I read in the news today about a local fly shop that is closing its doors after nearly a quarter century of doing business in my area. Admittedly, I did not frequent the place, but the fact remains that yet another small business owner is losing their piece of the pie. A piece of the pie that hits close to home because it catered to the fly-fishing crowd, of which I am a proud member.

The economics of fly-fishing is steak one week bologna the next. You might have a few customers who have a cash cow grazing out back, but for the most part, you are not going to have droves of people standing in line to buy $900.00 rods and $400.00 reels. Most of us are still trying to justify a purchase from four years ago that cost half that. Fly-fishing, if you become a gearaholic can be a very expensive venture and not one that most can maintain.

So what does it actually take to keep a business open and moderately successful? The obvious thought is to diversify, but a fly shop, just like a mechanic, or a bakery, has one thing they do. Diversification is proprietary to box retail, and box retail doesn’t really care in a personal and hands on way if they have the right sized Parachute Adams for Spring Fishing in the Smokies.

One local Fly Shop has found a niche on the World Wide Web. By shipping various products world wide, and offering a plethora of pertinent local angling information with one mouse click, they have effectively risen above any potential funeral pyre and though I am sure that they are not rolling in the dough, at the very least they are maintaining a very respectable business.

The business that is closing had, from a river perspective, a very poor location, and you would find no cheap stuff their either. However, place a good selection of equipment in a location that is either on the way to or on the way from the river, and you just might be able to squeeze through.

We have monster Box Retail of the fishing variety here as well. Though I often feel like a hypocrite for doing it, I work there a couple of days per month. Here is what I have noticed about this place…
They call it a “Fly Shop”, but it is really just a small fly fishing department much as a selection of pots and pans is house wares at Wal-Mart. Most of the clientele are not die-hard fly anglers. They are mostly spin fishermen who want to give it a try or someone on vacation who saw a real fly angler in the Smokies and decided to blow some of their expendable vacation income on a rod and reel so they could feel as though they have been in “the movie”.

I build my own rods, and now have started building them for others. Quality, hand made, bamboo fly rods. Good stuff. But, if I think for one minute that I can quit my day job and start building an empire on an esoteric portion of a very segregated sport, I may as well get in line with the shop that is closing and start looking for the unemployment office.

There are weekends on the water when everything works, and then there are those that leave you scratching you head. Those perplexing times on the river or stream when you see the fish, you know they are there, you can sit and watch them feed for hours, but as soon as you cast a fly on the water, they sink into the shadows. Life in general, it seems, holds the same deck of cards.

Expecting life to be a serendipitous menagerie of highflying success is to set ones self up for complete and total failure. However, interspersed amongst the downward spiral are moments that at best offer you success, and at the very worst, offer hope, which is sometimes all we need.

The annual gathering of fellowship was this past weekend and though I enjoyed myself, I found it difficult to “get into the swing”. It was great to see old friends and have a good laugh. Nevertheless, all the while, I found myself lost in a cascade of thoughts that circled around a solitary period of time on the river.

The weekend started with the potential for a true donnybrook with a fellow who was old enough to be my Grandfather, and after being chided by him for ruining his “wilderness experience”, I allowed myself to wallow in anger. That of course led to hanging in trees, ripping my waders, missing at least one “Holy Crap”, and just a heavy dose of negative Karma that no doubt made the fishing all the more difficult for me.

Night one was exceptional and it was a true joy to see a bunch of scraggly coots that have effectively imbedded themselves into my life. Still, as I sat, pickin or shootin the breeze, I was clearly a couple of bubbles off plumb.

Day two, I awoke with a renewed feeling of hope. With a boo in hand, and a little fire under my feet, I set out with Jermz, my outstanding traveling companion. First cast of the day…bam!...fish on. And the day made steady improvement. This day also included one brief but thrilling tussle with a lower Nan fish that no doubt was a true Holy Crap. It even offered me the gift of an amazing airborne body roll with its entire length dancing through the air sending water…and my fly sailing everywhere. After I regained my composure and had a brief moment of repose…back to fishing. I could feel myself settling down, shaking the bad Karma, and getting into that old familiar groove.

Day three, I found myself further up on the Nan than I had traveled before, and my motions were so fluid that I felt like I was fishing through a dream. These are the moments that I live for. Fish or no fish, I was in my zone, I had caught my groove, and there were compliant fish. Then came the rain. For some this is a bad thing, for me it is like manna from Heaven. I love those gray rainy days when you are invisible, quiet, and lurking.

By the time we left for home, I felt like I wished that I had felt on Friday. Took me three days to get there…but I got there, and that is what made the trip for me.

A man reaching middle age faster that he cares to admit, with three little ones and another on the way can easily be swallowed up by the worries of the world. I didn’t realize just how “swallowed up” I had been. I really needed this trip.

To all who were there…thanks.