EDITOR’S NOTE RIGHT HOW CAN I HELP YOU? The Stokes Forest Sport Shop is a go-to spot for local knowledge and a few flies. Its sign has seen some weather. The sport shop, with a bar across the street, is a Sussex County, NJ staple. Photo: Rob Yaskovic Words: Jason Rolfe My first fly shop experience was not a particu-larly pleasant one. What I expected upon entering the shop—a small Seattle concern—was a kind older gen-tleman who would welcome me into the cozy confines of his little flyfishing kingdom, intent on sharing wis-dom and encouragement as I struck out upon my own into Washington state’s myriad flyfishing opportuni-ties. What I got was a crabby middle-aged guy with a weird tan—let’s call him Richard—who seemed an-noyed at my presence and eager to get back to whatever he was doing before my arrival. Though I’d come with questions, I didn’t ask them. I browsed uncomfortably for a few tense minutes before buying a few things, then fled with the sickly feeling that I’d just intruded upon a space to which I had no right. It’s almost a cliche in flyfishing: the elitist fly shop owner. Quite often, the cantankerousness of guys like Richard (and they are almost always male) is explained away, even forgiven. “He just needs to get to know you, you’ll see, then he warms up,” people say. But why, when walking into a fly shop, should newcomers expect to undergo a trial period wherein they will be berated, ignored or huffed at (or all three) until they know the difference between a mayfly and a caddis, or an Orange Heron and a Fish Taco? Though Richard did warm up a bit in the years following, it was to the temperature of day-old coffee zapped in the microwave for 30 seconds. Fortunately, that experience has proven to be the exception and not the rule. Most fishing shop owners and employees are a helpful, inviting bunch—from the grizzled old-timers who opened their shops when I was in diapers to kids just out of high school refilling fly bins and lining up reels for a summer paycheck. I’ll never forget Richard, but neither will I forget the white-haired lady who sold me a handful of hoppers that killed on the Lochsa River, or the guy from Jackson, WY, who pointed my wife and I to great camping and fishing on a small tributary of the Snake. My local shop these days is a space no bigger than my bedroom run by a guy with dark hair, a thick goa-tee and the kind, hokey demeanor of a high school woodshop teacher. Let’s call him Jacob. He is almost always there. I don’t think he has any employees, but rather longtime customers who will sit in for him on a volunteer basis on the odd day when Jacob can’t be there himself. Jacob’s special gift is a sort of noble mun-danity, wherein every visit feels like little more than a rummage through my own gear closet at home, and every question is answered with the same sincerity and openness one might expect from a priest or therapist. Richard (who sold his shop awhile back) did well despite himself, likely because enough Seattleites de-cided the pain of an encounter with him was worth not having to travel farther—though I met plenty over the years who decided once was enough. Jacob does well partly for a similar reason—there isn’t another fly shop within 40 miles or so. But you can also be certain that regardless of your flyfishing bona fides, Jacob isn’t go-ing to turn his nose up at you, whereas in Richard’s case I’d venture scores of anglers could describe the bottom of his snout in detail. To Jacob, and the white-haired lady in Idaho, and the kid in Jackson—and anyone else lining reels and folding waders and just generally helping people keep their flies in the juicy spots—thank you. And to the Richards of the fly shop world, come on—it really is that easy. 022 THE FLYFISH JOURNAL
The Flyfish Journal Volume 13, Issue 2: Page 22
