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Pike are hell on flies.


Razor sharp teeth and aggressive strikes, leave a fly box full of torn and shredded bits of feather and fur.


At the end of every season, inventory is taken and plans are made for the next year. Materials are ordered, recipes poured over and ideas sketched out. The intention being to spend cold winter days sitting at the vise, watching the snow pile up outside, tying replacements and experimenting with new patterns.


But that vision never seems to materialize. Instead, other less productive ways to spend time are found and the vise sits idle for most of the winter. Suddenly spring appears and along with it, the realization that a single fly, had yet to be tied. Finally, after a winter’s worth of procrastination, a beer is cracked, the vise dusted off and every single spare moment is spent tying flies before the ice thaws.


Happens every year. This one being no different.

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