My friends describe me as a collector, my wife calls me a pack rat, and my parents refer to me as obsessive. I suppose they’re all correct, and I don’t mind because I’ve been called much worse.
My fascination with flies began the moment I found my father’s old fly box in a dusty corner of the attic. There were a few cork popping bugs and all of the standard wet flies of the day: McGinty, Black Gnat, Royal Coachman, Yellow Sally, maybe even a Parmachene Belle or Red Ibis. They were pure magic to me, especially when my father told me that he had tied them. “How do you tie flies?” I asked, as he admired the contents of the fly box that I’d just put into order. I never put anything away, so my diligence had not gone unnoticed.
“I think my old fly tying kit is around here somewhere,” he said, but several
fruitless hours later we emerged empty handed from the hot, dusty attic. “I guess it got thrown out,” he said. “Or, maybe I gave it away.”

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