Weasels Ripped My Flesh

For those of us who exist largely outside of the fly fishing orbit, it’s easy to assume that there’s something mystical about it, and that trout are the effete Chablis sippers of the fish world. While there certainly are refined, highly-technical aspects of their game, it also pays to know that some of them spend a fair amount of time down in the muck with us lizard-slingers.

For example, if you hear your fly-centric friends reference a “strike indicator,” be aware that’s a euphemism for what the average brim-buster calls a “bobber.”

Even in Alaska, we got down and dirty with plenty of trout. After the salmon go upstream and die, their decaying carcasses float back down and greedy trout with a short feeding season gobble them up, part by part. So what do the fly boys do to capitalize on that? Well, of course, they construct feathered faux flesh.

We fished these flesh flies (say that ten times fast) last week on the Brooks River, just downstream from the famous bears of Brooks Falls, and the rainbows absolutely chewed the fire out of them. I’m thinking we may be on to something here. I’m going to try to schedule a meeting with Yamamoto’s Ron Colby in the upcoming weeks, as his calendar allows, to discuss some flesh-colored Senkos or maybe a new signature series Flesh Flappin’ Hog.