What is a fly?

The question "What is a fly?" seems simple enough on the surface, but like most things in the outdoors, the deeper you dig, the more complicated it gets. The definition in my newest book—"something too light to be cast without a fly line, possessing no scent or taste, and designed to fool a fish by appearance alone"—is technically correct, I suppose. But it’s also a bit clinical. It’s like describing good old Bessie by her genus and species; it gives you the facts, but it completely misses the soul of the thing.

I am blessed with a wonderful family and a few solid friends who know exactly what I like when birthday time rolls around. They understand that I’ve often been described as something of a Swiss Army knife; I’m involved in just about every outdoor discipline from shooting and hunting to fishing. But for me, the real meditative outlet is found at the bench, reloading rifle and shotgun shells, or tying flies.

So, when I received this latest book, I did what any self-respecting printer of forty years would do. I found a quiet spot to savor the feel of the published, printed page. With a cup of mushroom coffee in hand—since caffeine has suddenly decided to become the devil in my body—I began to peruse the newest addition to my library. I love to read, but I’m always looking to learn from other media as well. I suppose I’m just active in the pursuit of finding the small answers to the questions that have been nagging me for years. Sometimes, I find little nuggets that provide a bit of relief to a cluttered mind and assist me as I age. The Davey knot is a good example of that—a simple, elegant solution that I can tie on the stream, making my life just a little bit easier.

Lately, my perspective on these pursuits has changed. I’ve realized that my body and mind have spent six decades taking. I’ve taken the rest, the recreation, the occasional limit of birds, and the peace of a trout stream. At a certain point, the ledger starts to look a little lopsided.

We often talk about the crisis facing our great conservation NGOs—the Ruffed Grouse Society, Trout Unlimited, and Ducks Unlimited of the world. They’re staring at a demographic cliff, finding it increasingly difficult to attract younger families. I suspect it’s because we’ve made the "entry fee" for these sports feel more like a bar exam than a walk in the woods. For example, in Massachusetts, a special class, beyond the basic HE class, is required if they want to pursue the youth day turkey hunt. Not judging but these small barriers add up.

In a world of digital everything, the slow pace of the outdoors can feel alien, but the real crisis isn't a lack of interest; it’s a lack of invitation.

It has become my personal conviction that if the ledger is ever going to balance, I need to be more than just a dues-paying member. This is why I’ve committed myself to the boots-on-the-ground work: Hunter Education, "Learn to Hunt" seminars, and fishing clinics. And I like using the magazine and our email blasts to reinforce these ideas and initiatives. There is a specific magic in standing behind a nervous newcomer at the five-stand range, helping them find the rhythm of breaking a few clays. It’s one thing to write a check for habitat; it’s quite another to ensure the next generation doesn't just know "what a fly is," but why it matters that they have a place to cast it.

When you spend your life in the outdoors, you eventually realize you’ve been "renting" the woods and waters. The payment isn't in license fees and stamps, but in the time you spend ensuring the next person knows how to read the rise or why we respect the bird enough to hunt it well. Giving back isn’t a chore; it’s a way to pay it forward for a lifetime of physical and mental rejuvenation.

A fly, then, is more than just a scentless, tasteless bit of deception. It is a bridge. We spend the first half of our lives trying to fool the fish, and the second half trying to make sure someone is coming up behind us who cares enough to try the same. At my age, which many of you reflect, the recreation comes less from the strike on the line and more from the steady, quiet work of being a steward. If I/we can pass on a few of those "small answers" to the nagging questions, then the time spent at the bench wasn’t just for me—it was for the craft itself.

Side Note: The History of Fly-Fishing in Fifty Flies is written by Ian Whitelaw and published in 2015 by Abrams Image, New York.