Gear or Fly: The Hierarchy Nobody Asked For

If I could suggest one thing to fly anglers, I’d push us to be more open to gear fishing.

It’s winter in south Louisiana. The crappie, locally known as sacalait, have moved into the shallow backwaters of the cypress forest to feed. In my hand is a 9-foot-6-weight fly rod that has never seen a nymph or dry fly. Tied on the end of the mono line is an electric blue jig with a small weighted head. The long and sensitive rod is perfect for jigging around the cypress trees and debris that the sacalait love to shelter in. By midday, we’ve caught our limit, but haven’t made a single cast.

A wise man once told me that the type of fishing equipment you use should be determined by the fishing scenario you are in. Sometimes, a fly rod is the best tool for the job, and at other times, it’s not. That man was Larry Dahlberg, and as one of the greatest minds fishing has ever known, I trust him.

A fly-fishing scenario might be early- to mid-summer on the Madison River, when, ideally, the salmon flies are hatching. I’ll take a 5-weight and a big-ass chubby.

A different scenario might be mid-summer in the upper Midwest when the walleye are sitting in 30-plus feet of water. I’ll take a baitcaster and a jerkbait, please.

I don’t care which mid-summer boat I’m in. I’m equally happy to do both, because at my core, I’m an angler. Not a bass fisherman, not a trout bum, not a permit freak. I just like the problem solving of fish. Where they are, what they eat, how to entice them to bite. The type of gear used is simply an answer to the problem in front of me.

When I arrived in Colorado at the age of 18, spinning rod in hand, I quickly learned that a fly rod was the proper tool for the job. I also learned that there was a hierarchy out West, or at least it felt like there was. A hierarchy between fly anglers and “corn dunkers” or “spin Bobs,” basically anyone fishing not using a fly rod. After nearly a decade in the industry, I still struggle to understand the pedestal fly anglers put themselves on compared to their conventional counterparts.

Now, it’s important to keep in mind that this judgment or pedestal goes both ways. We’ve all seen the memes and are familiar with the stereotypes typically associated with fly anglers. For the most part, I think that the majority of this divide is to be taken in good fun, but I also know there are some deep frustrations on both sides. From the perspective of gear anglers, I think the most common complaint is that fly anglers are snobby or “better than them.” Writing for Meateater, Ryan Sparks describes how fly fishing contributed to a feeling of hierarchy that eventually led to him catching fewer fish and having less fun on the water.

When talking to fly anglers, the biggest complaint I hear about “gear guys” is that the conservation mindset is not as present for them. I’m not sure if there is a clear response to this claim. Fly fishing does build a strong connection to the resource as you’re standing in the water, matching hatches and typically moving at a slower pace. Now, it’s not to say that conventional fishing cannot do the same thing. The issue is when this connection to the resource becomes virtuous and exists as something to separate the groups, as opposed to an opportunity to build connection through education. It’s easy to see an angler drag a wild trout on the bank and say to yourself, “What an idiot.” It’s harder to walk over, ask about their day, and kindly educate them about the fragility of the species they are catching.

While the beef between conventional and fly anglers may still run deep, I see the divide weakening. The next generation is moving away from the conflict and towards a recognition that Larry Dahlberg’s perspective is more sensible: the fishing scenario should determine the tool.

Last winter, while floating the Skagit River for steelhead, my buddy Sam quietly said, “I can’t wait for the silvers to come in. I’m thinking about picking up some rods for throwing spoons, so we can actually fill the cooler.” He said it as if he needed permission. Or worse, was breaking the rules.

If I could suggest one thing to fly anglers, I’d push us to be more open to gear fishing. If not for a sense of peacefulness, do it to become a better angler.

The best lesson I ever received on how to swing flies for steelhead and salmon came from backtrolling plugs in Alaska. Trolling is a very effective method for catching fish, and if you’re intentional and engage with the gear, electronics and philosophy, it’s a fun challenge. It’s also one of the better forms of fishing to drink a beer while doing, and that doesn’t suck.

When guiding, I had plenty of clients who didn’t want to stand on a sandbar and swing flies for king salmon all day. There were a few methods for catching them with gear. Boondogging, drifting a weighted egg imitation through holding water, was the favorite because it was engaging, and backtrolling was the other. To backtroll, you position your boat in the run with the stern downstream. Large plugs are dropped back behind the boat. While holding the boat in the current, the plugs shake and dive deep in the water. As you guide the boat, the goal is to fish the entire run, at a variety of depths, and in multiple places. This means you must have a deep understanding of where your plugs are behind the boat and how deep they swim. Additionally, you’ve got to know the run. A good plug fisherman can maneuver their plugs inches in front of a submerged log, convincing the king salmon behind it to explode from cover and destroy the lure, damn near breaking the rod in the process.

Swinging flies is the same thing. You’ve got a piece of water, and you have to try to cover the water efficiently and completely. You must think about where the fish would sit and how to get the fly in front of them at the right depth. You have to know where your fly is in the water column and how far it is off the end of your shooting head. And, in an ideal situation, you can swing your fly a few inches in front of that steelhead or salmon, just like when plug fishing. Both take serious skill and understanding to do effectively. And both make me really excited.

Had I turned my nose up to plug fishing, I would be a worse spey fisherman. Had I looked at spey fishing as an old man activity and not worth my time, I’d be a worse plug fisherman. That lesson directly contradicts most of the current fly-fishing culture, and were it not for my mentors who refused to accept the culture as fact, I may have never learned it.

I’m not unique here. Sam and I, along with the rest of Gen Z, aren’t rejecting fly fishing; we’re embracing fishing because we’re anglers. Not bass fishermen, not trout bums, not permit freaks. We just like to fish.

Once you remove the hierarchy of the whole thing, you’re left with the true gold contained within the sport. It’s about being on the water, with people or without, taking in the environment around you and solving the problem of fish.

Where are they? What do they want to eat? How do I trick them?

The tool you use is just the (current) answer to the ever-changing problem in front of you.

Also, if you’re a next-generation angler, we’d love to hear from you. Shoot me an email @ watsoncliff23@gmail.com to share your thoughts and join our WhatsApp group.

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Cliff Watson grew up in Wisconsin and now roams the Western U.S. like many other displaced Midwesterners. He has fished commercially in Alaska, hitchhiked with a fly rod through South America and developed some thoughts along the way. He writes about fishing, culture and the human experience. Give his Substack, Kudos, a follow. You’ll be glad you did.