I am not a dry fly purist, but I have my philosophies. When fishing for myself, dry fly fishing is my preferred method for most of the season and in most rivers. That said, I am not above the utilitarian turn when conditions demand change. Of all the alternatives to the romantic dry fly, streamers are my favorite. Sure, they’re not as picturesque as the dry, not as subtle as the soft hackle, and not nearly as productive as nymphing. But, where the streamer lacks in these virtues, it more than makes up for itself in the take—that “holy shit” freight train adrenalin dump of a big fish on a meaty fly where, if you’re lucky, you see the flash after the strike and your rod bends double as line screams off the reel.

In the last decade or so, streamer fishing has cemented itself into industry consciousness. Arguably, Kelly Gallup is the godfather of the movement. Since Mr. Gallup’s rise, we’ve seen a legion of guides, influencers, anglers, Insta feeds, and YouTube personalities grow streamer fishing to its own club within the sport. We’ve got specialized streamer rods and lines, we’ve seen a fly tying renaissance with Blane Chocklett, Brian Wise, and others redefining what a fly can accomplish. We now have young guns like Gunnar Brammer dedicating their whole internet presence and professional life to streamer fishing. For those more literary types, there is a growing library of books on streamer fishing that are well worth the read. While there is still a place for trolling streamers on lakes and fishing the line twist in still water, we’ve now got techniques that are on par with the Bass Pro circuit. Combine these developments with an ever-increasing archive of sizzle reels that favor big takes and big fish from the corporate side of the house, and we have a recipe for profit, too. Like all things that have a profit-driven core, innovation, branding, and new gewgaws are the name of the game. This isn’t a complaint. I love my gewgaws. This is simply to note that streamer fishing is everywhere, branded, and it’s certainly here to stay.

I see the growth of streamer fishing as good for the sport because it tends to attract those who would otherwise be turned off by fly fishing. Truth is, you can now start fly fishing with streamers and then move into the more technical tactics. Streamer lines have integrated sink tips. Streamer rods—at least the good ones—are generally medium-fast action and forgiving. Leaders are shorter. Flies are bigger but the sink tip lines means easier casting unweighted flies are preferred. This combination softens the learning curve because the rod/line/leader/fly unit gives more obvious biofeedback to the caster. The weighted lines with unweighted flies on a short, heavier leader turn over in the wind more easily than a dry fly rig all of which gives a sense of confidence that is necessary to deliver a fly to the fish. Perhaps best of all (and forgive me Mr. Gallup, but you know this is true), there is nothing delicate about the streamer cast. Yes, accuracy is important. But delicacy? Not really. Hell, sometimes you want that fly to slap down on the water. It’s like ringing the dinner bell.  

Yet, there are drawbacks. Here, I’m thinking less about fishing and more in terms of the streamer clique whose self-appointed premier membership class is comprised of that most obnoxious of fly fishing persona: the streamer bro.

These guys. These guys wearing their skeleton-print buffs, “Fear no Fish” hats, mirrored sunglasses, stripping guards on all eleven fingers, looking like they just stepped out of a Simms, Patagonia, Fishpond, and Farbank catalogue. These guys, floating down the river with ten thousand dollars’ worth of rods strung up with different flies that are basically half a chicken and some flash while blasting Nickelback from their Bluetooth speakers. These guys, rowing their brown trout decal wrapped boats—boats that were towed by lifted Fords that have never been farther off road than gravel launches—drinking fancy IPAs out of a Yeti cooler, bragging about how they only target trophies, how they only catch “predatious” fish, how they can move twenty predators in a day throwing the meat and can’t get enough of the tug. These f*cking guys. The streamer bros. I can’t stand these f*cking guys.

First off, bluegill are predators. I can move more than twenty bluegills in about 30 minutes with an ant pattern on a golf pond. There’s your predator. Second, while the industry certainly appreciates the money you spent, when you’re carrying that much hardware people are going to start to wonder what you’re compensating for. Third, turn off your goddamn music. No one wants to hear it and you’re insulting anyone with taste or discernment. Fourth, stripping guards? Really? They’re trout. Not stripers, salmon, or musky. They’re not rooster fish, not bonefish, not redfish. They’re trout. Trout. Fifth, you might want to see someone about that extra digit. Body positivity movements aside, eleven fingers just ain’t right. Sixth, a Ford? Have some self-respect. Lastly, think about what you’re saying: “throwing meat” and “the tug.” Jesus. Let’s keep your extracurriculars to yourself. People are trying to fish here. The river is not a sexhibition venue.

I know I am being pithy, that I’m risking alienation and inviting pushback here. But the more I think about the streamer bro, the more I understand they are not limited to the fly fishing world. They’re everywhere. Every kind of community that organizes itself around an activity has their own version of the streamer bro. The term “bro” itself is its own taxonomic signifier. If there is one defining characteristic of the Linnaean “bro” family, it is the phallically sensitive, emotionally fragile, overly compensated ego. Pushback, then, is expected. Alienation is not the problem—honestly, it’s not even a concern. The problem, at least for me, is the foundational principle of competition that drives the streamer bro in the first place.

As a sporting endeavor, fly fishing ranges from hobby to lifestyle to science to philosophy. It has drama, tragedy, comedy, poetry. And yes, competition. The sport has its “world champions” (whatever the hell that means). We have our tournaments, our derby days, and our two fly fundraisers. Everyone who fishes has counting days. We measure inches, track limits, weight, takes, strikes, and misses. When fishing with a buddy, most of us try to win the day if for no other reason than to say, “I got more fish,” and in saying that (even to ourselves) we get that little lift we needed. While this competitive aspect, at least for me, is more privation than aspiration, it is a hard habit to break. Competition has the added bonus of being good for business. That means it gets the lion’s share of corporate and influencer marketing because, like sex, competition sells. Everyone wants to wake up and piss excellence. To one degree or another, we buy into the competitive hype. Conquering, victory, a desire to win despite the cost are just as American as apple pie and appropriation. Like I said, I am guilty of these urges, too. However, over the last couple of years I have made a hard turn away from competition and believe myself to be better for it. See, I can’t shake the feeling that, more often than not, we lose for winning. If you doubt that, I suggest taking a hard look at what we’ve “won” since conquering the planet.

At its best, fly fishing should be an exercise in ego death. Think about it. Those of us who fly fish are taking a thing—the catching of a fish—and making it pretty damn hard on ourselves. We stack bits of fur, feather, and wraps of thread on a curved and sharpened wire then roll and unroll a fancy string in the air using a flimsy rod made of bamboo, fiberglass, or graphite all in the hopes of tricking a creature that does not have thumbs into eating our imitation. Then, most of us let the fish go. Most of us end the day with nothing to show for our effort or skill, at least nothing tangible. We go out, stand in a river, cast a line, and let the spoils go. What’s more, that’s the point. The point is the letting go, the humbling.

Streamer bros miss that point. For the streamer bro, the competition is the point. For them, it’s not really about the river, the fish, the misses. It’s not about that elegant dance with failure. No. For the streamer bro it’s about the numbers, about ripping lips and taking dips. For them it is about the assertion of dominance over other people and some fish.

If I was a more compassionate person, I would understand the need to constantly compete for the tin foil armor protecting a deep insecurity that it is. If I was a more optimistic person, I would see the streamer bro tribe as just another club within a club of like-minded people in pursuit of their happiness. If I was less judgmental and more laissez faire, I might say the hell with it. Live and let live. If I were more true to my socialist and democratic principles, I would remember streamer bros right to public spaces is just as valid as my right and so long as they are not breaking the law, they can do whatever they want.

We’ve all got things to work on.

Truth is, I am a slightly pudgy middle-aged man with misanthropic and anachronistic tendencies who tends towards the more introspective side of life. This character combination places me at odds with the flash and sizzle side of things. In general, it places me outside the social media, self-aggrandizing firestorm of modern culture. It means I am always suspect of marketing, of the hard sell, of the brag. It means I am an anti-marketing, anti-catalogue, contrary bastard. I despise opulence, extravagance, and the pursuit of social status. It means I see Antisthenes as a worthy model, and I seriously doubt he would have only thrown the meat.

For me, fly fishing has nothing to do with me at all. Rather, it is one of the last places where my all too present self has the best chance of fading into the background. For me, the virtues of fly fishing lie in an acceptance of conditions and an adaption of form, not in bending the scene to a preconceived notion or willful desire. The best take what the water and the season and the fish and the wind and the light offer on that day. They fit. They simultaneously fade and become present; they do not so much transcend, but exist on that edge where, when casting out, they sometimes understand themselves to be fishing in two waters at once

So, while I am not above tossing a streamer when conditions allow, I am, at least, beyond the need to define a whole experience by the take. The virtues I value make that singular definition just a little trite. In other words, my philosophies place me at odds with streamer bros and, really, all bros, everywhere.

Like I said, I have my philosophies.