We get trip reports then we get trip reports that make you feel like you are right there along on the trip. One of our newest members, Mark Camerer, filed this eloquent trip report when he visited and fished the North Fork of the White River down near Dora, Missouri. Mark stayed at the River of Life Farm where we have stayed in the distant past but haven’t been back since the big flood of 2017. From reading Mark’s awesome trip report maybe it’s time to go back!

Success on the North Fork White River – Trip Report, 3-7 Jan 23

As a new member of FATC and November graduate of the beginner’s flyfishing class, I was excited to visit the River of Life Farm (ROLF) and fish a Blue Ribbon, flyfishing-only section of the famous North Fork White River (NFWR). Heralded as a Blue-Ribbon trout river with wild rainbows and abundant stocked browns, the NFWR held the title of a top Missouri flyfishing destination and ROLF served as a prime location on the river boasting over a mile of Blue Ribbon flyfishing-only trout water on their property. Then came 2017 and a hundred-year flood that completely changed the river.

In 2017 Julie and I were stationed in Germany and had heard nothing of the flood. Upon our return to the USA, we found ourselves stationed in New Jersey and in need of a vacation from the hectic life of military duty.  Our vacation brought us to the Wentzville/O’Fallon MO area to visit our adult children. Julie, knowing my love of fishing and her love of comfortable and relaxing cabins, found ROLF and booked four days and three nights in July 2021. We found the treetop cabins to be upscale woodsy, perfect for our needs. While there we watched a bald eagle soar over the river, a beaver work his dam and deer approach our front doorstep at morning sunrise. On the second day at ROLF we floated the ten miles of the river from the twin bridges to the cabins. and saw the visible effects on our kayak trip. As we traversed the river, we learned about the 2017 flood and saw decimated riverside cabins, an abundance of downed trees and flood debris forever stuck in the tops of standing trees that you’d need a forty-foot ladder to remove. I could only imagine the torrent of water that had been responsible for the damage.

As for the fishing, well everything online about the NFWR referenced a Blue Ribbon trout fishery with giant wild rainbows and browns. I fished three days in 2021, not only did I get skunked; I didn’t even entice a single fish to bite on my offerings. I saw a lot of fish, nothing like at Montauk State Park and nothing like I had expected from the online hype, but there were fish in the river. Being skunked didn’t disappoint me in the least, as a novice fly fisherman, with little experience catching fish on the fly rod, I didn’t have high hopes of hooking into a bunch of wild trout despite the rave reviews. We spent our time with no cell coverage and no WiFi or cable TV in the cabin and found ourselves fully satisfied to enjoy each other’s company and the peace of God that is found in the serenity of nature.

While we were enjoying our morning coffee on the deck, kayaking the river, hiking the trails, and slinging flies in front of trout that weren’t interested in the offerings. We didn’t know that within a week of returning to New Jersey, military duty would call. If you were watching the news in August of 2021, you may recall that that was the month that Afghanistan fell to the Taliban. My unit was tasked to be largely responsible for the emergency air evacuation of 124,000 Afghani personnel over the course of three weeks. There was also no way of predicting that I’d be tasked follow this air evacuation by serving with the Department of Homeland Security, the Department of State and a couple of thousand Airmen from around the Nation to build an Afghan village at our New Jersey Air Force Base. Within days of notification, we had over one thousand Afghanis, mostly women and children, depending on us for their food, shelter, security, and medical care. Within weeks our village was handling 13,000 personnel. In the end we helped 16,546 Afghanis who came to the United States seek safety and US citizenship. The operation, that became known as Task Force LIBERTY, operated for six months. Along with the 2300 Airmen that made up our task force, I worked just over 120 fourteen-plus hour days in a row, without so much as a free afternoon or a late morning show. There was no way to know that our final day at ROLF in 2021, would equate to my last day off until mid-November. We’ve all heard that timing is everything. This experience reinforced to me that while timing is everything, God’s timing is perfect. I remain thankful that God cared enough about Julie and me to have gifted us with time in His care at ROLF exactly when He knew we’d need it most.

Eighteen months later, with 33 years of Air Force service complete and the bustle of the holidays behind us, we were eager to make another trip to ROLF. Julie had plans to paint, read, and journal at the cabin. I was eager to employ my newfound FATC flyfishing skills on the river. Before leaving O’Fallon, I checked the flow and found that the river had been running in the normal range, and perhaps a shade under what it had been running during our 2021 trip. The four-hour drive ticked by quickly. We made one quick stop at Kenny’s house to pick up nine handtied rubber-legged stonefly flies—thanks again Kenny! Along the way I noticed wet roads, standing water and high-running muddy creeks under every bridge we crossed. So, despite also seeing an abundance of cows huddled together and a smattering of ducks sitting proudly on a pond during our drive, I suspected the mid-60s arrival weather and bright sunny afternoon would be countered by a high and fast running river. We arrived at our cabin, had the truck emptied in 15 minutes flat and stood on the deck admiring the river and surrounding valley. From our treetop cabin, I could see the river was running at least two feet above what we had encountered in 2021. Julie pointed out some big rocks and a few downed trees that looked promising and ordered me to the river to take advantage of the last two hours of daylight while she unpacked our bags and supplies; yeah, I’m spoiled!  

The river was muddy along the bank. Beyond the mudline, the water was cloudy and stained from the rain’s runoff. Armed with my wading stick (a tool I didn’t even know existed before FATC), I tentatively felt my way through the mudline and into the calmest appearing part of the wet, slick, and high running river. I fished a deep pool that sat behind two large, submerged rocks. I tried drifting a #16 olive and brown midge under an indicator in a large slower flowing pool behind those rocks; but found the fly tough to get down and into the zone. I quickly switched to one of Kenny’s #8 black, orange and yellow heavily weighted stoneflies. I was able to get a decent drift near the river’s bottom and concentrated intently on the indicator. I let the big stonefly drift through the flowing pool and a swing into the seam like Kenny had recommended, then strip – strip … strip –strip … nothing. I gave this combination a good effort before switching to a #18 black bead-headed soft hackle. I was able to cast this fly into the end of the slower moving pool where it sunk readily enough before bouncing a few feet under the water and rising on the swing into the seam. I told myself at the beginning of each swing to simply “lift the rod” when I got a bite and I anticipated a bite on every cast. It was on the fifth cast in this fashion, that I felt the tap-tap of a strike and despite having just rehearsed the correct action in my brain moments ago, I still managed to eagerly jerk the fly out of the fish’s mouth and miss the hookset completely. I exhaled deeply, shook my head and gave this fly what seemed like a hundred more casts before trying #16 and #18 soft hackles in red, orange and green. Unable to tempt any other fish with the assortment of soft hackles, I gave a #14 blowtorch a few casts and finished the day off casting a #10 black rubber legged stonefly—all to no avail. I had fished that hole hard for two hours and had one bite to show for it… I was elated! I was already one bite ahead of my 2021 experience and I was fishing in very difficult conditions. Surely, I would find success on the North Fork White River—especially when I woke up to a new day and a receding river.

The river rose a foot overnight. I headed out just after sunrise and walked the three quarters of a mile to The Falls. If you haven’t visited ROLF, and aren’t familiar with The Falls, don’t let the term fool you—it isn’t much of a waterfall, as far as waterfalls go. It is a beautiful part of the river that boasts a sharp two-foot drop across the river’s width. Even at normal river depth there is very little of the area that I am skilled enough to wade and fish. After surveying the area and taking in the beauty of the river I decided to mark my territory before plunging forward. I love the zippered waders that Julie got me for Christmas, they are truly a gamechanger for this endeavor—a big thanks to Pete for introducing them to me on my graduation trip!

Having missed a good strike on a soft hackle and seeing a fishable seam below The Falls, I tied on a #14 red soft hackle and tested its hooking ability in the process; having penetrated my index finger with ease, I approved it for action. I was especially happy to have picked a red one, it went nicely with the blood that was oozing from my tender cold pointer. I gave it a few casts before realizing it was too light to get into a good place for a proper presentation in the rapid flowing river. I considered adding weight but decided to switch to a blue woolly bugger, then a smaller black stonefly. I worked my way downstream and fished a half dozen places that didn’t look too dangerous to wade. I tried high-sticking, drifting nymphs under an indicator, stripping streamers and swinging flies. Kenny would have been proud. I mended well and got good drag-free drifts. I did my strip-strip after the swings and actually enticed a bite on that blood-stained red soft hackle about two hours and thirty minutes into the day. Even though there was no fish when I lifted the line, it was a great morning. I now had at least one more catchable bite—a 2000% increase above my 2021 performance. That afternoon, I mostly focused on swinging flies and high-sticking under an indicator. I fished more midges, nymphs and emergers and lost my blue woolly bugger in a tree that I still think was further away from me than it actually was. All this effort produced one solid strike on an olive soft hackle and two unnatural indicator movements that I was sure would have a fish on the line when I set the hook. I had fished a lot of water. I got four strikes that day. I kept my rod tip down and pointed at my fly and I mostly kept my sore index finger on the fly line. I’m sure I continued to “wave the flag” when I cast, but hey after 33 years in the US Air Force, isn’t a guy entitled to wave the flag a little. I was happy with the day’s fishing adventure and ended my Wednesday very satisfied and full of hope for Thursday.

I don’t think I mentioned that I’m a grandpa. Zoey, my four-year-old granddaughter, loves to fish. She’ll handle the worms, let you use a bluegill for live bait and hold the fish she catches for the cutest pictures you ever saw. Zoey also loves Disney movies. While she was visiting us this Christmas, I was conned into sitting through the Disney movie “Encanto” with her. Conned might be too strong of a characterization; she said, “let’s watch Encanto Grandpa.” I sat down beside her and said, “okay Zoey.” I love her that much. Anyway, if you’re not familiar with the movie, it has a lot of singing. There’s one song about a guy named Bruno. Bruno is the estranged brother of the movie’s central figure, Mirabel. Bruno is a real embarrassment to the family; so much so, that there is an entire song dedicated to the wayward bother entitled, “We Don’t Talk About Bruno!” All I can say about my no-bite-Thursday fishing experience is, “We Don’t Talk About Thursday!”

Friday was a new day. The water had returned to just above pre-rain levels and was flowing crystal clear. I watched our bald eagle soar over the river and as I departed the cabin at daybreak. The air was cold and crisp. Frost covered the ground. I barely got started on my quarter-mile journey to a quiet calm pool near the south end of the ROLF property, when I found myself conversing with God. I guess I wanted to talk about Thursday after all. As I walked, I told God that Thursday’s fishing had left me discouraged. I reminded Him about the hope I had on Tuesday evening and throughout the day on Wednesday. I told Him how disappointing it was to watch my skill increase, to see my casts get tighter, my knots tied faster and stronger, my ability to produce drag-free drifts become more consistent; yet, the results weren’t there—my efforts didn’t produce fruit. So, I talked about Thursday and all the frustrating Thursdays I had ever had, all the times I had worked hard, had hope, and didn’t see things work out the way I had expected. I explained to God how much it would mean to me to catch a fish, just one fish, to know that He was listening to me and cared about me. And guess what, God didn’t chide me for being selfish or petty. He didn’t remind me how fortunate I was for the woman inside our cabin that loved me deeply. He didn’t tell me how blessed I was to be staying at a nice place in His created element. Instead, He just listened quietly and patiently. I’m sure if I’d asked Him to watch Encanto with me, He would sit down beside me and say, “okay Mark.” He loves me that much.

I arrived at the beautiful pool on the coldest morning. Which reminds me, if you leave your muddy and wet boots on the porch overnight in below freezing weather, they will be a block of ice in the morning. Just a pro-tip for the uninitiated. So, there I stood, with cold frozen boots, overlooking a nice stretch of water that I hadn’t fished yet—if there were fish anywhere in this river, they’d be here and they’d be hungry. After all none of them ate a thing on Thursday.

I made a couple of stealthy steps down the steep embankment and as I lifted my right foot to quietly place it in the gently flowing pool just upstream of a VW Bug-sized boulder, my frozen left foot gave way in the soft wet mud. In an instant I was on my backside and sliding into the deep pool. I came up onto my feet quickly and stood completely dry in calf-deep water. So much for a stealthy entrance—so much for talking about Thursday with God. The location was so calm before my theatrical-comedic entrance that I was certain I had spoiled the spot. Regardless, I was in the water now and decided to give it a try. I settled on floating a #16 zebra nymph under an indicator through the pool. As I dangled the nymph in the shallow water by the bank to attach the indicator, several minnows approached the fly and nibbled away. I took this as a good, sign. The minnows, that had been abundant in 2021, had been completely absent for the entire trip. Perhaps the river was getting back to normal today. I spent about two hours in that deep quiet pool. I watched ice form on my rod guides as I fished; which, besides the minnows, and my entry into the water, turned out to be the most interesting thing that happened at this peaceful location. I threw everything I could think in front of, beside, and behind that giant rock. Before I left the location, I decided to strip a #8 white streamer through the pool. I gave it a couple of tries but couldn’t navigate the difficult casting conditions. I left the pool without a hint of action.

I moved back to the double rock formation where I had first fished Tuesday afternoon and took a moment to study the water, which had changed a lot with the three-foot water drop. I decided to stealthily make my away about 30 feet directly in front of and upstream of the boulder, to fish the streamer I had been unable to fish in the peaceful pool. After fishing the streamer, I planned on high-sticking in the deep pool, then swinging some soft hackles before returning to the cabin for lunch with Julie. I had about a hour and a half to fish this promising hole. I successfully navigated the water and began casting the large white streamer into the fast water on the left of the pool and let it enter the turbulent water directly below the boulder. For me, the first cast is usually a bit of a mess. I’m figuring out my surroundings, how close are those trees on the right, is my footing in this fast slick river secure, how’s my line, leader and tippet reacting to the water, how far am I from the prime target zone for the action I’m trying to get… This first cast went fairly well, and I was fully focused for the second cast. By the time I made my third cast, I was confident that my streamer would drift into a prime zone in the middle of the deep pool and that I’d get four or five solid strips with good action before it hit the seam on the right side of the pool. I was ready and focused when the second strip produced a strike and a beautiful wild rainbow leaping in the air exactly in the middle of the pool. I let her have her five minutes of fame as she made a beeline for the fast rifles on my left and leapt again. She didn’t come easily and made three hard runs back into the rifles, taking some drag with her each time. After eight minutes I was able work her towards the slower shallows beside the tree that had captured my blue woolly bugger two days prior. After three days of tying and retying a hoard of flies and making thousands of casts, I was finally able to guide a fat wild rainbow securely into my net! I’ve caught thousands of fish in my life, most were bigger than this one. I can’t recall feeling as exhilarated as I did upon landing this fish.    

After lunch with Julie I returned to The Falls and enticed a nice rainbow to leap out of the water as she took my black and brown emerger about half way through the swing—with my line a little slack on the swing it took me a second to realize that the leaping rainbow had my fly in its mouth—I quickly went for the hook set and felt her for an instant as she made a second leap and spit my fly back in the river. I fished again Saturday morning before we left for home. I took in the majesty of our bald eagle circling over the river and I watched our beaver work the water in front of me near the hole that had produced my sole trout. I left the water for the final time and returned to the cabin to pack our gear and depart.

As we finished our trip on the NFWR, I found myself extremely thankful. I’ve met a guy who would take time from his busy holiday schedule to tie nine rubber-legged stoneflies and provide me some tips and techniques for fishing the wild NFWR. I have a wife that spent four days enduring my chase for elusive fish. I have a God that cares enough about me to walk with me and listen to my simple heartfelt prayer and provide an answer that not only dwarfed the discouraging bite-less Thursday; but will surely sustain me through the discouraging Thursday’s that I will face in the days to come.

It is this multitude of blessings, this realization of God’s love for me, that cause me to call four days, dozens of flies, thousands of casts, seven takes, two fish on the hook and one fish in the net, Success On the North Fork White River!

Blessings,

Mark