I never saw myself as the chain-yourself-to-a-bulldozer, repel-from-a-dam-to-paint-a-crack type. But I wasn’t totally disengaged from the environmental side of fly fishing. As a teenager I had been involved in some conservation. Stream clean ups, seminars, science fair projects – those sorts of things.

So I was a little surprised at myself at what I did on the stream that day.

***

It was summertime, and a friend and I had quite the day fishing. I can’t remember how it started, but I know that it involved catching catfish and carp on the fly way before it was a thing. We were flabbergasted, and admittedly somewhat put off that we weren’t catching bass. Today I know our responses would be much different.

New to driving ourselves around, we bounced from spot to spot. Towards the middle of the day we had found our way to a local creek that we routinely passed, but had never fished before. In the heart of suburban hustle and bustle, the word was that the smallmouth action was decent. We rigged up and began to walk upstream.

Then it happened. Under a noisy, northern Virginia overpass, I had my throw-red-paint-on-a-fur moment.

We walked by some other teenagers fishing, and I noticed that they had a few bass in a bucket. I don’t know what came over me. But I reacted. Almost instinctively upon seeing the captured fish, I did my best Jim Carrey flop. Selling the fall with a cry of panic, I also flailed enough to kick the bucket over. The bass hit the water and swam off. I got up apologetic. But I also got up victorious.

I saved those fish. I saved this stream. I saved the environment.

But what did I really accomplish? Three or four bass might have survived the ordeal, but would the irate anglers change their actions or motives at all? Sure, I justified myself – even in that moment – by citing all I’d learned about how fragile urban fisheries can be. But I didn’t explain any of that as I pretended to wipe out on the streambank.

Call it the impassioned idealism of youth. I think that was what it was. A more measured approach was probably needed. Letting those few compromised fish go home with him, but having a conversation that wasn’t judgmental or preachy might have been the responsible thing to do. Explaining how mature, breeding-age smallmouth bass were valuable in environs like this might have fallen on deaf ears. But it would have communicated a lot more than my “whoa!” as I cascaded down the bank.

***

I can’t help but think that conservationists would be better served if we adopted that mindset. Particularly in fly fishing, the air of superiority and the “oh, you lowly peasant – I’ll just show you!” mantra can be as real as the stereotypes insinuate. Calling bait anglers or people that harvest fish legally any number of derogatory names isn’t going to get them to just turn around and rally to our causes.

We might not kick buckets into streams. But we may very well be rolling our eyes, excluding people from conversations, or deeming some individuals unworthy of our attention.

While there are definitely irresponsible and downright ignorant spin-fishers, there are also dangerously reckless fly fishers. You don’t need weight-forward line to care about the environment. So many users of conventional tackle have a very similar appreciation for the aesthetics, experience, and privilege of being outside.

Not to add to or perpetuate the “us vs. them” aura, but the reality is that most outdoors circles simply don’t have the benefit of being inundated with conservation-centric messages. The fly fishing industry and the overall community is synonymous with preserving and protecting resources. Other angling groups usually have that message somewhere, but not to the same extent.

That is why dialogue (not bucket slapping) is so important. We need peers, allies, and partners. We need numbers. We might disagree in a friendly fashion on some of the more minor facets of the experience, but overall we can talk and learn together about preserving and protecting the resource.

Again, that takes talking. Not excluding or patronizing.

At the end of the day, we’re all just fishing. This isn’t some life or death sectarian war. Nor should it be.

***

Oh, and I also got a raging case of poison ivy that day. My faux collapse landed me in a thick patch of the vegetation that I am significantly allergic to. Enough that I was finding it in all sorts of places and had to go on steroids to remedy the irritation. That’ll teach me to not use my words.