Several winters ago, about the time I settled into wild trout country, I fell in love with winter fishing—the conditions, the solace, and the fish. For when the air turns cold, all but the hardiest abandon the water. The lucky angler may even find themselves solitary among mountains blanketed in white—the air aroar with the static of snowflakes crashing into Earth—and with an honest chance at a truly large trout that are relatively unpressured and intent on consuming the largest number of calories for the fewest expended.

Twenty years ago, when I was still floating anglers down the Henry’s Fork and making my living on the oars, I followed a long parade of drift boats down the river and wondered at the sheer number of my fellow guides who rowed the same lines and had their clients cast to the exact same runs and holes. While that approach can work for the first couple boats, trailing the herd rarely guarantees the best possible results in the long term.