Everything Outdoors with Chalen

For those that don’t know me personally, I’m a young guy, 30 years old as I sit writing this. I’ve been incredibly fortunate to have some fascinating experiences in my brief time on earth, but I have goals and ideas for what I want to accomplish while I’m able. As I sat down last year, staring 30 in the eye, and starting thinking hard about what I wanted over the next few years. I’m not a huge believer in setting goals more than 5 years out, too many variables. But I set one this past year that may push out 20 years, and I’ve never been more excited. I’m going to catch fish in all 50 states before I turn 50.

20 years to catch fish all over the country feels like some good lead time, and having a number of states in the bag already definitely helps. Through my travels in my youth and as an adult, I’ve been blessed to catch more fish than bear remembering in my home state of Missouri, as well as finding success in Colorado, Texas, Oklahoma, Arkansas, and Illinois. Six states isn’t much of a head start, but I’ve got plans to add several this year, and not slow down.

Some of these states will result in amazing stories of triumph and tribulations, epic adventures on par with the best of angling lore. But some states will be a quick stop at a park pond for a lively Bluegill, and that is entirely okay. Not everything needs to be a lifechanging experience to matter. I’m excited to start this journey, and I’ve definitely got some ideas of what I would like to do in some of the states still on my list. I want to catch White Sturgeon in Washington, handline blue crabs in Maryland, fish the Beaverkill in the Catskills of New York, and so many more grand adventures. But I’m nothing if not opportunistic. If I get an invite from a friend or acquaintance to go on a trip I didn’t expect, I’ll take it!

This year I have firmed up plans to add a couple more states, Iowa and Louisiana. I’ll be headed to Iowa next month with a friend of mine to scour the driftless for trout.  I’m hoping for a hat trick of browns, rainbows, and brook trout from the beautiful streams in the northeast corner of the state. In Louisiana, I’m hoping to chase redfish and sea trout in the gulf. If the opportunity presents itself, I’ll be sure to take advantage of other states that may come my way.

Deciding to put a name and a timeline on an undertaking like this is a huge commitment, made only to myself. I’m spilling over with excitement and at the same time nervous. I’m comfortable with not every state being a grand adventure, but at the same time, want to make as many memorable catches as possible. I’ve also started getting way ahead of myself by thinking about the last state. Which will it be? Will it be planned like a grand finale? Or a satisfying last catch with little fanfare? I’m torn between trying to plan a grand finale like tour of the last few states and just letting things fall into place. In any case, This is the adventure that will last a lifetime, and I very much look forward to the places and people I can share it with.

Groundhog Day, in retrospect, seems a fitting day to have taken this journey. Having plenty of time off work available and with everyone still recuperating from the busy season, February was a great time to try and add one more stream to the “completed” column of the Blue Ribbon Slam list. Like all the Blue Ribbon streams, Spring Creek was at least two hours away from home, so it was going to make for a solid day trip, though not as taxing as my previous trip to Crane Creek.

Spring Creek Dumps into the Big Piney River a few miles south of Interstate 44, with the Blue Ribbon Section running almost parallel to Fort Leonard Wood less than two miles to the west. The public access is best from a small county road that runs along the stream just up from its confluence with the Big Piney, and tracks along until you reach private property. There are plenty of pull offs and spots to hop in and out, but I made for one of the upper stretches where an old forest service road cuts off and actually crosses the creek.

Being February, it was cold. It had warmed considerably on my early drive, up to 38 as I slipped on a cheap pair of waders I had acquired off amazon. As I walked down to the stream, the crisp winter air filled my lungs and did more to wake me than a whole pot of coffee could. There is always something special about the first time you walk up to a stream. Whether a roaring river or babbling brook, you almost always hear it first. As you keep going it gets louder, drawing you in like the crescendo of the finest operatic performance, and then you see it. Sometimes shielded, bits and pieces through a tree line or brush, sometimes, as today, you make a turn, pop over a hill, and there it is. Possibility incarnate, a new stretch of water.

As I dipped into the creek where the forest service road crossed, I began to immediately realize the folly that came with cheap waders. As the cold water seeped in from a few noticeable leaks, I dunked my thermometer in the water and it came up 39 degrees. Fish would be slow, and so would I. The good news is, you really only feel cold in that kind of water for about 20 minutes, after that, you don’t feel much of anything. I stuck to the shallows, knowing how foolhardy an unplanned swim would be.

The world was beautiful as the sun warmed the air and things began to awaken. Birds flitting about, the barking of a suspicious squirrel, but so far, no fish. I chalked it up to a combination of cold water and the fact that I seem to have to re-learn how to be stealthy every time I fish. These wild rainbows are notoriously spooky, and try as I might, I always have to spook one before I remember that. But today, that was not going to be an option.

This is going to be a much shorter story than the last installments of my Blue Ribbon pursuits. I spent six hours fishing three sections of Spring Creek, and saw one Northern Hogsucker, and a whole passel of various darter species. Upstream, downstream, it didn’t seem to matter, I just could not seem to find fish. I’m sure they were there, either running so far I wasn’t even seeing them dart away or tucked into the handful of deep holes and rootwads. I started packing my way back to the car, trying to decide if I had time to stop somewhere else to redeem myself. A call from my wife asking if I could pick up our son from school gave me a clear answer that my day was done.

I pulled off at a fast food joint to grab something for a long overdue lunch and began peeling off my leaky waders. Standing in the parking lot, I pulled them off and watched water begin seeping out. I grabbed the toes and dumped about a gallon of now lukewarm spring water onto the asphalt. A couple of tacos and I was on the road to home. Falling into bed that evening, I reflected on the day’s trek, over four miles of beautiful Ozark countryside, the wonder of watching darters flit about in the stream, and coming home empty handed. At work the next day, my boss asked how my day off was. “ Nearly perfect,” I replied.

We should get a new tent,
Ours is old and worn and spent,

Last Year it started leaking slightly,
On a trip where it rained nightly,

And long before that we had to tape,
One of the poles to keep its shape,

The zipper won’t zip more than halfway,
Leaving nothing to keep the mosquitos at bay,

Once on a trip in the bitter cold,
We accidentally melted a hole,

And once when we were hiking out,
We lost the stakes and now go without,

A hundred trips this tent has borne,
And for its trouble is looking worn,

Time for a new one, maybe bigger,
But now that I’m ready to pull the trigger,

With all the trips that have came and went,
It really still is a Very Good Tent.

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.

A trickster of fish and gambler of fate,
here in the house I dream and wait,
of warmer water and warmer weather,
here amongst my fur and feathers.

Preparing for battle on the lakes and springs,
creating my weapons of tails and wings,
thread and tinsel, dubbing and hackle,
all the tools to create my tackle.

Tweaking this and trimming that,
the wings stand up, the tail laid flat,
the body tapered, head whipped tight,
a sharpened hook ready for the fight.

I sit back and gaze in admiration,
and without a moment’s hesitation,
tell myself that old angler’s lie,
that I have tied the perfect fly.

If fly fishing can be considered an obsession, then fly tying is certainly a contributing factor. Fly Tying extends the anglers season to 365 days a year. Neither downpour nor blizzard can stop one from sitting down at the vise for a day of fun, cursing, and frustration. But fly tyers face a particular form of insanity that generally manifests as a need to “save money” on materials. Maybe they are trying to develop the perfect pattern, maybe they are trying to appease an understanding but skeptical spouse. Either way, every fly tyer goes through a series of phases during their descent into the fanatical acquisition of new and exciting materials.

I think most tyers start by walking through the store, grabbing groceries or dog food or toilet paper, and something suddenly catches your eye. Something you’d walked past a hundred times but never processed. Skeins and skeins of yarn. The craft section of your local Walmart is practically infested with it. Hundreds of colors. Think of the indicators, tag tails, chopped dubbing, heck some of this stuff is just fancy chenille! You start squeezing a skein of multi-colored yarn, a real deal for $5. Into the cart it goes, and as you start to move away, you can’t help but wonder, “might there be something else for me here?”

Then the madness begins. Marabou in a thousand colors, all in one cheap pack, pompoms, googly eyes, beads, plastic lacing, beading wire. Not owning anything other than 9 ft 5 weight, you are suddenly imagining 8 inch articulated streamers, huge feather wing concoctions for salmon, and a hundred other things you have no clue how to fish, much less tie. But it sounds like such an amazing idea. The delusion starts to set in, and you rush home, sans toilet paper, with these new treasures.

You sit down at the vise and crank out a few real buggy creations. Sure things for the next outing. As you keep rolling, the cat comes in and lays down in the corner. Soft and silky, it commences grooming that long dun colored hair, and as you watch out of the corner of your eye, you have to wonder, “will that make good dubbing?” After showing more attention to the cat than you have in months, you finally settle it down enough to comb through and loose some fur. It looks promising, dubs beautifully, and makes a good, tapered body. Soon you are brushing the dog, cleaning the lint out of the dryer, eyeballing your own greying hair. But the payoff is hard to beat.

The confidence you have in these new flies translates on the water, and folks start asking about what patterns you are tying. These “custom dubbing blends” are killing it for you and the tiniest hint of jealousy is showing through with some of your friends. This drives the madness even further. When you get back home you go to tie a few more but notice you’re out of the right sized grizzly hackle. Time to hop online or head to the fly shop. But oh the cost! As you scroll through the capes and saddles available, you keep seeing top-end hackle commanding incredible sums, and the next act of lunacy is born.

How hard could it be to raise chickens? Measuring the back yard, looking at hatchery catalogs, making lists of colors to order. You’ll never run out of hackle, maybe you could even sell it! Now you’re in business. Why stop with hackle, rabbits don’t take much either, just these little hutches they sell at the Farm and Home store. Zonker strips, hare’s mask, feet, all the most useful parts for tyers. Can you farm muskrats? If you already have chickens, maybe you could get pheasants too? This is turning into a tying material empire with you at the helm.

A knock on the doorframe brings you back to reality, sitting at your bench, parakeet in one hand, tweezers in the other. Dinner is ready. Chewing on a lot more than pot roast, you venture back down the rabbit hole after dinner, and in the coming days. After a week that would have been better spent tying than finding out mink ranching is no longer very profitable, you resign yourself to the fact that you simply don’t have time to build an empire. Not that you couldn’t do it, but that you have different priorities.

Most tyers slowly drift back to reality at this point. Not that they will abandon their craft store finds or the occasional combing of the cat, but the grand scheme of buying a shipping container of furs from an international auction house generally subside after awhile. Resigned to go back to buying materials like a mere peasant, you start poking around. There really is some good stuff out there now. All these new bead types, crazy new hook designs, and the best old standbys. But as you add that gold medal cape to your cart and head to checkout, you can’t help thinking, “I could’ve grown one just as good.” Sometimes, thinking you can is enough.

I sit here fingers freezing,

Nose running, often sneezing,

Listening around me for a sound I’d like to hear,

Sitting in the woods, waiting for a deer.

I hear a squirrel rustling,

Birds chirping, flying, bustling,

The woodland life around me continues drawing near,

And I am sitting, watching, waiting for a deer.

Now the light is getting dimmer,

Shadows growing getting slimmer,

And now my time to sit is running out I fear,

I wonder will I always be waiting for a deer?

I’m out of light to borrow,

better luck may come tomorrow,

or maybe in a week, or not until next year,

but I’ll be sitting patient, waiting for a deer.

CAUTION: Many wild foods have look-alikes, and some may be poisonous. Never eat any wild plant unless you are certain of its identity.

December may seem an odd time to scavenge the wilds for something to eat, but there are many things that are just coming into their prime as the serious cold and snows start to loom large on the horizon. The seemingly empty woods and waters still have a bountiful harvest if you know where to look. Many of the things on this list will serve multiple purposes and can be a great way to add seasonal touches to your home.

Spruce Tips

The young developing needles of various spruce species have a long history of being used for a handy winter tea. Easy brewed on the trail or collected to take home and brew later, harvest only the young tips to get the best flavor. This fresh feeling tea is like the heart of the forest in a glass, and is said to be a good tonic for general health. Spruce boughs can also make a great impromptu place to sit, wreath, or décor, adding a fresh scent and homey feel to any room.

Rabbits

A far cry from the rascally Bugs Bunny, our local Eastern Cottontails are in their prime now through later January and can be still hunted after a fresh snow or run with dogs. Rabbit is a classic game meat that is amazing prepared fried, broiled, even ground into burger. It is very lean and wants some fat when cooking, but tastes amazing. Many parts of the rabbit can be used as well, feet for good luck charms, the mask, or skinned head, for fly tying, the hide for leathercraft. Rabbit is a versatile critter with a place on any plate.

Juniper Berries

Juniper Berries should be easily seen and collected late int eh year and can add some zest to the kitchen. Classically used to infuse the trademark flavor profile of Gin, a bit of home infusing is easily done with gathered berries. The berries are fantastic when added to other natural scents like lavender and rosemary for sachets or potpourri. Ground, the berries can be added to meat dishes, used in curing Gravlax, ad added to jams or jellies. As versatile as the berries are, the boughs of the juniper and related species are very aromatic and can add a woodsy touch to the home.

December is a month to get outdoors, not stay inside! As cozy as the fire may be and as rich as the cocoa may taste, it will be made all the better by spending some time tromping in the snow. As the year draws to an end, try to incorporate resources from the wild into your holiday meals. From snacks to sides, main dishes to desserts, the woods and waters can be a wonderful adventure for you and your guests.

Scattered throughout the Missouri Ozarks are some literal blue lines. Nine of them in fact, that relate to trout. That is not to say that all nine are tiny mountain trickles, but these waters are the rivers and streams that make up Missouri Blue Ribbon Trout Slam. Our Blue Ribbon waters are legacy trout holding streams, most initially stocked between the latter 1800s and the 1930’s, and with the rare exception, most of them have seen no stocking activity since! These are more than hatchery holdovers, these trout are rainbows that have adapted and are thriving in these hidden gems of Missouri angling lore.

These Blue Ribbon waters are closely regulated, allowing for artificial lures and flies only, and a keeper limit of one fish over 18 inches per angler per day. Due to the spooky nature of these fish and the small waters they inhabit, an 18 incher is a true behemoth and not often does even a picture of one come across social media. But, snorkel surveys in several waters have shown many waters do contain healthy  populations even of these larger fish. The Blue Ribbon Slam consists of catching a wild trout from each of the nine areas ( the “Bronze” Slam can be achieved with only five of nine). This amazing program, administered through the Missouri Department of Conservation in cooperation with Trout Unlimited, rewards anglers for getting out and really seeing the variety of water Missouri has to offer.

I had learned about the slam a few years ago and loved the idea of wild Missouri trout. Once I got back into the habit of fly fishing, and especially when the tenkara bug bit me, I began formulating a plan to attempt to complete the Slam. If possible, I’d like to complete all of them with my tenkara rods. My first shot at this started earlier this fall on a convenient day off that gave me time to make the at least two and half hour drive to the nearest Blue Ribbon water.

My initial plan was to try and knock out as many as three streams in a single day, Mill Creek, Spring Creek, and the Little Piney. It would’ve made for a full day. Would have, because I made some last minute adjustments. I decided instead to spend the morning at Maramec Springs Trout Park, polishing up my drifts and getting some practice in. By the time I had my fill at the trout park, it was well into lunch time, and if I was going to have a shot at some wild trout, rather than just the chunky stockers, I had to regroup and get a move on.

After reviewing a few maps and taking another quick look at my watch, I was about a 40 minute drive from Blue Springs Creek. I ran down Hwy 8  towards Cuba, MO, and after a stop for a snack, jogged down I-44 to Bourbon, MO. South out of town on State Hwy N, I soon saw my first big landmark, Camp Mihaska. Now a camp retreat for the Salvation Army, Camp Mihaska is home to the remains of a long forgotten hatchery responsible for the initial stocking in Blue Spring Creek. The headwaters are located within Camp Mihaska and are not open to the public, but downstream, much of the remainder is open for angling.

I drove down the road, watching as the creek continued to grow closer off in the woods to my right, until I came to the first bridge. There are a number of small pull offs along the run of the creek, and I kept watching, now running to my left, for a likely spot. I came down to a gravel road that as soon as you turn off the highway, spanned the creek with a concrete and culvert water crossing. The small pull off was suspiciously sandy, by since I was in my truck I took the risk, pulling as well of the road as I could.

The morning had been cool, not enough to need a jacket, but I was thankful for my flannel shirt. Now with the sun high in the sky, the shaded hills of the Ozarks kept the stream just cool enough I decided to leave it on. I was whittling down my gear since I would be hiking upstream to the next pull off and then hiking back down the road to the truck. I chose two rods, my 12 foot Goture Breeze tenkara, and a no-name Amazon special seven footer. I had multiple lines, tippet galore, and a couple fly boxes. In addition to those essentials, My nippers and hemostats where already on my belt, and I grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler and headed down to the water.

Everything I had heard said the gin clear water and diminutive flows of many Blue Ribbon streams made for extremely spooky trout, so I cautiously made my way under the cover of the trees. Shallow riffles ran between washtub pools, some maybe as large as a bathtub, and my elk hair caddis was drawing a lot of attention, but no hookups. Although it would be easy to assume my frustration was drawn from an inability to hook up, my biggest challenge came from above. Casting a 12 foot rod with again as much line was difficult in the thick cover. After three flies were lost to the overhanging branches, reaching like so many greedy fingers, I collapsed my Breeze and broke out the much smaller no name seven footer.

I tied on a smaller palmered fly, hoping to hook into one of the feisty five inchers I’ve seen all over social media. Drifting near a small snag in on of the bathtub sized pools, I got my first hookup. As I bought to bare the tiny fighter, I saw clearly it was not a trout. A small bleeding shiner was the first catch on Blue Spring Creek. Not long after, a healthy creek chub found its way to my line. As much as I love catching these oddball creek residents, I was after wild rainbows, so upstream I waded. The riffles in this creek, mostly due to the incredible dry spell Missouri experiences this year, were mere trickles, some barely an inch deep in places, So I was working from pool to pool with an occasional small run in between. The next bathtub sized depression was partially obstructed by a large snag, but I well knew that would be a magnet for a larger fish.

I stopped to change to a sort of crackleback variant I had received in a fly swap somewhere. Size 12, almost mint green floss body, and slightly oversized white palmered hackle. This ended up being the ticket. My short tenkara rod gave me amazing line control, allowing me to drift this fly almost into the submerged brush before drawing it back to begin another drift. I drifted the palmered fly more times than was prudent through this tiny pool, but I just could not shake the feeling a fish was waiting just under that logjam. On what must’ve bee the 7^th or 8^th drift, I connected. When my hookset did not immediate bring the fish to the surface, I knew this was more than a small shiner. After drawing it away from the brush, I was able to quickly land a gorgeous, 9 inch, wild Blue Ribbon rainbow. Having been on the water for about an hour already, I was nearly in shock, not only that I had finally tracked down my quarry, but that it was such a healthy size.

A couple quick pictures and I watched the fish slide back into position under the brush. On up the creek I went. More pools, more wading, more fish, lots of shiners and creek chubs. I did manage two more trout that trip, one in the deepest riffle I saw during my three hour trek, the second drifting under an overhanging bush. These last two were the small, parr-marked trout of Blue Ribbon legend.  Shining in the leaf filtered sun, the tiny fighters show off their spunk as they dart away, unphased by the minor setback of being caught. These fish are gorgeous, and on a light tenkara set up, you can really feel them.

I continued upstream in waning daylight, looking for the access point that marked where I would leave the creek and begin the trek back to the truck. I came to a final pool, this one the largest yet, large enough my 8 foot tenkara rod would not reach across it. As I approached, the largest trout of the day, maybe 14 inches, darted from an undercut bank to grab a near invisible morsel, and quickly darted back to it’s protected hide. Though I tried a few drifts through the pool, I could not get these wary Missouri gems to come back out. The sinking sun precluded anymore experimentation, so I made the next 100 yards or so very quickly, finding the narrow cut in the bank that marked the trail back to the access point.

As I walked down the road back to the truck, I was already planning and scheming on trips back to fish the sections I missed, and at the same time knowing I may not return until I’ve completed the entire Blue Ribbon circuit. When I can back to the truck on the sandbar that doubled as a parking spot, that angler’s instinct took over. I walked over to the downstream side of the culvert crossing and flicked a couple casts down the riffle. Though nothing rose to meet my cast, I stood another moment, letting my fly hang in the slack water to the edge as I took in the world around me. As the nighttime bugs and birds were beginning their chorus, I turned back and packed away my gear, grabbed a fresh bottle of water, and started the journey home.

I’m not sure what my trips to the next Blue Ribbon streams will bring, but if they are as good as my trip to Blue Springs, I’ll count myself incredibly lucky. On some of the trickier waters in the circuit, a three fish day would make any angler ecstatic. Wherever my next adventure finds me, I know I’m going to long for a cool fall day, a tiny creek, and wild rainbows.

As we come to a close of the main firearms portion of Missouri’s deer season, I’m feeling reminiscent. I’m not sure if it’s because I recently realized that I shot my first deer over 20 years ago, or if it was the fact that 2022 was the most perfect opening weekend since I was a kid. But either way, I think deer season’s return has a tendency to stir old memories in all of us. But better than memories are the ones we are in the process of making. I’ve amassed a few new ones this year, and I’m excited to share them in this and my next few posts.

This year, I was excited. More excited than most years for the start of deer season. It all started the weekend leading up to Halloween, when I assisted my nephew Austin in taking his first buck during youth season. He had taken his first deer, a lovely (and delicious) doe, last year. He was determined to hold out for a buck this year, and luck was with us. Well, eventually it was. We rose well before dawn and trekked down the long hill to our blind. A conglomeration of old barn tin and cedar posts stood at the edge of a long unworked field, looking down the gentle slope. This field had been fallow for several years, its diminutive size making it not worth the effort to till and plant. It now provided welcome browse and the occasional small food plot, and it was a fantastic spot for deer. Nestled between two working crop fields and shrouded by thick fingers of timber, the gentle slope stretched about 125 yards from the built-in shooting bench in the blind.

In the pre-dawn darkness we opened the recycled farmhouse door as carefully as we could to avoid the near inevitable creaking it’s old hinges would bring. Inside we took our places in the old plastic lawn chairs and waited the hour until legal light. Things were slow to start, and the rising sun brought a drop in temperature putting just enough chill in the air to lend some optimism to an otherwise uneventful morning. Out of the corner of my eye, in that purely instinctive part of the periphery, I saw movement. I motioned to my nephew to get ready on his gun, my .243 Rossi single shot that he had shot last year. But it was too late. Impossibly close to the blind, a healthy fork horn buck trotted out of the woods, and rather than turning downhill like I expected, he strutted right in front of the blind, no more than 25 feet away. This young buck was on a mission, cruising across the field to the grown over logging trail on the other side. As he walked, paused, sniffed, and looked right at us and all around, we were near helpless. Any movement was sure to be noticed and Austin had not yet shouldered his rifle. As the buck neared the edge of the field, mostly quartering away now, he tried to bring the gun on target, but even a young buck notices a flash of movement like that, and off he bounded.

That disappointment was enough to nearly break a young hunter’s heart. We sat until about 10 A.M., when the cold and what ifs became too much to bear. The hike up the hill, always longer on the way up it seems, was mostly silent. But after lunch and a good nap, we were ready to head back out. Back down the hill, creaking door, plastic lawn chairs. Then we waited. My motto has always been the time worn axiom, “you can’t shoot one from the couch!”, but as we finally approached that last golden hour of the day without so much as a whiff of a deer, I had to wonder. But as they always seem to do, another young buck, this one a 7 pointer, walked out a few feet into the field for a gander. He was crossing at a well worn trail that sits a comfortable 75-80 yards from the blind. But, even though it was very early, barely what you might call the rut, he was on a mission. But after making sure Austin had his rifle at the ready, we made a couple quick whistles that stopped him. For just a moment too long the buck looked around, and before he had any clue what had made that odd noise, my nephew’s bullet found it’s mark.

After much whooping and hollering, we walked up to my nephew’s first buck, dropped where he stood. The rack, which would later green score 86 5/8, was nothing to sneeze at for a first deer, and would be good eating as well. After ensuring the deer was properly dispatched, we climbed the hill once again, still tiring, but a bit less so now, to get the truck. After we stopped off at the house to grab a helping hand, my incredibly understanding and game-for-anything wife Julia, we drove around the backside of the farm where we could access this field and retrieve the deer. We loaded him without field dressing, knowing that we would be hanging the buck and would have just as easy a time in the machine shed under good lighting. Besides, we had a couple pit stops to make.

Back at the house while grandparents gathered to admire the buck, we hopped on my cellphone to telecheck the deer, and fixed the tag to his leg for transport. Then it was up the road to the Hermann Rod & Gun Club to we where we stood and what all was being given away this year. The Hermann Area Youth Hunt has been a long-held tradition in the town and surrounding counties. What started out as a way for the locals to reminisce about the days when you could hang out at the check in station and watch the deer roll in has become a major community event. Over $30,000 in prizes and gifts are awarded to young hunters each year, including gift cards, hunting packs, deer rifles, tree stands, and so much more. With prizes for heaviest doe, largest buck, “closest score to 100” and other creative benchmarks, there are plenty of opportunities for youth hunters to meet an enthusiastic audience of supporters.

After the fanfare of scoring and check in, we headed inside to be greeted by several organizers and get signed up for prizes. Austin was able to draw a number from the bin that corresponded to a prize along the crowded back wall. He ended up drawing a gorgeous modular hunting pack that should serve him well for years to come.

Back at the house, the deer was hung up in the machine shed and gutted, then left to hang overnight. As I woke the next morning, I was incredibly thankful our luck turned the way it did. Morning broke dreary, and by the time I moseyed out to the shed at a comfortable 8:30 A.M., it was starting to rain. Austin rolled out a bit later, bringing a couple tubs to help with the harvest. We skinned out the buck, saving the tail for next year’s crappie jigs. After cutting out the loins and backstraps, we trimmed a good amount off the neck, detached the legs, and left a near bare ribcage and spine hanging. This time around, everything aside from the loins and backstraps was being ground for burger, so as my father-in-law Mike brought out the grinder, we stared deboning the legs and cutting it up.

After a little elbow grease and only a little cursing at equipment, we had nearly 50 pounds of processed venison in the freezer ready to go home later that day. It would be split between our family and Austin’s, later becoming chili, lasagna, summer sausage, and more. A successful second deer season for my nephew was in the books, and he is already planning for next spring chasing gobblers on the family farm. I’ve got a lot of memories of deer hunting, but among the best will always be guiding an impassioned young hunter as they develop a sense of care for our environment and the bounty our local woods and waters have to offer.