Blue Ribbon Trout Slam #2
The blaring of my dresser top alarm clock sounded loudly in my sleeping head, and this was a problem. It meant that I had overslept, missing my phone alarm that I had planned to get me out and about earlier than normal. I rolled out, got dressed quickly, checked over my gear list, and downed some coffee, and finally got on the road around 5:30. I was headed south on my 4-hour drive to the town of Crane, Missouri. It was the Wednesday before Christmas, and my trip included a couple stops in Springfield for last minute gifts, cutting my actual fishing time to no more than 3-4 hours. Not much time to find fish and figure them out on a new water.
This was the second stop on my Blue Ribbon Trout Slam quest, and it would prove to be a doozy. My drive took me from Columbia south through Lake of the Ozarks, Lebanon, and Springfield, before turning off I-44 and meandering down to Crane. Crane Creek has quite a reputation among Blue Ribbon anglers. It is well known for hiding some ghost like behemoths over 18 inches, and having a good population of smaller fish. But perhaps most famously, Crane Creek has long been rumored to be among the last populations of the McCloud River rainbows, widely exported from California over a century ago. The four hours flew by with some good driving tunes and a backlog of podcasts I hadn’t yet listened to, and I let the last notes of “Y’all Come Back Saloon” fade as I pulled into a gas station for a fresh cup of coffee and to take a look at my map.
Deciding to work upstream in a way, I headed south of town to a small, detached section of Wire Road Conservation area that contained a good chunk of the near mythical Crane Creek. A well-maintained blacktop led to my last turn, and just after the bridge spanning the creek was my parking spot. I walked back to the bridge to survey the most adjacent water. The county road marked the boundary of the area, and on the upstream side of the bridge, amid a couple “No Trespassing” and “End of Public Use Area” signs was a single cable, strung fencepost to fencepost to deter anglers casting off the bridge. The height of the wire and five-foot gap between the bridge and fence gave just enough room for most folks to think they could make a cast, just upstream into a very fishy looking riffle. This was heavily evidenced by the tangle of nymphs, jigs, and spinnerbaits tangled on the wire from folks whose ambition outweighed their casting prowess. Against my better judgment, I added a size 14 hare’s ear to the farmer’s collection.
As I was walking back to the parking lot and trail after surveying the bridge, a white Silverado rolled to a stop in the middle of the road and rolled down his window. A man in his 60’s, overalls and collared coat asked if I was having any luck. I let him know I just got here, and he said fishing had been good the past few days, he lives downstream and has a half mile of the creek running through his property. I briefly considered asking if he had any daughters, but I didn’t think my wife would much care for that. He voiced his surprise that I was down here, commenting that most people drive down to Taneycomo to catch trout. I suspect, like any good local, he was just trying to thin the herd of anglers passing through the area. I asked the most instinctual angling question of him, “what are they biting on?” and got an unsurprising answer. Like many south Missouri waters, a wintertime favorite is scuds, small ones, size 16-18, in tans and greys. I thanked him for the advice, and he rambled on down the dusty road as I turned back towards the trailhead.
The thing about Crane Creek, or so I have always heard, is that the fish are spooky. Like telepathically spooky. The low water and cold day made stealth all the more important, which was even more difficult given the limited reach of my tenkara rig. I walked down the trail to find a likely section, and slipped in at a convenient riffle. The first couple sections I fished were unproductive, and the near freezing temperatures kept me moving perhaps more than it should have. My movements were not as careful as they should have been, and I watched a number fish ride off into the sunset as soon as I rounded a bend or popped over a hummock. I splashed too much, moved too fast, and generally was letting my excitement and sense of urgency get the better of me.
My growing ineptitude was beginning to get unnerving. Add to that the occasional overhead tangle costing me a fly or two, and the morning was starting to get a bit frustrating. So I took a moment to look around and take in the beauty of the area. I have a horrid habit of paying attention to the water in front of me and not much else at times, and it causes me to miss out on some of the amazing and odd things you can find in the outdoors. A deer feeding calmly just downstream paid no mind to my flailing about as it grazed in the meadow. Off in the woods, green with fading lettering and a missing wheel, a long-abandoned garbage can started to look like a good place for my gear. It was time for a change of scenery.
As I trudged back to the truck I put out a call for help. I had lucked into a group of fishing comrades that were fans of the whole Blue Ribbon circuit, and a couple messages later I had some local intel on a few promising runs and riffles. I drove back into town and parked near the local ball field, where I could drop down into the creek at several opportune spots. I slipped down to the first deep run, and as soon as I could see the water, I watched a 16-inch trout dart off into the distance. Spooky might be an understatement. I spent the next hour re-learning how to be stealthy. Fishing pools seemed out of the question. The slightest disturbance sent fish heading for cover. So I decided to stick to the faster runs and riffles. My casting had to be a bit more cautious with the overhanging limbs and my 12 foot rod, so there were a lot of bow and arrow casts and lobbing about.
After growing impatient with my fly choice yet again, I went to a confidence pattern, a nameless bead head soft hackle. I kept working downstream, and came to a swimming hole, complete with rope swing leaning out over a large deep pool. The pool was relatively featureless and while I suspect there may occasionally be fish there, today was not promising. But just downstream was riffle a bit deeper than others I had seen, and a suspiciously convenient stone block to stand on for a better vantage point. I meandered over quietly, and made a couple drifts without incident. I then turned to hop on to this odd block, not clearly hewn, but too rectangular to seem natural. An alter to the trout perhaps, that I hoped lie in wait.
The day was waxing late, and I had stops to make on my return, so it was crunch time. A few more uneventful swings downstream did little to raise spirits. But as anglers always do, I made my next cast and carefully watched as my nymph swung downstream. Sometimes trout will grab a fly and immediately run, or sip gently from the surface, leaving a dimple that hangs in the current for only a moment. Other times, as was the case today, the strike was detectable only as the slightest pause in the line, a split second of slack as the line drag caught up with itself. In this slack, a wary fish may easily spit out your fly, but if you are good, or in my case lucky, you can connect.
The lively wild trout darting on the other end of my line was no monster, but 8 inches of wild rainbow is as good as it gets some days. After nearly losing it to a bad net job, it was brought to hand. I sat down on this alter to the trout with my catch, snapping a picture and sending it back into the tumbling water. Again I paused to take in my surroundings, wanting to commit to memory the place I caught this fish. The steep, well scoured banks held tight on one side of the creek nearest the rail line that ran through the countryside. Not far upstream was the living effort of a conservation tree planting, a valiant but evident rewilding in a characteristic grid planting. The sky had slowly clouded over as the day wore on, and the air cooled in a way that felt damp.
As I got back to the truck, reflecting on the taxing day and the pursuit of one good fish, I couldn’t help but feel an innate sense of accomplishment. Sure, I had help finding good water, dumb luck on my side, and the tenacity that comes with not wanting to admit driving four hours one way to not catch anything. Stream two of Missouri’s Blue Ribbon Slam was in the books, and as I made my Christmas shopping stops on my way back home, I kept thinking about that gorgeous little fish, a McCloud strain rainbow, wild and wonderful in an Ozark stream.