Painful reality sets in – I don’t have a single salmonfly pattern in my box, and suddenly my meager caddis feels like trying to pawn off a puny cocktail weiner at an all-you-can-eat bratwurst fest...

It was the way my timing usually seems to go with these sought-after hatches - purely

by accident and entirely unprepared. A few days prior, small, dark caddis had been the

ticket, and I return well-stocked this time, with expectations of pulling off that rare

occurence (for me anyway) of being in the right place, at the right time, with the right

flies. The caddis are still there, fluttering in dense clouds streamside. Taking this as

a sure sign of the obvious, I tie one on and wade in.  An hour later, I have a

foul-hooked six-incher to show for it. Not exactly how I had imagined all my

preparation paying off. And then, looking around, I see what appears to be an injured

hummingbird trying to make its way across the river, and almost drop my rod into the

water – the first salmonfly sighting of the season. Panning the horizon I pick out a few

more. Not quite enough to call it a full-on hatch yet, but still…salmonflies. Duly noted.

I faithfully keep fishing my tiny Goddard caddis till it can no longer fairly be called a

dry fly, with little interest on either end of the line.

Bored, I make my way back to shore, and there they are, teeming all over every rock

and tree – huge, dark nymphs

crawling out of the water, and the

black and orange adults emerging.

There’s something creepy, downright

preternatural, about a salmonfly

hatch that brings to mind all the

1950’s alien invasion movies I

watched religiously as a kid. Images

of huge salmonflies terrorizing the

good people of Des Moines, a

salmonfly with the head of Vincent

Price emerging from the laboratory,

laughing maniaclly as a Tesla coil arcs and crackles in the background…

NIGHT OF THE LIVING SALMONFLIES.

When I finally get off my knees and look around at the big picture, they are in the air

everywhere, and trout - BIG trout, are slamming them on the surface. Painful reality

sets in – I don’t have a single salmonfly pattern in my box, and suddenly my meager

caddis feels like trying to pawn off a puny cocktail weiner at an all-you-can-eat

bratwurst fest. Desperation would be an understatement. I switch to the biggest

rubber-leg golden stone pattern I have with me and manage to get a few interested

rises, but no takes. Meanwhile, the feast explodes all around, and I’m on the verge

of tearing my hair out. It’s a weekday, I have the place to myself, the early stages

of THE SALMONFLY HATCH, DAMMIT, and I don’t have a single plausible imitation…

and from that sad state of mind the idea hits; something I’ve done a thousand times

before, though never intentionally. I shove the hook deep into my thumb and apply

pressure till a few drops of the needed dye begins to drip. Smearing the blood into

the yellow floss provides the perfect orange hue. I cast again, and it works.

Note to self – update tetanus shot.