22 April, 2024
I visited a fly tying demonstration in Clinton, Missouri last weekend. Around fifty enthusiasts were set up along rows of tables, quietly tying in bits of feather and thread and wire and hair and synthetic stuff onto various tiny sizes of hooks. Each fly follows a particular recipe, and many are so small that the person tying requires a jeweler’s loupe or similar just to see what they are doing. Each person was bent to their task, very focused it seemed, and yet also very willing – and encouragingly so – to chat with every passerby ambling by their table.
I dabble myself in tying, less out of any sense of passion or aesthetic than of frugality. Variations on a half dozen patterns that I use when fly fishing are what I know how to tie with competence, and that saves me having to buy them. Flies are all hand tied, and – rightfully so, given the laborious nature of their making – have gotten quite expensive to purchase. So several times a year, and primarily in the gray months of winter, I sweep everything off my drawing board and set up a tying vice on a side table. I spread out specialty tools and the colors of feather and thread I require, and set about tying imitations of bugs.
Just Sketching 