Casting Comedy and Conservation: Eeland Stribling

close up of an African American man wearing a long sleeve blue shirt fly fishing

Being from the cool city of Denver, Colorado, I unknowingly grew up in a fly-fishing mecca. While I was learning to walk and talk and going through potty training, the fly-fishing world was becoming mainstream and cool. This all happened while I was in college. Joke. A River Runs Through It (1992) was a pivotal step towards turning fly-fishing into a commercial hobby. However, for me, fly-fishing is more than a hobby. It’s a fickle obsession—an amalgamation of beautiful scenery, fresh air and fish that’ve been around longer than we have. Fishing has always been a piece of the puzzle for me. When I go out, I’m trying to understand the weather, the tides, the hatches or bait, the fishes’ behavior.

I’m a quiet person. There’s nothing eerie or uncomfortable about the silence that prevails. You might see me as deep in thought, when in reality I’m chastising myself for the previous night’s discussion with the drunk couple in the comedy club. Don’t let my calmness and lack of emotion fool you; I really dial it up when I hit the water. With decent airmail casts, I try to lead the fish, slowly strip the line and lift the rod as the spool rolls backwards, playing out line. I don’t whoop. I don’t holler. No emphatic “Yeeeesssss!” I just smile like I’ve been in the end zone before.

Laughing the entire time. For all my emotional control, there’s a double shot of passion. You have to pry me off the casting platform, and even then, I’m going to stand behind you the entire time with a rod in one hand and a fly on the other. Waiting for the chance to show you that “I can blow that chance, too.”

Fly fishing is not a sport. Especially freshwater fly fishing. Casting for cutthroats in the mountains of Montana? Not a sport. But saltwater fly fishing is. Chasing bait balls or casting to a fish that killed Nemo’s mom? Still not a sport, but it takes a lot more work. Instead of the lull and hope and forced patience of freshwater fishing, saltwater fishing—from walking the shore waiting to see an ominous shadow, or cruising to a ball of anchovies getting slammed from the birds above and the monsters below—has a real quick 0–200 energy acceleration. Who knows what you could hook? Black fin tuna, mahi-mahi, rooster, marlin, African pompano, wahoo, tarpon, jack, or snapper. Keeps me on my toes cause the tax man could come take his share, too.

close up of an African American man wearing a grey t-shirt and camo shorts fly fishing
close up of an African American man wearing a grey t-shirt and camo shorts looking through a fly box full of salt water flies for fly fishing

One thing I love about fly-fishing is the camaraderie that comes from trash talking. It’s a game of errors and luck. Anyone who tells you that they can do the right cast every time is a liar. I’ll tell you what I think about that rachety, half-ass double haul into the wind. You’ll get at least a three-word response. The beauty of this is the experience of where you’re at, who you’re with, and how your energy is. I’ll gladly give out a joke about your perfection loop knot and welcome any retort about my lazy casting. Laughing the entire time. For all my emotional control, there’s a double shot of passion. You have to pry me off the casting platform, and even then, I’m going to stand behind you the entire time with a rod in one hand and a fly on the other. Waiting for the chance to show you that “I can blow that chance, too.”

Comedy and fishing are very similar. Almost equals. Flies, lures and baits are like jokes. Some are well crafted and made for a precise reason. The fish are the audience members, the insatiable and picky choosers.

Comedy and fishing are very similar. Almost equals. Flies, lures and baits are like jokes. Some are well crafted and made for a precise reason. The fish are the audience members, the insatiable and picky choosers. The scene is the coast of Mexico or a basement comedy club. Both have their own energy and vibe that “with or without you, life will go on.” Trout fly fishing is like listening to Jerrod Carmichael or Nate Bargatze. Subtle, but focused. Quiet and calm, but filled with purpose and beauty in the details. Saltwater fly fishing is like Lewis Black or Richard Pryor. Relentless. Each hit is another blow. When you finally think you can catch your breath, it’s time to go again.

“When you’re connected to something, it is your duty to protect it.” – A guy who made up a quote.

And it doesn’t end there. Conservation. The more incredible places I see and the more amazing fish I catch, the more they become a part of my thoughts, and a part of me.

“When you’re connected to something, it is your duty to protect it.” – A guy who made up a quote.

It’s easier to protect something if you feel it is a part of you. I encourage people to go fish or go out and ride ATVs or soak up the sun so they feel connected to nature. We aren’t just apart from nature; we’re a part of nature. Whether it’s tuna off the beach in Mexico, off-roading in the desert, or hanging with friends in the sun, we all have a part to play in ensuring it stays as cool and as wild as possible.

Finally, when the boats arrive back at the docks and everyone’s gathered to tell their lies, I turn into a wanderer, pacing the shore, drawing on my wildlife biologist background to figure out all on my own why I got skunked. Maybe writing better jokes would help catch more fish? One way to know.

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