Almost Real

Catching permit on fly is both frustrating and rewarding. You can do everything right, drop a fly smack dab in the sweet spot, and still come up empty-handed. Yet this is exactly why anglers around the world obsess over these fish.

Most anglers don’t target permit on fly until they are proficient at the sport, and even then it can be hit or miss (emphasis on miss). But the sense of accomplishment that comes with finally bringing one to hand erases the memory of the many misses. Ask anyone who has landed a permit on fly what the experience was like, and they’ll tell you something along the lines of, “I worked my butt off for it.” Fly-fishing guide and tyer Doug McKnight certainly falls into that category.

Growing up north of Philadelphia, McKnight spent his early fishing days pursuing largemouth and smallmouth bass, trout and anything else willing to take his bait using conventional gear. His father introduced him to the sport, and he landed his first fish when he was three or four, igniting a lifelong passion.

While McKnight and his father spent a lot of time fishing together, it was not until he was old enough to drive that his obsession truly began to take over. In his late teens, he decided that fishing and his life were one and the same. Up to this point, McKnight had never spent any real time with a fly rod. This all changed when his father, who was enrolled at Penn State, signed up to take Joe Humphreys class, Principles of Fly Tying and Fly Fishing for Trout. Humphreys, a legendary fly fisherman and conservationist, developed the course to teach anglers the basics of fly-fishing for trout. McKnight’s dad passed on what he learned about fly selection, casting techniques and fish habitat.

When you first meet McKnight, you can’t help but assume he came out of the womb with a fly rod in one hand and a permit tail in the other. “Fly-fishing did not come easy,” McKnight says. “It took a lot of serious time and dedication before it actually looked like I belonged out there.”

McKnight took casting lessons and devoted the bulk of his time to fishing. “I kind of gave up on school, not knowing what I wanted to study or anything like that, and said ‘I’m just going to work at what I like,’ which was fly-fishing.”

The newly devoted fly angler spent countless hours tying trout flies. Most people spend a bit of time on the water before they begin tying their own flies, but McKnight became proficient at tying far before he was the proficient angler he is today. He was gung-ho on a fishing career and could tie some devious-looking bugs, but he lacked the resources necessary to thrive on the water. “I went begging at a fly shop, you know, trying to catch some fish, and they took me under their wing,” McKnight says. “Before long, I was tying flies for them and began doing guided trips.”

He landed a job with A.A. Outfitters, a small fly shop in Blakeslee, Pennsylvania, in the Pocono Mountains, where he received casting lessons from some of the other guides. Over time, McKnight became “a little bit deadly” with a fly rod.

During his college years, in the late 1990s, McKnight spent a summer working in Yellowstone National Park, fishing whenever he had a chance. The transition from East Coast trout fishing to the Rocky Mountains fishery was “mind boggling,” he says, and the idea of moving to the country’s top trout waters full time began to take seed. He also met his future wife, Shayla, during his summer working in the park, and though his body returned to Philadelphia following his summer in trout country, his mind never left those Rocky Mountain rivers.

While all the components of a trout menace were in place and McKnight began making a name for himself, he hadn’t spent much time messing around with saltwater flies and had not fished the salt with a fly rod. That changed when he moved from Philadelphia to Fort Worth, Texas, to be with his girlfriend. He landed a gig at West Bank Anglers, a fly shop in Dallas that hosted trips to lodges all over the world. McKnight’s saltwater obsession came to light as he began tying permit crabs and other saltwater flies.

He fished for landlocked stripers and bluegills during his stay in Texas, but his passion was tinged with salt. While Mcknight enjoyed his time in the Lone Star State, traveling on hosted trips and tying flies, he yearned for more outdoor adventure than Dallas had to offer. “Texas was good to me, but in Dallas there’s just very little to do outside in comparison to out here in Livingston [Montana], where we have zillions of acres of public land. I can hop in a drift boat anytime I want to and fish with my buddies, and that is something you just could not do in Dallas,” McKnight says.

He did the trout bum thing and bounced around fish towns. He spent some time in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, where he grew accustomed to the guide lifestyle. McKnight briefly went back to Texas, but his heart and soul were now rooted in the Rockies. Eventually, he and Shayla made the move to Montana full time.

Once in Montana, McKnight settled in Livingston, and obtained his guide license in 2006. He began to work different jobs at George Anderson’s Yellowstone Angler, a local fly shop. McKnight spent his days tying bugs and running trips, but he missed salt water. “Don’t get me wrong — I love trout fishing,” McKnight says. “I wouldn’t live in Montana if I didn’t, but the saltwater game’s got some sharp claws.”

During the winter off-season, McKnight took a part-time office job at Yellow Dog Flyfishing, a specialized travel company that books hosted fly-fishing trips the world over. The part-time gig eventually snowballed into a full-time job as director of Yellow Dog’s Bahamas program.

McKnight spent much of the year traveling the Caribbean, promoting Yellow Dog and booking anglers to bucket-list destinations. It was during this time that his crab flies were beginning to take form. His travels to new fisheries allowed him to test his creations in a wide range of places and dial-in the patterns for which he became known.

One of the best on the vice, McKnight creates flies that give permit nightmares. He puts a ton of effort into his flies to make sure they are as lifelike as possible. While trout anglers might go down to the stream and flip some rocks to match the hatch, McKnight spends hours walking flats to see what the crabs look like at different sizes, taking particular note of their color in the water. This helps him determine the best colorway to match the local crab population of a given area. He then copies what he sees at the tying vice.

McKnight landed his first permit on one of his own flies. He says he spent six to nine hours a day in the same spot on the same flat, convinced his shot would come. When the window opened, he made the most of it. He had spent the previous 12 years trying for a permit with no success, yet he never gave up. To catch that fish solo, wading and on his own fly, made the accomplishment immensely better.

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While McKnight’s patterns include the well-known Danger Muffin and Rasta Puff, his blue crab fly is so strikingly realistic that I wanted to grab a bib and some butter when I first saw one. I would call them works of art, but I think permit would call them tasty. What makes these flies special is the unique tying process McKnight created.

McKnight uses what he calls a sandwich method, wherein he cuts the top and bottom “shells” out of a material called Furry Foam. He then applies a layer of Zap Goo on the bottom shell, places the foam legs and hook on it, and finishes the sandwich with the top shell. Once the glue dries, McKnight colors the shells and legs with markers to bring the crab flies to life. Permit beware.

He says the blue crab pattern is a combination of two flies — the Raghead crab and the Perez Velcro crab. “The Raghead crab is a Yucatán favorite,” McKnight says. “The original Raghead was a mix of chopped-up yarn and epoxy — a mess to tie.”

While tying flies at a lodge in Mexico, McKnight and some of the guides realized they could use Furry Foam instead of yarn and epoxy, which sped up the tying process. This new method helped McKnight streamline the operation while enhancing the look and action of the crab. Another factor that helped develop the crab was watching the behavior of the fish he missed. “Anybody who’s been permit fishing, made a great cast to a permit that’s nice and happy, then watched the fish come over to the fly and say no thanks knows exactly what I mean,” Mcknight says.

The frustration of losing a permit after doing everything right gave him the extra motivation to develop a truly lifelike pattern. A crab that would turn atheists into believers. A crab that would make permit say “yes, please” instead of “no, thank you.” A crab that looks as good to the fish as it does to the angler. This was exactly what he set out to accomplish, and for someone who has seen as many permit boatside as McKnight has, I would argue that his imitations are closer to the real thing than any other crab fly I have seen.

These days, McKnight spends his time guiding, working on his art, and tying full time in Livingston. While he is a die-hard trout guide, he spends a few weeks every year fishing the salt. “It makes these Montana winters go by a little quicker,” he says. McKnight plans to continue guiding in Montana, and to chase permit when he can, while he continues to tie and refine his flies.

Next time you walk a flat, don’t just look for permit and bonefish — inspect the life below the rocks and swimming in the grass. You might be surprised how different your flies look compared with the local crabs and bait. Carrying a few of McKnights blue crabs in your fly box may just help you put your hands on your first permit tail.