
Years ago, it went out of business. It was one of the first fly shops I stepped foot in. Like many other storefronts on an old main street, some combination of modern economic factors caused it to shutter its doors after decades of service to locals and out-of-towners. It had the reputation for catering to anyone and everyone. Politicians and mountain folk both stopped in before heading into the woods for trout.
Yet, it wasn’t a fly shop. Not in the traditional sense of the word.
One could buy fly fishing gear. But you could also get some graphite arrow shafts, live nightcrawlers, and camp chairs. The shelves had packs of snelled hooks, boxes of target loads, and cans of beef stew. Rods and reels, guns and bows seemed to be stocked with no rhyme or reason. Crusty skin mounts and faded polaroids covered the wood panel interior.
I wasn’t aware at the time but looking back it was probably a lot like most sporting goods stores just a few generations ago. There was a little bit of everything but not a lot of anything.
There were flies, though.









