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.

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.

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.

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 I was on the river,
one cool and sunny day,
I watched a better angler,
as they made their play.

The bittern slowly stalking,
along the shallow shore,
caused me to pause my talking,
and see what it was going for.

The calculated movement,
every slow and careful step,
brought us to this moment,
for which the bird had prepped.

It’s calm belied its quickness,
as with a turn it dove,
and I was there to witness,
when it brought the fish above.

A small and wriggling bream,
trying to shake free,
and on the bittern wades upstream,
a better angler than me

Every angler falls for the waters’ dirty trick,
When hooked into a big one in lake or pond or crick,
First the rods bends
But soon the fight ends
For alas, it was only a stick.

The grass crunches underfoot
on my way to the creekbank
“Fire Danger: High”
reads the sign at the trailhead
too dry, much too dry lately

The walk is longer than it used to be
the water, retreating downstream
has left less of the creek there
the sun on near still pools
seem more intense
or perhaps simply concentrated
the same sun on less water
low water.

The fish that remain
those that did not flee with the water
are hungered by the staleness of the water
barely moving, bringing them no food
but in their shaded hides and cut bank hollows
they lurk
waiting for drifting insects
waiting, hoping for morsels

As I work upstream
casting into the minute shaded pockets
the water shows what life it has left
the ravenous inhabitants dart from safety
and taking no caution
attack my fly with abandon

Swift and stout
darting in blues, greens, oranges
punching well above their weight
the miscellany of panfish fight
much more than their fingerling size

One after another they come
small, but sturdy
and in such numbers
that in telling about it later
I must leave a few out to be believed

Walking what was once the creekbed
I make note
of features once hidden
and when the water returns
I will know the haunts and snags
that fish will call home
a sad advantage afforded anglers
by low water

A broad bend shows the time worn channels
where the creek has run
leaving a pool
now amputated from the flow of the creek
where the water has warmed
and film coats the surface

I almost miss it
casually passing in the corner of my eye
a hint of movement
the lazed flick of a fin

A closer look discloses
in the tepid pool
a gar
the toothy, torpedo-shaped dinosaur
trapped in a shrinking vessel

To catch a gar is always a joy
but this feel different
to catch it, yes
but to set it free
in the diminishing water

The fish seems lethargic
no fly can rise it
what to do?
how to stay the certain demise
should it remain
The needle-like teeth
gleam at me as I enter the pool
the gar drifts aimlessly
making no effort to escape

I’m close now
bending slowly, I reach down
slowly cradling the fish
gently lifting it from the water
It makes no struggle
no thrashing or jerks
the gar seems dull
less slimy than I’m used to

As I walk it over to the remaining channel
it slowly rotates its fins
yearning towards the water
I slip it into the water
and for a moment it hangs motionless
then effortlessly it glides towards cover

Leaving only a memory
of low water.

Back in August, my wife Julia and I spent a week in Oklahoma City. She had a work function to attend, and I had some PTO to burn. So while she was in classes all day, I was free to work on some writing and research, roam about town, and relax. We were able to spend an evening walking around Bricktown, taking in a bustling downtown. But on another evening, we went to walk the lakeshore at Lake Hefner. This beautiful lake was running more than 10 feet low in the intense drought, and a lot of the lakebed was now shoreline.

Although warm, we enjoyed the evening walk, and had the chance to find a number of geocaches! As we approached the lake, we noticed the small lighthouse, patterned after the second oldest lighthouse in the US. Standing on the point of East Wharf, the lighthouse is a popular focal point on the lakeshore. We headed toward the lighthouse for a closer look and noticed some commotion in the riprap along the wharf. A small brown critter darting in and out of the rocks, and some children shouting. As we approached, I was able to get a good enough look to determine that the slick brown creature zipping across the rip rap was a mink!

I was able to get a fuzzy picture of this sharp little critter right before it dashed into a hole. This is a trend that repeated the next day as I was fishing at Lake Hefner and Lake Overholser. I grew up roaming the woods, trapping, hunting, and generally being outside, but never have I seen mink so thick as I saw in Oklahoma City. They were everywhere around the two large reservoirs I fished, darting in and out of the riprap banks in search of mussels and small fish, which were also in no short supply.

All in all, this mid-August diversion was a much needed break that allowed me time to jumpstart this blog and get outside more than I had been. The beauty of Oklahoma City was worth the drive, and I hope to return again to watch mink roam the shores as I toss a jig or watch a bobber, crunching along the bank, strewn with mussel shells.

I always love going home to the farm. There is something about going back to where my passion for the outdoors began that makes each trip so special. Taking my son fishing with my father and grandfather, helping him catch fish and explore the same places I explored in my youth. On our most recent trip back, my wife Julia and I stopped by a long forgotten farm pond to test the waters.

We were quick to be rewarded with some chunky little panfish, Julia throwing a green and black trout magnet, one of our favored prospecting lures, and myself swinging a small soft hackle on my tenkara rod. This pond was low, like many here in Missouri right now, and we had a little better access for it. What used to be a pretty steep bank due to years of cattle use more than two decades ago has softened to a more casual slope. Getting right to the water’s edge was critical for me, with my limited cast range.

We continued to fish as the sunk sank in the sky, pulling in bluegill, redear sunfish, hybrids, white crappie, and, the triumph of the evening, a couple sassy bullheads that gave us hope for returning to this pond in the future. Having lost a couple flies to bad knots, I was tying them on more carefully, but as we ran out of daylight, I knew we were nearing the end of our excursion.

Just as I was pondering packing up, Julia hollered at me from across the pond. She had caught an unassuming green sunfish, that, given what we found, was particularly voracious. Hammering down on another of her trout magnets, this was one of the very fish I had lost a fly to earlier! There, in the corner of the jaw, was my fly, which went back into my box for the next trip. As we cruised back up the gravel road to my parent’s house, where our son was playing around the campfire with his cousin, it was tough to imagine a more relaxing place than the farm.