Fly Fish with Mel: Another Beautiful Morn

A Royal Treat

A week has gone by without me wetting a line.

My hands twitched involuntarily at the thought of spending a hour or two this weekend at my favourite fishing hole, nicknamed the 'White House'.

The past week had been spent tying up new flies to be used in a clock that my friend had ordered from me. These belonged to a royal family of flies - The Royal Wulff, the Royal Coachman and the Royal Trude.


Since I started fly fishing, I've never caught a fish on any of the royal family of flies and so have placed them on the shelf than on the water. However, on his last visit back, my friend, Hun, showed me that these classics do work even on our local waters.

So armed with a couple of flies, fresh out of the oven, I went afishing.

Showers over consecutive days had created a cool, misty morning and as I stepped out of the car, the fresh morning air jolted the last of the slumber out of me.

In the demi-darkness, I could already hear and see the splashes made by the fish.

Around the bend on my left, I heard a loud splash and immediately made my first reach cast there.

As the Royal Trude landed, I anticipated an explosive reception but that was not to be. I waited for the ripples to dissipate before I twitched the fly and waited some more. Still no action. Stripping back quickly to recast the fly, I saw a huge bow wake surge up and chased my fly. It then gave up the chase and receded back into the shallow depths. With one back cast, I hauled the fly forward and laid it two feet from where the wake emerged. Waiting patiently, I had to hold back my natural instinct to move the fly.



Then, a vague black shadow appeared behind my fly and it disappeared in a little whirlpool.



The fly was well and truly inhaled and all I had to do was to lift the rod to set the hook. My 4wt Coho rod bucked with every head shake as the fiesty little peacock bass displayed its fighting prowess.



Now the sun was beginning to creep over the treeline to cast a slight orange hue over the water.


With each blitz, my adversary depleted its reserve of energy and over time, technology was to triumph over sheer brute strength. The strain on the rod eased and I slowly led the fish back to the bank.

What greeted me was a regal sight. 3 distinctive black bars set atop its golden green flanks, the defeated bass let me lift it out of the water with a comfort cradle.





Though conquered, it still maintainted an air of defiance as it looked me in the eye.



Not wanting to humilate a worthy opponent, I slid the barbless Royal Trude out of the mouth, took 2 quick photos and released the fish safely back into the water.

Having regained its strength lying motionless on my palm, the peacock bass bolted straight into the weeds the even before its body was fully submereged.


This was the only fish I caught that morning but I needed no more for I had come to prove that the Royal Trude did work and I had. Though the fly worked only during the short period of the magic hour when the sun was still struggling to climb above the horizon. For when the sky is lit with the warm of the sun, the bass will gladly ignore the dry fly.


Time and again, I have felt that the true satisfaction of fly fishing lies in the actual seeing of a fish rise to a fly and inhaling it and when it swims safely away when it is returned to its element. A joy that can only be understood when you have experienced it in person. A different, yet greater joy than when the fish is lying motionless on a plate.

Fly Fish with Mel: Lord of the Flies

The Fly




The fly is the business end of any fly fishing outfit; the bait with which we fly anglers employ in the hope of enticing a fish to partake of an artificial meal.














A fly is also a work of art. A masterpiece lovingly crafted with the same patience and care as that of any painter or sculptor. A thing of beauty to some; a hideous sight to others; but always a tasty morsel to a fish.









A fly is a hook dressed with all manners of feathers and fur; of materials natural or synthetic. A hook dressed so that it may imitate or suggest the form of an insect or creature; terrestrial or aquatic.








To catch a fish is a delight but to catch a fish with a fly you just tied last night, that's truly ecstasy.













For, to tie a fly is not difficult but to tie a fly that catches fish consistently, requires more than luck.







The key to success lies in the skill of observation.



Question, Question, Question!

That is what a fly angler and a fly tier has to consistently do.








What are the fish feeding on?















What types of vegetation are around the lake?









What species of fish am I targeting?











Are there flying insects above the water?







What season is it?

What colours are the insects that are flying in the air?







Are there nymphs on the bottom?








And the ultimate question: "What the heck is the other guy using to catch that biggy?"


With each answer, you come closer to tying the fly that will 'match the hatch'.







Now after you decided on what fly to tie, you painstakingly prepare the hooks, the materials and yourself.






Yourself, you ask?

A chef prepares a meal with all his heart, with all his love, for those who chooses to savour his culinary delights. So will you not do the same, preparing a meal for the fish that you love so dear?







So with the hook de-barbed and placed on the vise, you tie on the thread and feathers and dress the fly.












You admire the beauty of the fly. Its perfect shape, its beautiful proportions, a masterpiece. But will it satisfy the discerning eyes of the fish?













You go to bed with anxiety in your heart.








You open your eyes and it's still dark. You look at your watch. It's 5.30am. But it's time to get ready.

You get up and turn to see the flies sitting handsomely in your open fly box. "Will they work today", you ask? Only time and the fish will tell. You wash up and get ready.

You arrive at the water's edge. The sun's still lazing beneath the horizon. You can see the water's surface still gleaming in the moonlight but you hear no sounds except that of the crickets'.


As the sun creeps up, revealing the swirling mist on the water's surface, it also reveals the first sign on movement beneath the water. You hear an audible slurp and turn to see concentric rings of ripples emanate from where a few moments ago, a fish had sucked in a fly.











You open your fly box and look at the fly you've just tied. "Will it work?" You tie it onto your tippet, the question still ringing in your mind. You drop the fly as you wave your magic wand. As the rod scythes through the air forwards and back, the fly gracefully trails as if it were alive, flying in a gentle figure of eight. Stopping your rod forward, the fly o'ertakes the rod tip to fall gently near where you last saw the disturbance in the water.

The water is still so you slowly impart a little movement to your fly and drag it slowly back towards you a quarter inch at a time. You twitch, you pause. You twitch, you pause. The surrounding sudden goes silent.






Even the crickets seemed to have quietened. The silence is deafening. A sudden bulge and your fly is rocked by waves, bobbing violently. A fish has just swirled next to your fly. Your grip tightens around the rod and the fly line. A long moment of silence and you strip your fly in.




Raising your rod again and casting the fly out, you aim it a little to the right of your last cast. You let the fly drop and wait for the resulting ripples to die down. You then start twitch and pause routine. You focus on the fly and watch the waters surrounding it.

You strip the line and the fly makes a small 'V' wake. a few feet away, you notice a small bulge start to grow and move towards your fly. The bow wake reaches your fly and in an instant, the fly is gone. In its place an enormous splash of water. The line comes taut in your hand. You lift the rod tip and set the hook. The fish feels the resistance and powers off to deeper waters. You make your stand with Rod raised and line tightened. You feel a headshake from the fish and then limp. The hook got dislodge.

As you calmly reel you line back, the disappointment is lost in a sheepish smile as you hear the words in your head






"It works."

Fly Fish with Mel: To Fish or Not to Fish? That is the question...

While going through the chapters of 'Rod Rage', a book by Rhea Topping, I came across a poem that sums up what fly fishing embodies. I hope that by reading the poem, you'll get to appreciate the unexpressed reasons why each of us, in the fraternity of the long rodders, chose this as our recreation.

Out Fishing

A feller isn't thinking mean,
Out fishing,
His thoughts are mostly good and clean,
Out fishing,
He doesn't mock his fellow men,
Or harbour any grudges then;
A feller's at his finest when,
Out fishing,
The rich are comrades to the poor,
Out fishing,
All are brothers of a common lure,
Out fishing,
The urchin with his pin and string,
Can chum with millionaire and king;
Vain pride is a forgotten thing,
Out fishing,
A fella gets a chance to dream,
Out Fishing.
He learns the beauties of the stream out fishing.
And he can wash his soul in air
That isn't foul with selfish care,
And relish plain and simple fare
Out fishing,
A fella has no time for hate,
Out fishing,
he isn't eager to be great
Out fishing,
He isn't thinking thoughts of self,
But he's always just himself,
Out fishing.
[A] feller's glad to be a friend, out fishing.
[A] helping hand he'll always lend, out fishing.
The brotherhood of rod and line
An'sky and stream is always fine;
Men come real close to God's design, out fishing.

Fly Fish with Mel: Back to Counting...

The Friends






There is a uniqueness to the strange relationship between fly anglers.













Though fly fishing is largely a solitary sport, as dictated by the need for a huge casting area,
the community rarely fishes alone.







There is solitude in fly fishing, but there is never loneliness.







With the right companions, any day out fishing is a great day; with or without fish.








There is an inexplicable sense of serenity watching a friend wading in the water, rhythmically waving a long rod and then laying the line forward of him.


At times, in fact most of the time, it is more enjoyable watching a friend fish than to be fishing oneself.


For, what fun is there? If, there is no one to witness the landing of a dream fish; or to bear the tale of the one that got away; or to mock each other's tomfoolery.










There will always be dangers and adventures to be shared.













Walking along the stream, listening to a symphony of birds, cicadas, crickets and denizens of the forest, a conversation wanders with no boundaries. At peace with nature and with each other, one can recount the fishing of days past or that which is to come.


Of life's bitterness or the sweetness of success. Or one can remain in silence, relishing the quiet company without the need to speak.





As with all great gatherings, it is never complete without good food and drinks. Be it a gourmet spread or simple fare, a vintage pour or a home brew. After a day's fishing, regardless the result, it will always end on a high note when the grub's abounding and the tap's flowing.





There will never be lacking laughter and joy at the end of a fly angler's trip.

Fly Fish with Mel: Pre-Holiday Celebrations

Mother Nature seemed to be in one of her foul moods; her brooding anger enshrouded the skies with a blanket of gray.

Yet, it was not enough to deter O'l Lenny and myself from setting off on our pre-National Day fishing escapade.

By the time we hit the water's edge, our dear Lady showed signs of relenting, with pockets of blue peeking through her moody veil.

Finding ourselves each a comfortable roost on the precariously sloping rocks, the assembly of our rods was done in solitude. Before us, the water surface rippled in fear as each heavy breath of the simmering matron blew over it.








Opening my fly box, my sight fell on a large orange fly.







The Branchu, with its wing of white Mallard Flank and a tail of Golden Pheasant tippets extending majestically from a slender body of orange SLF dubbing looked to me the perfect fly to start the session. Wrapped gingerly around, a collar of soft Matuka hackle pulsates enticingly as the fly swims through the water, a succulent morsel that no fish, in its right mind, would pass up.

Tying on the fly; and with gentle strokes, Len and I painted the sky with our rods as our lines traced the movement, reaching out further with each swing. Our choreographed synchronization seemed to have help Mother Nature aussage her anger when we saw her gleaming smile reflecting off the water in the distance.

With a final arc forward, my rod laid the line softly across the water; my fly not fifty feet from me. I counted the seconds as I waited for the fly to dive to the depths where I hoped to find my quarry. One second, two second, three second...with a purposeful and moderate motion, I stripped the line to work the fly. Darting forward and then fluttering down slowly, the Branchu worked its magic. Strip, pause, strip, pause, strip, stuck! Not another snagged fly...but before I could pull another inch of line in, it shot forward burning my left index finger. No sooner had I released my line to drop onto the floor did it become taut to the reel.

The length of my 9ft, 4-wt Coho rod bowed towards the unseen foe. Soon, I could see the end of my line start to rise towards the surface and then, a silver bullet broke through the surface and shot out of the water. Her beautiful , streamlined body writhed and twisted in mid-air, trying to dislodge the fly from the corner of her upturned mouth. Unglamourous, yet spectacularly, the Tarpon (Megalops cyprinoides) re-entered the water and immediately powered out away from me.

Alas, the give and take relationship we had was not to last. With a last wave of her tail goodbye, we parted ways leaving me with nothing but a broken leader and sunken heart. How cruel short-term relationships can be. However, I am sure that we had a good thing going and she did choose to keep my fly as a momento of the short yet breath-taking time we shared.

Leonard, was not having much luck with the ladies but was able to hitch himself up with a couple of minors. The Cichlids did give a good account of themselves giving Lenny some fun on his 6-wt rod.





It wasn't long before the real girls showed up. Turning up, dressed to the nines, the Peacock Bass (Cichla Monoculus) were literally lining up in front of me waving their tails sexily, as they cat-walked up and down the rock wall.








Switching to an equally sexy, if not more provocative, white Woolly Bugger, I started to turn my charm on them.









At first, they were shy and kept their distance but with my fly dangling in front of them, the ladies were soon warmed up, literally climbing over each other just to scoff my offering.








It was pure fishing ecstacy.








In just under two hours of fishing, I had landed ten of these stunning beauties.






Too soon, it was time to go and leave this immensely beautiful stretch of water and go back to the realities of life.

Au revoir, mes chéris. À bientôt.

Fly Fish with Mel: Still Counting...

The Location

Location. Location. Location

Fishing is all about location. Find the right location and there you'll find the fish. But then again, It's not just about the fishing, is it?








From the sun-drenched beaches of Maldives















to the virgin forests of Kelantan, fishing has brought me places.











Getting there is half the fun. It may sound like a philosophical excuse for a lousy angler but so what if we end up not getting fish? Being there is part of the fun.






Not forgetting the food. You get to savour some of the most exotic foods.

Delicieux!





Even if it was in our own backyard, fishing reveals a side of Singapore that most of us do not get to see. Drains, rivers, streams, hidden coves and the list goes on. Did you know that there is a certain helicopter landing pad that's a gay haunt?! See what I mean?