r/lurebuilding

r/BatmanArkham is gonna name it.

... the start of one anyway

At this point the Dart is feathers and UV resin only, molded between layers of clear sandwich bag plastic and glass.

It's the Fourth of July. It might be a day or two before a finished flure appears.

A bit of buoyant foam gets glued to feather-body bottom, at mid-feathers.

Then a hole is drilled into the bill.

A brass bead and a snelled hook completes the dart.

I fish them dowstream witha tight straight line. They swim and wiggle straight to the gravel.

Riffle Darts are bit like sailing a kite--but down and wet rather than high and dry.

Purists may not like Riffle Darts. No problem. We do what we like. You can (I do) fish them downstream at depth, into and at overhanging root banks and bridge pilings.

I'm 78. The idea for this fly traces back to a weekend in May, when I was a teenager, fishing with my dad and Ernie Schwiebert.

Equal amounts of this fly are hes doing -- and mine.

==========

The Henryville Reprobait

The importance of being Ernest

We drove all the way to Stroudsburg with the top down on my father's red Corvair convertible. The hardwood forests along the Delaware Water Gap were thick with the light green leaves of early spring. The warm humid sunshine was alive with buzzing cicadas and thousands of flittering chattering birds. A fishing writer had invited us to spend a weekend with him in May, fishing at the Henryville Lodge. We talked about "Matching the Hatch" and the differences between the Eastern and Western fly fishing traditions. My father agreed the size of the fly was important but argued color only needed to be vaguely correct. "I'm a biologist," he said, "I can't see that it's necessary to learn the latin names of these mayflies in order to catch a few fish." Our friend laughed and said he would catch enough fish to prove him wrong.

Henryville was a pleasant surprise for us. My father and I were Western fishermen. Although we looked forward to exploring Pennsylvania's famous fishing we thought at best it would be a temporary, second place substitute for the real thing. The water at Henryville was slower than the western streams we were used to.  It was filled with boulders, branches and gentle runs. The fish were spooky–although not necessarily selective. The fishing was tough. The rolling, heavily forested mountains were beautiful. Our new friend was a master. He had a Paul Young rod he could cast further than I imagined was possible. 

When my father gave up on a fish that was feeding regularly in a reverse eddy on the far side of the creek, our friend stepped in to show us how it was done. He threw a long, looping double squiggle into the end of his line while gently splashing his nymph into the reverse current just downstream of the fish. There was a nifty splash and swirl as he set the hook. A few moments later he had a gleaming, fifteen inch brown trout writhing in the bottom of his net. This is the stuff boyhood heroes are made of.

The sun was warm and the fish were willing, but by the end of the day it was clear something was missing. These were hatchery fish and they all seemed to be the same size, like peas in a pod.  Despite Henryville's great pastoral beauty it was hard to get excited about make-believe fish. "It is true," said our friend. "Wild trout management would be better, but it isn't politically possible just yet, and there were a few wild trout in the river if you knew how to catch them." 

He told us a good, hard working dry fly fisherman would catch half a dozen wild fish each year.  A good nymph fisherman would catch twice that many. "The wild fish are skinny and darkly colored," he said. "And they fight a lot harder too."

"Come to my room tonight," said our friend to me after dinner. "We can tie a few flies together.  I'll show you a few of my secret weapons."

A few hours later I found him telling me: "This fly is hell to cast, and it doesn't last very long. But it flashes like a spinner. It is one of the best big fish flies I know. We use them for sea trout in Argentina. They out-fish every other fly we’ve tried. We'll head down to the pocket water at the lower end of the Henryville property tomorrow. We'll see if we can't find a native brown trout." he continued. 

"If we don't catch any natives we will find a few spring-planted brookies.  And they're a lot of fun too." he predicted. 

What he showed me was an enormous white marabou streamer tied on a long shanked #2 hook. His fly sported a multi-strand frond of peacock heel on top, with a shiny strip of mirror-mylar-plastic draped along both sides of the fly. 

I couldn't believe my eyes. For the past twelve hours we had been arguing about silhouette vs. exact imitation, thorax vs traditional style mayflies and what kind of ribbing, if any at all, to use on the abdomens of our #16 Hendricksons. I'd never seen such a big fly before. He opened up another fly box and showed me his collection of Argentine sea trout flies. They were so big you could only fit three or four to the box. He showed me a giant Mickey Finn, and then handed me a five or six  inch Muddler Minnow tied with metallic-gold mylar strips on each side. He told me the story of an Argentine salmon that took such a fly, that stripped all the backing before breaking off at the spool knot, leaving him with a bare reel in his hands.

I asked him if there were any fish at Henryville big enough to take the sea trout fly. "There are a few," he said. "The larger trout are carnivores. They eat bait fish like chubs and small suckers and even cannibalize the smaller trout. You wouldn't catch small fish with a fly like that, but if you kept at it long enough you'd find out where the big ones are. The mylar side strips are the best and the worst thing about this fly. The mylar flashes like a baitfish when the sun catches it, but it is wind resistant. It flaps like a flock of birds when you try to cast it. The flapping causes a hinging effect where the mylar is tied on.  It isn't long before the mylar creases and breaks off.  But if you're after a big fish, it's worth it," he added.

After a hearty breakfast at the lodge, we slipped away early.  The three of us headed downstream in my father's car. "You have to be patient with flies like these," he cautioned us. "You can't just march out to the stream and expect to catch a big fish every time you try. To catch a big fish you have to invest time and effort.’ 

We fished the mylar streamers, all three of us, for about an hour without a strike. There was a front moving in and a steady hatch of #14 gray mayflies started coming off the water. My father and our friend switched over to casting small gray dry flies and started catching hatchery fish almost immediately. I remained stubborn and wandered upstream, still fishing with a huge mylar streamer. "Pick me up at the bridge on your way back to the lodge," I said.

The mylar flies really were hard to cast, but I was determined to stick with it until I caught a fish. I surprised a spin fisherman at the bridge pool who was cleaning a stringer of trout. He gave me a nervous look. This was private water and he wasn't supposed to be fishing there. 

I could see he lived in a small cinder block house next to the bridge. I wasn't about to say anything to a grown man twice my size. I remember thinking I would probably do the same thing if I were him. The man took his stringer of fish and shuffled off toward the back door of his house with a slow, angry walk. He looked back at me a few times as he walked.

"Western water is nearly all public,"  I thought. "It's better that way."

It had been threatening to rain all morning. A light drizzle dimpled the water. I decided to give the pool a rest and eat my sandwiches before they got soaking wet. Lightning flashed and rumbled a few miles further up the valley. I knew it wouldn't be long before I heard my father honking his horn from the highway.  

I cast my last mylar fly upstream into a riffle and tried to follow the silver streak as it tumbled down into the deeper water by the concrete bridge pilings. There was a sudden football-sized flash of yellow. I felt a strike that nearly tore the rod from my hand.  Just as suddenly the line went slack. I was left standing there dumbfounded in the drizzling rain. What happened? That was some fish. I pulled in my fly line and took a look at my hook. The mylar was gone from one side of the fly and the point of the hook was broken completely off. I looked back over my shoulder.  I must have ticked the metal bridge on my backcast.

A car horn was honking.  I could hear my father's voice bellowing through the rain. I ran up the gravel road toward the highway. A tangle of waders and aluminum tubes on the rear seat made it hard to squeeze in. I told them my story about the huge fish.  I couldn't tell if either of them believed me. My father looked skeptical. I could see him scaling down the size of the fish to account for my youthful imagination. I wasn't so sure about our friend. He said there was a giant fish in the Buttonwood Pool he had been trying to catch for years. "I caught a fat chub on a Quill Gordon once," he said, "On a whim I tossed the whole works sidearm into the overhanging magnolia branches at the head of the pool. I knew there was an ancient brown in there that was over two feet long. I was curious to see what would happen. The whole pool exploded," he said. "He tore the chub right off the hook with the force of his strike. It's been a year or two since I've seen that fish. Perhaps he has died from old age since then."

I asked our friend if he fished the mylar streamers in the famous pools up closer to the lodge. "No I never have," he said. "It's best not to talk about it much. There are quite a few old timers here who look down on this kind of fishing. “

"The important thing is being Earnest," he added. "If you handle the fish carefully and if you have a strong reverence and respect for the river, I don't think it matters how you catch them."

I was impressed.

I gave up on mylar-strip flies for a while.  The side flapping from wide mylar strips was too hard to cast.  Shiny new body materials like woven mylar tubing and crinkly, mirror-finished fibers were becoming available. 

Even Mylar now comes pre-packaged as thinner, narrower, more long-term durable strips. What was once a tempting but ultimately unmanageable fly has slowly evolved into a reliable big fish staple for me now.

The Henryville Reprobait.

Postscript

The inside cover of my Matching the Hatch reads;  To Sandy Pittendrigh, embryonic devotee of the long rod and the fragile fly. Petri Heil.  Ernie Schwiebert. Princeton. 1965

I contacted Ernie a few years before he died.  It was the beginning of the email era.  I asked him if he wanted  to collaborate on an article about giant flies–which I had first learned about from him–a half a lifetime earlier.  Ernie declined, albeit in a friendly way. Ernie said “Some stories are best left untold.”

My only secrets are about where to fish, rather than how.  What you see is what you get.  

The moral of the Reprobait story isn't about materials or design. It is more about size and high contrast coloring. Big fish like big flies.  The inspiration for the Roadkill Streamer , the Twinkie  and Halford's Ghost wat born that day too, on the banks of the Broadheads River at Henryville. 

Ernestly

Rod and Reel – January 1987

1.5oz 3.5 inches

bluegill crankbait I made for a friend

Was bored and was inspired by coin lures online and decided to try to make my own lure. It weighs roughly an ounce and I intend to use it when surf fishing. Can probably catch some spanish Mack or some spotted trout. Any thoughts?

As I worked on the farm from my buddy, I got this horn and 2ltr / 0.5 galons of milk and now I wonder if I could build a few spoons from the stronger lower part. But the upper part that looks wrak is also super strong too 🥛😅🐄👨‍🌾

This is my first lure, made 15 years ago. It’s rough, simple and very far from what I make today. But I’ve made it. And that is the most important part.

A lot of people message me and show me their lures. And very often they say things like “I know it’s not great” or “I’m just starting” almost like they feel a little embarrassed.

You really don’t have to be.

Nobody starts with perfect paint, great action or clean finishes. The beginning is supposed to look like the beginning.

Your first attempt doesn’t have to be good.

It just has to exist.

I hope seeing my first steps reminds someone that there’s nothing to be ashamed of.

Make the first one. Learn from it. Make the next one better.

That’s how it starts.

Threw down a copper base coat just because I wanted to use the color. This is what I ended up with!

Started off with a custom glide for my son who plays guitar. Ended up selling a batch of jerkbaits too!

I busted my trusty spinner bait earlier today got me a new one and got this monster in the third cast.

I have been thinking of this "kit" to at least see if I like making my own. Absolutely love my spinners already but want to catch something using one I "made"

Is this worth it for the price? Anyone have any recs for a better kit in the price range?

Thanks y'all!

3.50 oz

6.5 inches

amazing gliding action

gonna catch a beast on it 🤞

My neighbor would like me to repaint this lure to his favorite color scheme. The rivets holding the lip show some corrosion. Should I remove the lip and attach afterwards? Is the lip glued or epoxied in?

First attempt at a glide bait.

Very slow sink and very tight swim. No fish yet.

I recently started making glidebaits from polyeurathayne and microspheres after doing well with my wooden ones. the one issue I can’t seem to overcome is that the inside of the resin always has bubbles- like a sponge. I’ve experimented with different procedures and different quantities of microshpere- all seem to lead to the same result. the surface of the lure is smooth but when I need to sand to remove imperctions the inside is like a sponge. right now I’ve been mixing the microspheres into part a before incorporating part b and casting into silicone moulds I made myself.

does anyone know what I can do differently? is this normal? can I do something post casting to fix it?