Name: Golden Comet
SKU: 9848
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Description

Who Tied the Original Golden Comet Steelhead Fly? Oh, Just the Usual Suspects in a Eureka Conspiracy

Ah, the Golden Comet Steelhead Fly – that shiny little temptress of the North Coast rivers, the fly that’s been slapping chrome-sided steelhead in the face since before your grandpa traded his wool pants for Gore-Tex. If you’re here because you’re tired of nymphing beads like some desperate Great Lakes pleb and want to swing something with actual soul, buckle up. We’re diving into the murky, fog-shrouded origins of this pattern, how to tie it without cursing your vise to hell, and how to fish it so you don’t look like a total rookie when that 12-pound chrome bullet decides to dance. Because let’s face it: steelhead don’t care about your feelings, but they do care if your fly looks like a snack or a sad art project.

First off, who the heck tied the original? Spoiler: It’s not some lone genius in a cabin, scribbling recipes on napkins while dodging bears. Nah, this is classic California fly-tying drama – a Eureka, Humboldt County soap opera where plumbers, bakers, and sporting goods hustlers all claim parentage. Picture it: 1940s Northern California, rivers running thick with winter steelhead fresh from the Pacific, and a bunch of salty locals tinkering with bucktails because why not? The “Comet” style – that slim, weighted streamer with a tail longer than your ex’s grudges – didn’t just pop out of thin air. It evolved from shad flies and chinook patterns, but steelhead? They turned it into a legend.

Enter the usual suspects. Trey Combs, in his bible Steelhead Fly Fishing (1991), points the finger at Hap McNew, son of Lon McNew, who ran McNew’s Sporting Goods in Eureka. Hap started slinging “Popeye flies” in the early 1940s – bucktails with bead chain eyes to sink ’em fast in tidewater lagoons. Combs describes the OG Comet as “all orange with a bucktail tail twice the length of the hook,” no frills, just pure aggression. But wait! Sean Gallagher’s Wild Steelhead (2013) credits Ralph Cole, a plumber from Eureka (because of course it was a plumber – who else has the pipes to innovate?), who mixed calf tail, gold tinsel, orange-yellow hackles, and those magical bead chain eyes. Cole’s version? A winter steelhead slayer for the Eel and Mad Rivers.

Then there’s Lloyd Silvius, the baker-turned-tackle-shop mogul (1902-1973), tying variations like the Silvius Gold Comet in 1970, complete with notes from his Eureka shop days. And don’t sleep on Grant King, who supposedly cooked up the Comet proper in the late 1940s for NorCal steelhead. John Shewey’s Classic Steelhead Flies throws shade at all of ’em, calling it a “Comet style” free-for-all. Moral of the story? Nobody “invented” it solo – it was Eureka’s collective fever dream, born from WWII-era dry docks and foggy river mouths. If you’re on Google-hunting “original Golden Comet Steelhead Fly history,” congrats: you’ve just waded through the fog. These guys weren’t tying for Instagram likes; they were chasing fish that could snap your leader like a twig. Humble brag: Modern tiers owe ’em everything, including our right to bastardize the pattern with flashabou, flat braid, and UV resin or anything else you can think of.

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Tying the Original Golden Comet: Because Store-Bought Flies Are for Amateurs Who Hate Themselves

Not totally true on store bought flies, when I guided all those years I tied ninety percent of the flies my clients caught fish on, the rest store boughten flies

Alright, fly-tying desk jockeys, grab your vice, your swear jar, and a beer – we’re recreating the Golden Comet like it’s 1948, minus the rationing. The “original” recipe? It’s fuzzy, like that time you “borrowed” your buddy’s spey rod and swore you’d return it. But piecing together Combs, Shewey, and a dash of Gallagher, here’s the classic: a size 4-6 salmon hook (think Alec Jackson Steelhead Iron or a vintage up-eye wet fly hook), all-orange vibe with gold flash, and enough weight to punch through winter murk. No wings – this ain’t a spey fly prom queen. It’s a streamlined comet streaking toward your next hookup.

Materials (Because Forgetting One Means Starting Over):

Hook: Size 4-6, 1X-2X long salmon/steelhead hook (e.g., Gamakatsu or Partridge).
Thread: Black or brown 6/0 or 140-denier (keep it simple; no fancy fluoro here).
Tail: Orange bucktail or dyed calf tail hair, twice the hook shank length (pro tip: stack it straight or it’ll look like a bad perm).
Rib: Fine gold oval tinsel (or flat mylar if you’re cheap).
Body: Orange floss, chenille, or wool yarn – something absorbent? Nah, go non-absorbent like wrapped tinsel for that quick-sink magic.
Hackle: Orange saddle hackle, webby for max movement (2-3 turns; don’t overdo it unless you want a feather duster).
Eyes: Medium bead chain (gold or silver; tie ’em under for that inverted ride).
Head: Neat black varnish or epoxy – because sloppy heads are why steelhead laugh at you.

Step-by-Step Tying Shenanigans (With Sarcasm, Because Why Not?):

Prep the Shank Like You’re Arming for Battle: Clamp that hook in the vice, point up. Start thread at the eye and wrap back to the bend – tight, no gaps, or your tail will flop like a drunk uncle at a wedding. Yeah, I know, “easy for you to say.” Just do it.
Tail: The Long, Orange Middle Finger to Physics: Snip a clump of orange bucktail – enough to fill a shot glass, but sparse like your dating prospects after 40. Measure twice hook shank length (that’s long, folks – Combs wasn’t kidding). Tie it in at the bend, tips trailing back like a meteor’s tail. Secure with figure-8 wraps, build a base, and trim butts at a taper. Pro tip: Wet the hair; it stacks better than your excuses for missing church.
Eyes: Because Steelhead Hate Surface Dwellers: Slide on those bead chain eyes – two links, under the shank near the eye for weight without bulk. Figure-8 ’em in place like you’re lassoing a calf. Too tight? They pop off mid-cast. Too loose? Your fly swims like a submarine with a leak. Gold chain for that “Golden” vibe; silver if you’re feeling rebellious.
Body: Wrap It Like a Pro, Not a Toddler: Tie in your orange floss or tinsel at the tail. Wrap forward to the eyes, even and smooth – no lumps, unless you want steelhead mistaking it for a turd. Counter-wrap the gold rib over it (6-8 turns) for flash that screams “eat me!” Tie off behind the eyes. If using chenille, twist it sparse; we’re not building a pipe cleaner monster.
Hackle: The Collar That Says ‘I’m Ready to Party’: Prep your orange saddle hackle – strip the fluffy base, stroke fibers back. Tie in at the neck (45-degree angle, smart guy), shiny side out. Palmer 2-3 turns, pulling fibers rearward for a collar that’s sassy, not shaggy. Trim excess, but leave enough to pulse in the current like a heartbeat.
Head: Whip It Good: Build a neat thread head behind the eyes – black thread for contrast. Whip finish, add a drop of head cement, and stare at your masterpiece. Dry it overnight unless you’re into sticky regrets.

There. You’ve tied a Golden Comet that could fool Ralph Cole himself. Total time: 10 minutes if you’re sober. Cost: Piece of mind you flies that don’t unravel after one fish. Variations? Swap yellow hackle for chartreuse if the water’s off-color – call it your “personal touch,” aka cheating on the original. But hey, steelhead don’t read blogs; they just eat.

Fishing the Golden Comet: Swing It Like You Mean It, or Go Home and Cry

Tying’s the foreplay; fishing’s the fireworks. Or the dud, if you’re me on a bad day. The Golden Comet shines brightest swung – that classic wet-fly swing where your line arcs down-and-across, the fly dangles like bait on a hook, and steelhead charge it like it’s the last orange slice at brunch. Why? Because these ocean-fresh torpedoes aren’t sipping mayflies; they’re aggressive migrants hitting rivers at 20 mph, and this fly’s profile – long tail undulating, bead eyes flashing – mimics a wounded baitfish or egg-gobbling smolt. Sarcasm alert: If you’re dead-drifting this under an indicator, congrats, you’ve invented “nymphing for hipsters.” Save it for trout.

Gear Setup: Because Wrong Rod = Wrong Life Choices

Rod: 11-13′ 7-8 wt switch or spey rod for the swing. Shorter single-handers work for smaller water, but good luck mending 60 feet of line without looking like you’re swatting bees.
Line: Skagit head (400-500 grains) with T-8 to T-14 sink tip for winter depths. Scandi for clearer summer runs. Leader: 9-12′ mono, 12-15 lb test – tapered, not that knotted spaghetti you call “custom.”
Reel: Large arbor with drag that won’t surrender to a 10-pounder. Backing? Optional, until that fish peels 200 yards and you’re yelling at the spool.

Technique: The Wet Swing Waltz

Start high in the run – tailouts, seams where fast meets slow, 3-6 feet deep. Face downstream-ish, 45 degrees. Cast quartering down, stack mend upstream to feed line (don’t let it drag like an anchor). Let the current swing the fly across – slow at first, then accelerate as it hangs. That’s when steelhead pounce: the “hang-down,” where tension peaks and your rod tip twitches like it’s caffeinated. Set the hook hard – upstream, twice, because these fish headshake like they’re allergic to landing nets.

Winter steelhead? High water, muddy Eel or Trinity – use the Comet’s weight to probe 8-10 feet down. Swing slow; they’re lethargic but hungry. Summer runs on the Rogue or Umpqua? Clear water, fish shallower with a floating line, skating the surface if they’re risers (rare, but brag-worthy). Pro move: Vary retrieve – twitch the rod tip mid-swing for that erratic dart. Or strip line if it’s dead – because why not troll like a bass guy?

Tactics That’ll Save Your Ego:

Cover Water: Move 10-15 feet per cast; steelhead hold in buckets, not sipping lanes.
Read the River: Boulders, drop-offs, foam lines – that’s your buffet. Ignore ’em, and you’re just wading for therapy.
Conditions: Murky? Big orange tail glows. Clear? Sparse tie, swing subtle. Cold (under 45°F)? Deep and slow; warm? Faster, shallower.
Bonus: Great Lakes steelies? Dead-drift it under a bobber, but that’s cheating – this fly’s West Coast royalty.

Fishing the Golden Comet isn’t about numbers; it’s soul-crushing skunks followed by arm-numbing acrobatics. I’ve blanked days on the Klamath, cursing Cole’s ghost, only to hook a 19-incher that towed me downstream like a kite. Patience, grasshopper – or as steelheaders say, “90% waiting, 10% holy crap.” Tie a dozen, swing ’em bold, and remember: If steelhead wanted easy, they’d stay in the ocean.