The Zen of Fly-Tying

Sitting in front of a vise can almost be a form of monastic prayer for some fly tiers.   Many find it relaxing, meditative.  The inner voice quietly chanting, “ wrap, whip finish, repeat..”  It can be hours of repetitive motions that calms the mind.  Collecting one’s thoughts, and preparing for those long awaited moments of standing mid-stream.  A peaceful practice of patience that rewards a fisherman with neatly organized rows of freshly tied parachute adams or blue-winged olives.  Almost Zen-like.    But for me, fly-tying feels like a mixture of having O.C.D and the flu.   

At first, the symptoms start off small, usually with tiny midges, stuff that doesn’t take too much effort or material to tie.  Then it’s on to nymphs and my mind starts to drift, what if I added a leg here? Or oh that looks shiny, I’ll add that on top.    By the time I make it to streamers, it’s a full blown affliction. 

Some nights, as I struggle to fall asleep, my brain keeps imagining  pattern variations and possible materials, like a feverish dream that keeps repeating itself.  And my inner voice shouts “I need more flies.. girdle bugs.. mini-buggers… more streamers,.. I wish I had olive sexi-floss legs….”    It’s compulsive.

*Notice the folded bath mat on the left under the table. The price tag still attached. $12 for a liftetime supply of antron.
Also, it's not hording if you can still walk through the room....

 My fly tying room starts to look like a scene from the movie, A Beautiful Mind,   The one where they find the guy’s backyard shed littered with old maps and circled newspaper headlines amidst a maze of red yarn stretched wall to wall.   The audience has the heart-breaking but yet sympathetic reaction of, “..his condition has gotten worse..”
     I say fly tying room because it started off as a desk.  But five patterns in, and a dozen patches of deer hair, marabou, and shiny strips of streamer material scattered across the table, my mess has overflowed on to the floor.  My neatly organized boxes and bins strewn throughout the room like a little kid’s Lego collection.   And the only feeling I have when I finish a fly is a impulsive need to fish it immediately.  I want to know what it looks like underwater.  How it acts.  But I can’t.  Its 3 ‘o clock and I’m still wearing my pajamas pants.  And the nearest cold water stream is six hours away.  The pot of extra strength coffee doesn’t help either.  But as with most fevers, this will pass.  And I won’t tie again until mid-season, when I really need it.  I’ll clean up my caffeine-fueled frenzy of feathers and organize my freshly tied patterns in neat little rows.  But I know, next spring, when the pine pollen sticks the windshield of the car,  I’ll start thinking.. I need midges..