As spring turns in to summer, the inevitable articles on etiquette and sharing the resource begin to appear. Calls for civility and attempts to engender kindness are much needed in our sport. I believe that we all desire a more pleasant communal experience on the water.

One of the most discouraging moments on the stream, and one of the ways that our good natures are tested, is an encroaching angler. Whether “your spot” is on an urban stream that you’ve naively assumed you could have a little bit of space in, or someone happens to buddy up in the middle of nowhere, having another fly fisher get too close for comfort is… uncomfortable.

So much of the experience is about getting out and into nature. Having other people all up in our fishness is not only frustrating, it is disheartening. Leaving the hustle and bustle for the calm serenity of the great outdoors only to find yourself waving to some human is the last think any of us wants.

Thankfully nature has given us some insights into dealing with this problem. For your consideration are the examples laid by five great North American species. They’ve carved out a niche in their respective ecosystems by outsmarting predators, prey, and peers. Learn from them:

Possum

Playing dead doesn’t mean deploying your PFD and floating face-down through a crowd of anglers. There is a much more refined, and less wet, way to play possum to secure more space for fishing.

“Poachers must have gotten all the big ones!”

“Global warming is wreaking havoc on these streams, huh?!”

“I’ve been here for a week and all I’ve seen is fallfish!”

Dead water will move another fisherman quicker than anything you can do on your own. Plus, any individual who would violate decorum to fish close to another person is probably all about results. Can you get results when there are “no fish?” Of course not. So off they’ll go, in pursuit of fat and stupid trout.

Snake

What one sound in the wilderness will stop any person, save a small percentage of backwoods Appalachian Pentecostals? The rattle of the rattlesnake. Call it instinct or education, but all of us have learned to fear the danger practically lurking around every streamside rock and log. And the sound is the key.

While lashing a devise that simulates the sound of an angry rattler to your fly rod might be effective, you can deter unwelcome companionship in other ways. Be less than stealthy if you’re on the streambank. If it won’t be detrimental to the fishing, stumble around a bit in the water. But here is the ace in the (snake?) hole: talk. Talk to yourself. Talk on your phone. Talk to an imaginary buddy up around the bend. And, if you’re ready for a gamble, talk to the person you’re trying to scare off. This may send them running, or it might draw them in. Then you’ve got a whole other set of problems on your hands.

Skunk

Vienna sausages. Stale cigars. Old Spice applied liberally. While this may make you nostalgic for summers at grandpa’s house, it probably won’t win you many friends on the stream. Which is the point.

Our olfactory system is often taken for granted. Until it is all we’re thinking about. Being around stink is hard. It can be downright overwhelming at times. Skunks know this. They’ll spin around and give you the business for just being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Another fly fisherman creeping up on your run is doing just that. So do as the skunks do. Wear that offensive eau de toilette. Light up that crushed stogie in the bottom of your vest. Eat an onion and sardine sub for shore lunch. And be sure to offer to share.

Bison

Have you ever been stared down? No matter how tough you are, or think you are, there is always that initial shock. “Why is that guy giving me the stink eye?” Then you start to think: Have I done something? Do I owe him money? Did I mess up his presentation? Am I on his property?

Hopefully a glance will be enough. And if you’re fishing with sunglasses, as you should be, they won’t be able to adequately discern your mood or expression. But if an ambiguous glare doesn’t do it, begin your charge.

I’m not advocating violence or actually galloping towards another fly fisherman. Who among us would stick around to see if a bison, or a crazed angler, really means business? That first step should be enough. Another caution with this one: you might get your rod butt handed to you if you stare at the wrong person.

Pufferfish

This might be the most extreme (but still legal) course of action one could take to ward off potential intruders on the stream. I developed this technique while flying Southwest. In a situation where one has secured a choice seat with a certain level of solitude, there are some ways to make the potential row-mate less inclined to join you. With armrest space coming at a premium, I endeavor to make myself look bigger than I am. Out go the elbows, broaden the shoulders a bit, and I’ve pufferfished just enough to make someone second guess sitting next to me.

But back to fly fishing. You know how to cast, right? Well now is the time to throw that hundred foot cast you’ve been practicing. And let’s be honest: you’ve casted that rod you’re using way farther than is reasonable back when you were test-driving it. Your 5-weight double haul prowess wasn’t just to impress Elmer at the fly shop. It was preparation. For this moment. To look huge. The interloper might think they’re a decent distance away, but you’re constantly zipping the entire line off in every direction. They’ll slink back upstream, content to find some wide-open space.

***

There you have it. Employ one or a combination of all of these tactics the next time someone pops out of the streamside vegetation and doesn’t immediately retreat out of deference to your plot of land. Move with the swiftness of the jackrabbit, the cunning of the fox, and the resolute stubbornness of the snapping turtle. Just make sure you’re wearing blaze orange.