With a month to go, I was getting all giddy inside—like Kimmie the Fishig Dog that just heard the word “walk”—knowing that the 2027 trout season was just around the corner. Henderson Springs in March is basically Disneyland for fly fishermen, minus the churros and long lines. Mark Henderson even sent me a teaser video of this year’s plant, full of absolute units. I started thinking, “This could be the year… the one where my net gives out under the sheer girth of a trout.”

As my first of two trips approached, the fishing rumor mill was buzzing: massive Calibaetis hatches in 80-degree weather. In March. That’s like hearing there’s a suntan alert in Antarctica. Naturally, the weather gods caught wind of our optimism and decided we needed a little humility. The forecast quickly boomeranged back to “classic spring” mode—cold, windy, rainy, with a good chance of sideways snow.

Still, I was pumped. There’s something oddly satisfying about getting pelted by hail while trying to thread a size 18 midge through a 5X tippet. Plus, I had the trusty Van nearby—the ultimate man-cave on wheels—ready for gourmet snacks and heated bathroom breaks. The early season is magical: the fish are naive, the bugs are fresh, and the only thing louder than your click reel is your laughter echoing across the lake.

One of the reasons Henderson Springs is my happy place is because each lake has its own weird little personality:

• Big Lake: High elevation, brushy shores, fish that cruise like little underwater Roombas, vacuuming up food.

• Clear Lake: Spring-fed, chill in both temperature and vibe. Sheltered, perfect for sneaky Calibaetis action.

• Frog Lake: Think underwater jungle gym—tons of weed beds and a floating peat island. Also home to some of my biggest heartbreaks (and rainbows).

• Long Lake: Muddy banks, moody Hex hatches, and a waterfall that makes you want to paint something.

• Pony Pond: The loner of the group. Only supports one angler at a time and feels like a fly fishing escape room. It’s technical, humbling, and secretly holds the giants.

Day One: Waterlogged But Winning

It rained. It hailed. It probably snowed frogs at some point. I hit Clear Lake and brought in a dozen solid fish between noon and five, even though at times I couldn’t see my indicator through the downpour. Switched to cowboy leeches and caught so many fish I started laughing maniacally—possibly from hypothermia. Built a snowman on my float tube just to mark the occasion.

The Calibaetis were hatching hard, but they were weirdly black. My usual flies looked like pastel easter eggs next to them. Even my trusty Adams got the cold shoulder. A black Sharpie and
some MacGyver-style pattern modifications saved the day. Henderson trout are like wine critics—they care about subtle notes, hue, and presentation.

Day Two: The Calm Before the Flop

I fished Frog Lake, hoping for dry fly heaven. Mother Nature said “meh.” Sparse hatches, finicky fish, and a lot of casting at nothing in particular. I did OK with leeches and squirmy wormies on the dam side while Norm worked his usual magic on the other end. I brought out some fun gear: a 3-weight Sage and a 4-weight fiberglass “Lemon Drop” with a click reel that screams like a banshee on a good run.

That first hookup on the fiberglass was like holding on to a bottle rocket. Fish went on two 80-foot runs while my reel screamed like it saw a ghost. There’s something special about slow rods and light drags—it’s like letting the trout write their own action movie.

Day Three: Midge Madness in the Snow

Thunder, lightning, snow, rain, hail—basically four horsemen in a weather app. I woke up to the sound of gear flying across the deck like it was auditioning for Twister. After a cautious breakfast, I braved Big Lake, casting tight to the shoreline like a surgeon. Picked up a few, but by noon I was freezing, cramping, and reconsidering my life choices.

On my way back to the van, I spotted fish rising… in the middle of the lake… during a snowstorm. I paddled out and found myself surrounded by what looked like a synchronized fish ballet. It was a full-on midge hatch party, and I was invited. I pumped a fish, saw it was stuffed with chironomids, and rigged up my midge arsenal.

Back at the van, I stripped off my soaked gear, fired up the heater, and made a steaming bowl of Singapore Coconut Noodle Soup while watching Severance on my phone. I felt like a mountain man… with good Wi-Fi.

After lunch, it was game on. I decided to rig three rods for midges. On the first rod, I set up a light sink tip with two unweighted size 16 midge pupae. The second rod was rigged with a size 16 foam midge dry fly. For the third, I tied on an adult floating midge with a six-inch dropper to an unweighted chironomid.  I was alone on the lake, surrounded by rising fish and snowflakes—just me, my float tube, and an absurd number of chironomids. I left the lake in a daze, grateful for one of the wildest days I’ve had in the middle of nowhere.

Day  Four:  Fishing a Cold Morning on Pony thinking about Permit in Belize

On my last half-day, as is tradition, I headed to Pony. I woke early after saying goodbye to my friends—though I’ll see them again in three weeks—and backed my van into the only access point on the pond. I planned to fish until the weather turned or until noon, whichever came first.

I started picking up a few fish on the indicator rig, but it felt like the trout weren’t in their usual spots. Still, I managed to land a dozen fat, healthy rainbows. With a trip to Belize just two days away, I decided to pack it in right at noon, just as the clouds opened up and the rain began to fall.

I loaded the van and started making my way out, but my rear tires quickly sank into the muddy bank—buried up to the hubs. I considered calling in a tractor, but then remembered the pair of off-road traction boards mounted on my roof—bought specifically for moments like this. I also hadn’t used the Sprinter’s 4WD yet, so I figured this was the perfect time.

Dressed in my clean, dry travel clothes, I climbed out, pulled the racks down from the roof, and used my small travel shovel to dig out in front of the tires. Once I laid down the traction boards, the van rolled right out of the mud. But by then, I was soaked from the rain and covered in mud, with not a single dry or clean piece of clothing left in the van. So, I threw on my pajamas and drove home in those.

It rained the entire five-hour drive, but somehow, the caked-on mud on the tires and van was completely washed away by the time I pulled into my driveway. Having 4WD saved me—and I was damn glad to have it.

The Culinarians Strike Again

This March crew—me, Wayne Holloway, Jerry Devlin and Norm Sauer—goes by the name “The Culinarians.” Sadly, Peter and Rolf were missing this year, but the tradition lived on. Instead of hiring Melissa (our chef in April), we each cook a gourmet dinner. And boy, did we show off.

• Night One (Wayne and Jerry): Shrimp and scallop cioppino with crab cakes over wild greens and garlic toast. Paired with wine so good it probably had a LinkedIn profile.

• Night Two (Norm): Wild duck breasts with bourbon cream sauce and lingonberries over wild rice. Ducks courtesy of Norm’s scattergun and a lot of patience.

• Night Three (Me): Nobu-style black cod with shiitake mushrooms and bok choy in oyster sauce, served with sticky rice in lotus leaf. I plated like a Michelin chef and felt like Iron Chef: Wilderness Edition.

It was a grand weekend of fish, food, and float tube snowmen. Can’t wait to do it all again next month—hopefully with more sun and fewer leg cramps.