“Blue lining” is a term used primarily by mountain anglers. It refers to fishing the tributaries that flow off the slopes of the Blue Ridge Mountains. These streams at times are no wider than a man’s stride and hold the only native trout on the East Coast, the brook trout.
It’s risky fishing these waters. Some aren’t on websites, and the people who do know about them won’t tell you. You’ll need to put in the legwork to find these hidden gems tucked back into the hills and hollers of Virginia.
There are things you can do to make sure you’re giving yourself the best chance to find fish.
Locate tributaries that flow off the mountains. These will show up as thin blue lines on the map. Often, they aren’t named.
Confirm the land is public. State forests, national forests or WMAs (wildlife management areas) are all open to the public.
Parking is the next hurdle. Find roads that run near the stream and see if you can locate parking or pull-offs on the satellite version of Google Maps. If you can’t find any, you’ll need to wing it.
Use a GPS and pack for the day and possibly the night. Often, walk through areas that do not have a clear path. Bring food, water and some fire-starting gear. Ideally, you’ll never need to start a fire, but getting lost could mean spending a night in the woods.
It’s exploring, seclusion and the reward of finding something for yourself that makes this type of fishing so addictive. Oftentimes there’s no one else around for miles. The outside world cannot call you; your focus is only on fish, mountains and water.
My trip was set for a Saturday morning. So, on Friday night as my family slept, I studied Google Maps. I started at the South Fork of the Holston River, which is a wonderful trout fishery. From there I focused on the creeks that flow into the river.
Surely there’s some brook trout living there, I thought. Maybe a big brown will appear when the water is high?
Next, I zoomed in on the map, looking for any type of parking area or pull-off where my truck could fit. A few spots came up, but I knew it would be tight. I marked them on my phone and hoped I’d be able to fit when I found a suitable place to park.
The next morning, I sped down the gravel road above the stream. Gray dust flew behind me, and when I found the pull-off I was right. It was tight, but I made it fit even though at one point I thought I might slide down into the holler. I looked around and didn’t see any private property signs, so I began the hike.
Preferring to hike to the stream in different boots, I kept my neoprene socks and wading boots in my backpack. I’ve found that better footing offsets the extra weight I’m carrying.
I clambered over fallen trees and crawled through laurel thickets. At one point I came face to face with a copperhead. As my heart rate settled, I realized it was just an old twisted-up stick.
The river ran in the distance, so I pressed on. Despite feeling foolish about thinking a stick was a copperhead, snakes were on my mind, and I was vigilant.
The stream was wider than I thought. I stood on the bank and looked upriver. It was shallow and rocky, but a few plunge pools dotted the flow and hope coursed through me.
It was a cool spring day. Despite the low temperature, bugs flew above the water, so I went with my favorite: a Parachute Adams with a Bead Head Pheasant Tail tied off the shank.
I landed my first cast, and as the nymph floated in clear water, I watched as small trout chased after it nipping the shank of the hook. It was a promising sign, and I carefully worked each pool ensuring only my leader and tippet touched the surface. Brook trout are already spooky, but fish that live in the backcountry are as skittish as they come. Dark or camo clothing is not a necessity, but I highly recommend it over brighter outerwear.
The morning passed quickly, and I netted decent brook trout. But then the sun reached the top of the canopy and shined on the water, turning the bite off. My time on the river was running out, and I wanted to catch a bigger trout that may have snuck up here from the Holston.
I worked my way downriver and kept my shadow off the water until I knew the Holston wasn’t far away. I stumbled out of the thicket and stood on a boulder overlooking a large pool. The bottom of the river turned dark and all I could see were the outlines of rocks. As I pulled the fly line from my reel, clouds moved in and dimmed the holler around me.
I crouched down and crept off the boulder and onto the ground without spooking any fish. I found a spot to cast from and worked the pool back to front and left to right. My fly didn’t move. There was only one spot I hadn’t cast to yet, and it was dead center beneath the waterfall.
My fly line unfurled and my flies created two small wakes as they landed. The Adams sat high and proud on the water and floated displaying its bright orange parachute. It drifted through the current for only a second before a fish pulled it underwater.
I raised the rod and set the hook. My 3-weight rod bent and didn’t move. I assumed it was stuck on the bottom. I lowered the tip of the rod and gave it a quick pull to free it, but as the line went slack it tightened again. I discovered it wasn’t a rock, a log or bottom; a brown trout ate my pheasant tail.
My tippet was too light to muscle the fish in, and the rocks on the bottom would snap the line if I allowed the fish to run too deep. So, I maintained side pressure to keep it near the surface but allowed the trout to run me ragged all over the pool.
The fight continued. I kneeled by the water, pulled my net from my pack and waited for the fish to stop pulling. Finally, it relaxed, and I lifted the tip of the rod and observed as the fly popped out of its mouth before I could net it.
I sat and watched my big brown swim back into the depths of the pool. It wasn’t a trophy fish, but it may have been a little over a foot long. I believed it was the biggest fish in the stream that day.
Despite my bad luck, I decided it was a good fish to end on. Turning around, I looked upstream and remembered the mountain I needed to hike up to get back to my car. It was more than a mile of an uphill climb.
I think I’ll stick to floating rivers.
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Dallas Hudgens discovered his passion for fishing on Virginia’s suburban public lakes. In his youth he pursued bass with a baitcaster. Today he lives in the heart of the Blue Ridge and enjoys fly fishing for brook trout in the mountain streams of his home state.
