Locals Only

Taking a lesson from surf culture to enact a bit more etiquette on Western trout rivers

By Callan Wink

March 10, 2025

In the 1991 film Point Break, actor Keanu Reeves, playing undercover FBI agent Johnny Utah, learns how to surf as a way to infiltrate a gang of bank robber/surfers led by the enigmatic Bhodi, played by Patrick Swayze. Early in the movie, Keanu paddles out, drops in on another surfer and promptly gets assaulted by the guy, a local, who cuts Keanu’s leash and sends him packing to the beach. While the leash-cutting part is a bit of Hollywood fantasy — who surfs with a knife? — the altercation is a pretty accurate, if exaggerated, part of surfing. Fittingly, after punching Johnny Utah in the face, the local’s parting words are: Politeness counts, man.

Etiquette, localism and a longing for days gone by are things I’ve been thinking about a lot lately as they converge in the seemingly different worlds of trout towns and surf towns. For the past decade, I’ve split my year into two parts: fishing season from March until November, and surfing season from November until March. As someone who didn’t start surfing until well into adulthood, I’ve come to grips with the fact that I, like Johnny Utah, will never be truly good at it. That being said, as a result of my late start, my stoke couldn’t be higher, and I’m still getting better. No lifelong surfer older than 22 can say that. These days, the fishing segment of the year is how I make my living; the surfing part of the year is what I live for. Overall, this system is quite satisfying, if not incredibly lucrative or conducive to long-term relationships.

As someone who bumps back and forth between busy winter surf breaks on the West Coast and busy summer trout streams in southwest Montana, I’ve noticed numerous similarities between surfing and fly-fishing. Both fly-fishing and surfing are experiencing unprecedented levels of post-Covid interest. Both activities tend to take place in areas with increasing housing unaffordability, brought on in part by a perfect storm of remote workers and an unchecked, short-term vacation rental market. Both activities are often cast, rightly or wrongly, as meditative pursuits, practices if you will, bordering on religion. A regular response I get from people when I tell them I’m a fly-fishing guide is, That must be so relaxing! Well, maybe.

Surfing and fly-fishing each provide opportunities for incredible focus and presence within the moment. Whatever you want to call it — achieving the flow state, unfocused focus, zen — a fly angler working a rising trout and a surfer paddling to catch a wave are only thinking about that one precise thing: the wave, the fish. For at least that moment, there is nothing else.

In a world of incessant distraction, these moments of distilled mental and physical engagement are increasingly hard to come by. This fact, I would argue, is a large part of what is driving the surge of interest. While the activities themselves may foster contemplation and moments of zen-like concentration, fly anglers and surfers have something else in common, a general feeling that they’re being encroached upon. This feeling of encroachment sometimes leads to outcomes that are decidedly un-zen.

Altercations stemming from breaches of etiquette, real or perceived, are common in surfing. Watching a busy break might seem chaotic — surfers paddling this way and that, catching waves, wipeouts, near misses, everything random. In reality, every surf lineup has a hierarchy and functions on a set of fairly universal rules. Failing to adhere to rule No. 1, no dropping in on another surfer already up and riding, is what got Johnny Utah in hot water. Breaches of etiquette aside, certain breaks are legendary for having a hostile culture toward outsiders. This is basic tribalism; we don’t know you, you must be bad, so go away.

Localism is a subject that has been debated endlessly in surf culture, and I’m unlikely to add anything novel to that conversation. Like surfing, localism in certain fishing spots is fairly well-documented. Take South Florida, for example. Tom McGuane’s classic novel Ninety-Two in the Shade is a good primer on the subject. Counter culture castoff Thomas Skelton returns home to Key West and decides to start guiding. In doing so he runs afoul of murderous fishing guide Nicholas Dance. Violence ensues. Jealousy and ownership over fishing spots can be traced all the way back to whenever it was that humans starting fishing — it’s nothing new.

With all my years of guiding in Montana, I’d say the fishing culture has been pretty open. Folks are friendly, and the guide community has always been fairly congenial to outsiders, which I was myself at one point, a wide-eyed, clueless kid from Michigan. Over the past few years, I can’t help but feel tensions rising in new ways. I’ve witnessed more altercations at boat ramps and on the water than ever before. Last year, there was a rash of out-of-state tire slashing at parking lots on the Madison. The rivers are busier, of course, with a lot of newcomers buying boats and getting into the game, and — at the risk of sounding crotchety before my time — I’ve definitely noticed a decrease in adherence to certain standards of river etiquette.

I’ve been thinking that a busy Western trout stream — say the Missouri, or Madison, or Bighorn in peak summer, drift boats and wade anglers everywhere — functions to some degree like a surf break. It may look like things are happening willy-nilly, but there are rules, unspoken though they might be. One certain way to anger another guide is to pull anchor and start moving directly in front of their boat instead of waiting for them to float by before pulling out. This would be the fly-fishing equivalent to dropping in. In surfing, it’s a legitimate safety issue, as collisions can be dangerous. In fly-fishing, it could potentially be a safety issue, but mostly it boils down to respect — not jumping to get ahead of another boat to be the first to drift your fly down a particularly nice-looking bank. Does it matter when your boat is just one of dozens that will fish that run in a day? Probably not. Does it still chap my ass when another recent arrival to Bozeman pulls his anchor 10 yards in front of me and starts fishing as if he didn’t see me coming? Yes, yes it does.

Which brings me to a thing surf culture has that is somewhat absent from trout culture: enforcement. Most lineups feature at least one scary local who’s built like a linebacker and sits on the outside waiting for sets of waves, occasionally reinforcing proper etiquette. I’m not advocating violence, but politeness still counts, man.

Every year the rivers are busier. Every year it gets more expensive to live in trout towns. Various entities at the state level are pushing for restrictions on commercial use while the number of recreational users continues to grow. Rivers are regulated by costly permit systems, and maybe for good reason; certain outfitters, apparently working on the wholesale model, seem hell-bent on pumping out as many trips as they can possibly book on rivers that every year seem a little more tired. Frustrations are mounting.

I don’t know where it’s all going, but there is one element that I’ve gleaned from surfing that I’m attempting to bring to my fishing life. The best surfer in the lineup pretty much never gets in any sort of altercation. A truly talented surfer seems to exist on another plane, where even egregious breaches of etiquette and sheer numbers of clueless surfers in the water are of no consequence. The excellent surfer will always get more than his or her share of waves due to skill and a superior understanding of the nuances of that particular break. Even at a really busy break, a great surfer seems to surf alone. I’ve noticed the same phenomenon on busy rivers; average guides and do-it-yourself anglers flailing everywhere, and a few consummate professionals with decades of experience on that body of water quietly going about their day, netting fish left and right amid the crowd.

A CAUTIONARY TALE

In every surf town where I’ve spent time, there’s a certain type of guy, usually a middle-aged local, checking the waves every morning with a cup of coffee. He grew up there, as he’ll be happy to tell you, but he doesn’t surf anymore. Hasn’t in years. It’s too busy. Kooks from the Valley everywhere. Not even fun anymore. A deep bitterness at the way things have changed. I understand this because this guy exists in trout towns, too. And to be honest, I’m worried that if I’m not careful, I will become him. When I see 50 rigs at a boat launch in July, part of me definitely wants to be that guy, standing there with coffee, looking at the river: I used to fish before Kevin Costner and the Yellowstone Club and digital nomads in Sprinter vans ruined Montana.

I’m trying to resist, though, because I know that feelings of this nature contain, at their core, no small degree of hypocrisy. Pretty much everyone has come here from somewhere else. Pissing contests over who’s been here the longest are pointless, and when it comes down to it, harboring feelings of bitterness over the way things used to be will do nothing but eat you up. Instead, I’m going to approach it from a different angle. Sure, everyone loves fishing an empty stretch of water, or surfing a deserted break. But you know what’s fun as well? Having an audience for your greatness.

I’m going to take a page from the talented surfers I’ve watched over the years ripping busy California breaks. When the river gets crowded, I’m going to proceed leisurely through the throng. I’ll wave at the GoPro-wearing college kids blasting music and fishing for trout with musky streamers; the freshly retired captains of industry with sparkling-new boats and a telltale, splashy nervousness at the oars; the first-year guides barking orders at their clients, loudly, to cover the fact that they haven’t caught a fish and aren’t entirely sure they know where the takeout is. I’ll wish a merry good morning to every boat I see. And while I’m being my pleasant self, I’ll do my best to catch the ever-loving hell out of the trout. Because after all, what is the benefit of being a local if you don’t put what you’ve learned to use?

An intimate understanding of a complicated body of water, whether gained from surfing or fishing, can’t be bought. It simply can’t. To possess that hard-earned knowledge and not put it to use is a great waste, disrespectful to the dreams and ambitions you had as a younger person.

I’m coming to terms with the fact that I’ll never be able to afford to buy a house in the town I’ve called home for 20 years. But I take some small comfort knowing that, on a daily basis, I will damn sure catch more fish than the people who are buying them. It might not be much, but if you’re into fishing, as I still am, it will always be something very close to the heart of what actually matters.