“It looks like a movie set,” Jeff said.

“It looks like the soviets just pulled out,” I added.

It was only a halfway attempt at humor. A few months earlier, I travelled to a former soviet state. I spent time in some places that had obviously felt the weight of a very, very difficult period in recent history. And here, in America, the condition of the buildings and infrastructure I was looking at was eerily familiar.

Jeff and I took a detour through this particular town on our way to some fly fishing. The river that flowed through the town and another nearby tributary are both regional hallmarks for trout. Well-to-do anglers, from a handful of metropolitan cities only a day’s-drive away, speak highly of the watershed’s beauty and challenging fish. The area around this place is a legitimate destination.

I wonder how the residents of this time-worn town think about their surroundings.

Like so many Appalachian hamlets, this little village was settled and developed in the mid-19^th century with great hope and vigor. A burgeoning economy, one which capitalized on timber, coal, and railroads, led to establishing municipalities such as this. People came, thrived, and inevitably enjoyed the outdoor pursuits that the region afforded them. While the three aforementioned business interests almost always harmed fish populations, the decline wasn’t rapid enough to eliminate it altogether during those boom years.

The cumulative effects of 150 years of hard use, however, is another story for an ecosystem. Those 150 years also took their toll on the town. New technology, ecological regulations, and greater cultural shifts might have taken time to come about. Once they did, America didn’t look back; even if a once-bustling village was in the rearview.

Sociologically speaking, there are many variables at play when it comes to rural poverty. And the equation is never identical, even up and down the same mountain range.

For most of these places, there is one constant. There is a persistent trickle of angling interlopers. The diversity of rustic communities from Maine to Georgia might be wide, but our Subarus and graphite 5-weight rods look the same up and down the east coast. We come for the fish and the adventure. We even bring a little bit of traffic and economic stimulus.

While the people in towns like this one certainly have their fair share of struggles, so many have persevered under difficult conditions. Institutions anglers notice, such as diners, motels, and civil services, endure. Situational fragility has hardened the resolve of small communities.

Fly fishers are apt to do things like anthropomorphize fish populations. Then, we laud them for being resilient. Rivers that have been to the environmental brink and back produce trout with seemingly greater intrinsic value. There are success stories of creeks that were once magnificent, followed by a period of hard times, and then overcame great odds.

Arriving at the understanding that trout, rivers, and watersheds are part of a broader landscape helps us appreciate our experience as fly fishers. Appreciating that people and towns necessarily intersect and overlap that landscape can enrich that experience. Bridges do more than provide structure for fish. Dams  serve a purpose outside dictating CFS levels that facilitate dry fly action. Solitude and isolation aren’t as idyllic for everyone as they are for anglers.

Learning local history, spending time in a community, and having a conversation can add real depth. Depth to a fishing trip, yes. But also, a depth that can impact you, and others, in a way that transcends trout and water.