Study of a Chronic Case of Hyper-tie-toomuchis: Specifically in relation to Chanos Chanos (Milkfish)

The weather is changing for many folks as autumn rolls in. Here in Montana, it’s rushing in with more than its usual ferocity. No better time to hunker down and start prepping for my DIY December trip to Lagoon View Resort on Christmas Island. (Thank you Skinny Waters!) Typically that means tying flies. Lots of flies. Too many flies. I could probably stop tying right now and fish for decades on what I have. Still, I tie.

What keeps us at it, night after night, obsessed with 15 variations of tying materials that look the same to everyone else? For me, it’s the tweaking, the slight variations, the search for the perfect fly. We all know some flies work better than others and on consecutive days, the same fly may not be as effective. Furthermore, when you find the fly that is really working, you need several dozen as back up, right? When discussing flies that work, such discussion excludes milkfish. This is because you can’t use phrases like “works better” or “more effective” when speaking about this fish. Put simply, they don’t eat. I’m beginning to believe they absorb nutrients through their scales. Their mouths are decorative, only present so you know when they are laughing at your tailing loops. To my knowledge, aside from some occasional successes, no one is consistently hooking milkfish. They are uncooperative, magnificent creatures that frustrate like no other fish.

I gave up a lot of adrenaline pumping pursuits after I found what walking, stalking, casting, hooking and landing a fish on the flats felt like. Hang gliding, bow hunting, windsurfing and kitesurfing all took a back seat almost instantly. The sense of accomplishment is the same whether landing a 2lb bonefish or an 80lb giant trevally (well, almost the same). I also quickly found that the time I spent exploring and sometimes not even fishing were as valuable to me as days I caught 30 fish. Montana is stunningly beautiful and there are a ton of things to do, rivers to fish and nature to explore, but there is no salt water and no flats. My happy place is on a flat, one of the few places I stop to smell the roses. It doesn’t seem to matter whether my hands smell like fish or only sunscreen. I find myself appreciating every moment my ankles are wet.

Sound pretty zen? Not so fast, as this mental utopia is sorely tested when it comes to milkfish. We’ve all seen the nameless goon, straight out of a Polo cologne ad, holding up his 30 pounder like it’s no big deal. The fly dangling from it’s big-eyed, goofy face, (the fish, not the guy–usually) looking identical to what’s hanging off my fluoro. Maybe I’m wearing the wrong cologne? Milkfish prove the inverse relationship between how badly I can want something and how likely I am to get it. Yet I soldier on, realizing that sometimes the hunt is the thing, and pursuit its own reward.

I’ve spent roughly 18 weeks DIY fly fishing Christmas Island (Kiritimati) with most of them unsuccessfully targeting milkfish. Quite possibly every milkfish on the atoll has had a passing look at a fly I’ve presented. I’ve been stood up, disappointed and generally humiliated. I understand these fish are extremely difficult to entice to eat, but SOME people catch them. I have a big ego when it comes to fly fishing and consider myself dang good. So, why haven’t I been one of these outliers? As it couldn’t possibly be me, it must be the fly. If I tie every conceivable milkfish pattern, and even some inconceivable ones, I’m sure to catch one this next trip. That is what I keep telling my wife. That is what I keep telling myself. That is what keeps me chained to my vice.

Maybe frantic tying is a band aid. Maybe I’m fooling myself that I don’t have the right fly. Maybe the hope I feel tying yet another seemingly useless fly refuels the tank. Maybe I realize that catching a milkfish on a store bought fly would take away much of the accomplishment (although I’d risk this right now), so I tie on. “Maybe you just need to get another hobby,” mutters the scary voice in my head. “Maybe it’s time to move on, hang up this frustrating, expensive pursuit and take up something less costly, like yacht racing or moon exploration,” the voice continues. (Luckily, the voice isn’t Morgan Freeman, as I’d be powerless to ignore it.)

I can’t stop and won’t. Add up all the things I don’t want to do each day, the places I don’t want to be, the people I don’t want to tolerate. Each and every one of these is a deposit and when the account is full, I find saltwater and fish. I fish until I can breathe, until all seems right and the rose colored glasses are firmly in place. Then I come home, and it all starts again…