair, fur or plumage. They included polar bear hair, condor wing and tail feathers and dik-dik skins, among many others.
I remember purchasing from E. Hille -- in 1947, I believe -- a condor wind primary for $1.50. It was 18 inches long and had to be cut in half to fit into the mailing carton. The individual quill fibers made wonderful segmented nymph bodies and the flue was a good representation of external gills.
Within a few years we began to recognize that many animal species were becoming endangered and sensibly, their import and sale became prohibited. But for fly tyers it wasn't the end of the world. We found substitutes and in many cases the alternatives proved equal to or better than the originals. For nymph bodies I substituted goose and turkey biots. They were shorter than condor but I found I could wrap two together to cover the larger sizes.
Tying threads have moved progressively from silk to nylon to the present day poly, with strength and fineness unimagined just a few years ago, and available in every color of the rainbow. We have dubbing materials available in natural and synthetic furs, along with the ability to come up with delicate hues by mixing in a blender or coffee mill.
John Betts of Denver has been a pioneer in adapting synthetic materials to fly tying. One of his outstanding contributions is his discovery of White Sable artist brush fibers. This material is a synthetic made in Japan and widely used in artists' brushes. Tapered at one end, it is flexible, tough and possibly the finest dry fly tail material ever. Betts markets this material under the name of Microfibetts. He has also found many uses for polyethylene film, the sheet plastic from which Ziploc bags are made.
For years I used sections of turkey quills for nymph wing cases but was always disappointed in their lack of durability. When I learned of John Betts' use of poly film in flies it prompted me to try the stuff for wing cases. I would cut them to shape, tie them in and add color with a marking pen. The material handled easily and dressed like a charm. But it wouldn't accept color, which promptly rubbed off the slippery material. When I told John Betts of the problem he had already found a solution. The secret lies in lightly sanding both sides of the material with fine sandpaper, using a circular motion, until it is uniformly whitish. Then it will accept color extremely well.
In its heavier gauges (2 mil or more) polyethylene film is very durable. It can be purchased by the roll at such stores as K-Mart for less than five bucks. The heavier Ziploc bags also serve the purpose.
For many years finding good hackle was a constant problem confronting fly tyers because there were few dependable sources. Farmers bred chickens for meat and eggs and any roosters showing a potential for fly material were generally killed before their meat became tough. Unfortunately, early killing also prevented maturation of the hackle. Occasionally, we might find a decent gamecock neck but the variety of colors was limited. During the 1950s Paul Young's shop in Detroit always had a large stock of flies on hand but his tyers rarely tied smaller than #16 because there was no demand.
Consequently, Paul had many neck tops available and he sold them for 10 cents a piece. These leftovers had hackles sized at #18, #20 and #22 -- just the sizes I needed for spring creek fishing in Pennsylvania. Needless to say, I stocked up. When Martha Young retired from the business and moved to her cabin on the South Branch she began to import hackle necks from the Philippines to supply fly tying classes. The necks were essentially smallish but the quality was fairly decent. The colors were generally limited to brown, cream, chinchilla and cree but the prices were right. I purchased many of these necks for $1.75 to $2.50 each.
Shortly after we moved to Michigan Dick Talleur dropped by to visit us at our home on the North Branch. I recall we spent most of an afternoon commiserating about the scarcity of prime hackle. But soon afterwards a dramatic change came about when genetic hackle began to appear on dealers' shelves. The likes of Hoffman, Metz and Herbert were beginning to breed chickens specifically for hackle quality and the results were spectacular.
Suddenly we had long, swordlike hackles with relatively short barbules and little waste. Even the saddles had barbs short enough for hackling medium to large dries. The necks contained a full range of sizes down to #24 and smaller. Where we previously had to use two or three hackles in a dry fly, now we could often tie two or more flies with a single hackle. A hundred years ago Halford would have killed for this hackle.
Many of us old-timers tend to talk among ourselves about the "good old days" and it's true there were many memorable moments in the past. But in the craft of fly tying the best of days are now. Fly tyers are enjoying the best tools and materials ever and their skill levels are constantly rising. I have viewed framings of Halford's flies at the Anglers' Club of New York and most of today's tyers would -- without being disrespectful -- consider them grossly overdressed. I have viewed some of Theodore Gordon's dries, whose hackle crowded the eye to the extent it would be very difficult to attach them to a leader. And in my own collection I have a couple of George La Branche's flies which wouldn't pass muster by today's standards.
I make note of the above -- not as a chest-beating braggadocio -- but as a recognition of the high level fly dressing has reached today.
If the craft continues at this rate for the next millennium, anglers should be thankful for the philosophy of catch-and-release. Otherwise, trout would be among our most endangered species. RWOL
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