Everything Outdoors with Chalen

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.

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.

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.