This is my first ICAST in over a decade that I haven’t attended—and I feel it. I miss my friends, my industry family. The sideways Snapchats across showroom floors, the subtle winks and nods from one side of a booth to another—those moments filled a personal void that calls and press releases never could. Those micro connections mattered.
Over the last ten years, my role at ICAST was singularly focused: build the booth, win the award, secure the coverage. But in chasing those outcomes, I lost sight of the purpose of the show itself—a seasonal showcase designed to write orders, build relationships, and grow the sport. That’s no longer happening in any meaningful way for most brands.
Instead, we’re watching companies spend hundreds of thousands of dollars to show off product copies… to each other. How is that sustainable?
From the outside looking in, consumer sentiment is unmistakably negative. The excitement feels forced. Yes, innovation is alive in corners—tech-driven categories are pushing forward—but in lures? It’s grim. As someone who attended the Osaka show earlier this year, it’s jarring to see major brands openly copying JDM manufacturers or bloating saturated categories under the guise of “new.” It’s not innovation—it’s iteration, and consumers know the difference.
And yet, Osaka gave me hope. Its format was powerful: the first days exclusive to industry and media, then opened to the public. It made fishing feel huge. Imagine that here—a reimagined, inclusive experience where fans get to meet their heroes, and brands from across the globe (not just domestic players) gather under one roof. Why can’t we merge the best of The Classic and ICAST into one cosmic, fan-forward event?
Fly fishing and conventional have long shared a roof, but never a vision. Two siloed shows, both shrinking, refusing to integrate. The result? Missed opportunities. Missed culture. Missed unity.
Then there’s the content problem. We’re drowning in irrelevant media outlets and copy-paste podcasts, churning out the same shallow narratives year after year. It’s bait innovation 2.0—empty, safe, and forgettable. The fanbase is fractured, segmented into niche silos with no connective thread.
Ironically, the most refreshing thing I’ve seen from this year’s ICAST wasn’t a product—it was that Yeti got Metalwood to their golf outing and Steve Harvey showed up. That’s the kind of unexpected, culture-shifting moment that cuts through the noise. Not a new colorway or another YouTube B-roll recap.
So again, I ask:
Why are we burning millions every July in the middle of the season just to hear the same old speeches over the same old breakfast in the same old convention center in one of the most miserable places on earth?
What Now?
My generation agrees—almost unanimously. We want something more compelling. We know this industry has depth, culture, beauty, and stories that deserve better platforms. So how do we take the reins?
We stop settling.
We stop applauding mediocrity.
We stop mistaking nostalgia for relevance.
And we start building something worthy of the sport we love.
It’s time to evolve—not just for the sake of the brands, but for the fans, the fish, and the future.