The other day I thought to myself, “Why don’t you conduct a brief, informal survey of complete strangers in the mall?”

I know that thinking such things isn’t normal. And that carrying out plans like that is even less so. However, I had a few too many cups of coffee and I wasn’t going to let silly things like “shame” and “coming across as a total weirdo” stop me.

Here was the premise of my little social experiment: I love fly fishing. I love the fly fishing industry. I love looking at fly rods, flipping through pegboards of tying materials, and talking to employees at shops. Fly shops, as I’ve written about from time to time, are some of my favorite places in the world. But what do other people think about these little retail gems? Even if one is right under their nose; if they have to walk past it day in and day out, do they know what it is? Are muggles* aware of fly shops?

I had to pick up a few hooks and beads from a shop in the area. The location of this particular establishment made it the perfect environment for my study. It is in a mall. What’s more, it might be the most prominent name in the fly fishing industry. Hint: it rhymes with “Dorvis.”

After I bought my tying supplies, chatted with the friendly staff, and resisted the urge to buy things I didn’t need and most likely already have, I commenced my research. The plan was to walk up to random people, hold up my bag, and ask, “do you know what this store sells?” I wanted to hit all the demographics. Young and old, male and female, mall employees and shoppers, those who came across as outdoors-savvy and those who were sending out more of an indoorsy vibe.

I definitely freaked some people out. No mothers clutching their children and hurrying their pace or anything. Just a general why are you talking to me? One young man’s response to my “hi” was an immediate “what is this all about?!?” I should have reported him to mall security. Maybe only one or two people seemed unfazed by the benign interaction. The fact that a totally unfamiliar person was being pleasant in engaging them was probably the real shocker. What does that say about our culture?

Here is the raw data. To the question of “what does (industry leading fly fishing brand) sell?” people said:

• 30% Don’t know
• 20% Sporting goods
• 20% Fly fishing
• 10% Clothing
• 10% Shoes
• 10% “Something green?”   In her defense, the bag was green. I guess that product color could, in certain circumstances, determine what the aesthetics of the corresponding shopping bag may be. I mean, I’m no marketing genius.

Okay, so I only talked to ten people. But I think that it was probably a pretty good representation of folks in the mall that day. And, being perfectly fair, over half of the people that answered were technically correct. And that doesn’t count all of the green things that are in the catalog.

Fly fishing is an amazing, weird world. On one hand, it happens everywhere. In the middle of the ocean. On top of mountains. In cities. In deserts. But only a very small percentage of the population does it. If you’re in the angling culture, it is almost like you see things that the rest of the world just kind of passes right by.

You don’t let people swat mayflies until you’ve inspected them. You slow down when you drive over bridges. You make your family wait in the car while you “just peek in this fly shop – just for a second!”

At the same time, every little niche hobby has that: Architecture buffs stand in the middle of the sidewalk, staring at chimney adornments. Train people sit by the train tracks, waiting to take pictures of trains. Some people use Pinterest to do something; what that is I’m not entirely sure.

The bubble of fly fishing shows, fly fishing Twitter, fly fishing Instagram, and all of the other little angling cloisters we huddle up inside have the potential to insulate us a bit. And then our family, friends, and coworkers treat us like tinfoil-hat types. If you practice casting in your waders on your front lawn, they’d be wise to do so.

I suppose there are a number of different directions I could take the results of my detailed, empirical research. At the end of the day, this is what I walked away thinking:

We are undoubtedly a bizarre bunch of people.

We make fake bugs out of dead animal parts. Spots on fish elicit euphoric feelings. No one else uses the words “woolly” and “bugger” as much as we do, let alone in immediate proximity with one another. Most of us are breaking the millennia-old tradition of catching fish so they can be eaten. For the rest of the world, A River Runs Through It is just another Brad Pitt movie.

There are some things we, as fly fishers, value that may or may not translate over into the mainstream. Not polluting is something people can get behind. Spending quality time with family and friends is universal.  The benefits of being outside make sense. But the benefits of waking up at 4:00 am to go stand in 50-degree water aren’t as plain to see. That’s where we look “off.”

More elaboration isn’t necessary, because reading anything about fly fishing from the perspective of a non-angler is pretty informative as to how we’re just a little bit out of the ordinary. But that is okay. We’ll congregate and commiserate at no less than two national film festivals celebrating our atypical walk of life. Like Comic Con, only with more Columbia shirts, beards, and flip flops.

I don’t think I’ll be getting any grants to continue my research anytime soon. As compelling as my comprehensive findings are, I think that I might even be done with it. Some outsiders will inevitably find their way in. Maybe they’ll stumble into a store to buy a dog bed or pair of corduroy pants and notice these bins of feathers with hooks in them. Most likely that will be a much more natural and less frightening introduction to the sport than being accosted by a stranger. And honestly, I’m probably one awkward mall interaction away from being chased down by a grown man on a Segway.

* “Muggle,” for those who have been fly fishing too much over the past decade and a half to be even moderately familiar with Harry Potter, is the semi-derogatory word the secret magical community uses to refer to non-magic individuals. Kind of like our “bait fishermen.”