AL PEAKE
Monte’s dead parakeet sketch
Intrepid angler Monte Burke chooses his holy-grail patterns and gets more than he bargained for from an unorthodox addition
MIDWAY THROUGH our morning at Slocum Pool on the Gaspé Peninsula’s Bonaventure River, the guide, Roddy Gallon, hands me a fly. “Try this one,” he says.
I’m not going to lie. The fly he gives me is butt ugly, like something the cat chucked up on the living room floor. It is a dry (I think), huge (like three inches long), thick as a cork in the middle and covered, in a rather haphazard way, with brown and yellow feathers. Gallon, who is Falstaffian in both mirth and girth, seems to sense my skepticism. “It works, man,” he says with a belly laugh.
I have faith in Gallon, so I tie it on and make a cast, a true chuck-and-duck, head lowered for safe clearance. The fly lands with a splat on the surface. The gaudy concoction’s very presence feels like an insult to this beautiful place, with its limpid water and deep green Maritime pines soughing in the breeze.
“That thing looks like a friggin’ dead parakeet!” yells my friend and fishing partner on the day, Tom Montgomery, from downriver.
I nod, acknowledging his skills of perception. And just as I lift the rod to begin a new cast, a giant Atlantic salmon annihilates the fly and then goes berserk, thrashing and jumping all over the pool, as if it can’t believe it made a mistake on that thing.
The gaudy concoction’s very presence feels like an insult to this beautiful place
I am stunned. So stunned that I take a step back and fail to notice the submerged boulder directly behind me. I fall backwards, going completely under — head and all — and catch one last glimpse of the cloudy sky before the river closes over me like a double-doored casket. When I arise, the fish is, miraculously, still on my line. Montgomery and Gallon are on the riverbank, doubled over in laughter. I am numb and probably in the first stages of hypothermia from the 50-something-degree water. So, I fall in again. The salmon spits the hook.
Monte’s in (literally), then out, skunked, then stripped of his pride.
I lift myself from the river and stagger toward shore. Water cascades off my head and arms and sloshes around in my waders. I see Montgomery. He is still howling. I look around for Gallon and catch a fleeting glimpse of him darting into the woods.
For a moment, I wonder if he is done with us, the two Americans — one clumsy as hell, the other who appears to have gone mental with his cackling. I wouldn’t blame him.
But just then Gallon emerges from the woods carrying an armful of sticks. He starts a campfire. I strip down to my boxers and hang my clothes on sticks Gallon has placed around the blaze. And in 20 minutes, I am completely dry, smelling like sweet woodsmoke and casting again in the river. But I now have a new fly on, a Picasse, which Gallon had tied onto my line while I was drying off. I guess he didn’t trust me anymore with the dead parakeet.
A Picasse variant.
Angling with a fly is an expression of art. I don’t mean that in some pretentious way, like it’s some sort of mystical endeavor. I mean it in a more practical way. Fly-fishing, like art, is a form of communication. The rod, reel, line and hook are the tools of our communication with fish. But it is the fly, as the artist, James Prosek, has written, that “is the ultimate translator between languages, between our world of names, structures, systems and hierarchies and theirs of instinct, impulse and experience.” The fly is where the rubber meets the road.
And the flies we use fall into two categories. Like realism and cubism, they can be representative or they can be abstract. In both cases, their sole job is to entice a reaction — from the fish (that’s how you get a take), but also from the angler, who must have enough faith in the fly to tie it to the end of his or her line.
I don’t tie my own flies. The concentration required to do it well is a bit too much like my day job. Actually, I have tied one fly, a Woolly Bugger that looked like a fluff of dryer lint dyed black. I fished it once on a heavily stocked stream in the mountains of North Carolina. I caught a tired, skinny rainbow, and retired my fly then and there.
Their sole job is to entice a reaction — from the fish (that’s how you get a take), but also from the angler, who must have enough faith in the fly to tie it to the end of his or her line
I do like to buy other peoples’ flies, however, and I have bought a lot of them. Atlantic salmon flies are basically an addiction for me. Let me loose in W.W. Doak or Sexton & Sexton or at the Tying Scotsman and I’ll do some damage. The flies have such beautiful and mellifluous names — Blue Charm, Green Highlander, Mickey Finn, Silver Doctor, Sunray Shadow. I always buy the same ones. This may sound strange, but the reason is that there hasn’t been a ton of innovation in salmon flies over the centuries, just as there hasn’t been a ton of innovation in the angling for Atlantic salmon itself. We fish for salmon now in much the same way we did back in Walton’s era. That timelessness is one of the reasons I love the sport.
A Strong Arm Merkin.
There have been significant innovations in flies for other species, however. Dave Skok is a current maestro in fly advancement. His Strong Arm Merkin is a true revelation. (Side note: You know where the name for the original Merkin came from, right? Del Brown tied a new crab fly, and Steve Huff suggested he name it the “Merkin,” which was a pubic wig worn by prostitutes during the Middle Ages to ward off lice. True story.) Some of the best permit anglers I know use Strong Arms almost exclusively. I also use them, though I am decidedly not one of the best permit anglers I know. Skok also created an enormous crab fly — like two-to-three inches wide. I bought two of them a few years ago for stripers on the flats, at $25 a pop, because a friend of mine said they worked on the biggest and pickiest fish. I don’t fish them very much — they are a pain to cast and, well, they cost $25. But whenever I have used them, the stripers react well.
For Stripers, it’s a Captain Crabby.
Speaking of stripers on the flats, my go-to fly for them on the white sand of Massachusetts and New York is the Captain Crabby, an epoxy brown-and-orange fly created by the late Bob Veverka, who was also known to take to Facebook to complain about being visited by cannibals. I’ve also caught bonefish with that fly, particularly on higher tides when they’re down deep. Yvon Chouinard once talked about a lake in Chile where the local avian enthusiasts became alarmed because the big rainbows were eating the baby birds. He said he’d concocted a fly that looked like a small rubber bath ducky.
When I got back to my car that night, I found a small square of cardboard with some hand-tied flies on it tucked under one of my windshield wipers
And sometimes when I’m lucky, people give me flies. One evening on the Letort Spring Run in southcentral Pennsylvania, I met the wonderfully named Rocky Stump, one of the spring creek’s regulars. This was back in the day when I was fanatical about the Letort and its handful of giant and nearly impossible to catch browns. I spoke with Rocky early that evening before heading out for the hatch. I think he respected my craziness, maybe even saw something of himself. When I got back to my car that night, I found a small square of cardboard with some hand-tied flies on it tucked under one of my windshield wipers. “Enjoy — Rocky” was written underneath. In the Catskills, a late guide named Bruce Miller gave me his version of the Woolly Bugger, tied with shoots of grizzle hackle and some flash in the tail. For whatever reason, the big wild browns in the Delaware system loved it and still do.
Bruce Miller’s Wooly Bugger.
Gifted: Army-green weighted Muddlers from a man in Sanibel.
And in Sanibel last winter, a man presented me with four of the most exquisite Muddlers I’ve ever seen — army green with red throats and a wrapped hook for weight. He told me they worked for snook, redfish and tarpon. I don’t know yet if he’s right or not. They are too beautiful to fish.
One thing I love to do is cross-pollinate. That is, use flies from one part of the world in another. Years ago, I fished the Henry’s Fork and picked up some of René Harrop’s Pale Morning Dun cripples. They have been my go-to ever since for the Sulphur hatch on the Delaware River in the Catskills. I’ve used Callibaetis designed for Idaho’s Silver Creek for picky Blue Winged Olive feeders in the East. I’ve fished Catskill-style Green Drakes for that hatch in the West. I’ve purchased plenty of steelhead flies — big skaters, Intruders, Hiltons — for Atlantic salmon rivers.
A René Harrop Pale Morning Dun cripple.
Monte’s yellow-and-green cork popper for largemouth bass.
In general, though, I’m usually pretty wedded to certain flies for certain fish. I think it’s the comfort factor: If something has worked for me in the past, it’s hard for me to move away from it. Though I have tons of sliders and deer-hair frogs in my largemouth bass box, I almost always fish a big yellow-and-green cork popper. Sling it out, give it one good pop, and then let it sit. For tarpon, I use a fly that Steve Huff ties, in black or blonde. What fly is it? I have no idea. He doesn’t even have a name for it. “It’s just some chicken feathers,” he says. When I go bonefishing, I am a Puglisi man. I use his Spawning Shrimp and his Micro Crab.
The dirty little secret is that in a rested pool with fresh fish, there will be a taker or two that just might nab anything that crosses their snouts
A black tarpon fly based on a Steve Huff pattern.
Enrico Puglisi’s Spawning Shrimp for bonefish.
… together with the Puglisi Micro Crab tied with Enrico’s EP Fibres.
The latter has been a winner for me when it comes to big, fussy bones which are, of course, the best kind of bones. Permit? Don’t even ask. I went on a one-week trip to Belize with dozens of Strong Arms and didn’t get a good shot at a fish. A guy who was in camp the week before me who doesn’t even like fishing for permit caught one anyway while wading for bones. The fly he used? A Crazy Charlie.
When you fish with a guide for Atlantic salmon, they usually ask to see your fly box before making the first run through a pool. They paw their way through it and then, making the same low noise someone does when presented with a perfectly cooked steak, will select one, allowing you to feel very smart for having purchased and brought along that very fly. But the dirty little secret is that in a rested pool with fresh fish, there will be a taker or two that just might nab anything that crosses their snouts. I mostly fish for salmon without guides, which means I’m the one perusing my fly box and making the sound.
A green butt Blue Charm variant. This one has a dyed brown squirrel wing.
Monte’s go-to Bomber: natural deer hair body and orange hackle.
When it comes to wets, I love a well-tied Blue Charm with a fluorescent green butt in the summer, and an orange marabou streamer in the fall. For dries, I almost exclusively fish a brown deer-hair Bomber with orange hackles and white calf hair on the head and tail. I love the way it hits the water with a pillowy plop and how it bobs, in see-saw fashion, in the riffles. It’s as satisfying a fly to fish as any I know. Atlantic salmon flies are the ultimate verification of a fly-fishing truism: You fish best when you have faith in your fly. Even if that fly is a dead parakeet.
With thanks to Rupert Harvey for tying exquisite Puglisi’s Spawning Shrimp, Micro Crab, Captain Crabby and Strong Arm Merkin and Don Staziker for the PMD cripple.
FLY PHOTOGRAPHY: MONTE BURKE/DON STAZIKER/PETER GATHERCOLE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Monte Burke
Monte Burke is the New York Times best-selling author of Men of Troy, Rivers Always Reach the Sea, Lords of the Fly and Saban. He lives in Brooklyn with his wife and daughters.
