By Dennis Smith
I don’t know if it rises to the seriousness of a genuine medical affliction or not, but I have this almost helpless predisposition for old, Catskill-style dry fly patterns. Nostalgia, no doubt, plays a part — the logical result of having been born and raised in those ancient, fabled mountains at a time when fly-fishing and fly tying were just coming of age in America.
I am blessed to have actually known a few of the old Catskill flytiers and even fished with a couple of them. At the time, though, I don’t think any of us knew they would one day be celebrated as some of the most famous fly-tying anglers in the world. I mean, who knew you could become a legend for making fake bugs out of feathers and fur?
Classic Catskill dry fly patterns tend to be straightforward, minimalist constructions: tail, body, with a few turns of fine cock’s hackle and often wisps of wood duck, teal or mallard flank for wings. They are light, airy, delicate and as mysteriously fascinating as a flaxen-haired beauty in a black velvet dress.
Noted for their understated elegance, they are simple, suggestive patterns, unlike some of today’s modern creations that sport elbows, knee joints, eyeballs and other anatomical appendages. The majority of Catskill classics are tied with natural, organic materials too, from wild game birds and animals: mallard and wood duck; red fox, beaver and muskrat fur. They drip of tradition and an undeniable nostalgic charm.
I can think of at least a half-dozen old Catskill patterns I never leave home without. Not so much because they catch a ton of fish — although they often do — but rather because they drum up a lot of memories, which, at this stage of my life, are as gratifying to me as a creel full of 18-inchers.
That might also suggest that I passed through those four theoretical stages in the evolution of a fly fisherman where one supposedly progresses from absolutely having to catch a fish — any fish — on a fly, to the point where one is just happy to be fishing regardless of whether one catches a fish or not. I’m not certain that theory is entirely true. Most of us are usually happy just to be fishing and we would rather catch fish than not. Eventually, though, we come to understand that getting skunked occasionally is inevitable, and, if we’re smart, we accept it gracefully.
For my part, I’m happy to be on the water casting the old Catskill classics and catching trout on them, if for no other reason than it seems to confirm that some things in life — even old fly patterns — are enduring.