This article by Bud Bynack about Dean Schubert was originally published in "California Confluences" in the October, 2004 issue of California Fly Fisher.
With a father from Wisconsin and a mother from Berkeley, Dean Schubert literally embodies the confluence of Midwestern and West Coast cultures and angling traditions. Early on, as a diver, he also became acquainted with the fishes in a manner more intimate than with those us who venture no father into a river than our wader tops. His enthusiasm for the outdoors brought him to California, and his artistic sensibility no doubt helped bring him to fly fishing. As an artist, he is responsible for the fish depicted on the “Catch and Release” stickers you see on vehicles parked along rivers throughout the state.
As an author, he has written numerous articles for fly-fishing publications about fly tackle and presentation techniques. As a fly-fishing instructor and tackle representative, he has traveled and fished the West and the world. As an entrepreneur, he has successfully managed fly-fishing enterprises. And as an innovator, with his friend Dave Hickson, he has developed the 90-degree indicator nymphing method now widely — and sometimes controversially — in use. Dean has been at the center of California fly fishing for decades and has some clear and definite opinions to share about its history, present direction, and future.
Bud: I could only scratch the surface with that introduction. How did you come to live a life so focused on fly fishing?
Dean: I was raised in Downers Grove, Illinois, originally a farming community, and now a western suburb of Chicago. Both sides of my family, and my grandfathers, in particular, 
were avid fisherfolk. However, Illinois was not trout Shangri-La. When I was a kid, there was only one viable stream (hatchery fish only) in the whole state, and Lake Michigan was a virtual cesspool, a dumping ground for regional industry. Fortunately for me, many of our family gatherings centered on fishing outings in rural Wisconsin. Opening Day of trout season was a hallowed event that would see us up, on the way to the creek, and procuring night crawlers from a small farm stand before first light. Once astream, we would spread out to our respective “secret” holes and attempt to “limit out,” our version, then, of the grand slam. My parents would rent a small camping trailer for a month every summer, and we would usually travel to the Rocky Mountain States. Sometimes we would hook up with my grandparents from Berkeley, who would bring their trailer and meet us. I feel very lucky, as a boy, to have fished for trout throughout Montana, Wyoming, and Colorado when it was unusual to see another angler on the stream.
I attended the University of Illinois at Champaign-Urbana, where I received a bachelor’s degree in biology with emphasis on ecology, ethology (animal behavior), and evolution. All my life, I’ve always had a keen interest in animals and their respective habitats, and especially fish and their underwater world. I started snorkeling when I was five and got a serious free-diving outfit when I was twelve. If you who are old enough, you remember the TV show Sea Hunt, with Lloyd Bridges as Mike Nelson. I never missed an episode. I practiced holding my breath in the bathtub and swimming pools until I could stay down over two minutes.
My favorite local place to dive was in some old flooded limestone quarries about ten miles from my home. That was a serious round-trip bike ride for me, but the clear water there was full of black bass and panfish. The athleticism of gliding underwater and the excitement of observing these creatures in their nearly silent world satisfied me in a way I couldn’t describe at the time. I maintained both saltwater and freshwater aquariums in my bedroom. My mother was kind enough to ignore the mess made by the brine-shrimp hatchery that I used to feed my seahorses. I got my scuba certification when I was 17, and when my college buddies were partying at Fort Lauderdale during spring break, I would usually be out on the coral reef (during the day, anyway) with my underwater camera. My senior year of college, I attended a graduate-level course conducted at the Lerner Marine Laboratory on the island of Bimini, Bahamas. The good news was spending hours on the coral every day. The bad news was an opportunity lost. Since my only real saltwater fishing experience at the time was for stripers in San Francisco Bay, I didn’t recognize the value of all those bonefish tailing unmolested by me in Bimini. At least I had the pleasure of drinking Meyers Rum in Room #1 at the Compleat Angler Hotel, where Hemingway had sacked out and wrote Islands in the Stream between his marlin expeditions.
My other interests growing up also took me outdoors to less populated areas. I started backpacking, primarily to get to remote areas to pursue my main passion, trout fishing. I also loved to ski and was a member of the ski patrol at our local area. I worked at mountaineering stores during high school and college and became fascinated with high-quality outdoor tools that were lighter, stronger, and performed at a higher level. My co-workers and other friends I met at the store encouraged me to start rock climbing, kayaking, and cross-country skiing.
Upon graduating, I was interested in continuing my studies on coral reefs and applied to a master’s program at the University of Hawaii. As an outdoors person, I knew that I didn’t want to live in Illinois any longer. As fate would have it, I was offered a job by Royal Robbins, the internationally renowned climbing pioneer, to work in his retail store in Modesto and teach outdoor sports.Being somewhat jaded by the educational system at the time and hankering for some adventure, I accepted. So I moved to California. Although Modesto was not like the freewheeling Berkeley I was familiar with, it gave me an opportunity to hone my instructional and outdoor skills and spend my free time fishing the Sierra. My 
Berkeley connection came through two years later, when I arrived to open and manage Marmot Mountain Works. Berkeley in the late 1970s was the international Mecca of outdoor equipment, and at its peak, I think I counted 17 manufacturers and retailers within the city limits alone.
My enthusiasm for fly fishing and the time spent doing it were quickly growing, but there were two distinct events that pushed me further. First, having gone through a painful breakup with my long-term girl friend, I moved in with Dave Hickson, who had also just broken up with his girlfriend. Dave worked for another outfitting store in town, and we had done a bit of fishing together. Dave and I found that we challenged each other to become better fly fishers. Call it a friendly rivalry without the large dose of ego that’s usually involved in such arrangements. That began a collaboration that lasted through the ten years that we lived together and that continues today.
Second, I started working for Andre Puyans at Creative Sports Enterprises in Walnut Creek. What a wealth of information and experience that passed through those doors! Andy’s was a gathering place for many of the prominent fly guys in the Bay Area, as well as those from other states and countries. Mingling with people whose books I had read, I realized that I really didn’t know as much as I had thought. I started actually to learn how to cast properly and make my own fly lines and leaders. I learned to tie flies from the master himself. I handled and cast rare bamboo rods that I had previously seen only in pictures. I started guiding to supplement my income, as well as writing articles for fly-fishing magazines.
A couple of years later, Orvis, which had opened a store in San Francisco, asked me if I would be interested in helping to teach a fly-fishing school in the eastern Sierra. I did, thoroughly enjoying the experience, and after the prior director left, was offered to co-direct the school with my friend Rusty Vorous. I was involved in leading the Orvis West Coast Fly-Fishing School for the next thirteen years, along with my guiding. We were given a free reign to expand this business, and since I wanted to earn more money and instruct, as well as fish in different areas in California and Oregon, the school grew to become the second largest in America. This arrangement allowed me to spend months at a time at places like the Arcularius Ranch and the Take It Easy Ranch in Oregon, only 88 miles on the odometer across Crater Lake to Steamboat Inn on the North Umpqua. My winters being free left a lot of time to steelhead along the coast and to travel, particularly to New Zealand. I’ve spent over a year there, cumulatively, on several different trips. In 1994, at 42 years of age, I got married, and although my wife Debra is a keen angler and supportive of my habit, I decided after a while that it was time to get a “real” job. An opportunity came along, and I became a fly tackle sales rep for Orvis, first in California and eventually in Oregon and Nevada, also. (Dean is presently manager and director of Leland Sonoma Fly Fishing Ranch.)
Bud: The 90-degree indicator-nymphing method for steelhead fishing has led to controversy over indicator steelhead fishing on the North Umpqua has revolved ("The War in Heaven," California Fly Fisher, January/February 2004). What prompted you to apply the method to the North Umpqua? What's the state of the controversy today?
Dean: When Dave and I began going to the North Umpqua, we had both been fishing traditional swing methods on the coast for many years. The Umpqua was quite different from our typical winter haunts: clear, fast-flowing water, with treacherous and challenging wading, warmer water, and summer fish that were a lot more active — fish that acted more like, well, trout and unlike winter fish, which seemed to have lockjaw all day and then would go on a tear for fifteen minutes for some unknown reason. We’d watch Umpqua steelies swing back and forth, feeding on nymphs, just like McCloud rainbows. We had started out fishing on the swing, though, and my first two trips were fishless, due, in part, to my lack of knowledge of the water.
If I had grown up in steelhead country, surrounded by the classic traditions, my views, likes, and dislikes would probably be different. But I didn’t. Because these summer fish acted like trout, we became interested in fishing for them as we would for trout. Sight fishing added to our desire. Dave was the first to fish an indicator on the Umpqua, and I fished the yarn on my next trip. Personally, I feel the indicator offers much more control and satisfaction if one has the skills and understanding to fish it properly.
Our success and the success of others that followed prompted a series of increasingly Draconian rule changes to the regulations to prevent the use of indicators on the fly-only section of the river. The traditionalists feel that they have the mandate to exclude others, to preserve their ways, and to not be pestered by something they don’t like. They hide behind the falsehood of conservation of the resource, when in reality, the regulations have been jacked around in a curious manner, certainly not to preserve the fishery. First they outlawed weighted flies, assuming this would deter all but the most stupid yarn boys and certainly make the technique ineffective. However, some clever folks, as fly fishers tend to be, started tying their flies on 5X-to-10X-stout tuna hooks that sank rather well. Back to the drawing board. Since they couldn’t outlaw hooks, they banned indicators as “attachments” on fly lines, but still allowed bubbles on spinning rods. However, to keep things fair, in the name of conservation, they also at the same time disallowed sinking fly lines.
I thought to myself, “Even though I don’t like it, this seems equitable that all fly folks have to fish with floating lines and floating or damp flies.” Guess what? Many of the traditionalists who were responsible for banning indicators now whined that they were unable to catch as many steelhead as they would like on their floating stuff. So next, they allowed sinking fly lines again, even though the technological advances in lines with tungsten allowed them to sink faster than any of the lead-core lines that had historically been illegal.
At this writing, I am told that a meeting was held in Glide or thereabouts in early August to change the rules again. I hear that they are considering allowing weighted flies again, but no indicators. I don’t know what the result was, nor, at this point, do I care that much. Obviously, there seems to be a number of supposedly intelligent people who see no conflict in the above machinations, simply because they fish on the swing and feel that everyone should fish that way. But make no mistake: This is not an issue of caring for steelhead populations. This is a social issue based on artistic differences 
and selfishness. I don’t feel the Oregon government, or any state, for that matter, has a right to limit fishing styles while protecting a privileged class. Limits should be based on accepted conservation logic. Any of the above techniques — indicators, floating lines, sinking lines, weighted or unweighted flies — all fish effectively on the Umpqua in the hands of skilled and experienced anglers if they’re willing to put the time in. I’ve thought about contacting Oregon Fish and Game and asking them to rule on whether it would be OK to step out onto Boat Pool with a 12-foot surf spinning rod, spinning line, a bubble, two or three feet of ultrafast-sinking fly line, a foot or two of leader, and an unweighted fly. I think that conforms to the current regulations, and the rig would fish just dandy. Unfortunately, I wouldn’t enjoy it very much, nor, I think, would my fellow anglers. Besides, they’d probably change the regulations again, so I’ll leave it to someone else.
Bud: You seem to have a very clear position on the role of innovation in fly-fishing techniques. Are there any related topics you want take on — anything you want to get off your chest?
Dean: A couple of things come to mind. I consider fly fishing an art form, rather than a sport. Most sports have clearly codified rules that all participants adhere to, so that a competition can be held and a resulting winner and loser can be established. I love watching and playing many of these sports, as do most of us. An art form, on the other hand, usually has some traditional parameters, but these are more fluid, subject to limitless variation and innovation. Yes, you can have a watercolor exhibition with a medal awarded to the winner, but in the end, those decisions are highly subjective.
It seems that we are more interested in boiling everything down to winners and losers, who’s the best, but we don’t want to have to think about it too hard. Competitive fly casting has been around for decades, a sport that has provided us, particularly on the West Coast, with innovative new tackle and casting techniques.
Now, however, as our art form has grown in popularity, we are starting to see more fly-fishing “competitions” that supposedly determine who is the better angler. Unfortunately, this format can be accomplished only by putting restrictions in place, at times severe, so that all participants conform to a given model. The result, in my opinion, is the oversimplification of something that is far from simple. I don’t like the fact that many people viewing such events come away with the impression that they represent what fly fishing is about. Second, though, all of the stuff we’ve been discussing, the artistic differences and controversies among us fly fishers, is really insignificantly petty in the scheme of things. It’s an exercise that we enjoy because we are passionate about our fishing.
The big picture is the maintenance of the relative health of our environment. Clean air, clean water, and wild, open places sustain us, the fish that we pursue, and all other creatures that are interdependent on one another. All other issues are secondary. Yet as technology advances, we tend to be more and more isolated from this reality, thinking that if we mess something up, we can just throw money at the problem to make it better again. Against this trend, we have made some advances in the last couple of decades to clean up and limit our waste and preserve the roadless areas that still exist in our country. The polluted Lake Michigan that smelled when I was a kid now supports huge populations of salmon and other game fish. Anglers have caught 20-pound brown trout off the docks in Waukegan, of all places. Yet the current administration in Washington has done tremendous harm by reversing the environmental advances that we have made, and they have the potential to do much more harm. What we are left with is a dumbing down of science, selective ignorance that reflects Aldous Huxley’s predictions in Brave New World. How many more salmon and steelhead are going to die again on the Klamath this year? Ask yourself why they now want to include the count of hatchery fish to monitor a river system’s health, instead of just wild fish. I suggest that we choose leaders who are most likely to place emphasis on protecting the natural assets that we anglers hold most dear. I can’t help but wonder how many of those individuals who fought so hard to ban indicators from the Umpqua will vote to protect their $200,000-per-year tax bracket.
Bud: One thing that impressed me about your contribution to “The War in Heaven” was your focus on on-stream etiquette. Is on-stream behavior improving, getting worse, or at about the same (good? bad?) level as it's been, in your experience? How can we improve it?
Dean: Etiquette, one’s display of proper manners, provides us all with a framework of cooperative behavior that allows us to share a limited resource. That being said, it’s important to distinguish between fishing regulations and good manners. When I see someone breaking the law, it usually involves some practice that is detrimental to the resource and therefore harms us all. I’ll usually go out of my way to dissuade that person or persons, (unless they are all very large with numerous firearms) from continuing with their illegal activity.
On the other hand, when someone cuts me off, gets too close, or the like, they are only inconveniencing me, and I have a decision to make. Do I politely point out their rude behavior? Sometimes, if the individual is naïve, you might actually teach them something that they were genuinely unaware of and assist in preventing them from doing it again. And sometimes the individual is perfectly aware of the fact that his or her action is unacceptable, but does it anyway for whatever selfish reasons. These folks generally react less kindly to helpful hints and often respond with complicated hand gestures, pointed language, or not-so-veiled threats of violence. So I react to poor etiquette depending on my read of the other individual, how I’m feeling at the moment, and whether I really want, perhaps, to spoil a good day by getting in someone’s face.
The basic problem with etiquette is that we are not always on the same page together. Etiquette has a sliding scale of values that can vary considerably by region, by water type, and by remoteness. For example, when I fish Hot Creek, even on a weekday, it’s probably going to be crowded, and it would be unrealistic of me to expect people to stay more than a cast’s length away. Conversely, if I backpacked into a wilderness area, I would feel uncomfortable within eyesight of another angler. Trout anglers traditionally have the right of way fishing upstream, steelhead anglers, downstream. If a Yank travels to the South Island of New Zealand and walks in two pools above a Kiwi, he might think he’s being a nice guy. Not so. In New Zealand, fishing anywhere within walking distance above another angler will probably ruin that person’s fishing. Trout may be a quarter of a mile or more apart and incredibly spooky, and therefore it’s not unusual to fish five or six miles of water. The Kiwi might come have a “conversation” with you. The proper etiquette, in this situation, would be to ask the Kiwi how far up he plans to fish and whether it would be OK to start several miles above him. If not, get back in your car and drive to another river.
Basically, local etiquette evolves from the realities involved so everyone can ply their trade with the least amount of hassle. It’s your job to figure this out, ideally before too many people have to tell you. I don’t necessarily feel that streamside etiquette has declined in recent years, except for the ever-present cell phone. But it is obvious that more and more people want to fly fish using a resource that’s not getting any bigger, and in many cases, dwindling. At some point, when a place is filled to capacity, it’s time to say “enough” and go someplace else instead of wedging yourself into the biggest gap. The San Juan River in New Mexico is an impressive tailwater fishery, but based on my experiences there, I doubt that I’d return. I had groups of anglers on more than one occasion wade six feet in front of my rod tip while I was fishing and act surprised that I’d complain to them about it.
The etiquette question can be simple. Fly fishing is a selfish endeavor by nature, and so are we. But we each must step outside of our own desires at times, put ourselves in the other person’s shoes, and think about how that person would feel about our actions. Your answer then should come without difficulty.
Bud: You said you stared fishing at an early age. Who helped, and are there any mentors you'd like to recognize along the way? What did they contribute to your understanding of the sport?
Dean: I’ve fished for trout only once in Wisconsin since I left the Midwest thirty years ago. But my memories of the place are some of the most indelible. I loved the small spring creeks meandering through fields of corn, with high cut banks and deep, dark pools, the small farm-town cafes with worn linoleum counters, 25-cent apple pie, and 30-cent beer. And walleye and lake perch fish fries at the local supper club.
I first learned to fish in this place starting at the age of four, from my father and grandfather, both named Paul. In the 1950s and 1960s, fly fishing had faded in popularity against the influx of new types of spinning tackle from Europe. However, I learned to fish, as most of the old Germans did there, with a fly rod, level fly line, level mono leader, split shot, and a size 8 bait hook equipped with night crawler. The trick was to drift your bait, drag free, if possible, near the bottom, not unlike fishing a nymph.
My first fly-rod outfit was a solid fiberglass monstrosity in a bubble pack from Japan, but I was quite proud of it. We killed our trout, mostly hatchery rainbows. Most of the beautiful creeks there could not sustain trout reproduction, due to the damage to the ova from the pesticides and fertilizers used at that time. One day, alone on the stream, I hooked and landed a 17-inch wild brown trout with dark orange-yellow sides and distinct large spots. It was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen. After my adrenaline subsided, I went to break its neck, but hesitated. I’d never heard of catch and release, and was eager to display my success, but something in me realized that something rare that had given me such pleasure would be lost. I removed the hook and slid the fish back into the water, and as it finned away, I was thrilled. They didn’t believe me back in camp, but something changed for me that day.
Neither my father nor his father was what you would call technically minded fisherman, but through their patience, support, and their own love for the outdoors, they imparted these values to me. My grandfather on the West Coast, Harold Kidwell, was a different story — president of the San Pablo Avenue Sportsmen’s Club, a well known duck hunter 
and decoy carver, cabin builder and steelheader on the Gualala back in the very early days. He lived a breathed fishing and hunting. He built his own rifles and boats. The time that I spent with him influenced me greatly. My family made several trips to Berkeley while I was growing up, and I remember going out onto the Bay and pulling in so many stripers that my arms literally would not work anymore. I also read fishing magazines and books that I would get at the library.
I didn’t see a real fly fisher until I was fourteen. Floating down the Brule River, I came around a corner in my canoe and saw a tall gentleman laying out long and lazy loops with his fly rod. It was fascinating. The next year, I was fishing on the Gros Ventre River in Wyoming. By this time, I had graduated to ultralight spinning as the tool of choice. I had just fished a stretch and landed a couple of nice ones when I noticed a fly fisher fishing up from the other direction. I thought to myself, “Well, I just fished that water, so he probably won’t do any good.” I was shocked as he proceeded to land several trout, most of them much larger than the two I had caught. After that, I knew that I had to reevaluate my goals.
I fly fished a lot when I moved to California, but when Dave Hickson and I teamed up, it was a catalyst that had a synergistic effect on both of us. Dave was a tireless fisherman who never seemed to get discouraged. His enthusiasm rubbed off on those around him. His willingness to try new places and innovate with his techniques was instrumental in creating the yarn indicator methods that are fished around the world today. Dave is also an adept with dry flies, in salt water, and with conventional tackle for black bass. You’ll never see Dave casting on the platform at the International Sportsman’s Exhibition show. He drops his back cast a little. But on the stream, I doubt that you will ever see another individual with his refinement of aerial and on-water mending, as well as his abilities to read water. To this day, I have yet to see an angler who could surpass Dave.
Andre Puyans, who gave me an opportunity to work in his shop and unselfishly imparted his vast wisdom to me and to hundreds of other fortunate individuals, once told me that “we stand on the shoulders of giants.” I don’t think Andy coined this phrase, but he emphasized that we all owe a tribute to those pioneers who innovated and contributed to the world of fly fishing in the hundreds of years before us. Andy deepened this connection to the past for me. As most of us already know, Andy is one of the world’s finest fly tyers, and never have I seen a large man cast as fluidly and effortlessly as Andy. Andy, you’re a giant, and we stand on your shoulders.
I met Rusty Vorous when we started teaching fly-fishing schools together. He was probably born a hundred years too late and would have been a gunfighter in the old West. Rusty is mostly self-educated, but can quote philosophers when you least expect it. He is one of the most well-read people I know and usually kicks my ass at chess. The years that we spent working and fishing together imparted to me his knowledge of local water and his ability to teach his skills to others. Like Huck Finn, he lit out for the territories years ago and now resides near Bozeman, Montana, where he builds fine hardwood furniture.
Bob Howe can’t find his fly gear anymore. It’s packed away in some storage box. That’s because he owns a bass boat and fishes plastic on his 68 bait-casting rods. I can’t blame him, because I love it, too, and we fish the Delta often. Bob likes to target large black bass and has landed three over 16 pounds in the last two years. Bob fished with Dave and me during our seminal indicator days and even moved to Lewiston to guide when the Trinity was one of the finest brown trout fisheries in the country. A lot of the guides in northern California picked up their indicator knowledge from him. Bob was the first to start using a clove hitch to make his indicators adjustable. He and I have driven the length of Baja, camping and fishing, on several excursions.
Bud: What's your favorite place to fish, and why?
Dean: I get a little antsy when describing in detail the places I like to fish. I have never written a destination article for a fly-fishing publication. Yet I have certainly garnered a lot of valuable information from those types of articles, particularly those in California Fly Fisher. I guess that makes me sort of a selfish hypocrite. In general, I fish California a lot, because that’s where I live and I’m still awaiting the delivery of my Lear Jet. The three or four rivers around Redding can be very good at different times of the year, and I love the qualities of the high-desert stretch between Bridgeport and Mammoth in the eastern Sierra. The Delta has literally thousands of miles of shoreline, and you can get lost back there. It’s hard to beat the East Cape of Baja, probably the best big game fishing for those on a budget. There’s a wide variety of species there, many of which come very close to shore, eliminating the two-hour boat ride. Montana has the best collection of trout rivers in the lower 48, but I have to admit, of all the places I’ve gone in recent years, it seems to have suffered the most from overcrowding. I, like many, don’t mind catching larger fish. But, lately, I’ve been more inclined to go to waters that are apt to be less crowded.
Bud: How has fly fishing in California changed since the 1970s?
Dean: The obvious change is the dramatic rise in the sheer numbers of people who like to fly fish, in California and everywhere else. The computer/Internet revolution has put formerly arcane information at the fingertips of virtually everyone. Fly-fishing equipment of all types has evolved and improved. Fly-fishing videos and schools have helped spawn a new breed of more highly skilled anglers. Fish have generally responded to this increased pressure by becoming more selective in their feeding habits. For all of that, I’m still surprised that I can drive to a river in our state of over 30 million people and sometimes find it uncrowded. I think that is encouraging.
Bud: You've worked in the commercial side of the fly fishing. How has that changed and in what directions do you think it's going?
Dean: When Robert Redford’s movie A River Runs through It came out, a mass of people were introduced or reacquainted with the romance of fly fishing. Maybe it would have happened anyway, but this seemed to precipitate an explosion of interest and the sudden growth of fly-fishing shops throughout the country. Some of these shops where opened by professionals, while others were opened by neophytes who thought that it would be fun to be in the fly-fishing business. Many had no prior retail experience at all. But because the demand for product was so high, a good percentage of these retailers succeeded.
The same was true for the existing tackle manufacturers and wholesalers. Those positioned at the beginning had to make some pretty serious business errors in order to fail. Most made a fat profit and expanded their businesses quickly. The most highly regarded manufacturers were able to limit their distribution to specialty shops and protect their retail prices against discounting.
This growth continued unabated for quite some time. However, the collapse of tech stocks brought changes, particularly in California. The slowdown in our economy, coupled with the aftermath of 9/11, reduced discretionary spending in a big way. People had to think really hard whether they needed that additional $600 fly rod, and it many cases, they didn’t. Travel was severely affected, so associated businesses suffered, as well. Destination shops suffered with them. Shops run by fishing amateurs failed first, because they lacked the expertise that their customers had come to expect. But even shops run by fishing experts in good markets would falter if the owners lacked the other retail business skills needed to compete in a tightening economy.
As it stands now, it appears that retail sales and distribution channels in the fly-fishing business are being driven in the same direction as other consumer products, namely, toward the Internet and big-box stores. This year, the two giant catalog tackle companies that have dominated the South and Midwest have moved into Nevada and California. 
Top-of-the-line fly rods, for example, which used to be sold only in specialty shops, are now available from these giants, as well as discounted on-line.
Since specialty shops no longer have these products exclusively, they are going to have to have superlative customer services to maintain their customers’ loyalty, as well as run a tight ship financially to stay profitable and stay in business. If you benefit from the presence and expertise of a local fly shop, it would behoove you to support them with your purchases.
Bud: You're also an artist, and from what you’ve said, it looks like art and fly fishing intersect. How do you see the relationship between the two activities?
Dean: My paintings reflect experiences and observations that center on a life of angling. Although I paint trout and other fish in watercolors for the “Catch and Release” stickers and T-shirts, I mainly do landscapes of fishing places I’ve been to or places where I’d like to go. I usually put an angler in my art — who, I guess, represents me — so that when I look at the painting, I can experience the vicarious pleasure of being there. I hope my art conveys some of these same feelings to others that view it.
Bud: Thanks for the comprehensive answers. Finally, here's the Silly Tree Question: If you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be?
Dean: I was going to say any species in Pamela Anderson’s backyard, but didn’t Val Atkinson take that one last issue? Seriously, I would be a giant coastal redwood, so that I could live a long time, have a good view of the surrounding country, and have steelhead swim over my toes.