Combe Martin SAC member Kyle Bishop has caught a stunning thin lipped grey mullet of 5lb 3oz from the Taw estaury using fly fishing tactics. The fish is superb specimen in its own right but even more special having being tempted on fly fishing tactics pioneered by Colin Macloud.
It was good to be back at Wimbleball after a couple of months and I was relishing a day at this my favourite West Country lake. I was fishing with South Molton Angling Club who fish a series of days over the season were members can compete for the Mac Trophy awarded for the biggest trout recorded during these nominated days.
Several fellow members had elected to fish from the boats giving the opportunity to search the vast lake for pods of feeding fish. I had chosen on this occasion to fish from the bank and had it in my mind to fish the shallow waters of the Rugg’s bank.
I set up with a floating line and a team of three flies. I waded out into the lake near the point and noted that the water level was still high and that it was exceptionally clear.
Bright sunshine with a cool brisk North Easterly breeze did not fill me with confidence but it was good to be working a fly with the lush green of spring all around.
After twenty minutes without a pull, I walked further along the bank to find some slightly deeper water. After ten minutes I spotted a fish rise and put my team of flies into the vicinity. A savage pull and I was connected to a hard fighting rainbow of around 2lb that had taken a blue flash damsel on the point.
After half an hour I fancied trying Cowmoor Bay and set off along the wooded path to emerge at the mouth of this vast bay. The bank on the opposite shore sloped up from the lake its grass incline decorated by a splash of golden buttercups. The water here was deeper and sheltered from the wind. To be honest it didn’t feel very fishy and after half an hour I tramped back close to where I had started.
I replaced the point fly with a black bead headed Montana and started to fish methodically with a slow retrieve allowing the wind to drift the flies as I kept the line tight.
A couple of twitches transmitted down the line boosted my confidence and soon a good solid take resulted in a good rainbow gyrating on the end of the line leaping from the water on several occasions. At 3lb 6oz it was a pleasing full tailed fish that was to be followed five minutes later by a fish an ounce bigger at 3lb 7oz. I fished on and added two more full tailed rainbows to my bag both succumbing to the Montana.
It was now close to 3.00pm and I decided to head home strolling back to the car on path lined with vivid yellow buttercups.
My next visit will be in summer when I hope to find the trout feasting on beetles a time that can offer superb dry fly sport.
I found out later that it had been a tough day on the boats with no other club members boating more that three trout. Boat or bank is often a hard choice with advantages to both. Fishing a well known bank mark can sometimes beat the boat for when fishing is hard persisting from the bank whilst covering less area ensures that the flies are in the water fishing throughout.
This morning I popped into Mark Zuckerberg’s vision of the future. Call me vain, but I decided to lie about my age and be a 19 yr-old, which was lucky because everyone I met was also 19. Except the Fairy Princess who was also the last person I saw there and, for all I know, might have been a 60-year-old man back in the real world.
Meta-time is erratic and distance is irrelevant, so I could go when and where I wanted. To make my trip challenging I went fly fishing for migrating salmon while standing on the lip of Niagara Falls
First, the good bits: I stayed dry because just about nobody in the Metaverse has legs (or waders). So I hovered Zen-like above the river, which was very, very cool. No treacherously slippery rocks to upend me, no raging torrent to wash me over the edge and no physical threat from the constant flow of thrill-seekers in barrels. The second matter of great importance was that I caught a very big Salmon.
I was so pleased about this that I jumped off the Falls and swooshed straight past the tourist boats into the visitor centre Starbucks where I flashed the plastic for a $1 Frappuccino. Cool entrance and cheap coffee, huh? I was soon joined by a gorgeous 19-yr old fishing tackle sales agent praising my fishing skills and suggesting that her big-brand 9-foot rod was much better than the one I was using.
She promised that with the most expensive rod in their range (just $1!) I was guaranteed to catch 3 Steelhead whenever I went fishing, and that a 40lb Steelhead would earn a bonus 120lb sturgeon. So I flashed the plastic again, the rod appeared to hand and my new friend vanished before my eyes. Just as I thought we were getting on rather well. Ah well.
Left to myself, I surveyed my surroundings. At the end of the coffee shop was a huge fishing tackle store lit up by a neon sign that declared: Mega-Webba-Verse-Tackle-Company – All Brands Stocked and Everything Available Now.
I wafted in and found myself hovering next to a 19-yr old male wearing an old-fashioned blue and white hooped bathing suit. We were both looking fondly at a magnificent Classic Fly Reel of the sort that costs $1000 in the reel world. Here it was just $1. A bargain!
“Cool reel,“ I said to my new companion.
“It’s amazing. And everything here is exactly the right size. It fits my head like a glove.” He replied.
“A head-glove?” I said.
“Don’t be an idiot’” he snapped, “It’s a barrel hat.” He was talking down to me as though I was a 19-yr old know-nothing. He then reached out and put the reel on his head where it was very obviously the perfect hat to enhance your selfies as you went over the Falls. The badge read, “I’m a Barrel-Head!”. He took it off and passed it to me.
“Oh,” he sputtered. “So now it’s a fishing reel. Isn’t this the Barrel-Riders-Kit-O’gasm Emporium?”
Pennies dropped and, in tandem, we said “Oh F**k it!”. At which the store transformed itself into a pulsating display of sex toys and bondage gear as an inanely smiling, baby-faced Zucker-clone slimed into our bewildered company.
“OK,” it said, “which of you two is the leather-fetishist paddle-boarder?”
This wasn’t my kind of life experience, so I morphed off to the bank of a famous Scottish salmon river where I caught 3 big Steelhead in 5 minutes. The new rod worked so well I was catching fish that don’t exist in Europe.
“Och Aye”, said the Gillie, a hybrid Euro-stereotype wearing a kilt that was much too short for 19-yr old man, “Begorrah mate! Them’s Steelhead! I dare say that one weighs as much as the Blarney Stone of Scone.”
“How much does the Blarney Scone weigh?” I asked, breaking the rhyme.
“It’ll be 40lbs exactly,” he replied.
As he said it, my rod bent into a 120lb Sturgeon.
“Dunno’ how that got up the fish ladder,” said the Gillie. And then, “This is crazy. I’m taking this idiotic headset off and going back to work. Don’t forget this is a catch-and-release fishery.” With that, he disappeared. Silently.
I decided I’d had enough of my new rod and threw it at the river. It de-pixilated in mid-air.
On the far bank was a pub called The Old Metaverse. I drifted over and into the bar where I bounced repeatedly off a stool that was slightly too high for me. The barmaid, a 6-yr old Fairy Princess, refused to serve me because I didn’t have an ID Card to prove my age. But never mind, she said, she would sell me one for $1.
At the other end of the bar a drunk was dropping his trousers while shouting that his willie was awesome and that it was his God-given right to fight us because he was right, we were idiots and this was a public bar, so anything goes.
“That’s just Elon being Elon. He’s only 19.” said the Princess. “He’s a free-willy absolutist. I expect he’ll grow out of it.”
Somebody hit him, a gun was drawn, furniture thrown and the Princess produced a machete. As the air turned blue and the floor ran red with fake blood I walked out through the wall, took the headset off and helped myself to a real cold beer from my own real fridge. It was very good to be home. Real good.
So here’s my conclusion: To nobody’s surprise the Metaverse is Zuckerberg’s even bigger bid to coral all the real advertising and marketing money everywhere, raid your piggy bank and then drain your data. It serves no other useful purpose whatsoever, except to allow us to go fishing without legs. Which is unbelievably cool. Sadly, Zuckerberg’s ambition will include monetising virtual waders and virtual wader accessories like boots and pay-per-use rescue services. So there will be legs.
The Metaverse sends a shiver up my spine. It’s a sugar trap for low-life – the perverts, shysters and fraudsters. The old men pretending to be little girls and AI faking it as seductive sales reps. It’s a shit-show platform for politicians, influencers and the wackadoodle self-delusionals. A place where everyone is welcome and all are victims because all of us, even the slime-balls, are there to be shucked dry by the uber-parasite Zuckerberg.
There is just one silver lining, and it’s the conclusion surely held universally by anyone sane who visits Zuckerland: If all the jerks are in the Metaverse exposing themselves and shooting each other, then while they’re in there the real world might be just a tiny little bit better for the rest of us.
That, and the wading.
One of my favourite reference books, The Urban Dictionary, finds entomology rather dull and swotty. It comes close to apologising for any guilty pleasure that might be found in creepy crawlies. The entry reads: “Entomology – Noun – The scientific word for the study of insects. It’s bug research pretty much. I enjoy studying entomology. Really.”
This, by the profane standards of the Urban Dictionary, is remarkably demure language (if you don’t know the Urban Dictionary, look it up online – it’s fun, for a while). If I were a swotty entomologist I would expect the Dictionary to be obscenely hostile. But all is not what it seems. Entomologists have hidden qualities.
If you do a little digital digging, you’ll find that amidst the Dictionary’s aggressive smut, the swots and entomologists are an unexpectedly feisty bunch who give as good as they get.
For example, here are a couple of the Dictionary’s more printable definitions of “swot”. The first, appropriately, is written by a swot and it’s a zinger:
1) “Swot – noun – A word used by morons to insult a person of superior academic abilities. Morons believe being called a swot is a horrible, undesirable humiliation for the victim. Well, the morons can fuck-off now!”
The morons’ counter-view lacks flair and basic literacy, as our swot would have told us (if only we’d asked):
2) “Swot – noun – A swot is a person who excels in a subject or lesson, who never gets anythink wrong and is teachers pet.”
Although I rarely did well in exams and was teacher’s pet hate, I like the first definition. I’m sure you’ll agree that a swotty entomologist of the kind who tells the dullards to F-off sounds like good company. And I especially like the added emphasis of the Now! An extra flourish added just in case the first 2 words weren’t enough.
So, game on: Saturday night’s alright for fighting – and I’m with the entomologist. BUT, and it’s a big one, fists and fishing don’t always mix well on the bank. So what are these swotty, foul-mouthed fly fetishists for when we’re out there casting a line?
I’m going to declare an interest here. As an intellectually indolent teenager with a serious fly-fishing habit, I didn’t have much truck with entomology.
Instead, all my effort went into dropping a dry fly of indeterminant type on the nose of a rising trout that I could see. Presentation was everything and entomology was for grown-ups. Nothing much has changed since.
So as you can see, an entomologist might be someone I’d rather rub shoulders with after fishing. Why would I want to be on the bank with a new partner who calls me a moron and tells me to F-off just because my philistine ineptitude is a denial of their faith (and everything)? However, I think I will have to swallow my pride …. while I still won’t pay any attention to fly catalogues, I’m fascinated by entomologists and would like to go fishing with one. Really – and regularly.
Back in the day, my fantasy choice of fishing partner would have been Hunter S Thompson, author of the lost masterpiece Fear and Loathing on a Trout Stream (a frantic tale of sex, drugs and the evening rise). Thompson was a roiling bundle of provocation, and so is our entomologist. Like Thompson, he or she is happy to say F-off to anyone found to be insufferable. In Thompson’s case that was almost everyone he met, especially if the resulting brouhaha made good copy. I like to think my new entomologist friend could do this too, but more selectively. And, fingers crossed, that this would happen with less reliance on the fabulous intake of drink and drugs that kept Thompson in fighting shape. I’m getting a bit long in the tooth to go the full Hunter-S, so absent the great man himself, the entomologist sounds promising.
This is important because every-so-often life washes up people who deserve to be told to F-off now, and I’ll admit I’m not very good at confrontation. So hanging out with an attack entomologist might be useful. Not only can my new friend speak ill unto evil but, most importantly of all, he or she also knows exactly to whom and why it needs saying. And that is why entomology really, really matters. Even to a slouch like me.
It also means that I can be sure that if the entomologist really does do a Thompson and gets us into a fight, then it will be with someone who deserves the beating. And I’m hoping the entomologist will be better with their fists than me, because we’ll be in trouble if they’re not.
But there’s more to entomologists than bare-knuckle jeopardy. They’re a clever and well-educated bunch of people, usually with some paperwork to prove it. So, if you want to know about the impacts of sewage, climate change, industry or farming on a river, just ask an entomologist. And if you also want hard evidence to save your river from any of this, then you know who to turn to. I cannot stress enough how important, how essential and wonderful even the foulest-mouthed entomologists are. We should all honk-for-entomology. I want to see Hug-an-Entomologist t-shirts and Fuck-off Now! coffee mugs (this last item for Christmas presents please).
So forget matching the hatch – I’m never going to do it. But I will dabble in citizen science and count insects to give our pugnacious entomologist the data needed to take down polluters. And if that’s what entomology is for, and it sure looks like it is, then I’m a fan.
I’m also a fan because this is about more than science. Language matters and in this case it’s direct and Anglo-Saxon, the building blocks of good writing. So the Urban Dictionary is right: The morons who wreck rivers really do need to ‘F-off Now’, and they have to do it before it’s too late.
Until about 20 years ago river water quality in my part of the world, Britain and Ireland, was fitfully improving. Now we have a rolling ecological disaster and it’s getting worse. Much worse.
This isn’t a problem peculiar to a small part of North-West Europe. It’s happening just about everywhere people go fishing. So whether it’s raw sewage or farm slurry or some stinking factory or the over-heating redds that my new friend the entomologist identifies as the wrecking ball, then I’m with them on the barricades, bandana askew, Che t-shirt rescued from the attic and two fingers aloft.
They can all Fuck-off Now!
The River Bray flowed through the heart of a peaceful valley in early May with new born lambs frolicking on the riverside fields with bluebells and wild garlic abundant. As I drove to the river I tuned into Radio 4 with commentary of the Coronation of King Charles taking place in London. The pageantry and splendour was described in great detail and I was content that my wife Pauline would be relishing the spectacle in front of the TV at home.
The call of the river is strong and after several fruitless visits to the Lower rivers searching for silver I relished a sortie with lighter tackle in search of wild browns.
I parked the car and pulled on my waders, heading to the river with my 3 weight Snowbee https://www.snowbee.co.uk/fly-fishing/rods/snowbee-classic-fly-rod-3-4-4-piece-7.html
I tied a big bushy dry fly to a short dropper https://www.nigelnunnflies.com beneath this on the tip I tied a small copper John nymph.
The river had a tinge of colour following heavy overnight rain and I hoped this would make the fish a little less easily spooked as the river here is often crystal clear with the trout scattering in all directions as a clumsy angler like myself approaches the water.
I flicked the duo of flies into the streamy water. The dry fly bobbed under on the second drift and a tiny brown trout was swung from the water. I admired its beauty and shook it from the tiny barbless hook into the water without touching it.
I was soon totally absorbed in the tranquillity of the river valley totally focussed on the dry fly as it drifted down after each searching upstream cast.
I came to a deep pool and carefully flicked out the flies whilst knelt behind a tree stump. Moments after the flies alighted a good sized trout appeared from the deep water to seize the dry fly. I lifted the rod and made contact with the trout that took off downstream with power that surprised me. It soon became apparent that the fish was hooked in the tail. I had missed the fish as it took the dry, foul hooking it in the tail with the nymph. So, this fish really didn’t count despite it going for the fly and giving a great scrap in the fast water.
I waded on up river searching likely runs and tempting a couple of tiny trout with one or two other better fish throwing the hook.
A tumbling trout stream in late Spring is a pure delight as bird song reverberates all around and the lush green of spring abounds.
I prefer to search the faster deeper runs at the heads of the pools and it was here that I found the better trout. The dry fly disappearing as a fish intercepted the tiny nymph below.
The rod took on a healthy curve and the trout erupted from the river gyrating airborne above the water in one of those moments that are etched in the minds eye forever. I admired the pristine wild brown that was close to 12” before releasing it back into its home.
Fifty yards or so further up river I added another beautiful trout to the mornings tally its bejewelled flanks far superior to any created for his majesties far away in London.
I returned home in time to watch the Royal event culminate in the traditional gathering upon the balcony. As I watched the thousands cheer in celebration I reflected upon the jewels I had witnessed that morning beside a tumbling stream in the heart of a peaceful valley.
Later in the day we headed to Lynmouth to watch the Coronation Day parade of boats. Shanty singers, boats and flares brought cheer and smiles.
At the top of the tide huge numbers of mullet could be seen their sides flashing as they browsed on the rocks as mullet do. With big mullet abundant I couldn’t resist returning the following evening to find lots of tiny mullet and an absence of bigger fish. Every tide is different I guess and mullet always appear as if they would be easy to catch when you have left the rod at home.
The 1st day of May heralds the opening of a glorious season for anglers, a time when an all-rounder like myself is torn as to where to cast next. With the countryside and nature bursting into life it is certainly a great time to be at the water’s edge.
On Mondays I fish a middle Torridge beat and with the river at perfect height and colour salmon were the intended target. I tied on a pleasing brightly coloured salmon fly that I felt confidence in and fished through all the known lies methodically. With conditions perfect there was that essential degree of expectation.
The line tightened a couple of times as wild browns intercepted the fly as it swam across the river. Beautiful spotted fish that I will target later when the river drops further making the pursuit of salmon even less hopeful.
I savoured the abundance of wild flowers on the river bank. Each year when I walk the beat rod in hand I witness these wonders of natures cycle.
Old rails assist the angler to climb from the water and I cannot help but mourn the loss of abundance within the river. The decline of salmon is surely a wake up that all is not well within our natural world?
Years ago, previous generations fished this river and on good days a horse and cart would transport the salmon caught from the river. The ghillies of the day would apparently limit the anglers to 3 salmon of between 15lb and 20lb as they couldn’t carry them up the hills! The taking of these fish would have impacted upon the salmon populations as would the netting in the estuary. This was not however the main reason for the salmons decline. Today there are multiple issues impacting upon the salmon mostly symptoms of a sick planet that has been plunged into an eco-logical downturn by mankind’s growth and greed over recent centuries. Sadly, our generation has witnessed one of the greatest collapses in the natural world. Is there hope? We can try and raise awareness but I fear the general populace cares little for the arteries of the land. Read the latest political agendas from councillors; how many have the health of the countryside at the top of the agenda?
On a positive note, there have been a couple of fresh run spring salmon caught on the lower Taw.
I first visited Anglers Paradise over thirty years ago and at the time it was all very new and I wasn’t too impressed with the rather stark collection of large ponds and lakes. At the time I frowned upon the extensive commercialism that was creeping into angling.
Today when I visit Anglers Paradise I rejoice in the amazing transformation of the complex nestled deep within the heart of Devon the thirty plus lakes have matured along with the extensive woodland and wetlands that now provides a diverse habitat abounding with wildlife and fauna.
At the heart of the complex is of course Anglers Paradise the vision of the colourful character Zyg Gregorek. The luxury holiday destination for thousands of happy families over recent decades and famous for its wealth of fishing opportunities.
On this occasion I was visiting the Nirvana Trout lake with Snowbee Ambassador Jeff Pierce. Recent reports had hinted at some rather special trout residing in this 2-acre lake including specimen tiger, rainbow, blue, brown, golden trout and artic char. The lake is strictly catch and release with unhooking matts and rubber nets mandatory along with barbless hooks, single fly and minimum line of 10lb b.s.
We met up in the lakes car park at 9:30am and looked out to the lake across the grass meadow that was punctuated with hundreds of pale pink cuckoo flowers commonly known as lady’s smock. Wispy white clouds drifted high in the bright blue sky and bird song resonated all around. I passed Jeff a fresh jam doughnut and poured a coffee. A days fishing ahead life doesn’t get much better than this!
We both set up with light 6 -wt rods with floating lines and walked confidently to the lake. The water was crystal clear with tadpoles swimming in abundance along the margins.
We started fishing on the near bank both of us opting for damsel nymphs. After just a few minutes Jeff called out with his rod well bent and a good trout darting to and fro in the middle of the lake. I rushed over and did the honours with the net, thrilled to share in the moment. A fine tiger trout of close to 3lb was a great start to the day.
We fished on for half an hour but Jeff and I both eyed up the far bank where several fish broke the surface on a regular basis. The water was deeper on this bank. On just the second cast Jeff was again in action his rod hooped over and his reel singing as line was ripped from the spool at an alarming rate. Several anxious moments followed as the fish headed for the concrete overspill monk. Pressure from the rod soon told and a fine rainbow that must have been close to 6lb graced the net.
Being catch and release we had both elected to leave the scales at home and not give the fish a number. A quick release of the trout with an absolute minimum time out of the water is essential to maintain these valuable pristine stock fish.
The day progressed beneath the bright blue spring sky. Swallows swooped over the water and an early brood of mallards navigated the lake. The harsh strum of a woodpecker came from the nearby wood. We both fished hard and I glimpsed a couple of fish close to my flies but nothing actually connected.
The bright sunshine and light easterly breeze gave us an excuse for a slow day. Large numbers of hawthorn flies were blown onto the water and we assumed it was these that the fish were occasionally slurping down from the surface.
The morning drifted past all too soon and I suggested we head back to the cars where I fried up some sausages that were devoured with fresh rolls and ketchup. This wasn’t a healthy eating day!
With the fishing proving hard we discussed tactics and I elected to set up a second rod with a sinking line. I tied on one of Jeffs bead headed damsels and returned to the deeper side of the lake. We both searched the water and I eventually made brief contact with a powerful fish that threw the hook. After six hours without a touch my confidence was given a boost. Jeff had a good take from a fish that he glimpsed in the clear water before it too threw the hook.
It was now late afternoon and the prospect of a blank was starting to loom. I hooked another trout that again came off after a few seconds. Surely persistence would pay off? With very few fish now rising I was convinced that my best chance was to persist with the tactics of a deep damsel.
Suddenly a savage pull came through the line and I lifted the rod to feel a heavy fish pulsing deep down in the clear water. The loose line was quickly stripped through the rod rings and I let the fish run as I carefully applied pressure. After several tense minutes the fish was holding deep beneath the rod tip. I put the rod into a deep curve and we both peered into the dark water for that first glimpse. Jeff exclaimed “wow what a fish !” as the flanks of a large tiger trout appeared. I patiently applied pressure guiding the magnificent fish over the nets rim.
The barbless hook fell easily from its jaws and we admired the fish in the net before lifting it from the water for a quick grip and grin before slipping it carefully back and watching it swim away strongly with a flick of its broad tail.
I could have packed up then but I wanted to savour the moment and after all perhaps the fish had just come on the feed? Five minutes later my line once again zipped tight and another hard fighting tiger was secured and briefly admired.
At two all it seemed a good time to pack away for the day. Memories made and plans made for a return visit to Paradise next spring.
Prior to that I have a trip in search of the catfish of Eldorado during the summer.
Bruce Elston and his friend enjoyed a great day on Anglers Paradise’s Catch and release trout lake.
Many thanks to Richard Wilson for sharing his monthly writing on North Devon Angling News. A fascinating topic this month that I can relate to as I have book shelves crammed with books many of which extol the virtues of various flies. Whilst watching a fishing program on TV a few nights ago the experienced ghillie on the river Spey was asked what fly to tie on? ” She replied “The one you believe in”. Whist this was aimed at salmon a complex fish that undoubtedly has unorthodox tendencies there is much truth in this statement for confidence in the fly is perhaps the fly’s greatest attribute.
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Fly fishing is a battle of wits, pitting wily angler against crafty fish. It’s an undisputed fishing fact that it takes a canny fisherman or woman to catch a canny fish.
We know this to be true because clever fisherfolk write books and articles in which their sophistication and guile always win the day. For the rest of us, there are no bragging rights in dumb failure so we scour magazines and the internet hoping for enlightenment.
This quest for wisdom comes down to just one all-important question. It’s the one we ask of every angler we meet on the bank, and it’s the first thing we say to anyone who’s just caught a trout (or salmon, or steelhead): ‘What’s the fly?’ Not ‘how long is that rod’, ‘nice waistcoat’ or ‘that’s a cool net’. Nor do we ask about spiritual incantations or performance-enhancing drugs. Just the fly.
So when it really matters, the summation of centuries of piscatorial knowledge can be distilled to this: ‘What’s the fly?’ There’s nothing wrong with the question, but the answer has caused endless human misery.
Look around you. Magazines promote fancy patterns and bloggers tie sensational flies made with just the hair of their dog. The omnipresent Mega-Weba-Store offers click-bait flies distinguished only by their pornographic names (fish are suckers for sexual innuendo).
This fly-choice conundrum lies at the heart of fly-fishing’s collective neurosis: If we make a bad decision and fish the wrong fly, we will go home empty-handed on a day when everyone else is catching fish on alternate casts. This is the worst humiliation a fly fisherman or woman can suffer.
And there’s no excuse for getting it wrong. Thanks to smartphones we can consult the wisdom of the Interweb 24/7, and even midstream if we are so minded (I’m not). Assuming we have a serviceable rod, line and reel then all we need to do is ‘Match the Hatch’. Who’d argue with that? It’s all about the fly, isn’t it? Yet this smug little slogan, probably coined by a sharp suit on Madison Avenue, opens the door to a world of pain.
The promise is clear: If you, dear reader, can truly Match the Hatch (MTH) no wily trout will ever outwit you again. The river will be your servant and you will be invited to fish the finest beats. People will point you out wherever the great and the good of flyfishing gather.
Becoming an MTH-maestro takes decades of hard graft. Does anybody ever know it all? Of course not. When, eventually, you are confidently armed with enough MTH knowledge you head for the river, observe a major ephemerellid die-in and reach for your spent-wing spinners. Sadly you’ve brought the wrong fly box, so you tie on a Patagonian Gordo Alberto Black & Green Barbless Groucho Bonkster (size 10), and catch the first fish you cast to. And the second. So much for matching the hatch.
The father of all fishing wisdom, Ed Zern, nailed the Match the Hatch myth back in 1945: “Every once in a while, a fly fisherman catches a trout on a trout fly and he thinks this proves something. It doesn’t. Trout eat mayflies, burnt matches, small pieces of inner-tube, each other, caddis worms, Dewey buttons, crickets, lima beans, Colorado spinners and almost anything else they can get in their fool mouths. It’s probable they think the trout fly is some feathers tied to a hook. Hell, they’re not blind. They just want to see how it tastes.”
Well said Ed. I especially like the implicit dumbness in “see how it tastes.”
I don’t know whether Ed had an epiphany moment or if he laboured hard, testing his evolving theory on fish and fly and fag-end combinations. I like to think that as a prolific and creative writer he snatched it from the heavens under pressure from an imminent deadline.
My enlightenment was not a life-changing bolt of inspiration. It seeped in as part of a long, slow, teenage slouch through life, enhanced by 7-days a week access to a wild trout stream. I could cast well enough, name maybe a dozen flies and had little interest in entomology. And I should ‘fess up to a slovenly intellect.
I was also a teenager with no Mega-Weba-Store on a smartphone to seduce me with centrefolds of shiny tackle (Deadly on Trout Streams!! Buy 5, get 1 free!!). In fact, I don’t remember buying any fly-fishing tackle. It was all hand-me-downs from old people, or acquired from my father, or mongrel flies I tied for myself. In my worldview only grown-ups did entomology – why would anyone do Latin outside school?
Most importantly, whatever it was that I was doing, it worked. I was catching fish, and enough of them to get noticed locally. Hardly fame, but enough to induce a quiet confidence in an otherwise wobbly teenage life.
Hindsight and self-delusion are the two elemental forces of fishing so, like most humans, I needed a theory to rationalise my modest achievement. It was clear to me that fly choice was only cursorily related to catching fish, making entomology dead on the water, just like Latin. Although given the maxim that you can’t catch a fish without a line in the river, it seemed prudent to put on a fly on the end. After that fly size mattered somewhat, but not much else. So that left presentation, which was all about casting – and that suited my slouchy narrative very well.
There was, I decided, a commanding skill to be drawn from reading water and wind and then subduing them with my split cane wand. The summit of achievement was landing a fly with delicacy and precision just above the nose of a chosen trout. At the time I didn’t talk about this because I thought any grown-up with half a brain would have seen my approach for the slacking I knew it to be. Only later in life have I come to think there was truth in my stoner logic. And these days I’m rather less fantastical about my much better handling carbon rods.
Most of my fly tying focused on making flies that sort-of resembled proper grown-up flies, but within the limits of materials scavenged at home. I can only claim one original creation and its purpose was to extend fishing time into near darkness without missing closing time in the pub. It was big, fluffy and white and could be seen under the far bank as the last of the grey bled slowly out of the dying day. It caught fish – occasionally big fish – thereby delivering further evidence that whatever it was that flies did, it wasn’t preordained by the pseudo-science of MTH. And it kept me on the bank into that magical time when the light fades and all is hushed, except the bats.
So, fast forward to today. How did we end up in a world dominated by a rigid fly orthodoxy so closely matched to the stock offerings of multinational tackle companies? A world where the vast majority of artificial flies only ever catch humans swimming in an internet awash with fly-porn. Ask yourself how many flies you own and how many fish you caught last year.
What was once a slow-moving evolutionary struggle between fish and homo sapiens has become a turbo-charged arms race fuelled by merchants and influencers keen to sell stuff. And while humanity has made an intense intellectual and financial commitment to the fight, the fish are less bothered. Indeed, the fish seem to be just as relaxed about it as they ever have been. The canny angler tries to think like a trout and second-guess his enemy, but no trout has ever repaid the compliment. I can’t say whether this makes trout clever or not (OK, it doesn’t), it’s just that fish don’t waste as much time on us as we do on them. They have better things to do.
Nature ensures that dumb fish are as widely distributed as their smarter brethren, and probably in much greater numbers – just like fishermen, you might say. And yet, for reasons I can’t fathom, smart fishermen never waste their time catching dumb fish. At least not in print. Perhaps it’s too easy? Or maybe clever fish make better copy?
Dumb fish, it seems, are only caught by dumb anglers relying on dumb luck. Hmm. It works pretty well for me ….
So, after a lifetime on the bank, here’s what I know: Dry flies come in 3 sizes: small, medium and large. They have wings, mostly. They are barbless. How well they float depends on their mood.
That’s it.
