The Problem of Extra Flies
Flyfishing Stories by Bob Lawless

From time to time, your dearest and only author will address his dearest and only friends on the many problems inherent in fly fishing. This chapter will seek to shed new light on the very annoying and perennially troublesome problem of too many flies. In short, what to do about fly buildup?. Certainly we all suffer from this, but allow me to tell a few war stories before we start working on solutions.

I am a pathetically slow fly tier and even though I am slow, I am also a poor one. Oh yeah, I like my stuff (I have never tied a single fly that didn't t look buggy as hell to me), but the fish don' t seem to share this same enthusiasm. How they can survive rejecting all the tasty tidbits I have tossed their way is one of life's most profound mysteries to me. Stupid fish!

So, somewhere between twenty and thirty years ago, I noticed that I had way too many flies. I carried well over a thousand flies in my inventory when it dawned on me that I was no longer fishing. I was always just looking for something to put on my tippet. Hours would pass; I would select nothing suitable, and eventually when it got too dark to see, I would snap all fly boxes shut and quit for the day. I hesitate to use the word "quit" because it implies that something was begun and then ended, e.g. "he started his truck and then it quit ". I had stopped beginning to start so how could I quit? Are you still with me, my dearest and only friends?.

Allow me to be more to the point. I'm thinking something like a good chironomid would be perfect right about now ( it's dawn). So I open a box of chironomidae and start to sort through about 300 flies, no two are exactly alike which makes a comment, does it not, on something that was said earlier: namely, I have my problems with tying flies that look like one another, or even like anything. Finally, I decide that nothing in this box is any good. So I close it up. So much for my number 22 chironomid fly box. It's now on to my number 20 chron. box and so forth. When I've worked my way down to size 8, I get disgusted with the idea of a chron. and so I open up my leech boxes, starting at size 2/0 and working up to mini leeches (often deadly) purples, black, reds, and yellow, yes, yellows (often deadly). And then it's on to some dries, maybe some wets, terrestrials, maybe..well you get the idea-darkness comes.

I believe all this is a form of mental illness characterized by an inability to make firm decisions. A sort of whishy-washyness which I now refer to as fly constipation. I'm not talking here about eating too many flies which could well cause a huge amount of constipation. I'm talking about the inability to choose flies, not chew them. Still there?

But let us cut through all this chaff and move on to some real help for everyone. First, I rounded up all those flies that I have never used and probably will never use. I'm not on firm gravel here as you could have a situation where you are snapped off repeatedly and you will need extras. But anyway, I rounded all these extras up and I was flabbergasted as to the amount. So I made a hat.

What you do is quite simple: hook each point of one fly through the eye of another and so on until you have a long chain of flies. Assemble all these chains into rows and then, using more "chains," weave one set of chains in and out through the other until you have this sort of fuzzy fabric. The rest, of course, is simple; you just cut and hook one piece of fabric with another until you have your hat. A propeller is optional (see The Great Hat Race).

But this is not the best solution because I have had my head swatted at various times by well-meaning people who are trying to "help" me. They look astounded that the floor has not filled up with dead bugs. Actually, after my headaches would clear up, I would feel sort of self-satisfied, like maybe I had finally fooled an organism into thinking that my flies were bugs. So I tried other sorts of apparel because, after all, my unworthy flies were expensive and should be put to some good use, recycled as it were.. I tried pants but they gave me a horrible case of jock itch and I couldn't use up my sparsely tied up stuff for obvious reasons.

I made a rather fabulous quilt for my marital bed but my wife complained that all that buzzing (imagined) was giving her headaches and thus our sex life would have to be put on further hold notice (see my stories about Wilbur to learn about my sexual problems). Shame because the quilt was warm as toast and looked groovy.

I tried making some seat covers out of my more gaudy flies and I thought that on sunny days, with the top open in the sky roof of my ' 64 VW bug, I might be able to pick up some girls with some of my famous pick up lines (see Nude on the Yakima) and with these tasteful seat covers..Can you believe it? No dice.

I may not be much of a man, but I am not much of a man easily discouraged. So I plunged on. I just couldn' t give up on the idea that old or no good flies did not have value. So I made this rather deluxe sport coat ( I was going to make a full suit, but then I remembered the jock itch problem) for church and other social occasions, dances, weddings,etc. So when Sunday came and I was ready, I slid into a bench in the center section of our church, The Three Chances Evangelical, Absolutely Total Bible, Five Pillared, Northern Regulation, Sunset to Sunrise, Church of the Olden Times. I don't know exactly what all this stands for, but I do know the first part. We give you three chances to come over to our way of thinking or piss on you. So I noticed that I had slid up against this enormous woman , true giant of her species, who was breathing heavily. I flattered myself to think that I was the object of her heavy breathing, even though this was church for God's sake. The preacher started us all rolling into a ball of frenzy as he usually does and she starts screaming. No one takes much alarm at this as most everybody is screaming for one reason or another. But I started to worry as her violent thrashing about seemed to be a bit much, particularly since we seemed to be attached to each other somehow. Then it dawns on me! I have hooked her, maybe a thousand times!

About that time, service is over and she flees out the other side of our pew, dragging me along in tow. She thought I was following here and so she shouted, "Get that old fart out of me." I tried to explain that I wasn' t actually in her, but the ushers wouldn' t listen. To get us loose, they had to rip all the clothes off of us (my sport coat was ruined) and then we both lay sobbing naked on the church steps. I was kicked out because of my fly (I mean my flies) sport coat and she was also kicked out for reasons I don't thoroughly understand. I remember looking at her when were both so exposed, but then my mind went blank as if it had suddenly experienced some sort of trauma, some deep psychological scarring must have occurred. To this day, I can't tell you, my dearest and only readers, why this poor lady was banned from worship. But I never wore that coat again.

And just as a final footnote to the above horrid story, when we were all jumping and rolling about, the preacher slugging me and various members socking at first me and then at her, a car loaded with atheists came by and started to hoot and holler and point as to how crazy we all were. Isn't it just like those hippie communists to kick you when you are down?

So, yes, it has been a long and lonesome and winding road, but I don't give up, and yes, I still tie new flies. As for the remaining old no good ones and the new no good ones, I have taken to drilling small holes in my wallboard between the studs, at the top, near the ceiling. Into this hole, I drop all the flies that I don't currently need. Wonderful insulation and you can always get them back. Tears do well up though, and Smolt (See What's in my Vest) licks them away, while Oleander continues to curse, still hot about that episode in the church where apparently the full figured woman had poked a hole in the center of his beak with one of the larger hooks. I have thought about renaming him Old Three Holes, but no, Oleander will do just fine. It's really not his fault.

BOBLAWLESS