Fly Tying Season

 Why We Tie

There’s a curious kind of peace that settles over you when you sit down at a fly-tying bench. The world slows. The phone stops buzzing. The to-do list, the email inbox, the traffic—none of it exists here. It’s just you, the vise, and a bit of fur and feather. Fly tying isn’t about efficiency. If you’re in a hurry, you’re already doing it wrong.

My bench is simple, sturdy, and smells faintly of cedar and old coffee. On it sits an assortment of tools: a bobbin, a pair of scissors sharp enough to shave a gnat’s beard, hackle pliers, a whip finisher, and a ceramic half-empty cup I refuse to wash because it holds memories as well as it holds coffee. The materials—deer hair, pheasant tail fibers, peacock herl, rabbit fur—are stored in a chaos that only I understand.

When people ask me why I tie my own flies, I don’t try to explain it outright. I could say it’s cheaper than buying flies (it’s not), or that it’s a practical skill for a serious angler (questionable), or that it guarantees I’ll have the exact pattern I need (until I lose it to a low-hanging branch). But none of that gets to the heart of it.

The Ritual of Creation

To tie a fly is to participate in an ancient tradition. Long before modern anglers started chucking graphite rods, people were sitting down at benches like this, turning scraps of feather and silk into something that looked alive. There’s a kind of poetry in that.

You start with a bare hook, a tiny curve of steel that looks more like a problem than a possibility. Wrap some thread around it, and you’ve taken the first step. Maybe you’re tying a woolly bugger or a blue-winged olive, something to tempt the trout into thinking it’s getting a free meal.

The materials matter, but the spirit matters more. A pinch of squirrel tail doesn’t just mimic a mayfly; it carries the memory of the hunt or the hike where you found it. A feather clipped from the wing of a pheasant is more than an imitation—it’s a story, one tied into every wrap of thread.

Why We Tie

We tie because there’s something deeply satisfying about creating a tiny, fragile work of art that serves a purpose. A fly is beautiful, yes, but it’s also functional. You don’t hang it on a wall or display it in a gallery. You take it to the water, where it might last five minutes or five hours, depending on how clever the fish or clumsy the angler.

There’s joy in imagining the moment a trout rises to your fly, its body cutting through the cold water to inspect the lie you’ve spun. And when it takes the fly—well, that’s something you made. You didn’t just fool the fish; you connected with it, through art and craft and patience.

But here’s the truth of it: We tie because we love the doing. The act itself is the reward. Wrapping thread, folding feathers, clipping and trimming until the hook becomes something else—it’s meditative, an antidote to the modern world. It reminds us that good things take time, that creation is its own kind of joy.

A Life in Feathers and Fur

I don’t tie to save money. Lord knows I’ve spent more on materials than I’ll ever recoup. I don’t tie to impress anyone; most people look at a fly and see nothing but a glorified hairball. I tie because it grounds me. It connects me to something older and quieter, something I can’t quite name but feel in my bones.

At the end of the day, fly tying isn’t about the fish. It’s about the ritual, the tradition, and the satisfaction of holding something in your hand and saying, I made this.

So, I’ll keep tying, even when I have more flies than I could ever use. Because every time I sit down at the bench, I’m reminded of the kind of life I want to lead: one that’s patient, deliberate, and made beautiful by the little things.