It’s the part of a river that nobody fishes, the boundary waters, downstream of the good stuff. This is the section that guide books and fly shop guys tell you isn’t worth fishing because the water warms too much, or it just doesn’t have the habitat.
But if you talk to a local, you’ll hear some stories that are well worth a listen . . .
Old-Timer
My years were young in this region, so I was still exploring and finding my way around. On a chilly May evening, I fished through a Sulphur hatch on the biggest river around, and the action was unstoppable. I reeled up long after dusk, so by the time I walked out and crested the hill to the parking area, I saw nothing but red taillights on a dusty dirt road, fading into the distance.
Just one car remained. It was a beat up two-wheel drive Ford Ranger parked close to my SUV. And as I approached, I noticed the tailgate was down and someone was sliding out of their hip boots.
The man was what my grandfather affectionately would have called an old-timer. I easily recognized the type. This was the kind of fisherman who had spent a lifetime on the water. A daily angler who probably chose the kind of work that permitted him the freedom to fish whenever he wanted.
I spoke first. I almost had to. Protocol, hierarchy and respect dictated my deference for this man — for what he’d surely experienced and learned about trout rivers.
“How’d it go, buddy?” I asked quietly.
He’d seen me coming, and he’d already sized me up, just the same as I’d done with him.
The fisherman stood up straight and paused while adjusting his floppy ball cap. He cracked a smile and nodded.
“You’re out here pretty late, son. So I suspect you got into ‘em about as good as I did, no?”
“That was a hell of a hatch,” I replied while hanging my vest on a hook. “Best I’ve ever been part of, I think.”
“Oh, you’ll see even better through the years,” he said.
Then I heard the crack and hiss of a beer can. The fisherman didn’t ask, he just handed me a Busch Light, cold and dripping from the cooler.
“Thanks. That’s nice,” I said.
The fisherman was indeed local. I don’t remember his name, and I never saw him again. But we talked for an hour or more, occasionally catching the silhouette of a Sulphur spinner against the scattered moonlight.
The fisherman was there for the hatch and for what he called “rare, civilized fishing,” carrying just a small box of dry flies and some tippet spools in the pockets of a thin flannel shirt. The fisherman told me that years ago he’d branched out to fish the overlooked waters — “the places that nobody else cares about,” he said. And he’d never looked back.
“There’s more good water around here than you’d ever believe. And nobody touches it,” he told me. “I don’t catch trout every time, but I always catch something. And when I do find a few trout, they’re bigger and stronger than anything we caught tonight.”
That evening conversation forever changed how I looked for the next piece of water. The fisherman gave me confidence to do what he did — to branch out. From that day forward, I was bold enough to choose marginal water when I found cars at the popular spots. And on some days, I explored many miles below the “trout water,” just for the solitude and the wonder.
For me, marginal water became a perfect match. Because good fishing was always about the environment more than anything, especially once I had a few tactics under my belt. And I’ve never had a problem with striking out, as long as the exploration and the atmosphere is there.
Find ‘Em
In truth, I did more exploring when life was simpler, when I was younger, with fewer responsibilities and without a family. I had more full days for fishing back then, too. That matters, because success on marginal water needs some time and patience to get it right.
So there’s nobody around for miles, you have every braid and river bend all to yourself, and there’s a real possibility of the biggest fish of your life to the net. The prospects of marginal waters are tantalizing. But you have to be willing to cover miles of river, wade the rough stuff and accept a slim fish count, all for the low-percentage chance of a couple trout where they aren’t supposed to be. You have to fish hard.
Marginal waters might be too warm for most of the summer, so trout migrate upstream or down, to wherever the water is cold enough. But the summer months are a great time to learn these sections in low flows. On most of my favorite marginal waters, I have good smallmouth bass fishing in some of the same places where trout take over in the coldwater months, so I learn these sections while wet wading and targeting smallmouth. But the winter season can be tough too, because in many of these waters, you’re dodging icebergs if you can get in to wade at all.
Success in marginal water is often seasonal. And understanding prime times is just another thing to learn about these off-the-map locations.
READ: Troutbitten | Fishing Big Water — One Key Tip
Get to know the islands and the braids, because trout love structure. Find depth with flow. Look for tributaries, however small. Focus on moving water, because of all this is good trout habitat in marginal waters. Notice the primary baitfish forage, too. Is it crayfish, sculpins or schools of small fallfish? Trout in marginal waters are some of the best streamer eaters that I find every year.
Sure, there are fewer fish, but they’re often hardy, migratory trout that chase big food and act like natural fish, because they’re not being pestered all day by crowds of anglers.
Finding trout in marginal waters requires methodical commitment to trial and error. Bring an explorer’s mindset. Be a pioneer. Mobility is paramount, and flies are secondary. But tactics mean a lot.
Let’s get to that . . .
Fish ‘Em
Streamers are the answer for covering water efficiently and quickly. Solid nymphing tactics are a great choice for a targeted approach in a nice run or section that you’ve found holds trout. And dry flies can be fun, if it’s not asking too much of the fish.
READ: Troutbitten | How Big of An Ask?
Streamers are my first choice, and I cover every likely piece of the river with just a cast or two. If a spot does deserve a second cast, then the trout gets two different looks — maybe an aggressive jerk strip on the first pass and a calm slow slide on the second. I mix in speed leads, head flips and every other streamer presentation that I know, but I move the streamer more than I drift it.
In the lowest density marginal water (with the fewest trout), I cover water fast. Because wading to the next undercut renews my hope. And the more river I see, the more data I can put into a bank of knowledge about what each section might hold. Honestly, I’m searching for trout, more than I’m trying to put fish in the net.
I love using visible streamers, tracking the fly to see how motions with my rod tip and line hand translate to animations in the fly. Seeing the streamer helps me notice swirls or refusals, and in marginal water, that interest from the trout is all I need, especially on my first pass.
I’m looking for any confirmation that trout exist. I want to know where they are — I’ll remember their address. On return trips I might come at them first with a streamer again, or I’ll start with nymphing tactics.
My nymphs for marginal water are not small. I like flies in the one-to-two inch range. Big stoneflies, #8 or #10 Walt’s, Mop flies, small Buggers or anything similar that presents a little something extra to motivate a trout into commitment.
Dead drifts still matter. And I don’t waste time with bad drifts at long distances with nymphs. If I’m impatient, or I want to fish further out and move faster, I choose streamers again.
Fishing marginal water has its own set of rewards and attractions. These waters throw different challenges and roadblocks in your way. And it’s all made a little tougher, because you know there aren’t many trout around.
It’s different fishing in different water. And it’s always there for you, just waiting to be explored.
‘92 Ford
I saw the fisherman’s faded red Ranger a couple seasons later, parked far downstream, almost to the mouth of the big river. I’m sure he was there for the island section. As I drove past, I imagined him wading to the top left corner in those hippers, with the rubber straps dangling and a wry smile fixed permanently under his floppy old hat.
Fish hard, friends.
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Enjoy the day.
Domenick Swentosky
T R O U T B I T T E N
domenick@troutbitten.com
Here in NJ this type of fishing has become my favorite. When you find that stretch of river and time it right oh man what a reward. I’ve found one such place and keep it to myself. Now I’ll keep exploring to find other hidden places.
Right on.
Even on a smaller scale, marginal spots. If I catch myself thinking no fish there I often force myself to give it a few tries, and sometimes it’s jeez louise or holy crap. An excellent feeling!
Good point.
Being in the FF industry, I have had the privilege of fishing places that most people only dream about. And living in the Mountain West, I am surrounded by amazing water in every direction. That said, I am still shocked as to how many places I fish where the trout are big and uneducated- those places where you don’t see people. Ever. Moose? Elk? Bears? Big cats? Sure, but never people. As long as I’ve been doing this, I still live for that “all alone” feeling. I’m glad you’re writing about it, but don’t make a habit of it!
🙂 Nice. Good stuff, Paul. Well said.
Funny thing about marginal water like this is that no matter how much people know they should fish it, very few anglers do. And that will never change. It’s a lot like night fishing. And it’s like winter fishing — I don’t mean 35 degrees, either. Most anglers simply will not put themselves into uncomfortable situations for long enough to have much fun with it.
Honestly, I think that will only be more true over time.
Cheers.
Dom
This article really resonated with me. Up where I live, the majority of the water around is marginal, with a couple of my favorite rivers being fished seasonally (when the stocking truck rolls around/during a salmon run). Success outside of these time frames is often measured in whether or not a fish came to net, with numbers being a nice bonus. But when it clicks, it clicks. The feeling of being the only track in and out mixes with the satisfaction of learning. I remember my shock finding yellow perch living among landlocked salmon parr or seeing a pickerel take down a huge brook trout more than I remember any of my trips to the more solid water.
Right on!
This is really the only way I fish anymore. The anticipation is divine. I’ve been speaking at shows on this style, urging folks to do this and pay attention to stream condition. These sections have been long forgotten and are often in need of work. But folks need to know about them and care first. In rare locations, marginal waters have historical work done on them, and they hold way more large fish.
Nice. I will say that most people will never fish them much, no matter how much they do know about them. It’s probably because the kind of fishing leaves too many unanswered questions nagging in the back of their heads. Most anglers want to know there are trout looking at their flies. I know I certainly did, and for a decade or two, I didn’t explore marginal water much. That’s because I was learning tactics, and I needed to know there were trout in front of me, to build any confidence.
Cheers.
Dom