HOW TO TIE THE GOLDEN RETRIEVER

Developed by Jim Finn on Virginia's Mossy Creek, the Golden Retriever is a fly that has seen success the world over for trout, smallmouth, steelhead, salmon, and a host of saltwater species.

Photo by Matt Reilly.

    A typical streamer, the Retriever can be swung, stripped, and some prefer to fish it under an indicator.  It's easy to tie too, and requires many basic skills that make it a great first fly to tie.

    In my own testing of this fly, I have found it deadly on stocked and holdover trout.  In fact, this fly, apart from woolley buggers and the kreelex, is often the first and only fly I tie on when fishing for meat, or simply bullying stocked trout for the fun of it.

    The keys to this fly are the red underbody and the pulsating estaz or cactus chenille.  Make sure you lay a solid base of red threat on the wire core, wrap the eztaz creating even gaps wide enough to let the underbody show through, and palmer the chenille while wrapping to ensure all of the material angles backwards and none is trapped by your forward wraps.  All materials can be purchased at Mossy Creek Fly Fishing, or via their online store.  Tie a few up in peach (below), purple, root beer, and green, and have at it!

*These instructions are for a peach pattern.  To change, simply match the marabou color with the cactus chenille.*

Materials:

Hook:        #10 3X Streamer Hook
Thread:     Red Flat Waxed Nylon
Head:        5/32" Gold Bead
Lead:        .025" Lead Wire
Body:        Gold or Peach Estaz
Tail:          Peach Marabou

Instructions:

1. Crimp down hook barb and slip on bead.
2. Wrap wire about 16 turns and lodge into the bead head to lock in place.
3. Attach thread behind wire and build a dam of thread level with the wire wraps, and tapering towards the bend.  This will allow you to create an even underbody after tying in the tail.
4. Tie in a clump of marabou about 1 1/4 the length of the hook, and cut off tag end at end of the wire wraps.
5. Tie in a strand of Estaz at the hook bend.  Always pay attention to the direction of the fibers, and tie on so that they slant back.
6. Form a smooth, even under-body by wrapping thread towards the bead.  Remember that the thread alone is your under-body, and should be built carefully.
7. Wrap the Estaz forward in 5-6 evenly spaced turns, and tie off behind the head.
8. Form a red collar behind the bead with a few extra turns of the thread, whip finish, and add head cement if desired.

SALMON RIVER PART II--STEELHEADING WITH RANDY JONES

I went to bed chilled the evening of our first day in Pulaski, New York, following a dangerous stunt that can only be inspired by a fish and the promise of an epic story.  My body was tired—the kind of tired that leaves your eyelids without a comfortable place to rest.  Nevertheless, I squeezed them closed.  Four-thirty would arrive early.

Photo by Matt Reilly

        There was no moon as we walked briskly, clad in waders and layered in cold weather gear, through the parking lot.  The man to formally introduce us to the river, Randy Jones (The Yankee Angler) emerged from a weathered SUV, resting his forearms on the bow of the aluminum driftboat in tow. 

        “Good morning!  Got everything you need?”

        Six o’ clock.  We slid downriver to the creaking of oars and the rippling of current on the hull.   Dark blobs emerged around every bend—driftboats anchored on spots known to hold fish.

        When the darkness lifted, Randy began rigging rods systematically, reviewing the fine points of his style of fishing.  High-sticking is the technique—maintaining a high rod tip in order to hold the fly line clear of the current and achieve a dead drift with a weighted nymph.  Casting is improvised—not the purist’s cup-of-tea, but a technique undoubtedly effective.

        We began flinging flies as soon as the sun crept over the horizon, and hooked up almost immediately.  Fish on!

        The fish soon lost the hook, but our hopes were fresh.  Three more hookups in the following minutes kept the spirit high.

        On the Salmon River, there is a definite tradeoff between leader size and number of hookups.  That being said, smaller diameter leaders result in more breakoffs and lost fish.  On the Salmon, anglers count success in hookups, not fish. 

        By mid-morning, we had fought several fish.  The bank anglers were edging closer to the boat.

        “Try to snag their line!” one of them whispered.  But such tricks are mediocre.

        “We’ll take it,” voiced, Randy, reaching out to free the jealous angler’s fly from one of our own.  No one gets to inspect a working man’s flies.

        Randy had just begun to count his blessings when hookups diminished.  It was about this time that someone let fly that Randy was not the only writer on board.  Writer to writer, I joked that the light in which he would be portrayed in this article would be directly proportional to how many fish came to net.  For his sake, I hoped we’d catch a fish.  I was starting to like the guy.

        In response to the lull, my dad opted to fish a thicker leader, to increase the chances of landing a steelhead.

        His next hookup remained solid for several minutes.  Tension mounted as rod sweeps inched the fish closer and closer to the net.  Finally, the first fish of the trip was scooped up and tailed!  The fish was unhooked, and torpedoed back into the icy river.

  

        Another lull ensued.  I opted to fish a lighter leader to increase hookups when my screaming reel brought action back to the scene!  I kept the fish hooked, allowing him several runs before bringing him boatside.    In the current, he surfaced, revealing a gargantuan white mouth and scarlet lateral line—a strong buck!

        Another run downstream seemed to be his last.  I swept the line over the stern of the boat, throwing the fish off balance, and guiding him into slower current to be netted.  Just a few feet from the net, a soft headshake loosed the hook and dashed the hopes of all on board.

        “You don’t want me to tell you how big that fish was,” Randy said solemnly.  “Probably 15 pounds.”  He then began painting a verbal picture of the fish in a shaken tone—a classic symptom of what can accurately be described here as “buck” fever.

        Recovered from disappointment, he jabbed:  “You might have a better chance catching a fish if you took up golf!”  I reminded him that deadlines often tempt me to take my stress out on my characters, and may even cause me to forget any fish caught at all!  Not likely, but it seemed to help.

        As the afternoon grew older, hookups increased.  In the last hour, a subtle take got my hands sweating.  I made a hard hook set, determined to drive the hook home.  A few minutes of elevated battling--upstream runs, headshakes, and long, screaming sprints downstream--followed, before I inched her close enough to be netted.  Finally!

        Immediately after releasing the fish, my dad hooked up with, and landed, another!  A bigger hen—a beautiful specimen.  He held the fish for the camera; and when my shutter clicked, the scene was instilled in my mind—the last moments of our Salmon River experience; and hopefully the first of many. 

Originally published in the Rural Virginian

AN ADRENALINE-SOAKED SALMON RIVER EXPERIENCE

Maybe it was the wonder of wetting a line in a world-class fishery, the hours of fishing with just one encounter with a fish, or the pure size and strength of the steelhead holding before us in the current.  Perhaps it was a combination of factors that had me standing on the bank of the Salmon River, shaken and hot with adrenaline, soaked—my waders filled—with 35-degree icy water.

               

        In honor of spring break, my dad and I headed north to Pulaski, New York, where spring is evidenced by the Salmon River swelling with snowmelt and the newly-arrived steelhead spawning in its waters.  The drive up began early in the morning, under a light drizzle.

        North of Charlottesville drizzle turned to sleet.  A quick glance at the weather radar threatened to prolong our 10-hour drive.  450 miles of heavy snow and sleet added two hours.

                

        Our tires hit gravel in Pulaski, at Whitaker’s Sports Shop and Motel.

                

        The next morning, after purchasing licenses and taking in a late breakfast at a local diner, we identified a point on the river map and followed the highway to the Schoolhouse Pool, on the upper river.

Upstate New York woods.
Photo by Matt Reilly.

                  

        The first thing that strikes anglers new to the Salmon River is the intensity of its flow.  It’s a serious river, where wading can be dangerous.  At that, the water level is controlled by dams on the upper river; and conditions can change drastically overnight.

                

        Wading into the tail of the Pool, the water was relatively low.  Nevertheless, the current lived up to its reputation.  I stripped line from my reel.

        What happened next was almost attitude-shattering.  When I grabbed my fly to clear my leader of the rod tip, three feet of the rod tip shattered like a brittle twig!  Just as I had swallowed the initial shock, icy water began trickling down my left leg.  I glanced nervously down, to see a puncture in my waders.  So much for being prepared…

                

        We purchased a cheap replacement rod and wader repair kit at another local shop.  An hour later, we had a renewed shot at fishing.

                

        We located a small-but-fertile tributary to the Salmon, parked, and hiked to its mouth.  The mile-long walk prevented many from fishing the confluence pool, which we had to ourselves.

Steelhead roe means we're on the right track.
Photo by Matt Reilly

        Anticipating the deeper water of the main river, I tied on a bead-headed tri-colored Woolly Bugger of my own creation.  I added more weight to the line, and slid into the river on the edge of a promising run.

                

        Keeping my rod high and fly line off the water, the fly trailed bottom, promising the fly was in the strike zone.  After several good drifts, the line stopped, and I lifted my rod to check its source.

Photo by Matt Reilly

        The line went tight and nosed upstream before rocketing out towards the opposite bank!  A chrome steelhead weighing almost 15 pounds thrashed at the surface twice in front of me, turned, and began a long run downstream.

         Two logs extended into the river from the bank just downstream of me.  My line was angling beneath both as I sloshed towards the obstruction, rod doubled.

         Cold sweat sprouted on my forehead.  My line was wedged in the crevice of a knot on the log.  So with the cork of my rod in my mouth, I straddled a submerged tree and edged out into the river to grab the line.  Line in hand, I hand-lined the fish in several feet, cut the line from the log, and spliced the pieces.   

Backing trailing from a logjam...Photo by Matt Reilly.

         The first obstacle cleared, I edged towards the second along the river’s bank, watching my footing carefully.  The line was more simply caught on the second log.  I crawled onto a stout overhanging tree, and edged towards the snag, pausing briefly to test the line for sign of life on the end—still there.

          I grasped a shoreline sapling tightly, as I worked forward.  Suddenly, I lost my footing.  My feet swung, the water rising to just above my chest waders, soaking my chest and legs in freezing water!  Enduring, and too far to turn back, I plunged my rod and arms into the water at my feet and passed the rod under the log.  The line popped free and connected tightly with a fish one hundred yards downriver.

          But the direct pressure inspired a violent headshake in the fish.  With that, the fish was gone, and the line sagged.

          I crawled out of the water, soaked, but warm with adrenaline, disbelieving.  My own fly had produced my first encounter with a Great Lakes’ steelhead—a fish awesomely hardier and larger than any trout I’d ever seen.  The water seemed eerily quiet as adrenaline shakes set it and I shed layers of wet clothing.

          The day had turned around, but ended in a lost fish.  The trip is still young.□

          Read SALMON RIVER PART II HERE

Originally published in the Rural Virginian