"The Perfect fly" One of a series of honestly, absolutely, really definitely, and indubitably, true stories. By a less than perfect angler!
"Damn and blast it to hell and gone" I exclaimed for the umpteenth time, as the last of a whole series of smallish trout, on which I had been testing my mettle all morning, turned away from my fly at the last split second. I took a small nip from my the flask to dull the pain the last batch of stinging nettles had engendered in my hands and wrists, and considered my situation.
Three hours of perfect presentation, crawling through vast arrays of thorn bushes, snagging on at least two dozen varieties of trees and bushes, being stung by at least five separate varieties of insects, and going through at least three dozen different patterns, without so much as a nibble from my piscine adversaries was gradually sapping my confidence in my flies and my abilities, and slowly but surely allowing despondence and the sour reek of failure to permeate my whole being, although the day was fair, occasionally sunny, with decent cloud cover and a very light breeze to ripple the water surface, even in the smooth glides.
Sitting for a cup of tea and a nip, on a grassy bank above just such a long smooth glide where a whole line of fish were rising steadily as if to mock my lack of success, and reviewing the contents of my fly-boxes, containing all the oh so infallible creations of a long and inventive winter at the fly-vice with a rather jaundiced eye, I was moved to comment to myself rather loudly in frustration, "on a day like today, I would give anything for the perfect fly, even for the loan of it."
Realizing abruptly that things were really becoming serious if I had started talking to myself, I packed my tea flask away impatiently, took a nip of neat whiskey to stave off the cold, and strengthen my resolve, rose and continued on around the next bend in the river.
Rather scruffy, but tall and imposing , with flaming red hair welling out from under a black topper green with age, pulled so far down as to obscure any facial details, apart from a huge curved beak of a nose, and an unruly red beard, wearing an ankle long mackintosh faintly reminiscent of a well used shroud, and buttoned at the neck, in a rather less than tasteful shade of 'dark off grey' and a pair of black training shoes with red laces, a fellow angler stood on the high bank above the inner bend of the river and surveyed the scene.
Somewhat taken aback by this extremely unusual apparition, I nevertheless remembered my manners, "Morning", I said, "doing any good?"
"Oh fair to middling, yes, yes, one could say fair to middling I suppose" he answered in an extremely deep, quiet, but somehow unsettling and very carrying bass voice.
"What are they taking?" I asked. "I have had no luck up to now, and I have tried everything."
"Everything ? No no, not everything, not at all, not at all!" was his sonorous and booming reply, the deep rolling bass at complete odds with the words, which seemed somehow disconnected and nervous, making it difficult to grasp their meaning.
"Special fly" he said, touching his finger to the side of his great beak of a nose, presumably to indicate that this was a great and secret revelation I was hearing, and "must have a special fly for these trout," and he continued rummaging around in a large black apparently leather clad box he was holding in his left hand, while his ancient black painted wooden rod was trapped under his left arm.
" I was just saying to myself, I would give anything for the perfect fly, even the loan of it, on a day like today," I evinced, rather inexplicably, and merely for the sake of conversation. Quite out of character for me really, admitting my failure, and at the same time, my odd habit of talking to myself when fishing, to a complete stranger, but the words were already out of my mouth before even realized I was saying them.
" Anything? indeed, indeed," he muttered, and then sprang towards me, stopping abruptly so that his nose was always touching mine, I took a step backward rather smartly, as he was also surrounded by a rather unpleasant but indefinable smell, "Want to try one of these, eh ? eh ? " He held up a very large brown hairy monstrosity somewhat similar to a badly finished bottle brush, on a ridiculously large hook, and pressed this obvious abomination into my left hand, then turning swiftly he disappeared remarkably quickly with a queer loping gait around the next bend in the river.
I was so taken aback by the whole episode, I did not even have the presence of mind to utter even an insincere "Tight lines" before he was lost to sight. I placed the 'monstrosity' rather absent-mindedly in a corner of my fly box, and dismissed the whole incident as an odd encounter with an obvious eccentric.
Tea is always the best for ragged nerves, and so I sat down again and poured myself a soothing half cup full from my flask with just the merest taste of whiskey for flavour, and returned to musing on my singular lack of success. Having downed my ration of tea, I moved on up the river slowly and carefully casting to the eagerly rising fish, with a multitude of patterns, but not hooking a single one, although even my most successful 'fail me never's ' were brought to bear.
Reaching the bridge above a long pool I sat down again extremely frustrated and lost for advice, and reviewed the slowly dwindling contents of my fly-box yet again. A nip from the flask might help to make a sensible decision, and so it was.
Horrible, large, hairy, and sort of a nondescript red-brown colour, with orange highlights when the now steeply slanting rays of the sun caught it, my eye was drawn inevitably to the abomination of a fly the strange old fellow had given me.
"Oh well I thought, nothing ventured, nothing gained," and taking a nip from my flask, I tied the abortion of a fly to my empty tippet, having lost yet another fly shortly before.
Clumsy and inept, probably caused by lack of concentration and the feeling of hopelessness now in full command of my otherwise more than adequate faculties, my back cast hit the grass, and the forward cast, was just a parody of a cast, the line and tippet piling up in the slow very shallow water right in front of me.
Lifting my rod in preparation to reeling and starting again, the most incredible thing happened. A huge fish shot from nowhere, grabbed the 'abortion' and shot off again for the middle of the pool taking all the slack line with it, obviously quite firmly hooked.
After a raging battle, which seemed to last for eternity, the exceedingly beautiful, magnificently coloured and perfectly proportioned brown trout of exactly ten pounds in weight, came to my shaking hands, and the last rites were duly administered. I took a nip from my flask to celebrate this once in a lifetime event, and then sat in awe gazing at the fish as darkness fell. After some time, I know not how long, but it was full dark when I came to myself again, I decided to have one last cast to finish the day. I cast, there was a short sharp cracking sound, although I would swear on a stack of bibles that the cast was perfect, and when I checked my leader, the fly was gone.
Cursing myself for an idiot, I gathered my fish, drank one last decent libation to the gods, in thanks for the day, and made my way over the bridge and up the footpath to the car. Perhaps the queer old fellow had not been so eccentric after all, I had never even seen such a fish in this river, or heard of one this size, let alone caught one, and I cursed myself again for losing the fly, I might have copied it.
As I turned into the dark lane where my car was parked, I seemed to hear a voice whispering on the wind, although the air was hardly moving, in a weird unsettling bass tone "Anything for the loan of the perfect fly, anything for the loan of the perfect fly..................................."
I shook off the cold shivery feeling and cursed my over-active imagination, took a nip from my almost empty flask to ward off the cold, probably caused by the slowly gathering mist and made for the car.
As I put the key in the ignition it suddenly came to me what the funny smell surrounding the weird old fellow had been, burning brimstone!
Nights I often lie awake now, and wonder if I just had one nip too many from my flask that day, or did that wonderful fish, which is now stuffed and hanging on the wall in my den, cost me more than I imagined ? Funnily enough, I no longer talk to myself aloud when I go fishing, and I have not drunk a drop of whiskey since that night.
Tight Lines! ~ Mike Connor
