We’ve all seen it in recent years. Since the COVID-19 pandemic drove Americans outside to find recreational opportunities, our woods and waters have become more and more crowded. Where I spend most of my time, we’re awash in a new generation of outdoor enthusiasts who, for good or ill, are sticking around. Our rivers are burgeoning with new drift boats, and our campgrounds are full of new RVs. Trailhead parking lots are bursting with cars, and ATVs are turning up on every Forest Service road and trail they can access. People seem to be everywhere, particularly in the “front country” that’s easy to get to.

Like a lot of folks who have recreated outside for decades, I was certain that, once things got back to “normal,” the sheer numbers of people roaming around the woods (many of them clueless as to the ethics of the endeavor, by the way) would subside. And, largely, it has. But enough of the “new” outdoors converts have stuck with it — I’m seeing crowds where I used to dependably fish alone.

As anglers, particularly those of us who are footbound and enjoy getting off the beaten path to chase wild trout in smaller waters, the influx of people is having a direct impact on the quality of our fishing. By definition, these angling destinations have less room for folks to spread out.

For instance, a couple of weeks ago, I and a couple of fishing buddies hit the trail on a small stream that flows off the shoulders of the Big Hole mountains. It’s a good two-and-a-half miles to the best trout water on the creek, and, once you’re there, that water is kind of limited. I was leery, arriving at the parking lot to find three or four vehicles already there, and, as we started walking, we encountered a few anglers plying the lower creek, which features a high gradient and some tough fishing, honestly.

Then, by the time we got to the “prime” water, we were too late. Three anglers were stretched out across the meadow. We could have done another few miles to another stretch of prime water, but our time and resources were thin — we ended up giving up and going somewhere else.

Plan to walk further

I’ve always had kind of an unwritten rule when it comes to my backcountry fishing. I call it The 20-minute Rule. Generally speaking, when I hit a walk-in fishery, I hike for at least 20 minutes. This is usually far enough to get away from the casual folks who might tackle the first few appealing pools near the trailhead, or for less-abled anglers who just want to be able to wet a line.

It might be time to add another 20 minutes to my 20-minute rule. I can do a mile at a leisurely pace in 20 minutes. Adding another mile shouldn’t be too onerous, even as I’m older and dealing with the predictable ailments that come with 55 years of wear and tear. And, to keep doing what I love to do and not have to worry about being high-holed by some goofball, another mile is a small sacrifice.

Walk for solitude, not better fishing

And let’s be clear on one thing. In most small streams that run off the snow-capped mountains of the West, the fishing can be really good. Fish are generally — but not always — smaller, and they’re usually more cooperative (again, not always).

A mile in on an Idaho cutthroat trout stream should put you on fish that are lightly pressured. The same is true on almost any eastern brook trout stream cutting a blue line through the Appalachians. But, as most of us who have plied small waters over the years understand, small-water trout just don’t get the pressure that fish swimming in larger rivers with more heralded names experience. I’ve had great days catching ridiculous numbers of fish on diminutive roadside fisheries that are simply overlooked by other anglers because they can’t wait to get the Arkansas or the Madison or the Green.

I employ my 20-minute rule not mainly to achieve better fishing. Instead, I wander to find solitude. And these days, as I learned a couple of weeks back, that’s getting harder and harder to come by.

Be a pioneer

Over the last few seasons, I’ve probably seen more new-to-me trout water than I have since I was in my 30s. Adding a bit more time to my jaunt into the hills has allowed me to get out of the habit of fishing the same dependable pools, or casting flies tight to the same fishy cutbanks. Instead, I’ve come to “discover” new challenges on old water — pocket water that I never knew existed, or a beaver-pond complex that spreads water across a meadow in the most perfect way.

New water is your friend, even if the creek you’re fishing isn’t necessarily “new.” Taking another 20-minutes to find it is worth every step, don’t you think?

Loose Lips

This is a tough one for me, because I love to share. I’ve written three guidebooks over the last 20 years, each one openly complimentary of very specific waters. Some even had maps, for crying out loud.

Well, times change. These days, I rarely tell people where I find good fishing. I am happy to show new anglers the ropes and point out a few dependable destinations, but, mostly, I refer them to Google Maps and let them do what I did all those years ago — discover your favorite trout streams on your own.

With more and more people wandering the trails and crowding the dispersed campsites and fishing the backcountry, I’ve decided it’s time for me to just shut up. When I talk about trout water these days, I use names like Rattlesnake Creek or Poison Creek, and I talk about the horrors of bushwhacking into Hungry Grizzly Creek only to get hopelessly lost in a willow maze. Oh, and I’m not afraid to openly declare that sasquatch is real and not at all friendly. I’m done being the virtual tour guide. You want to find good fishing? Get a map.

Spreading out is good

As long as this outdoor renaissance lasts — and I’m not decrying the influx of new anglers — it’s worth it to me to walk a little farther and seek out trails less traveled. And, while I’m still able to do it, it’s good for me. Hell, the more I do it, the more I’ll be able to do it.

Some of us fish for the fishing. Some fish for the holistic benefits — the fresh air, the peace, the scenery. Generally, I fish out of some innate sense of curiosity. How far can I walk up this creek before I run out of creek? Do the fish get bigger up higher? Or smaller? Is there something I’m missing by not taking a few more steps?

Spread out. Walk more. See more. And catch more fish. If the trailhead is full of cars, find a new trail along a new creek. And feel free not to share. Find your “why” when you fish. The answer might be just another 20 minutes up the trail.