Outdoors
The BDN outdoors section brings readers into the woods, waters and wild places of Maine. It features stories on hunting, fishing, wildlife, conservation and recreation, told by people who live these experiences. This section emphasizes hands-on knowledge, field reports, issues, trends and the traditions that define life outside in Maine. Read more Outdoors stories here.
Any fly fisherman worth his salt is ever vigilant for that “killer fly.” Truth be known, there is a lot of subjectivity when we start bragging and getting all dogmatic about our favorite patterns.
For example, the trouter who has a field day on the water with a specific fly suddenly believes he possesses a “killer fly.” And unless he is a selfish sort, he will share his conviction with at least his closest angling buddies. Killer flies come and go. Given the vagaries and seductive unknowns of trout feeding habits, a killer fly can become a dud in a heartbeat.
A true killer fly, of which there are just a handful, stands the test of time. One such artificial is the classic Alexandra fly, which dates back to the 1800s in jolly old England.
As the story goes, fly-angling aristocrats actually banned the use of this colorful wet fly on the fabled chalk streams. Because the fly impersonated a baitfish instead of an insect, the hoi polloi of the British angling fraternity ruled the Alexandra persona non grata.
A sneaky angler caught streamside tying a double clinch knot to an Alexandra was lucky if he did not end up pilloried in the town square. The unseemly scoundrel would be cornered by indignant purists with their noses in the air.
“I say old boy, sniff sniff, your terminal tackle is a bit unsporting, wouldn’t you say?”
There is a modern version of the Alexandra readily available for purchase at most fly shops. The key features of the original were a heavy peacock herl wing, silver tinsel body, red tail cheeks and soft hackle.
The fly was named after Princess Alexandra of Denmark, who later became queen of England. She was widely admired for her beauty and grace — qualities anglers felt the fly itself reflected.
Of course, we have evolved socially and technically since that Victorian angling era and, as far as I know, we no longer name fishing flies after gracious ladies. Although Maine outdoor writer and fly craftsman Bob Leeman often said a good fly is “like a good woman: it has form, wiggle and flash.”
For my money, the only true killer fly is the Hornberg fly, which was created in the 1920s by Donald Hornberg. This fly screams versatility: you can fish it dry as an insect or wet as a small baitfish.
The late Maine outdoors writer and angler Ken Allen once insisted to me that the Hornberg was so deadly it was unsporting and, like the Alexandra of yore, should be banned by the fly-fishing community.
Although I, one who feels not an iota of guilt putting a wild trout in a buttered iron skillet, have found myself in later years looking over my shoulder when tying on the dreaded Hornberg. Is Ken Allen looking down on me from his Silver Canoe with a furrowed brow and a scowl of derision?
Honestly, I only resort to the Hornberg out of desperation. Most of the time, I lean on another fly to keep me away from the Hornberg and in Ken Allen’s good graces.
It is a No. 16 Parachute Adams that, amazingly enough, has neither form, flash nor wiggle. It is very buggy and would pass muster even with British angling aristocrats a century ago on the fabled River Test.
