The Evening Routine
The truck is packed the night before, everything in its place. After years of trips like this, I’ve developed a mental checklist for winter trout fishing gear: rods, reels, waders, boots, flies. It’s second nature now. I no longer worry about forgetting something essential—it’s all routine.
The coffee pot is set to brew at 5:00 a.m. A travel mug rests close by on the counter ready to be filled. Next to it, my keys and wallet are set out conspicuously. I don’t want to waste a second looking for anything in the morning.
Beside my bed, clothes are in perfect order: top and bottom base layers, wool socks, fleece-lined pants, and a dependable mid-layer. The outer layers are already packed along with extra clothes. I don’t leave anything to chance this time of year.
Sleep takes time to arrive, burdened by my anticipation of a day on the river. When sleep finally appears, it doesn’t stay long. My phone alarm rudely chases it away. Reflexively, I swing my legs out of bed. The cold floor under my feet reminds me that winter has arrived. I’m instantly thankful the clothes I chose to shield me from the day’s challenges are ready and waiting.
The Journey Begins
The aroma of brewing coffee greets me when I enter the kitchen. I flip the switch to the single light over the sink, revealing the items on the counter exactly how I left them the night before. I fill my travel mug with coffee–jet black and steaming and take a few sips before securing the lid.
A thin, gray layer of ice has formed jagged crystals on the windshield of my truck. I fight the urge to scrape them away. Wisely, I return to my kitchen and allow the heat from the engine to warm the cabin and provide a clear view of the road that will lie ahead.
I know the route by heart, but I open the pin on my phone anyway. It reveals the exact spot I want to begin the day. Siri informs me of my expected travel time–2 hours and 27 minutes. Accounting for a stop to refill my travel mug, I calculate that I’ll be on the river a little after 8:00 a.m. That’s ambitious this time of year. The sun will not have had time to raise the water temperature the extra degree necessary to snap trout from their nighttime rhythms.
I spend the first hour of the drive in silence. Occasionally, my GPS blurts out directions already ingrained in my memory. A brightly lit convenience store marks the halfway point of the journey, where I stop to refill my travel mug. The latest episode of the Troutbitten podcast is cued. I saved it specifically for the second half of this trip. The next hour passes without notice, as I get lost in the discussion. of tactics I am eager to use on the water.
Winter Gear Winter Mindset
My dashboard thermometer tells me to relax. There’s no need to rush. It’s light now, but the sun has yet to impact the river. It’s five degrees colder here than it was at home.
I arrive at the access point and marvel at the accuracy of GPS. It’s 7:47 a.m. As predicted, I’d be on the water just a little after 8 a.m. This would be a late arrival in the spring. Come April, there will be four other trucks in this spot by this time of day. But it’s December. My vehicle sits alone in the gravel lot, and it will likely remain that way all day.
I dig into my center console and pull out a pack of hand warmers, tearing them open and laying them on the dashboard to activate in the cold air. I also have a pack of stick-on-toe warmers that I’ve learned are useless when clinging to the bottoms of my socks. They stand no chance against the bone-chilling water when wading. Instead, I use them as “heart warmers.” Peeling off the backing, I press them onto the left side of my chest, over my base layer. Keeping my core warm tricks my body into preserving heat in my extremities, keeping my focus on the river instead of the cold.
I step into my waders, their fabric retaining the chill from a long night in the truck. My winter wading boots are one size larger than I normally wear. That extra space creates a small air cushion, providing just enough insulation to keep feeling in my toes—though never truly comfortable. Warm feet in winter are an unrealistic expectation.
Layered and Loaded
The hand warmers on my dash are ready. I press one firmly to the underside of my wrist. Only the fabric of my base layer separates it from my skin. Then, I pull off a section of blue painter’s tape and wrap it around my wrist two times to secure the hand warmer in place. I repeat this step with my other wrist. Instantly, the blood vessels begin to warm and circulate throughout my hands and to my exposed fingers. Like with my feet, the objective is to make the cold pain in my fingers tolerable.
The shell of my outer layer shields me from wind gusts that occasionally threaten but never fully attack. I pull down on my wool hat, covering my ears. My polarized lenses keep my eyes from forming tears that would end up frozen on my cheeks.
Winter is the only time of year I fish with a backpack. I don’t plan to come back to the truck before sundown; I maximize the limited daylight winter provides. My pack holds basic survival gear, extra clothes, food for the day, and water.
I open the cover of my rooftop rod carrier to unsheathe my ten foot-3 weight. It’s already rigged. A newly tied jig streamer clings to the hook keeper. Trout will need to be enticed this morning.
The Hike In
My anticipation is a tightly coiled spring hiking downriver. The trail leading to my starting point is a maze of obstacles. A fresh layer of snow conceals all traces of the path I must follow. Keeping the river to my left, I trek in, spoiling an otherwise pristine landscape with my boot tracks.
My body begins to warm from the hike. I unzip my outer layer, and the sudden rush of cold discourages sweat from breaking through my skin and absorbing into my base layer. The slow, deep tail out, where I will start fishing, is now in sight. This is the exact water type I intend to target today, especially before the sun impacts the water with light and warmth.
I free the jig streamer from the hook keeper and begin to pull my mono-rig leader through the guides of my fly rod. Pressed between both thumbs, I stretch the leader, erasing the memory of the coils it formed when resting inside my reel. Once stretched, I retrieve the slack and make my first cast. Squaring my shoulders and keeping my right arm close to my side, I tuck the jig streamer into a seam a few rod lengths upstream. It lands in the water ahead of my leader and nosedives to the bottom of the river.
The 4.0 m.m. tungsten bead is heavier than I want for this water type, but it’s my only defense against the wind. My left hand becomes a pulley, recovering the slack in the leader, stopping to create the slightest bit of tension. Something doesn’t feel right. The heavy jig streamer is resting on the bottom of the river, impervious to the gentle current. I need to adjust my drift.
Fine Tuning the Presentation
My bi-colored sighter contrasts with the dark backdrop of the centuries-old hemlocks framing this section of the river. It visually pops, making it easy to find with each cast. The wind tries to bow it, but the weight of the fly secured to my tippet anchors the sighter in place. “I’m going to need to lead the fly,” I think. I won’t be able to rely on the current in this stretch to create a natural drift, but the wind demands a heavy fly. So, I lift my rod tip. I maintain tension with my line hand. The fly rises a few inches, releasing its hold from the riverbed. I let the fly fall back toward me, maintaining a small space between the river bed.
I repeat the action collecting the data needed to calibrate my presentation. This is one of the aspects of fishing that I enjoy the most. Each subsequent cast is intentional, providing constant feedback to interpret. The casts build upon one another until I develop confidence in the drift, one I will replicate until I have a large enough sample size to determine if this approach will trigger a take.
With my drift dialed in, I allow muscle memory to take over and shift my focus on the sighter. Detection of a take will be barely perceptible. There won’t be a jolt or any obvious sign a trout deemed my jig streamer edible. I allot all my mental resources to noticing a twitch, a pause, a tick in the sighter.
Nothing.
Life in the Drift
I develop a rhythm on a slow march upstream repeating my cast, leading the fly through the drift– hyper-focused on the sighter. The timer in my head tells me it’s been long enough. A straight dead drift won’t persuade the reluctant trout to eat. They will need to be enticed. Keeping the same rhythm, I add a slight jigging motion to my presentation.
There is a lot of weight at the head of the jig streamer. Moving the rod tip slightly upward lifts the fly an inch or two in the water column. A brief release in tension of the leader permits the heavy bead to nose dive back toward the bottom. “Don’t lose contact,” I say aloud, resisting the temptation to be more forceful with the presentation.
A gentle lift. Release. Repeat.
This subtle change in my approach animates the fly, bringing it to life. I find a new rhythm and continue moving upstream, lifting and releasing. I don’t expect a take on the lift, so I focus on my sighter during the release. Experience has taught me trout will eat a jig streamer on the drop. This is why staying in contact with the fly is so important. Any slack created during the release will cause me to miss the take.
I maintain contact with the streamer on the last drop. Before I start a new cast, there is a hesitation in the sighter. I reflexively set by thrusting my rod tip downstream. There’s immediate resistance–a streak of gold flashes under the water’s surface.
First Trout in the Net
“This is why I come here,” I say aloud. It’s a solid fish. However, it’s not heavy enough to snap the strong connection that my 3X fluorocarbon tippet creates. For now, I am the boss. I keep the fish upstream and out of the riffle it knows is below me. Side pressure keeps the fish in check until it tires enough that I can bring it to the surface. The top current sweeps the fish toward my net–a fourteen-inch wild brown trout.
The tension of the leader relents. The fish removes the barbless hook from its jaw with one shake of its head. I pluck the jig streamer out of the net while keeping the trout in the water. I’m always grateful when I don’t have to handle a fish, especially in the winter. Wet hands are impossible to keep warm. I briefly admire my catch before tilting the net, allowing the trout to swim free.
Changing Tactics
The next two hours tick by. Fishing is slow, but I interact with enough fish to keep me focused. I land three more wild browns, all smaller than the first, and miss the take on two others. I’ve covered some water in the past two hours. I estimate I am about one-third of the way back to the truck. There is still a lot of water to explore. It’s time to change tactics.
I am still using the same jig streamer. The 3X tippet bailed me out by getting snagged twice in a tree. It also saved me more times than I can remember on the bottom. Each time, however, the 3X overpowered its opponent. I won’t have this advantage with the 5X tippet I attach for my nymph rig. Spawning has ended. Eggs were once a steady food source in the fall. They have left a lasting imprint on the trout. This gives me confidence when I tie on an Eggstacy egg as my lead fly. The trout will eat it, but my decision to start with an egg is tactical. The Eggstacy material absorbs water, adding the necessary weight to keep my fly close to the bottom while countering the effects of the wind.
I pull off another section of 5X. I secure it to the egg through the eye of the hook to create a trailer rig. My strategy is to use the egg to draw in the trout’s attention. Then, I get them to commit to a more realistic pink-beaded pheasant tail that loyally follows behind.
Targeting Different Water Types
I take a long, deliberate look upriver. This water narrows slightly and descends through a parade of rock formations. Thick shale layers protrude along the banks; the sun lightens their charcoal tones. Sturdy outcroppings of dolomite anchor against the surging currents, their solid forms breaking the emerald facade. Beneath the surface, groundwater flows through porous limestone, insulating it against the frigid air temperatures. The combination of geological conditions provides a perfect habitat for trout, where they can actively feed year-round.
No longer seeking the oxygen-rich runs and riffles, winter trout hold in slower-moving water types. Within the chaos, I scan for rocks, obstructions, or structures capable of slowing the current. It is in these spots I expect to find opportunistic fish. Methodically, I tuck my tandem rig upstream, guiding it back toward me through soft edges and relaxed current seams. I visualize my Eggstacy egg rolling along the river bottom, the pheasant tail trailing behind.
My sighter bows in the wind then straightens, and I set downstream. Instantly, I see the trout has chosen the egg. I easily win a short battle, bringing the trout to the net as quickly as I release it. Over the next hour, I fall into a rhythm of finding trout in predictable lies. The action is steady and satisfying. Small bursts of success can present themselves this time of year.
A Break in the Action
Working through the pocket water, a series of flat pools are all that separates me from my truck. I’ve lost track of time. The change in the light tells me I fished through lunch. It is now the afternoon. I estimate that I have about two solid hours of sunlight remaining. The cold has started to seep through my layers. It’s time for a cup of stream side coffee and a hot meal.
I find a spot in the trees, out of the wind. The dry bag in my pack houses my Jetboil stove, a pouch of dehydrated lasagna, and individual sleeves of Starbucks instant coffee. The Jetboil struggles against the cold but eventually heats the water to an adequate temperature. I pour 12 ounces into the freeze-dried lasagna, stir it, and seal it back up. While my lunch rehydrates, I pour the remaining hot water into a cup loaded with instant coffee grounds.
Armed with what now tastes like the best cup of coffee in the world, I casually observe a slow pool. I watch for any signs of rising fish. I know it is a long shot, but it’s a habit. My commitment to the search is fleeting. I’m distracted by the unmistakable white head of a bald eagle high in a tree across the river. I wonder if he is doing the same thing I’m doing.
Taking the last sip of my coffee, I scan the far bank and almost missed it. A dimple right under the overhanging branches. Was that a fish? Eyes trained on that exact spot, I wait to see it again. A minute passes before another dimple appears.
A Rare Winter Opportunity
The faint hum of the river dulls the sound of my boots shifting in the snow. My breath hangs like a cloud as I watch intently. Another rise, this time farther out into the seam. There’s no mistaking it now—trout, sipping midges from the surface.
Winter is rarely so kind. The cold typically keeps the bugs dormant and the fish hugging the bottom. But today, the low winter sun has warmed the river just enough to bring life to the surface.
Versatility on the River
I always keep my reel spooled with a floating fly line for moments like these. Versatility on the water can mean the difference between a memorable day and a missed opportunity. My setup allows me to pivot quickly. With a single snip, I swap out my mono rig leader and loop on a dry fly leader. It’s an easy adjustment, but one that keeps me ready for whatever the river throws my way. Over time, learning to stay adaptable—especially in the colder months—has taught me to recognize and capitalize on these fleeting chances.
Midge Rise
I unzip my pack, fumbling with fingers numb from the chill, and pull out a small midge box. The tiny hooks and delicate patterns feel absurd in my hands compared to the heavy tungsten nymphs I’d been using all morning.
I tie on a size 22 Griffith’s gnat. With a short cast, the fly lands just upstream of the last rise. It drifts effortlessly, almost invisible in the current, and I hold my breath as it passes the dimple zone. Nothing.
Then it happens. A barely perceptible ripple and the fly disappears. The hook set feels like a reflex, and suddenly, the rod pulses with life. The trout darts under the branches, testing my line and resolve. Winter rarely gives second chances—but sometimes, it offers something unforgettable.
Embrace Winter’s Challenge
Winter fly fishing isn’t about numbers or nonstop action—it’s about embracing the challenge, refining your tactics, and finding meaning in the experience. The cold stings, the trout are sluggish, and the takes can be maddeningly subtle. But these conditions teach us to focus, to adjust, and to truly connect with the river on its terms.
On days like these, the river belongs to you. Winter’s solitude brings a rare stillness, letting you focus in ways that are often lost during busier seasons. Whether it’s the jolt of a jig streamer, the barely-perceptible pause of a nymph rig, or the magic of a midge hatch breaking through the chill, each success feels deliberate and deeply rewarding.
With preparation, the right gear, and an open mind, winter fishing transforms from a test of endurance into an experience of quiet triumph. The frost-lined banks, the muted hum of the river, and the satisfaction of a single fish in the net remind us why we return—season after season—to these cold, wild waters. Winter fishing doesn’t just demand more; it gives more to those who embrace its challenges.
