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The Art of Tying Fishing Flies Can Get Very, Very Complicated

The Art of Tying Fishing Flies Can Get Very, Very Complicated

(Bloomberg Businessweek) -- Henry Hoffman started fishing 70 years ago, at age 15, and began tying his own flies about five years after that. By 1962 he was earning $1.15 for every dozen flies he sold.

Eventually he discovered a different way to turn a profit: raise chickens whose feathers would serve as high-quality hackle for other fishermen’s flies. “I kept breeding continuously,” the fly-tying Hall of Famer says. “It genetically improved them to the point that instead of getting $3 a bird, which wasn’t enough to cover their feed, I was getting $40 or $50.”

He became known for his ­“grizzly” hackle, feathers from a black-and-white-striped descendant of the barred Plymouth Rock rooster, which is one of the few breeds to develop in North America. By 1970, sporting goods retailer Orvis was lauding his superior feathers in its newsletter and calling them “super-grade grizzly.” He sold the business in 1989 to premium breeder Tom Whiting.

Since then, Hoffman has focused more on the art of fly tying—he was named Oregon Fly Tyer of the Year by Fly Fishers International in 2000, and in 2008 he won the Buz Buszek Memorial Fly Tying Award, which has been called the “Heisman Trophy of fly-fishing.”

Now 85, Hoffman lives in Warrenton, Ore. (population 5,500), where this Green Highlander Hairwing pattern hangs in his dining room. It’s become a popular one to display because of the color ­combinations—Hoffman uses 13 kinds of material in his version—but it originally earned its rep as a surefire way to land salmon on the East Coast. “Back when there were wild salmon on the East Coast,” he says. 

He broke down how it all comes together:

The Art of Tying Fishing Flies Can Get Very, Very Complicated

BACKGROUND: The pattern of the Green Highlander Hairwing first originated in Scotland, Hoffman says, where it wasn’t popular. Its fortunes changed in North America, where it became famous for its success in catching salmon on the East Coast and, out west, steelhead, which begin in fresh water but swim out to salt water, then return to spawn at 25 to 30 pounds. But they’re not really feeding at that point. “Most flies try to imitate what a fish would eat,” Hoffman says, “but migratory fish don’t do that.” Instead, they’re attracted to bright colors—hence this pattern’s success.

The Art of Tying Fishing Flies Can Get Very, Very Complicated

COST: With Hoffman’s background in breeding, it’s no shock that he uses premium products. “There’s $5 worth of material in there!” he says with a laugh. “People aren’t going fishing with a fly that expensive.” (Normal flies retail for about $2.) Instead, he’ll arrange it with others in a fly plate and donate them for fundraising auctions at Fly Fishers International events. A plate of six has gone for as much as $800.

The Art of Tying Fishing Flies Can Get Very, Very Complicated

GOODS:  Among the more exotic hackle that Hoffman uses is the golden pheasant in the tail of the fly and jungle cock, which can cost as much as $1 per feather. Green chickabou comes from one of his breeds that mimics the feathers of the marabou, an African stork that’s become a protected animal. There are more simple flies, Hoffman allows. Because of all the material, this one can take up to two hours to tie. He can finish flies that require only three pieces of material in about five minutes.

The Art of Tying Fishing Flies Can Get Very, Very Complicated

THE BIG FINISH: The most common mistake tyers make, Hoffman says, is with the final knot at the head of the fly. “It can be a bulky mess because you haven’t left enough space to finish,” he says. He compares it to learning how to tie a Windsor knot: “I always found when I was doing a new pattern that the third, fourth, and fifth flies always looked better than the first one or two.”

Four Other Fly Tyers to Know

Sherry Steele, president of the Oregon Council of Fly Fishers International, has been tying flies for more than a decade. “I tie anything that looks or acts like a bug,” she says. “Or one that’s just pretty.” She’s especially fond of the classic salmon flies, and, with a husband who orders about 250 patterns a year, she’ll do custom tying for both of them until they find one that works. The cat-and-mouse aspect of it keeps it challenging. “You picked the time of year, the river, the fish, the time and place, and you’ve fooled the fish,” she says. “It’s full circle. Once you’ve done that, there’s no looking back.”

Pennsylvania-based Jerry Coviello, chairman of the board of the FFI Fly Tying Group, says most people learn to fly-fish first and then learn how to tie flies. “I did it the other way around, which I feel made me a better fisherman,” he says. “I know what the trout or fish are looking for. I learned what they ate and what I needed to imitate.” He encourages aspiring anglers to think about more than just trout when it comes to flies—he’s caught bonefish, stripers, bass, and others on his fly rods. 

The Art of Tying Fishing Flies Can Get Very, Very Complicated

What sets Stuart Hardy apart is his diligent sourcing of vintage materials from around the globe. “I scour the world for rare materials and make them as true to life and historical as possible,” says the U.K. native. “But I also tie flies on the other end—the artistic flies.” Hardy is one of maybe only 20 who go to that extreme. “It’s one of those dying hobbies,” he says, “although like a lot of obscure hobbies, the internet has breathed life into it.” He’ll create commissions for select clients. 

For Shawn Davis, flies are an artistic pursuit that can be turned into fine jewelry to be worn or, more often, just to be displayed. “I don’t have a lot of interest in replicating things from 100 years ago, making facsimiles of famous patterns,” he says. “Instead, I prefer to invent my own and make things that people have never seen before.” After a fishing trip with his brother 20 years ago, Davis found he enjoyed the tying as much as or more than fishing. “So I started making these jewelry-level flies, making hooks out of gold,” he says. His Rumpelstiltskin looks to be woven from straw into gold like the fairy tale; the Fire fly, on the other hand, is meant to appear as though it were burning underwater.

To contact the editor responsible for this story: Justin Ocean at jocean1@bloomberg.net, Chris Rovzar

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