The Longest Silence (11 page)

One of the most difficult accomplishments in fly-tying is to reexamine an established category and do it better and more simply. One of the best instances of this is the Elk Hair Caddis, which combines indigenous materials and rapidity of execution, appeals equally to imitation and generalization, and produces a fly that if fished well will
catch well. The Adams is another superb example; purportedly tied to imitate a fluttering caddis, it is so full of Catskill-style mayfly traits and general earthiness as to be an outstanding choice for the dry-fly fisherman who relies on casting and streamcraft instead of encyclopedic fly boxes. And in its downwinged version, it’s not a bad caddis. Frank Sawyer’s Pheasant Tail nymphs, or the Gold-Ribbed Hare’s Ears, create a poetic economy from limited materials. But there are times when these flies will be badly outfished by more specific imitations. Those who believe that steadiness and acuity in presentation, the avoidance of lost motion and indecision, produce a better bag are drawn to such flies. The stalkers of difficult individual trout think more in terms of the fly that is perfect both in time and place.

Many of us are inclined to fish with flies we think are beautiful. Happily, some of the flies I find practical are, when crisply tied, beautiful. I think the Adams is beautiful. The jauntiness and efficacity of the Royal Wulff has a western, freestoner kind of beauty; it works so well that a whole school of sophisticated anglers will do anything to keep from using it. A. K. Best’s quill-bodied flies make me shiver. The defiant bugginess of Dave’s Hopper is beautiful for its go-ahead-eat-me legs and general profile. The fragile and austere quill-winged and hackleless duns of René Harrop, simple yet madly difficult to tie, make a silhouette on the surface of the water that causes a predator’s heart to pound. There’s an old pattern called the Borcher’s Special that gives me a heightened sense of empowerment, and a fly from the Dan Bailey catalog of thirty years ago, the Meloche, that makes me feel equal to the emergence of pale morning duns. Of course it’s all in my head; that’s the point. Any sustained perusal of the fly books of the world should demonstrate that fish have been remarkably tolerant of our follies. I’m afraid the exercise has made a presentationist out of me. Clearly, it is not
what
those long-gone or far-flung anglers offered the fish, it’s
how
they offered it.

The trouble is, you can’t properly present something you don’t believe in. There is a sort of infatuation when an angler looks at flies. We look through pictures of flies much as we search through our old high school yearbooks, a kind of a scanning process until something stops the eye. The same feeling is obtained when looking in the compartments
of a fly shop or fly box. An odd transference occurs in the imagination. One holds up the fly and
thinks
both like a fish and like a fisherman, and perhaps as a species of prey, all at once; though maybe it is not thinking. A convergence of emotion is sought, the unknowable conviction of a sorcerer, the feeling that, yes, this will do nicely, a feeling that enlarges as the fly is knotted to the tippet, held again to the light to further charge one’s conviction, then off it goes at the end of a cast. If it catches fish, a wider smile opens within. If it fails utterly, it is subjected once more to the gaze at close range, the sorcerer feeling rueful. You ask yourself, How did I fall for this one? Though you return it to your fly box, you really want to throw it away. I once lit one with a match.

Very slowly over my life I have become a fly-tyer. There was a time when I was contemptuous of it, on the grounds that it took time away from fishing, which is not entirely untrue. Then, grudgingly, I tied some simple saltwater patterns, and finally, expendable freshwater streamers, leeches, simple down-wing patterns. While tying has grown on me enormously, my numerous deficiencies will probably never be overcome. If a fly has too many steps, I either simplify it or tie something else. I will never tie good feather wings, especially the no-hackle duns I so admire but will never successfully imitate. I get red-faced doing legs for the hoppers; mine look like dogs pissing on a fire hydrant. Instead, I have tried to do a cleaner and crisper job on the flies that give me confidence: hairwing and parachute Adamses, Royal Wulffs, Dave Hughes’s little parachute olives, pheasant tail nymphs, Prince nymphs, Gold-Ribbed Hare’s Ears, Pale Morning Duns, Stimulators, light and dark Spruce flies, tiny green Crazy Charlies for bonefish, various versions of the classic Cockroach for tarpon, simple yarn crabs for permit, mylar-and-white Deceivers for snook, and so on. My real loves are trout flies, steelhead flies, and salmon flies. The latter are probably interchangeable but, since they express different cultures, are rarely mixed. I have been crossing the line in using Allee Shrimps for steelhead, though not the other way around, as the deep voodoo of salmon is something I am unready to disturb. I tie Rusty Rats, Blue Charms, Monroe Killers, Willie Gunns, and the fly with which I am most confident, the Black Bear Green Butt, awfully close to the steel-headers’
classic, the Green Butt Skunk. For steelhead, I vastly prefer the McVey Ugly, a knockoff of the classic McLeod Ugly, hatched by Peter McVey, the great chef, angler, and cane-rod builder of British Columbia.

I still have many friends who prefer leaving this to the experts, as I once did. But now that I know that the object is to please myself, that the machinelike finish possible for the professional who ties a hundred-dozen of the same pattern doesn’t matter much to the fish, nor does it necessarily subject the tyer to repetitive motion diseases or dark hours at the county nut farm. I try to tie flies that will make me fish better, to fish more often, to dream of fish when I can’t fish, to remind myself to do what I can to make the world more accommodating to fish and, in short, to take further steps toward actually becoming a fish myself.

I
N SPRING
, warm wind comes to Montana before anything turns green, though not quite before some birds—owls and juncos for example—nest and even begin to hatch their young. The tiny ground-hugging phlox displays its chaste white flowers; the harrier begins to lose his winter white and the red-tailed hawks haul all manner of junk, including the hot-orange twine we use to bind haybales, to build their messy nests in the black cottonwoods along the creek. The creek itself is some days pellucid, throwing the shadows of trout on its graveled bottom, and on others milky with low country runoff. On the cliffs, rock marmots aggressively pull up the bunch grass and take it under ledges and down holes to build nests. All the birds are particularly loud and indelicate just now; but the red-shafted flickers screeching from the tops of the tallest, barest cottonwoods seem the most brazen, Brewer’s blackbirds the busiest in this bright sun that encourages their iridescence. In the summer pasture north of our house the teal pause in the water-filled buffalo wallows of ancient times; the magpies tumble and mob in the clumped junipers. The meadowlark stands on the stones of the Indian grave east of the Charlie Wild draw and sings her heart out.

When I hike, I frequently come up on groups of mule deer feeding, as though I were a great stalker, but the deer are so close to their physical limits at this edge between winter and spring that they are not very alert. When the shadow of a marsh hawk flickers through them,
they don’t jump as they would later on, and the ears of some hang down as they do on sick calves. When they flee, the inverted rowing motion of their synchronized legs doesn’t send such a shudder of power through their trunks as it will in another month.

The sagebrush buttercup is the brightest thing in the landscape, a buttercup so early that it follows the retreating snow in a yellow haze. This is the first flower the grizzly sees when he wakes up from his nap. Cousin to the cursed crowfoot, a poisonous, blistering, inflaming flower, sagebrush buttercup is an important spring food to the blue grouse. I stood in a field of this beautiful flower, feeling the strap of my binoculars cut into my neck and sensing in the vault of tremendous sky an uncertain skirmish between the winds of winter and those of spring. To the north, the Crazy Mountains looked starved for restoration, and it was good to remember that their slaggish forms would soon burst into something I always think I can imagine but never quite do.

In the cottonwoods below the house stands a crooked giant whose top is splayed into a garish, surrendering shape. At the crotch of these upper branches, a great horned owl has raised a single baby. And when the sun comes out, she encourages him to advance along the dead branch on the north side of his nest. Nearly her height, his downy looseness gives him away. He doesn’t seem to know what is expected of him. He stares at me amazed, while the wind takes bits of his down and sails them off toward the banks of wild roses. His mother, glaring from above with her yellow eyes, looks like the wife of Satan. As many times as I have seen her, I’ve never seen her first. She is always watching from her tree as though she weighed a plan for me.

Over the sere landscape, creatures are chasing one another just like the children at the local junior high. The kingfishers scream and the meadowlark sings as cascadingly and melodiously on the wind as she does standing on a strand of barbed wire. Some of our calves are buoyant; in others the rains have brought on scours, their backs humped, their ears down, and their legs scalded with diarrhea. The cows have begun to “ride” one another, and our five bulls holler from their segregated pasture south of the county road. The long, cold rains have given two calves pneumonia. One runs a high fever and stares at the
ground, the other has compacted her lungs and will never do well. The vet said, “She’d be just as well off if she died.” In the corral where the sick calves stand, mating barn swallows chase each other, fall to the ground, and breed.

I saddle a horse to tour the pastures in search of spring grass. Everything is late this year. We’re two weeks behind town, only fifteen miles away. There’s a yearling buck dead by the first spring, nearly devoured by coyotes who have seized intestines and backed several yards from the carcass. This is merely a boon to the coyotes, who have come by this meal as honestly as did the Pennsylvania wolves who devoured the bodies of Braddock’s soldiers after the battle of Monongahela. The face of creation takes in everything with a level stare. When I was younger these manifestations of life’s fury were comfortably free of premonition. Now they bear a gravity that dignifies the one-day lives of insects, the terrible slaughterhouse journey of livestock, and, of course, ourselves and our double handful of borrowed minerals. The old man I see staring from his porch rocker when I go to town is staring into a tremendous distance. As surely as homeowners pride themselves on property that fronts the beach, the lake, or the golf course, we all enjoy abyss frontage; and some, like the fellow in his rocker, seem absorbed by the view.

The obsessive busy-ness Thoreau complained of is rooted in fear; fear: of mortality, and then of the pain of loss and separation. Only in the observation of nature can we recover that view of eternity that consoled our forebears. The remains of the young buck dead at the spring are sounded in the cliffs above our house in the calls of young coyotes, testing the future with their brand-new voices, under the stars of outer space.

The rivers stayed high for longer than I could remember seeing. And finding fishable water wasn’t easy. I went to West Yellowstone, which sits high in several watersheds. Every year, the fly shops there boast some new fly that is certain to cancel blank days for all time. This year it was a tiny doodad that resembled a little bristling worm. When I bought a few of them, another angler, a hay farmer in a colorful “Spawn ’Til You Die” T-shirt just looked at them in my palm and swung his head from side to side as he remembered the shoals of trout
suicides this inoffensive little thing had produced. Either that or he was wondering how anyone could fall for this one at all.

I drove into Yellowstone Park, headed for the Firehole River. The tourists paused at everything, stopping in the middle of the highway with a heedlessness so uncharacteristic of Americans that it was pleasantly maddening. I parked on a high bank overlooking the river and rigged up, then picked my way through grazing buffalo to reach the bank of this beautiful stream. Steam from hot springs and geysers and fumaroles drifted weirdly over the classic waters of the Firehole and several buffalo fed all the way down to the marshy edge of the river, where a few bank feeders sucked down emerging mayflies. I ought to have had good success with pale morning duns but the gusting wind out of the canyon had suppressed the hatch.

There were plenty of fishermen, some disconsolate and making halfhearted casts, some pressing on with a higher view, some extraordinarily costumed in the new predatorial style, camouflaged and fishing like New Zealanders with dark-dyed lines. All these solicitations were being declined by the trout. The few mayflies to appear were tumbled along the surface by the wind, unprofitable for fish to run down.