What you see is an authentic photo of the bulk of my fly fishing gear. There was no planning, no staging, and no product placement. The Doritos in the foreground, left by some children, prove the first two of those points. (I can’t say I’m opposed to being on Doritos’ pro staff.)

I don’t have a glamorous angling room. Like Harry Potter I have a room under the stairs. In a house with four boys and all of the necessary child-rearing accoutrements I covet my unfinished basement square-footage. Even if that means I have to use the main sewage stack to support my fly rods.

What I have works pretty well, actually. All the rods are on the right. The packs are hung up on hooks. A four-tiered drawer system on the  left holds tools, reels, and flies. Waders and boots live in the garage; fly tying stuff is up in my bedroom. Oh, and hats are proudly displayed in and on a diaper box turned on it’s side. It isn’t sightly, but it is functional.

Would I like to have a  room devoted to fishing gear?

Sure. It would give me an excuse to hang up some of my nice (and some of my tacky) angling artwork. My portable fly tying setup could become a permanent desk. I imagine I’d display my fly rods in some manner using a rack and my reels in a cabinet of sorts. There would be some comfortable chairs with a perfectly-paired end table – the kind where a drink would naturally find it’s way to your hand. Ventilation for occasional tobacco use might be nice. For some reason, wood paneling and shag carpet keep popping into my mental image. I know that would be really bad for flies and contemporary design conventions… but this is all imaginary so I can overlook details like that.

I’d call it “my office.” My wife would roll her eyes.

My grandfather had an “office.” It was his gun room. It was in a weird spot in their home. The room was once a bedroom (I think). As long as I can remember, it had a huge safe installed on one side and two big desks that occupied the bulk of the floor space. One was for cleaning and tinkering. The other was for paperwork. I assume the latter, because it was always covered in torn envelopes and stacks of papers. Books and gun catalogs lined the walls in shelves for about three feet. The tops of the shelves were covered in military and police knick-knacks. Above that, rifles hung on hooks from every available square inch. It always smelled like Hoppes No. 9 and pipe tobacco. It was a good place to sit.

Maybe one day. But until then, I shouldn’t complain about my little carved-out cubby. When I was in the dorm at college, I crammed everything into the closet. Reels sat in shoes and rods forced me to limit the hangers I could use. My gear’s current accommodations are posh in contrast.

So although dreaming about a fishing-specific room is quite low on my fantasy priority list, I can still indulge from time to time. When I close my eyes, the shag carpet is dark tan… and ironically there are Doritos there, too.