Here's a little known fact about tight loops, often considered the Holy Grail of flycasting. A tight loop is the de facto fly line response to a mechanically sound casting stroke. That's right. If you've got a sound casting stroke (and use it in the correct length), you'll automatically produce a tight loop. On every cast. The physics of flycasting simply don't allow it to be otherwise. In fact, to not throw a tight loop requires a conscious adjustment to the casting stroke.
So if you're struggling to throw tight loops, or to throw them consistently, it's likely that your casting stroke contains flaws. Since nothing will improve your fishing more than improving your casting, fixing a faulty stroke is an excellent idea. A good instructor can easily get you started on the right path. Practice will be essential too, of course, but acquiring a good casting stroke isn't as hard as most people think.
While fishing a fine Baetis hatch on the Henry’s Fork recently, I watched as the I friend I was with struggled to fool the rising fish that surrounded him. This surprised me. My friend is a competent angler who knows fishing, the river and its flies—no stranger to success, he. I watched him try a number of different flies, without luck. He tried different fish too, directing his casts towards any riser that dared show within his considerable casting range. What he did not try, conspicuously, was changing his casting position. Feet firmly planted, he fished as the proverbial immovable object. On a river like the Henry’s Fork, beset as it is with tortuous surface currents that love to drag a fly around, this can be the kiss of death. In the end, relying on nothing but brute determination and casting skill, my friend netted a few trout. But his success was nothing like normal.
It reminded me of something Vince Marinaro wrote about presentation. This, from his 1976 book, In the Ring of the Rise: “…the modern, narrow, oversimplistic approach of relying on [fly] pattern alone…instead of observing the trout and exploring all the available options in the all-important matter of presentation.” This was precisely my friend’s downfall. He had engaged in too much fly changing and had paid too little attention to presentation. When we’d finished for the day, he admitted as much. He said that he’d failed to “fish with my feet.” It was simply easier to stand in one spot and try different flies rather than wade carefully and fish from the spots which offered the best possible drift. I certainly understood; I’ve been guilty of this myself. But fishing with your feet is such an important part of good presentation that we would all do well not to overlook it.
For a couple seasons now, my co-worker Bucky McCormick has been going retrograde with his flies. He's been tying and fishing classic patterns. By classic I mean older flies with some degree of historical significance, like the Quill Gordon, Brown Bivisible and Black-Nose Dace. Patterns that practically nobody fishes anymore, especially here in the West. (Last time I used one myself was in the early 1980's, gulper fishing on Hebgen Lake. My fly of choice then was a #16 Adams—a classic, to be sure, and still a good imitation of a Callibaetis mayfly.) Bucky's decision to shun modern flies in favor of the classics is far from a judgment on their effectiveness. Rather, it's a statement about their beauty. Or lack thereof. With an emphasis on unconventional form and a reliance on synthetic materials, Bucky finds modern flies lacking in both grace and elegance. To him, they're simply...ugly. And having fished for decades, he's arrived at a point in his angling career where ugly no longer works for him. He sees beauty in the classics, and beauty matters now.
I found that idea quite interesting. It prompted me to ask him if he thought the beauty in a classic fly was intrinsic to the fly itself, or whether it lay strictly in the eye of the beholder. He said that it was inherent in the flies themselves: beauty as a function of both design and the employment of all-natural materials. I wasn't as certain about that, and decided to argue the other side. A Quill Gordon, I proffered, acquired its shape because it was nothing more than a knock-off of 18th-century English mayfly design. Beauty never entered the equation as a design concern—on either side of the Atlantic. It was function and form that drove design. As for the materials, well, the tiers of old had no choice. Organic was their sole option. So I argued that the conception of beauty in a Catskill dry fly—or any other classic fly for that matter—simply depended on when a person arrived to the sport. Anglers old enough to have been exposed to the classics at a young age, or when they were still widely fished, tend to consider them in aesthetic terms. They'll use words like "pretty" or "beautiful" to describe a fly. Younger fishermen think differently. They aren't nearly as apt to describe or draw a distinction between flies—classic or modern—based on aesthetic concerns.
Bucky wasn't buying it. Truth be told, I'm not sure I was, either. Because deep down inside, I see and feel the same things in the classics that he does. The stylish lines of a Catskill dry fly, the flair of a well-tied Henryville Special, the elegance in a sleek, antediluvian bucktail streamer—it's all beautiful to me, too. But unlike Bucky, I'm not sure I can trust my judgment. I've been fishing for a long time too, and I'm suspicious that my views have been unduly colored by a romanticism rooted in those many years of experience. I question whether I'm truly capable of escaping that experience and making an unbiased judgment. And so while Bucky harbors no doubts, I've been left to wonder, still, where does the beauty in a fly lie?
The day the upper Madison closed to fishing for the spring, I ran into an old friend who was fresh off a midge emergence near Three Dollar Bridge. I was curious about his fishing. He told me that he'd struggled, managing to catch only a couple trout despite an abundance of midges and rising fish. This was out of character for him. He retrieved his flies from his car and showed me the ones he used, asking what I thought. All his flies were viable imitations; any of them should have sufficed. I asked about his presentation. He said he didn't think it had been a problem, but added quickly that he had been fishing two flies at once, both dry, separated by about eighteen inches of tippet. Might this have been an issue, he wondered? I replied that it was certainly possible.
Two reasons come to mind: inaccurate casting and drag. Watching anglers fishing two flies, I'm struck by how often accuracy doesn't seem to rate as a paramount concern. It's as if they figure that by adding a second fly to their leader—doubling their chances for success, goes the theory—a reasonably close cast somehow becomes close enough. But no matter how many flies we fish at once, we're never absolved of the responsibility for accurate casting. Especially on the Madison. (The pocketwater of the Madison flows in stark contrast to that of, say, the flats of the Missouri or Bighorn, where pods of trout feeding shoulder-to-shoulder can often be cast to with little regard for accuracy, since even imprecise casts will cover at least a few fish.)
I asked my friend which of his two flies—dropper or stretcher—he had aimed at the trout. I received nothing so much as a blank look, until suddenly he realized where I was headed. Turns out he wasn't casting at all with the intention of making sure that at least one of his flies drifted precisely over the fish, but rather was just hoping that one or both would be close enough to draw a rise. I noted that by casting in this manner, it was likely that neither fly properly covered the fish.
As for drag, I think with two flies it's more difficult to avoid. Two flies give the currents more to act on, and they often do. This can sometimes be alleviated by spreading the flies farther apart, but that often leads back to problems of accuracy. And even when we do adequately control which fly we want the trout to see, what happens to the other? Does it land randomly, in contrary currents, further compromising the float of its partner?
Not having been there to watch, I can't say definitively exactly what was behind my friend's lack of success. But the use of two flies sounded awfully suspicious. (He acknowledged that many of his casts that day ended up dragging.) Before adding another fly to your leader, be conscious of your reasons for doing so. If you simply think it doubles your odds of success, proceed with caution. Multiple flies often hurt more than they help.
Note: Beyond the idea of simply catching more fish, there are other reasons for fishing two flies. Many anglers find that they can keep better tabs on a small dry fly with the addition of a more visible partner. And getting nymphs down deep—especially in small sizes—is often more easily accomplished by using multiple flies.