I've been fly fishing for more than 50 years. That's a reasonably long time to spend standing in water, waving a stick, and trying to outsmart something with a brain roughly the size of a pea. Some days I win. Many days the fish win. And occasionally, neither of us seems particularly interested in participating.
Over those five decades, I've witnessed more than a few changes in the sport. Fiberglass gave way to graphite. Reels became increasingly sophisticated. Fly lines evolved into something approaching aerospace engineering. Waders became more comfortable, although manufacturers have yet to solve the mysterious phenomenon of cold water finding its way into places where cold water has absolutely no business being.
And somewhere along the way, fly fishing became an industry that occasionally seems more interested in selling us things than helping us catch fish.
Now comes artificial intelligence.
As a co-founder of Margo+Lola Fly Fishing School, I've been thinking about how our school should evolve against the backdrop of AI. Not because I believe technology will replace what we do, but because I suspect it will make what we do even more valuable.
Some of you reading this might decide I've lost my mind. Others may quietly stop following me, particularly those whose livelihoods depend on convincing anglers that a $1,200 fly rod is the difference between catching fish and going home disappointed. That's fine. I've survived worse. I've even survived a few fly fishing industry trade shows.
But here's the proposition I want to put on the table, and it might make a few people in the industry uncomfortable.
Artificial intelligence is going to make much of what the fly fishing industry currently charges a premium for less expensive, less exclusive, and, in some cases, considerably less relevant. At the same time, it may make the most valuable part of fly fishing—the human experience—even more valuable.
That's not a contradiction. It's the economic and human paradox I believe is coming.
For decades, fly fishing has operated, at least in part, on the economics of scarcity. Scarcity of specialized knowledge. Scarcity of access. Scarcity of technical expertise. And, if we're being a little less charitable, the manufactured scarcity of equipment supposedly capable of doing things that less expensive equipment apparently cannot.
We've built an industry around teaching people what they don't know, selling them what they're told they need, and occasionally convincing them that the best fishing is somewhere they can't easily get to.
Some of that is legitimate. Some of it is tradition. And some of it, frankly, is marketing wearing a very expensive fishing vest.
AI threatens to rearrange those economics.
When information becomes abundant, expertise doesn't disappear, but the price people are willing to pay merely to obtain that information may decline. When equipment performance becomes easier to design, manufacture, and compare, premium pricing becomes harder to defend solely on technical grounds. And when anglers can discover productive water and learn effective techniques without navigating an intimidating maze of terminology, the barriers to participation begin to fall.
That should be welcome news. Because fly fishing has spent far too much time figuring out how to extract more money from existing anglers and arguably not enough time figuring out how to welcome new ones.
The more interesting consequence is what happens to the human side of the sport. As technical knowledge becomes easier to obtain, the person who helps you apply it, builds your confidence, and shares the experience may become the real differentiator.
The more AI makes fly fishing easier to understand, the more its value shifts from knowing how to fish to experiencing why we fish.
Consider the humble fly itself.
Fly anglers have an extraordinary capacity to argue about what fish want to eat. We debate colors, sizes, materials, proportions, movement, and whether a particular pattern should have two strands of flash or three. We also spend a remarkable amount of money on feathers and fur, which is especially impressive considering that many of us already own enough flies to supply a small country.
Much of what we believe about flies comes from tradition, personal experience, marketing, and the occasional fishing buddy who swears that a particular pattern is absolutely deadly. Until it isn't.
Imagine combining decades of catch records with water temperature, clarity, depth, light conditions, seasonality, and fish behavior. AI could help separate the characteristics that actually influence a fish's decision to eat from those we've merely convinced ourselves matter.
Perhaps movement matters considerably more than color. Perhaps size matters less than presentation. Perhaps the fly pattern celebrated for 80 years is only marginally more effective than something tied by a nine-year-old using leftover Christmas decorations.
That last possibility might upset a few people, especially those who charge $4.50 for a fly that looks suspiciously like a pipe cleaner with an attitude.
Will this eliminate the art of fly tying? Hardly. People still bake bread despite the invention of grocery stores. But it might separate what we know from what we merely believe. And that could make our fly boxes considerably smaller, although I wouldn't count on it. Collecting flies has become something of a separate hobby, and apparently one without a recognized treatment program.
Equipment is another area ripe for disruption, and perhaps the one most likely to make the traditional fly fishing industry reach for a stiff drink.
We have rods costing more than some people's first automobiles, reels engineered to withstand fish most of us will never encounter, and apparel that occasionally resembles the wardrobe of someone preparing to invade a small country.
Some of this equipment is extraordinary. Some of it is simply expensive. And the distinction isn't always obvious, particularly when the marketing department gets involved.
AI-assisted design, advances in materials science, and more flexible manufacturing could substantially change the economics of equipment. Rods could be optimized more quickly, with fewer prototypes, while increasingly demand-driven production could reduce some of the costs associated with forecasting, inventory, and distribution.
Imagine an angler describing their intended use, casting experience, and budget, then receiving equipment configured for their actual needs rather than whatever happens to be sitting on a retailer's shelf.
I wouldn't be surprised if a $300 rod eventually performs as well as today's $1,200 rod for most anglers. That doesn't mean luxury brands disappear. People still buy expensive watches even though their phones tell time, and I confess to understanding that particular irrationality.
But performance may become less exclusive.
For beginners, that's wonderful news. Nothing says "welcome to fly fishing" quite like informing someone that their new hobby requires a second mortgage before they've caught their first bluegill.
Education may experience an even more profound transformation.
Fly fishing has a peculiar educational problem. We've managed to make something relatively simple appear remarkably complicated. Consider the vocabulary alone. Tippet. Leader. Mend. Hatch. Drag. Double haul. Reach cast. Euro nymphing. Spey. Skagit. Sink tip. To a beginner, it can sound like someone has accidentally enrolled them in an advanced physics class taught in a foreign language.
And occasionally, we instructors are part of the problem. We know so much about what we're teaching that we forget how little someone actually needs to know to get started.
Personalized digital instruction could help correct that imbalance. Someone interested in catching bluegill from a neighborhood dock doesn't need the same introduction as someone preparing for a week of steelhead fishing in British Columbia. One might need three basic lessons. The other might benefit from detailed casting analysis and sophisticated line-management advice.
But information is not the same as education. And education is not the same as experience.
AI can explain a roll cast beautifully. It cannot stand beside someone in moving water, recognize their frustration, adjust their grip, offer encouragement, and celebrate the moment when the line finally unfolds. At least not without some rather disturbing developments in robotics, at which point I may reconsider my participation in society altogether.
At Margo+Lola, we've introduced hundreds of people to fly fishing, most of whom had never held a fly rod. The most meaningful moments aren't when someone memorizes a technique. They're when someone realizes, often with considerable surprise, that they can actually do this.
That's a human moment. And no algorithm gets to claim it.
Access to fishing is another area where technology could make a meaningful difference. Fly anglers are notoriously protective of their favorite locations. Ask someone where they caught a particularly nice trout and you may receive an answer resembling a classified military briefing.
"Somewhere upstream."
"Near a bend."
"On public water."
Thank you for your generosity.
But access is about considerably more than revealing fishing locations. It's about understanding whether a particular place is suitable, legal, safe, accessible, and worth visiting.
Imagine asking where you could take your 12-year-old granddaughter fly fishing within 45 minutes of Minneapolis, with easy parking, minimal wading, and a reasonable chance of catching something. A useful system could combine public access information, water conditions, regulations, accessibility, and seasonal fishing patterns to suggest practical options.
That's considerably more valuable than a generic list of the ten best trout streams in Minnesota, seven of which may require climbing down something resembling a goat trail.
Of course, not every productive location needs to be broadcast to thousands of anglers. Sensitive waters and fish populations deserve protection. Better access information should encourage responsible participation, not turn every quiet stretch of water into a crowded parking lot.
Technique presents a related opportunity, although perhaps not always a welcome one.
Most anglers have a few habits they would prefer not to discuss. Mine have accumulated over five decades. We cast too far. We fail to mend. We retrieve too quickly. We set the hook too aggressively. We repeat the same mistake because, apparently, repetition is easier than admitting we're wrong.
Smartphone cameras and wearable sensors may eventually analyze casting mechanics, rod movement, line speed, timing, and presentation. The feedback could be remarkably specific.
In my case, the system might simply say, "Have you considered casting approximately 30 feet less and paying attention?"
Fair criticism.
But an experienced human instructor sees things that a camera may miss. Fatigue. Uncertainty. Fear of the water. The simple fact that someone is trying too hard. Sometimes the most valuable instruction isn't technical at all. It's "Slow down." Or "Take a break." Or "You're doing better than you think."
Those aren't particularly complicated statements. They're simply more meaningful when delivered by someone who understands the person receiving them.
Which brings me to perhaps the most interesting change of all: the evolving role of fishing guides and instructors.
Traditionally, guides have been valued for their knowledge of water, fish behavior, access, equipment, and technique. And rightly so. A good guide can transform an ordinary day into an extraordinary one.
But what happens when much of that informational advantage becomes available to everyone?
If anglers can independently interpret conditions, identify productive water, and select appropriate flies, what exactly are they paying a guide for?
I suspect the answer will increasingly be companionship, judgment, confidence, safety, and the quality of the experience itself. In other words, the role may evolve from guide to navigator.
A navigator doesn't merely tell you where to go. They help you understand the journey. They recognize when the original plan isn't working. They know when to change direction. They understand that one person wants to catch as many fish as possible while another simply wants a peaceful afternoon away from their phone.
And they know when to stop talking, a skill that remains tragically underdeveloped in certain corners of the fly fishing industry.
For Margo+Lola, this distinction is particularly important. We are, and intend to remain, a high-touch fly fishing school. Our objective isn't to scale instruction through technology, replace instructors with digital substitutes, or transform a personal experience into an automated transaction.
Quite the opposite.
Technology may help us prepare more effectively or tailor a lesson before someone arrives. But the experience itself belongs to the guest and the instructor.
As information becomes abundant, I suspect human attention will become the premium product.
Now let's consider the fish themselves, which, despite their central role in this discussion, have thus far received remarkably little consideration.
For most of fly fishing's history, fish have enjoyed one enormous advantage. We generally can't see them. We make educated guesses about where they're holding, what they're eating, and whether they're even present. Sometimes we're correct. Frequently, we're simply practicing our casting.
Advances in sonar, underwater imaging, environmental sensors, and intelligent interpretation could make underwater habitat far more visible and affordable to ordinary anglers. Beyond locating fish, these tools could improve our understanding of habitat degradation, invasive species, warming water, and changing fish populations.
For conservation, that could be enormously valuable.
But there's a philosophical question here. How much information is too much?
Part of fly fishing's appeal is uncertainty. We don't know whether a fish is behind that rock. We don't know whether the next cast will produce a take. And we certainly don't know whether the fish we just missed was enormous or approximately four inches long, although my personal estimates tend toward the former.
Technology may help us see more. That doesn't necessarily mean we should use every capability it provides.
Sometimes the mystery is the point.
And finally, there's geography, or what I increasingly think of as the democratization of blue spots.
For decades, fly fishing has been marketed through a relatively narrow collection of images. Beautiful trout streams. Mountain backdrops. Expensive destinations. Pristine rivers. Occasionally a handsome angler standing in water that looks suspiciously like a luxury resort advertisement.
Those places are wonderful. But they're hardly the entirety of fly fishing.
Some of my most enjoyable experiences have involved bluegill, smallmouth bass, northern pike, and other warm-water fish in places that would never make the cover of a glossy fly fishing catalog. I've become increasingly convinced that the future of fly fishing isn't limited to famous rivers. It's in the blue spots.
The lakes, ponds, rivers, reservoirs, and neighborhood waters that surround millions of people.
Better mapping, accessible local information, and personalized recommendations could help people discover fishing opportunities practically in their own backyards.
No airplane required. No expensive lodge. No pilgrimage to Montana. Just a little curiosity and perhaps an hour after work.
A six-inch bluegill can provide a wonderful introduction to the sport. A smallmouth bass can rearrange someone's understanding of what a fly rod is capable of. And a northern pike can make a person reconsider the structural integrity of their equipment, not to mention their decision to leave the house that morning.
If nearby fishing becomes easier to discover, fly fishing could become more of an everyday activity rather than an occasional destination experience. That's good for anglers, communities, and potentially conservation. People are more likely to care about water they actually use.
And here's the larger economic opportunity the fly fishing industry should be paying attention to.
Lower barriers to participation could expand the total number of people entering the sport. Instead of selling increasingly expensive equipment to the same relatively small population of established anglers, the industry could welcome people who previously thought fly fishing was too complicated, too expensive, too exclusive, or simply something that happened in Montana.
That's a much more interesting growth opportunity than inventing another $1,200 rod.
Perhaps the greatest irony is that artificial intelligence, a technology designed to replicate aspects of human intelligence, may ultimately remind us what makes being human so valuable.
For decades, the fly fishing industry has competed on equipment, expertise, access, and the occasional suggestion that happiness can be purchased in nine-foot increments of graphite.
Those advantages won't disappear overnight. A beautifully crafted rod will still be a beautifully crafted rod. A knowledgeable guide will still be worth hiring. And a great fly shop will still provide something no online recommendation engine can fully reproduce.
But businesses that depend primarily on information scarcity, technical intimidation, or ever-higher equipment prices may find themselves defending a shrinking advantage.
I don't think that's a threat to fly fishing.
I think it's an opportunity to remember what fly fishing is actually for.
Because the future of our sport shouldn't be measured exclusively by how many rods we sell, how sophisticated our equipment becomes, or how efficiently we locate fish.
It should also be measured by how many people discover the sport, how welcome they feel, how often they return to the water, and what they take away from the experience.
For Margo+Lola, that's not a new business model. It's the one we've believed in all along.
We're a high-touch school because we believe the person matters more than the equipment, the experience matters more than the transaction, and the relationship matters more than the fish.
AI won't change that conviction. It may simply make the distinction more important.
The fly fishing industry has spent decades helping people become better anglers. Perhaps AI will give us an opportunity to spend more time helping people become happier people who happen to fly fish.
And if that sounds a little philosophical, remember that I've spent more than 50 years standing in rivers talking to fish that don't answer.
Although, come to think of it, that's still a better conversation than I've had with a few fly fishing equipment salespeople.
