The Prince Nymph

We all have our go-to flies; those little bits of fur, feather and wire that - when tethered to the business ends of our leaders - always seem up to the challenge of stinging a few willing fish. Conversely, we all have those flies that we disdain, and avoid with near religious fervor. Perhaps they were recommended to us by the kid at the shop. Perhaps they were gifted to us by an ignorant spouse. Perhaps the fish gods spirited them into our boxes as a means to test our resolve. My resolve has been tested.

I fished Prince Nymphs for years. I tied them skinny. I tied them fat. With beads and without. I used the best hooks and bushels of the choicest herl. Dozen after dozen came off my vise, and never - not once mind you - did I ever hook a fish on one of the flies I so painstakingly tied. Not so much as a bluegill, sunfish, or pumpkinseed ever saw fit to grace my fly with a take. 

So now I say, "Down with the Prince, and a pox on his house!" Never again will this royal imposter defile the manicured rows of Pheasant Tails and Hares Ears, which fill my favorite box. Never ...