When I first followed Maine guide Bri Dostie (she/they) on Instagram earlier this year, she messaged me right away. Being an angler, I follow a lot of people in the fly fishing world, and typically don’t get a response. Maybe a like and a follow back, but usually not a personal DM.
Not from Bri. A few hours later, I had a follow back and a message: “Glad we both love fish and are badass women,” her DM read. “Keep it up!”
Fast forward to this past September, when I finally got to meet Bri in real life to test gear out in Montana with the synthetic insulation brand, Primaloft. I wasn’t sure she’d even remember me, but Bri—who is a Primaloft ambassador—greeted me with a huge hug and a smile, followed by a, “It’s finally so nice to meet you in real life!” She did remember me, and we were fast friends before the float trip even started.
From the moment we messaged back in January, though, I felt welcomed, which I think captures Bri’s personality and mission perfectly. In addition to guiding big brook trout in Maine, Bri is an artist and the founder of Confluence Collective, a community-based organization dedicated to making the water more accessible and inclusive for everybody. Through workshops, cultural exchanges, community meetups, and place-based education, the Collective helps anglers build confidence and skills while honoring the local ecosystems they fish in. They partner with guides, nonprofits, and grassroots groups to break down financial, social, and cultural barriers that often keep people—especially women, BIPOC-folks, people with disabilities, queer, and gender-expansive anglers—off the water.
After our brief but fun time floating the Stillwater in Absarokee, Montana, I knew I had to sit down with Bri to get her story. Read our chat below.
Let’s start with your story — how did you first get into fly fishing, and what drew you to the sport in the first place?
Bri: I grew up in Maine, spending my childhood outdoors—I was homeschooled until seventh grade, so my classroom was always outside. I began fly fishing at 15 years old as a way to spend time with my then-boyfriend and learned the craft from his father on a bass pond behind their house in a canoe, which was a super fun way to fish. I spent most of my time based in Central Maine, particularly the Oxford County foothills on the Androscoggin River and nearby brooks and ponds. Today, I primarily guide in western Maine and the Rangeley area, which is home to the largest brook trout in the lower 48.
Confluence Collective has such a powerful mission centered on connection, access, and inclusivity in fly fishing. What inspired you to start it, and what gap did you feel needed to be filled in the outdoor community?
Bri: I started Confluence Collective because I felt excluded in traditional fly fishing environments, where I often encountered unwelcoming or limiting atmospheres, particularly for women, queer folks, and others outside the majority demographic. I didn’t want to talk about how my partner fished, or pretend I knew everything about fishing, which is how I felt going to a lot of the meet-ups I went to—I wanted to talk about different things on the water, like how it felt to be standing in the current, and what it means to be curious and try new things.
So, the process began right before the pandemic, when I decided to leave my job in educational programming to focus on creating cultural programs in fishing. Over time, Confluence Collective evolved into a broader, intersectionally inclusive community, offering workshops, campouts, and collaborative programming to break down barriers and build connections with other folks in fly fishing. Confluence Collective is for everybody, because everybody belongs on the water. It’s designed to address access issues that exist for folks who don’t fit the stereotypical angler or majority identity set.
The name “Confluence” is so fitting for what you do. Can you share what it symbolizes to you personally?
Bri: A “confluence” is a coming together of different waters and is a super biodiverse space where nutrients and species are coalescing. Usually, it results in incredible fishing. That idea of coming together as anglers and maintaining your uniqueness, but still being open to the flow of it all, is definitely symbolized by our name. And I think that every physical confluence we go to on the water is an invitation. You’re looking at the water, you’re trying to figure things out, you’re observing, you’re listening closely and intentionally—that’s how you find fish, how you find yourself, and that’s how you also meet people where they’re at instead of where you think they are.
You talk a lot about building community on the water. What does that look like in practice?
Bri: I think the most important part is prioritizing simple togetherness and centering joy and curiosity. It’s also not one single person doing it, but it’s everybody working in their spaces to really address issues in access and inclusivity on the water. Community is a collective effort, and we’re really open about the ways that our mission manifests.
What other lessons have you learned since starting Confluence Collective?
Bri: Fly fishing is just being near water sometimes—it doesn’t mean you have to cast or catch anything. There is no right way to cast or tie flies, no matter what anyone says. And the water is for everybody—all sizes, all abilities, all ages, all with unique gear and tool needs that are not considered or supported with standard offerings available. Fly fishing access and infrastructure need to be inclusive to everyone, regardless of age or ability. Our partners at Camp Bullwheel, for example, have invented sip-and-puff casting and helped us build more accessible watercrafts. We need to learn from one another and implement these changes on a wider scale. And maintain each person’s agency to make decisions, which is always more important than what you may think they need.
What kind of change would you like to see in the broader fly fishing industry — in terms of representation, leadership, or accessibility?
Bri: I’m wary of groups that don’t push themselves beyond calling themselves a “women’s group? I know that it never fit me, and I know other people who felt confined and categorized. Also, this idea that fly fishing is this exclusive, precious thing that can’t be ruined tells you that there’s fear that something’s being taken away by having different people besides straight, white, rich men on the water, when it can only get better with diversity. We need more people to bolster the idea that it can only get better.
What gear do you never leave the dock without?
Bri: Layers! Tons of layers because I’m always cold. I especially love my Rab Evolute Hoodie, which traps warmth thanks to the Primaloft lining and keeps me warm (and then a backup in case I fall in, which happens more than you think). Polarized sunglasses, too—even if they’re the cheap ones from the convenience store, they’re such a game changer. I always, always have like, seven different types of woolly buggers because they’re so effective, but also because I thought those were the only flies people used when I started fly fishing. Most importantly, I always have a Gray Ghost fly in my box to give away.
Why the Grey Ghosts?
Bri: I like to give them away as gifts to people I meet on the water. Giving someone a fly is a really beautiful gesture. It feels good, and it says without saying, “Hey, I have confidence in you. I have confidence you can catch something with this—you should feel confident in yourself, too.”
If you were a fly, what would you be? What about a fish?
Bri: I’d be a weird-looking bug—not a streamer, not a wet fly, like a Wood Special. A quintessential Maine fly. And then for a fish, I would be a brook trout—they’re just so informed by where they live. I can go to a pond in Maine, and I can catch a brook trout that’s almost black because it’s such tannic water. And then I can go to the coast, and I can catch one that looks like a football and is shimmery silver. To be that connected with your environment is what I want. And I want to be swimming around folks who are also like that.
Who can join Confluence Collective, and how?
Bri: Anybody can, provided that they’re showing up with the curiosity and the mindset of not teaching people their way, but sharing knowledge openly and listening and learning from other people as well. To get involved, you can reach out to me via my website or visit our website and sign up for our newsletter (which notifies you first about upcoming campouts and programs), and a calendar of open water season events. If you’re interested in starting a program or event in your own area, you’re encouraged to reach out directly—we’re always open to helping people connect the dots or access gear through our gear library. Don’t be a stranger. Share the joy. Share a fishing story. We’re always game.
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