Deb,
On one of the first of many, many trips I made to the Gunnison, two
things happened.
First of all, the owner of the campground where we would eventually
always stay took pity on me and helped my rig my rod properly; which meant
replacing my 10 ft., 6 lb. test tippet with a tapered leader, showing me how
to tie a "hopper/dropper" rig and showing me which two flies to use: and
adams and a renegade. He mentioned that he tied his own renegades.
Second, a very old man ran a very small fly shop in the back of a
convenience store/gas station. Old Man Berfield. I wandered in there one
day and watched as he tied fly after fly. Eyesight shot, arthritic hands,
temper worse than a rabid dog in heat! He tolerated me watching and ignored
any/all questions. Maybe he was deaf - or just had selective hearing?
Being in my early thirties at the time - and invincible - I thought to
myself, if that old man can do it, so could I. I made a note to pursue it.
My first attempt was with the cheapest fly tying kit you could imagine! I
broke the vise within two weeks! My first fly was an adams! Bought a kit
that used to be available that had everything in it you needed to tie a
dozen adams.
I learned proportions only when a guide/friend in Gunnison had the courage
to tell me that even though my flies caught as many trout as his, there was
such a thing as proportions. Probably both wings ought to be about the same
size on a fly, and the same color. It would be good if the tail was less
than three times the length of the hook shank. Probably ought to use dry
fly hackle on a dry fly; it's ok for the hackle to extend backwards past the
point of the hook on a wet fly, but it just isn't "classic" on an adams!
The difference between sewing thread and 3/0 or 6/0 thread. You know,
technical stuff like that.
I bought my first pattern book on one of those trips. Imagine! Someone
actually had a formula for flies!
I fished the Gunnison for about 10 consecutive years. The thrird or
fourth trip, I even bought waders and graduated out of tennis shoes. My
feet will never recover, though. I rarely fished anything other than a
renegade and an adams. Sometimes I would tie the renegade at the end.
Other times, feeling more rebellious, the adams was the caboose.
Flowing like the streams and rivers of the Gunnison, time drifted on.
Old Man Berfield sold out and then went to fish in a more divine place,
where his hands are no longer crippled and his hearing is restored. The
campground owner retired and his son took over. Changes were made. He
preferred long-term campers over short-term. We had to find another place
to stay; although the original owner would fish wish me from time to time.
The rest is history. As all unmedicated and untreated obsessions go, I
just got sucked deeper and deeper. As more and more time flows by, I feel
myself becoming Old Man Berfield. I tie more slowly, not as passionately.
Sometimes visitors will ask me to tie a fly for them. I have discovered
that my hearing seems to fail when I put a hook in the vise. Maybe it's the
sound of a divine river that blocks out the noise.
