I put off writing this piece for as long as humanly possible. Not because there wasn’t enough material, but because every time I thought about it, my eyes nearly rolled out of my skull.
Our editorial director, Sean McCoy, pitched me on covering the fishing lure nail trend a while back. I accidentally forgot to. Then our favorite staff writer, Andrew McLemore, pitched me again on this growing fishing fashion trend coverage. Once again, I gave it a soft pass.
But here we are. Fishing fashion is having a moment so big that even my staunch cynicism can’t pretend it isn’t happening.
Somewhere between the ironic trucker caps and waders worn purely for “the vibe,” we’ve crossed into a strange dimension where fly-fishing chic is the new black. If you haven’t noticed, your granddad’s fly-fishing vest has officially been gentrified.
Welcome to Anglercore.
A Tidal Wave of Nylon, Mesh, and Ironic Waders
Once upon a time, a fly-fishing vest was the domain of, you know, actual fly-fishermen. People who woke up before dawn, tied little bits of feather to a hook, and stood waist-deep in icy water for fun. These days, the same vests are being styled with $800 sneakers on TikTok, accompanied by captions like “catch of the day.”
The Guardian recently ran a piece on the phenomenon, helpfully spelling out that anglercore comes in two basic flavors: nautical coastal casual and the full kit. That means everything from breezy linen shirts that nod to a Martha’s Vineyard charter boat to technical mesh vests and waders worn unironically to brunch.
Drake himself got in on the trend with the Nocta × Abel Reels collab, proving that you can be a Grammy-winning rapper and still desperately want to look like you have a drift boat parked outside.
Pocket Fetishism for the Wealthy Outdoor Cosplayer
Let’s be honest. This whole anglercore explosion is just the natural evolution of the lumbersexual and gorpcore fads.
Remember when every trust fund hipster suddenly needed a beard, a flannel shirt, and an axe they never planned to swing? Or when folks were dropping a grand on technical shell jackets just to walk their designer doodles around the block? Anglercore is just here to slap even more pockets on that costume.
Old-school fly vests have so many compartments you could smuggle a family of squirrels inside and still have room for your artisanal kombucha. The more zippers you have, the better you fish/look. Nothing says “I’m rugged” quite like a $700 mesh vest stuffed with a tube of SPF 50 and an oat milk latte.
But why does this keep happening? It’s simple.
Playing Dress-Up
Wealthy people love to play dress-up as regular people who actually do things. I mean, just look at Brad Pitt’s most recent GQ photoshoot.
They crave the illusion of grit without any of the inconvenience. Chopping wood? Too many splinters. Cattle ranching? Love the hat, hate the shit. Climbing a real mountain? There’s no Wi-Fi. Standing in a river all day waiting for a trout to notice your hand-tied fly? Too wet, too cold, and too much time away from a cellphone charger.
So instead, they buy the costume and sometimes even the properties. The pockets, the waders, the heritage fabrics that whisper, “I am connected to nature,” while never straying more than three blocks from an upscale espresso bar. It’s just another chapter in the endless book of urbanites cosplaying as outdoorsfolk.
And like the trends before it, it just looks so damn aesthetic on the Gram.
From the Fly Shop to the Street
Anglercore isn’t just about the look. It’s about how fast the fashion machine can yank a piece of utilitarian gear out of obscurity, slap a celebrity endorsement on it, and watch it become a collector’s item overnight.
Creek Angler’s Device is probably the most obvious example. What started as a niche label with roots in Japanese fishing culture now has pop-ups in SoHo where vests and zippered jackets disappear before lunch. If you show up late, you’ll find nothing but an apologetic sales clerk explaining that someone bought 12 of them for “styling purposes.”
The Barbour Spey jacket, once only recognized by trout bums and English country gentlemen, has become an icon of quiet flex. Even Patagonia’s fishing line is seeing new life among people who are more interested in its Instagram cachet than its wading performance.
Is Your Actual Gear Next?
So will this all trickle back into real fly shops? Almost certainly. It happened with gorpcore. One day, you could find a perfectly good technical shell at your local outfitter. The next, every small to average-sized item was sold out to influencers who needed a photo prop. The same fate might await your “breathable” waders and quick-dry shirts.
If this keeps up, don’t be surprised when you stroll into your neighborhood tackle shop hoping to replace a chewed-up fly line and find a handwritten sign reading, “Sold Out. Again.”
You might just look over and see someone trying on chest waders in front of a mirror, wondering aloud if they pair well with the loafers they just picked up at the thrift shop.
So, What Does It All Mean?
Is anglercore the final proof that we’ve commodified every subculture worth mining? Maybe.
Is it hilarious that nobody wearing this stuff can even name a fish beyond “salmon”? Without a doubt.
Is it really a big deal? No.
At the end of the day, this is just another excuse to slap a fancy price tag on something your uncle keeps in a plastic bin in the garage.
So go ahead, pick up that vest. Stuff the pockets with your overpriced, vegan protein bars, a set of AirPods, and maybe a little sprig of decorative fly line so everyone knows you’re serious.
But if I catch you in head-to-toe anglercore, strutting down the sidewalk nowhere near a body of water, I reserve the right to point, laugh, and ask you where you parked your drift boat.
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