Casting at Crane Creek

Seven hours deep into my attempt to catch an elusive Crane Creek trout, I had one piddling sighting and a measly bite or two. Other than that, zero, zip, zilch. I looked over my right shoulder to where my friend Ryan’s car was, maybe half a mile away, and considered how much longer I could cast, cast, cast without catching a dang thing in this tiny town of Crane, 30 miles southwest of Springfield.

I was ready to call it a day and admit defeat in this attempt to catch the most uncatchable fish in the state.

Then it started raining.

Before I could tell Ryan I was done, he called out to me from 50 yards upstream.

“C’mere,” he said, “I saved you a spot.”

Every fish I’ve caught in the last 18 years has been because of him—either because we’ve been together or because I’ve applied what he taught me in adventures in North Carolina, South Carolina, Minnesota, Arizona, and now, Missouri. I put off quitting and pushed through the brush on the beautiful grounds of Walnut Bend Lodge, which has three-quarters of a mile of frontage on Crane Creek, and arrived at Ryan’s side.

“Cast right there,” he said, nodding toward the frothing blue-green water in front of him.

And so I did.

What was in there, I hoped, was one of Missouri’s great aquatic mysteries: a rainbow trout that is as beautiful as it is hard to catch as it is puzzling.

A Crane Creek trout’s green freckles, pink stripe, and silver body pop from the creek’s crystal-clear water like lightning on a dark night. They are Missouri’s fin fatale, teasing us, enchanting us, luring us to the southwest corner of state … then ignoring our every attempt to catch them.

They are a bucket list fish in Missouri’s hardcore fishing community not just because of their beauty but because of their wildness, how hard it is to get one on the line, and how much they fight once you do.

Also, their journey to this little creek is astonishing, as trout are not native to Missouri. In the late 1800s, fish biologist Livingston Stone filled milk jugs with California’s McCloud River redband rainbow trout and sent them east in trains. Missouri fishery officials sprinkled them into waterways in a process one expert called “Johnny Troutseed.”

A legend about how the trout got into Crane Creek emerged. A train carrying the fish broke down at Crane Creek and the fish were thrown into the water from a bridge because they otherwise would have died. This happened, as the legend says, in the 1880s.

“It’s a great story,” says Kevin Skibiski, who owns Walnut Bend Lodge. “But the train didn’t get here until 1905.”

Alas, the train legend is false. But the trout really did come from California in milk jugs, and they really were sprinkled in creeks and rivers in Missouri. And yet, there is mystery and speculation around what happened next. Most Missouri rivers have to be repeatedly stocked with trout. But Crane Creek has not been stocked since 1967, the state says, and yet its trout population is thriving. There are 850 trout per mile, according to a Missouri Department of Conservation count in 2024.

Did the McCloud River redband rainbow trout adapt to become self-sustaining in Crane Creek, or are today’s fish a blend of the redband and other strains? The answer is unclear. The original redband DNA doesn’t exist to compare the modern DNA to. A study in 2006 found the trout in Crane Creek were distinct from other trout in the state. So at the very least, you can only catch a Crane Creek trout in Crane Creek. If you can catch one, that is.

And that’s one big … and aggravating … and challenging … and motivating if.

I believe only a fool thinks the point of fishing is to catch fish. The point is the thrill of the chase, immersing yourself in nature, and spending time with friends. Although I know all of those things are true, I really like to catch fish, and after three days at Crane Creek, I had only caught three.

I love fishing for Crane Creek trout because they are hard to catch, not despite that fact. It’s called fishing and not catching. Put another way, there are two kinds of Crane Creek anglers: those who have been skunked and liars.

All of which is to say: While I followed Ryan’s casting instructions, I did not expect anything to happen after my pink lure disappeared into the current.

And then my pole bent toward the water.

I yanked instinctively to set the hook.

I saw a flash of sparkly silver and a sliver of punk rock pink.

He twisted and turned and disappeared under a log at my feet. I held the tension and gently redirected him to the right, careful not to yank the hook from his mouth. He fluttered close to shore, and Ryan grabbed him.

A minute later, I held in my hands one of Missouri’s great trophies.

A minute after that, I threw him back.

I hope someone else gets him on the line. I hope they wonder at his origin, exult over his wildness, and gape at his beauty. And I hope it takes them hours of fishing before they do so.

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This article was originally printed in the June 2026 issue of Missouri Life.