L.A. Fly: Celebrating Local Fishing in the Los Angeles River

"Where are you headed?” a guy asked as he walked by me in the airport terminal, eying the fly rod tube strapped to my pack.

“Los Angeles,” I replied.

He stopped, clearly puzzled. “In LA? Like, in the city?”

“Yeah, actually. There’s a surprising fly-fishing scene down there. I’m meeting up with a bunch of locals who invited me, to show off their waters.”

My fellow fly fisher raised an eyebrow. “Have you ever fished in the Sierras? I’ve had some great trips up in those mountains. You can’t beat it, especially for golden trout.”

I shook my head. “I haven’t yet. The Sierras will have to be another trip.”

“Well, that’s where you really want to go,” he said, turning away. “I’ve just never heard of anyone flying all that way to fish in Los Angeles!” He chuckled.

He was the fourth person in the terminal who’d stopped me to talk fishing, and suggested I should go fly fishing in the mountains, not the city.

I started second-guessing myself, feeling like an outsider to my own idea: traveling to Los Angeles specifically for urban fly fishing. But this trip wasn’t just for fun—it was part of a bigger project. I was writing a guidebook on urban fly fishing to help people learn how to fly fish in any major U.S. city, and each conversation in the airport reminded me of how I got here.

Years ago, when I was stationed in Washington State, fly fishing became my way to unwind, a chance to escape to mountain streams and cast small flies for trout. I didn’t have a clue what I was doing, but that didn’t matter. Being in the river was enough—a simple way to get outside without feeling out of place.

After I left the Army and moved to Columbus, Ohio, to be with my girlfriend (now wife) as she pursued her medical training, my fishing landscape changed entirely. Instead of mountain streams, I faced channelized creeks winding through cornfields. I tried driving to the nearest trout streams, but the experience was different, and I felt like I had just lost a growing passion of mine. So I put down the fly rod.

Of all things, it took a trip to Los Angeles (an earlier trip) to reignite my interest. Visiting my brother, I planned to get to the mountains to fish but realized traffic would turn that into an ordeal. So, I searched online for closer options and stumbled across blog posts about fly fishing on the Los Angeles River. Surprised and intrigued, I decided to check it out since it was just a short drive from my brother’s apartment.

The Los Angeles River was nothing like the peaceful rivers I was used to. Known historically as Paayme Paxaayt or “West River” by the Tongva people, and later as the Río Porciúncula by the Spanish, the river now flows through a man-made channel to its mouth at Long Beach.

The concrete walls, chain link fences, trash, and the rumble of nearby traffic made it more surreal than scenic.

Holding my rod, I wondered if I was the punch line of a joke. But then, across the river, I saw a fly line roll through the air, and then another. I wasn’t alone. Feeling emboldened, I gave it a try. I walked down the concrete “bank” to the murky water, and I landed my first-ever carp that day.

When I got back to Columbus, I immediately walked to a stretch of the Olentangy River—crammed between the 315 highway and Buckeye Stadium—and looked down into the water for the first time. Below me carp were silhouetted against the riverbed flats, heads down, searching for food, their tails waving up at me. I raced back and grabbed my fly rod.

Soon, I was fishing more often than ever, and this was the first time I came to know a stretch of river intimately—watching its changes and fluctuations, the behavior of the carp, learning what a combined sewer overflow is and where urban runoff goes when it rains, and how to better read the water around human-built infrastructure.

I few years later when my wife and I were living in Spokane, Washington, I became a part-time urban fly-fishing instructor, taking people fishing in the heart of the city. Time and again, anglers expressed how amazing it was to fish in the city, and we had long conversations about why urban fly fishing isn’t more popular. That all sparked my idea to write a book that would share information, insights, resources, stories, and experiences to help people get out and fly fish their local urban waters, no matter what city in the U.S. they live in. But as I sat down to begin writing, I quickly realized I needed support.

Spectator Applause

As the plane descended, I thought back to my first day on the Los Angeles River and wondered what this trip would bring. Thankfully, I wouldn’t be on my own this time. I had connected with other urban fly fishers through social media, including Analiza del Rosario, who was eager to introduce me to LA’s urban fishing hotspots. After a few messages and phone calls, I booked my ticket. I was also talking with other urban anglers in various cities and—depending on how this trip to LA went—I figured I would either buy those additional plane tickets or scrap the book idea.

At dawn, I met Analiza and her friend Caroline Craven near the Santa Monica Pier. As we walked the beach and waded into the surf, we shared stories about how each of us got into fly fishing and our experiences fishing in cities. Analiza first discovered fly fishing during a business trip and returned to LA determined to fish locally and to find a community of women anglers she could explore the waters with. Not finding many opportunities, she organized groups like SoCal Fly Gals and SoCal Women on the Fly, bringing people together to fish the LA River, MacArthur Park, and the surf at Santa Monica Beach.

As I watched Analiza and Caroline cast their lines for surfperch, we talked about the rewards and challenges of urban fishing, all while they kept a close eye on their backcasts as curious beachgoers stopped behind them to watch them fish. When the beach got too busy, we packed up and drove over to the LA River, meeting up with other anglers. It had been a few years since my first day fishing here. Scouting the water with Analiza and the others, learning how they read the water and what techniques and flies they prefer, gave me a much deeper appreciation for just how much there is to learn about fishing and understanding urban waters like the LA River.

The water was cold, and the fishing was tough. When Caroline hooked a large carp under one of the bridges crisscrossing overhead, it was an exciting moment for all of us, including a large crowd of people who had gathered on the walking path above us. Analiza coached Caroline as she steered the carp away from concrete debris and through a series of riffles. Wading carefully, Analiza dipped the net under and filled it with one of Caroline’s best-ever carp on the fly. All of us—anglers and onlookers alike—celebrated together in the moment of seeing this hidden side of the LA River come alive.

Increasing Participation

The next morning, I was to meet up with Analiza and a group of anglers at the lake at MacArthur Park, in the heart of downtown Los Angeles. This lake has all the features of an urban stillwater fishery: fountains, concrete shorelines, litter, families feeding the ducks, early morning joggers and drinkers, encampments, outdoor church services, music, a proselytizer with a megaphone, occasional sounds of sirens, and kids laughing. Among all this was a group of fly fishers, wearing birthday party hats and eating breakfast pastries while casting fly lines and indicators into the lake. They were throwing a surprise birthday party for Kesley Gallagher, holder of 24 IGFA world records, including two for fish that were caught in Los Angeles. But what really made that birthday party possible was their shared love of fishing, and the thrill of catching common carp.

I talked with Lino Jubilado, whose videos of catching carp, catfish, and rainbow trout at MacArthur Lake I had seen so many times on Instagram. He has been one of the instrumental anglers in the city to introduce people to fly fishing and to build a community underpinned by shared interests to look after one another, support communities and new anglers, and advocate for local urban fisheries.

Lino not only encourages people to reach out to him on social media and to come and join him on the water, but he also helps kids and passersby interested in what he’s doing to catch their first fish on a fly rod. He teaches people about the fishing methods he’s using, the fish they’re catching, and how to handle a fish—and then invites them back if they want to learn more. Lino even helped me to land my second-ever Los Angeles carp using an incredibly effective fly pattern he invented, the Eggs and Ham.

One angler Lino mentored—who was having a blast catching carp that morning—was Anissa Iseda. She grew up fishing with conventional gear, and when her father passed away, she inherited his fly-fishing gear. While her father had been a fly-fishing purist, Anissa embraces all kinds of fishing tackle, and enjoys local urban waters that offer convenient places to fish regularly close to home. Like Anissa, more than 80 percent of the U.S. population lives in urban areas, where sprawling development often makes it challenging to get out on the water consistently—unless we expand our perspectives to see the fishing opportunities flowing right through our cities.

Jane Miller, lead mentor for the Los Angeles Mayfly Project, was there that morning as well. She and many other LA anglers dedicate significant personal time to connecting children in foster care, and their families, with the outdoors. While it’s easy to talk about the importance of reconnecting urban youth with nature—through activities like fishing that promote health, well-being, and strong relationships with family and community—Jane and her team are actually doing the work to make it happen. And I mean that sincerely, because introducing kids to nature outside the city is one thing; connecting them with nature within their own urban environment is an entirely different, and often more challenging, task.

Jane shared the difficulties she faces to ensure these experiences are impactful and accessible. This includes spending time on local waters; helping families develop a range of fishing skills; pairing mentors with mentees; ensuring event safety; and consistently re-engaging new anglers and families even after they’ve completed the program, to provide ongoing support. It’s an intensive process. Even finding mentors can be a challenge. While plenty of skilled fly fishers are willing to help, few have experience on the urban waters most accessible to these families, and getting people out on the water is essential for fostering a lasting connection to fishing.

Rethink Location

Urban fly fishing isn’t new, and anglers like Lino have been casting lines in city waters for many decades. I’m also not the first person to write a book on urban fly fishing. There are already a few guidebooks out there about fly fishing specific cities. Even the late Jack Gartside wrote a great book on fly fishing in Boston Harbor. But my time on Santa Monica Beach, on the LA River, and at MacArthur Park reinforced something I’ve felt growing inside me for years. This isn’t just another fad bubbling up from murky waters, soon to fade away again.

After working on this book and exploring urban fishing scenes in cities including Denver, Minneapolis, Boston, and New York, I believe that what’s happening now is something entirely different and more impactful: It’s a movement that’s rethinking how we live, play, and connect with our urban ecosystems.

Most of us aspire to live happy, healthy lives filled with community, memorable experiences, and a connection to the natural world—ideally without high costs or long travel times. While city dwellers often turn to hiking, biking, or visiting parks to meet these needs, one activity remains largely overlooked in urban settings: fly fishing.

For more than 1,000 years, fly fishing has been more than a way to catch food. It’s a source of joy, a path to understanding nature closely, and a tradition that connects us to water and wildlife. But why should this experience be confined to distant, rural waters? And many anglers are really questioning that assumption. Why not cast a line right here in our cities?

The diversity of fly fishing and the anglers who embrace it is evolving in fresh and exciting ways, and this change is long overdue. Many of the urban fly fishers I’ve met see and feel the positive impact of urban fly fishing for people who crave something active, healthy, local, and affordable (yes, affordable—this is not an inaccessible hobby). At the same time, I’m well aware of the stigma, biases, and perceptions surrounding urban fishing. These topics have come up time and again as I’ve worked through the pages of my book, and in long conversations with anglers and leaders in the fly-fishing industry and community.

I’m also aware that you may not know who I am, may question my motives, and perhaps might even dislike the idea of a book that might bring more people into fly fishing. For too long, fly fishing has been boxed in. But beneath the city bridges we cross every day, urban anglers are redefining what it means to be an advocate, to practice stewardship, to build community, and to feel connected to our urban ecosystems and transform how people envision urban spaces. I hope readers can play a small part in supporting what’s already happening, helping urban fly fishing flourish in ways that inspire healthy, joyful lives for everyone involved.

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Marc Fryt is a fly-fishing instructor, writer, and photographer living in Washington. For updates on his book about urban fly fishing, follow him on Instagram @marc_fryt.

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