He discovered the fly as he was packing to leave.
They’d lived together in the hundred-year-old home for almost a quarter century, he and his wife. Raised a couple of kids within those out-of-plumb walls. Celebrated birthdays and holidays. Hosted dinner parties, rejoiced in successes, endured their share of defeats. All told, a life in technicolor.
All that remained now were decades of experiences sorted into boxes and bags. Beset by melancholy, his trembling fingers fumbled through a bin that held a tying vise in a zippered pouch. Inside, a tidy row of brass tools, each in its own compartment — scissors, hackle pliers, whip finisher, bodkins, dubbing needles, brushes — the trappings of the traveling fly tyer.
A small, screw-top container held a single elk hair caddis. The dubbed body was lumpy and frazzled, the hackle uneven, and the elk-hair wing was splayed at odd angles.
“Nice caddis,” he’d commented absently when she’d trotted it home. The moment the words left his mouth, he realized the praise sounded forced – like faking appreciation for an unwanted Christmas gift.
He hated himself in that moment. Hated even more that she’d taken up his hobbies. Years of warfare had left the marriage hanging by a thread. He’d given up on marital bliss long ago. Hope is that feathered thing, that perches on the branches of the soul, Dickinson wrote, but that bird had migrated long ago.
Even so, in those final, critical hours, they’d redoubled their efforts to meet needs, concede to demands, and quell resentment. She’d immersed herself in what she thought he wanted her to enjoy, attended classes at the local fly shop, bought expensive lifestyle clothing, and was forever scrolling through fishing websites.
Returning after an evening of lessons, she’d sauntered into the chilly quarters where they still shared a bed. “Tying flies is a lot easier than I expected,” she began, with an edge of overconfidence. “You just follow the formula.”
Then she proceeded to retrace the steps aloud.
“First, you lay down a base of thread,” she directed, “then tie in the feather. After that, you dub the body and wind it with hackle.” She pantomimed as she spoke. “By the way,” she added, “the instructors at the shop told me this new UV material would catch more fish than that dubbing you sent along.” She wagged the plastic package of overpriced fuzz to reinforce her point.
“After that, you grab a clump of elk hair and lash it down with a nail knot.
Nail knot? He bit his tongue. She was beaming with newfound knowledge, and he didn’t have the heart to tell her the knot was a whip finish.
Just follow the formula.
The day the divorce paperwork was filed, deep, sorrowful sobs echoed through the empty house, making him want to flee from himself. “Bottomed-out grief,” was how a friend referred to those humbling episodes. To his horror, it wasn’t an isolated incident, and he blanched at the memory.
On their final anniversary, they’d traveled to Wisconsin’s Driftless Region in yet another failed attempt to repair the relationship. That September was unseasonably hot and the fishing was difficult.
One humid evening near Viroqua, she caught a stunning, ruby-spotted trout. A large, healthy fish. In those days she was vibrant and athletic, like the trout. Full of life, even amidst their issues. Standing there, cradling the brown like a newborn, she looked effervescent. That’s how he wanted to remember her.
Just follow the formula, she insisted. It’ll all work out. He’d never excelled at math, but even his rudimentary knowledge told him none of this added up. He’d spent sleepless nights staring at the ceiling, trying to figure it out, but the formula didn’t follow conventional wisdom.
The foundation of their relationship was threadbare. You could almost hear the seams straining and rivets popping, like a middle-aged man tugging on a pair of jeans that hadn’t fit since high school.
Follow the formula.
Fly fishing is based on formulas. A leader consists of 60% butt, 20% taper, and 20% terminal tippet. If there is any deviation from the recipe, the fly won’t turn over, and the cast becomes a monofilament shitshow.
A few of his friends built fine bamboo rods. They were fastidious about the process, meticulous about precise tapers. Parabolas were all physics, and the ability to lay out a smooth cast depended upon strict methodology.
Fly line companies employed the same basic formulaic methods, incorporating precise shooting-head lengths to load the rod and turn the leader over properly. All science. All formulas.
The art of casting worked the same way. Steady acceleration on the pickup, an abrupt stop on the back cast, and even forward cast. Performed correctly, the line, leader, and fly settle upon the water with a subtle disturbance, like a falling leaf.
Relationships never followed formulas. In theory, marriages are based on mutual respect and affection. Unfortunately, science can’t supersede the fact that sometimes love isn’t enough to sustain connection, just as a faulty knot can’t bind the strongest tippet.
He drove to the river in the pre-dawn darkness. Mist rose from the water and he sat there on the bank as sky brightened. An aluminum tube lay in the grass nearby. He slid the bamboo rod from its sleeve and pushed the segments together.
The leader looked fine, but last season’s tippet had to go. Should he be fortunate enough to hook a trout, none of the connections could fail or the fish would be lost. The formula worked, but only if the system operated in unison.
An open aluminum fly box hundreds of options. Neat rows of imitations for every feasible hatch and phase of insect life. This late in the season terrestrials were sure to get some attention.
That was it, then. Everything was ready. Before setting off, he paused for a moment, murmuring a quiet prayer of thanks, grateful for something familiar. Then he set off upstream to follow the only other formula he knew.
