Satisfaction is not guaranteed by Savs

In another life I picture myself as what the papers would call a ‘roving correspondent’. I would travel the world with a single carry bag containing my notepad, camera and fly rod and submit to my editors Pulitzer-grade pieces from the banks of famous rivers, unexplored valleys or the edges of the most distant atolls. If you are picturing a sort of Lee Wulff cross Indiana Jones character you’re pretty much dead on target.

As I take my seat it occurs to me that I’m nothing short of a pantomime of the globetrotting angler-slash-journalist.

I’m dressed in a khaki SA Flyfishing Mag branded fishing shirt and my mandatory baseball cap has a fly pinned into it right next to a flyfishing mega-corporation logo. OK, granted, it’s not much of a fly, it’s not even one of those cool multicoloured articulated streamer with a PG16 name, it’s just a size 18 emerger on a light wire dry fly hook that I bit off my leader and was too lazy to put away the last time I was on a stream. The fly isn’t even visible in the obligatory preflight self-promotional selfie - but screw airport security, I’m a hardcore flyfisher, bruh. What would really complete my look, and the object of my current adoration, is the oiled linen satchel that Doc has just placed in the locker above us. I’ll admit, I’m more than a little covetous of it; accessories are more important to us travelling hardcore flyfishing journalists than they are to teenage girls. Bruh.

We’re airborne now and I’m alternately tapping these words into the screen of my iPhone or staring contemplatively out the window at what I think is the Eastern Cape screaming by some thirty thousand feet below us. Just to be clear, I was born in the metric age and have no workable concept of how far thirty thousand feet is. All I know

is that when a trout breaches a foot in length it’s “decent” and the that sum of my knowledge of aeronautical facts has been entirely informed by watching Hollywood movies. While you may never take pause to think about it, movies are probably not the best source on the real nature or the reliability of air travel. In the mind of a screenwriter a plane is either at thirty thousand feet, falling quickly from thirty thousand feet or lying on the ground in a smoking heap of tangled metal and v a r i o u s s c a t t e r e d l i m b s a f t e r a n uncontrolled descent from thirty thousand feet.

I force these thoughts from my mind and continue writing. I never planned to write up here, but Doc and I have exhausted all topics of conversation appropriate for a mode of transport where the stranger sitting next to you is nearer to you than some of your birthmarks.

Flying is horrible and I’m just not made for it. I’m a road-trip sort of guy. Garage shop pies, grey coffee and carbonated drinks in the right ambiance have a certain charm to them that even the best airline food fails to capture. Tapping the driver on the shoulder to pull over and peeing up against a tyre is an existential delight compared to the dank claustrophobic squeeze of an airplane ‘head’ - and there are no smoke detectors out there on the road either.

In a truck you know exactly where you are and if you happen to become disorientated the countryside passes by slowly enough to work it out. In strong contrast to this, the highlights of this flight so far have been the two hour delay, the eyedropper volume can of warm coke (that is no longer free and which now costs exactly what a case of beer did back when I was a student) and the safety demonstration that climaxed in a demonstration of how to buckle and unbuckle a seat belt.

I stare out again at the desiccated topography of what I’m sort of reasonably sure is the Eastern Cape. We occasionally pass through the most nebulous of clouds. I can’t help but wonder whether the population of the largely rural area below us are staring up at them in the hope that they carry the promise of rain. From where I’m sitting I can see that they don’t and t h a t t h e y a re t h e m e t e o ro l o g i c a l equivalent of the tin foil stars that we would make as kids and suspended over our nativity scenes - a parody of the real thing.

Chief among these anxieties, and the source of my perennial angst, is the quality, number, effectiveness, durability and desirability of my flies. In a world where it’s easy from an airplane to write and upload one’s writing to a secure server located somewhere north of the arctic circle it’s no surprise that entire ‘online communities’ have proliferated around shared hobbies and interests. Fly tying is one of these and the number of websites and social media accounts dedicated to the art and mechanics of fly tying is astounding.

This is an age where the approval of a trout is far less important than the affirmation from the ‘community’. The number of fish that rose to your pattern is inconsequential compared to the number of likes or shares or whatever the modern equivalent of a standing ovation is.

It gets even more bizarre. Today you can be “pro staff” for a hook or a brand of glue. Think about that again. Take your time. You can be an officially appointed endorser of what is, effectively, nail varnish. How exactly you go about being an official, appointed groupie for fancy nail varnish I’m not sure. Maybe you’re born with it?

To be honest, the number of truly unique flies that have been contrived over the course of the last few decades is low. Most of what can be done has been done and everything else is a variation on an exiting theme. Occasionally a new ‘hot’ material or method will arrive and the clamour to incorporate it into an existing style or pattern and to pass it off as something new will reach fever pitch - but they all look just about the same to me. We all know that the new model of South Africa’s favourite bakkie is just the old one with a new grille and headlights. I mock, but I envy the guys who can sit at a vice and go through the same motions that I do, wind on the same feathers and twist on the same furs as I but whose flies are pieces of art and are nothing like my wanton butchery. Mine look for all the word as though they’ve suffered a savage blunt force trauma and are best suited to be photographed and used as warning labels on dubbing packets - Caution: Satisfaction Is Not Guaranteed.

What some tiers are able to achieve is nothing short of astounding. As in the case of presentation salmon fly tying the hobby has split from the mainstream and operates parallel to, if not completely independently of actual angling.

What is mind-blowing is that most of these patterns are one-offs. They have never and will never see water. That they may not float, sink or stay upright as designed and might explode on impact or after contact with a fish into a fog of their composite animal parts is not something that bothers the post-modern fly dresser. These are not fishing flies. Sure, their fish incredible slaying propensity will be affirmed in the comments section of the post, but they exist only to be tied, photographed, named and set aside to slip into obscurity.

Juxtapose all of this with the fact that one of the most effective flies around is an inch of red chenille bound to a medium wire hook and you start to get an idea of why new entrants to the sport battle to come to terms with it.

Anyhow, we’re home now after a wonderful three days with good friends on some of the world’s most beautiful trout streams. I am restored, reinvogorated and it seems that my anxieties over the contents of my fly boxes was misplaced - some of my patterns caught fish and some didn’t. But this is how it is supposed to be.