Lake Taneycomo- The Final Chapter

While rummaging through my fly box, I put on a white mini-jig.  It wasn’t anything special.  It had a white head and floss body that tapered back towards the bend in the hook.  It seemed like it was just a body made of white thread, and to date, I have tied hundreds of these flies since this trip, I quickly realized this indeed was the exact and simple recipe.  I had no idea what it was supposed to be imitating, and to this day, I’m still not sure.  Over the years, I have heard numerous theories however.  It has been compared to ground up fish guts that pass through Table Rock Dam turbines.  It has been put beside different grubs and looked similar.  It has even been measured against sow bugs.  From the first cast, this fly was like gold.

That day, I landed about 20-25 trout.  My trick was drifting the jig about 18 inches under an indicator.  When the fly was cast across stream and given the chance to drift without drag, bites were a real possibility.  The only thing better was if the fly was given the chance to drift a long distance downstream.  Many bites came just as I was about to retrieve my line and begin the whole process over again.  I was shocked and amazed to have such luck on the second day of a new lake.  Unfortunately, Busch wasn’t having the same luck.  He was still catching fish, but was growing frustrated with some fish that he missed on his fly rod.  What lifted his confidence was putting a spinning rod in his hands.

It was probably from years of bouncing white jigs under the middle arch of the bridge at Bennett Spring.  Or maybe it was just god-given talent.  Or maybe it was the fishing gods smiling on him.  In the end, what I saw was an all out assault on fish with a green jig.  While I thought I was slaying them on fly rod, he was massacring them on a jig.  When he made the switch to the spinning rod at midday, it felt like he was catching two fish to every one I caught.  Big ones, small ones, newly stocked browns all fell to his jigging prowess.  We were both having a great time, but it was easy to tell that he still longed for success on his fly rod.  We went to bed that night proud, but not satisfied.  Mother Nature had been kind to us, but we hadn’t got our fill and wanted seconds.  That next day would bring all that we could handle and more.

The next morning was a carbon copy of the previous morning.  I was landing some nice rainbows on the white mini jig and Busch was back to slaying them with a jig on a spinning rod.  As the morning pressed on, we both noticed something on the horizon.  Thunderheads were crawling over the top of the dam like a lion on a prowl.  The contrast of their dark gray color against the bright blue sky seemed to make them appear more serious in nature.  Behind these clouds, we could see rain falling to the west.  They were both impending and ominous.  There was no doubt about the fact that we were about to get poured on.  At this point, we had a choice to make.  Either A, we could go back to camp and make sure all of our stuff didn’t fly away and/or get completely soaked.  Or B, we could stay and fish.  We guessed that the approaching storm would throw an internal switch with the fish and they would start feeding.  Fronts seem to do that to fish.  There is evidence which supports theories that describe their ability to sense barometric pressure changes internally.  In essence, fish understand that the environment is about to change and they need to stockpile on food an energy prior to this event.

It wasn’t much of a debate after we figured out that most of our stuff was in Rubbermaid containers and in our tents.  This meant anything that shouldn’t get wet wouldn’t, and our tents wouldn’t fly away.  Everything else could dry out or could be replaced.  We knew we were gambling, but the reward seemed worth the risk.

What happened next was beyond what we could imagine.  As we suspected, the incoming storm turned the fish on.  Both of us started catching fish on every fourth or fifth cast.  This was a higher percentage than we had experienced with our fly rods so far.  Then the lightning began to strike and the rain began to stop sprinkling and start pouring.  With the increase of both danger and dampness came the most incredible trout fishing I have ever witnessed or experienced.  With white mini jigs under bobbers, we started catching fish on every cast. 

Now usually when someone makes that sort of statement, they mean it metaphorically.  In all fairness, fishermen are also notorious liars.   They lie about numbers of fish.  They lie about the size of fish caught.  This however was no lie.  If we didn’t get a bite as the fly hit the water, we didn’t have to wait long.  We were catching tons of fish and most of them were really nice.  Eventually, the numbers got so high and so many fish were in the 15-16 inch range, I quit counting. 

In a moment of clarity and lucidity we both soaked up the moment.  We were soaking wet and shivering.  We had no idea how dry our possessions at camp were or if they were even in Taney County anymore.  What we did know and what we were sure about was that we had just caught more trout in a thunderstorm in a matter of minutes than we had on our best day at any trout park.  Not only were the numbers there, but so was the size and the fight.  Add on top of this that we had minimal experience on this body of water, and well, we felt pretty darn good.

We had another memory and chapter in our book of adventures and this chapter would go on to be one of the most famous.  On this rare occasion, it wasn’t hard to break camp on the final day and head home.  We had accomplished more than what we ever dreamed we would do, and had the story to tell.  We couldn’t have done more than what we did, and we had the feeling of exhausted success has stayed with us ever since.  We were able to overcome the obstacles that a new lake presented.  It isn’t rare for us to bring up that trip, but it is flat out impossible for us to not revel in both its glory and abundance.