April 28-31, 2025. After years of returning to Henderson Springs—often multiple times a year—I’m still struck by how no two trips are ever the same. The five lakes on the property haven’t changed on the map, but each visit offers something new, something surprising. Every lake here has a distinct personality. Some favor midges, others reward a well-placed streamer. One day it’s dry flies all the way; the next, it’s a deep nymph rig or nothing at all. What never changes, though, is the camaraderie—the deepening bond among the eight of us who still make this annual pilgrimage to remember, to laugh, and to fish.
Our core group has grown tighter over the years: Wayne Holloway, Peter Cassel, Bob Shoberg, Norm Sauer, Jerry Devlin, Trent Pridemore, Mike Balog and myself. Once there were ten. Now there are eight. (Hopefully John Bjorkholm will return someday) . The absence of those we’ve lost is felt, especially around the campfire when the stories start flowing. These gatherings mean more each year, and I’ve noticed a shift in myself. I used to be the first one on the water and the last to come in—barely pausing for meals. But this year, I lingered at the lodge a little longer. I came off the water earlier just to talk, to listen, to connect. Maybe it’s because I had my fill of fish during a banner March trip. Or maybe I’m realizing that, as much as I love chasing monster trout, it’s the people—Mark and Marie Henderson, the new caretakers Tony and Mariana, and of course, our crew—that keep bringing me back.
This year’s fishing had a twist: the introduction of a steelhead strain of rainbow trout into all five lakes. These fish were different—bigger, thicker, smarter. Some were downright unlandable, making blistering runs, sounding deep, and breaking off in submerged branches. They were fish with attitude, and they made even the most seasoned of us shake our heads in disbelief.
A week before our trip, the forecast looked grim. Rain and wind threatened to put a damper on things. But luck was on our side—the rain mostly came at night, and the overcast skies helped fuel steady daytime hatches. Calibaetis were the stars this time, unlike the midge-heavy hatches of March. On the second day, Wayne and I stood witness to one of the heaviest Calibaetis hatches I’ve ever seen. When the wind died, it was like someone flipped a switch—fish started rising everywhere to size 16 black duns. But getting one to take? That was a different story.
All of us were armed with boxes of flies in the right size and color—Parachute Adams, Missing Links, classic Calibaetis dries. Still, the fish were picky. I watched my fly drift through a sea of naturals and stand out like a square peg. It floated perfectly and was the right size , but its silhouette didn’t match. That’s when Vince Marinaro’s Modern Dry Fly Code came to mind—silhouette trumps color. I rummaged through my box and pulled out a Cul de Canard post-wing, no-hackle dun. It was the same size, the same shape—but the wrong color, a pale morning dun rather than black. And that was the ticket. The fish didn’t care about the shade; they cared about the shape. From that point on, my luck turned.
For the rest of the trip, I mixed it up—dry flies in the morning, indicator rigs in the afternoon. Stripping small Calibaetis nymphs and Squirmy Worms under an indicator proved deadly when fished slow and shallow, especially when I adjusted the depth to keep the fly about a foot off the bottom. I used the castable depth finder to set my indicator length and fished along the edges until the slope dropped off. That’s where the fish were. Pods of them, tight to the bank, and usually where you found one, two or three more would follow.
But it wasn’t all action. Some stretches—hundreds of yards long—yielded nothing. It made me wonder if the trout were actually moving together in packs. A Livescope would’ve been fascinating to deploy, just to observe how they travel, where they settle, and what triggers them to feed.
And yet, despite the big trout, the technical hatches, and the experimentation, it’s the time spent with this crew—around Melissa’s feasts, Wayne’s amazing wines, Peter’s bonfires, Norm’s fireside reflections, Jerry’s legendary breakfasts, and Trent’s nightly tales—that defines the trip. We’re older now. Slower. But the joy, the laughter, and the love for this place remain as powerful as ever.
We fish for the trout—but we come back for each other.
What a wonderful 3 days with an awesome group of avid and passionate fishers. The camaraderie we have is very special and I thoroughly enjoy all the various conversations we have. The pavilion fires are the greatest and Norms eloquent words resonate deeply with me. One of the many beautiful fish I landed and boy do I love being a “spoiled little bitch”! Henderson springs has a way of spoiling us all with great hosts, great fishing and awesome natural environment to play in! Thank you Mark, Maria, Tony and Mariana. Mike Balog
When I landed that 4-pound catfish in Frog Lake, it was the only fish of the morning—like God himself had reached down, handed me a soggy, whiskered miracle, and said, “This one’s for you, but don’t get cocky.” Peter wandered over to offer his condolences for the slow morning, and we had one of those sacred man-to-man moments where disappointment meets culinary ambition. “Let’s cook it,” he said. I lit up. Of course! I had outfitted the Synabeggo specifically for this moment—a mobile command center prepped for spontaneous fish feasts and light wilderness regret. After a quick bloodletting and a polite ocular eviction (you know, standard catfish prep), I chucked the fish and the net onto the bank and strolled back to the van for a knife and pliers. Confidence high. Appetite higher. But when I returned—poof. No fish. bloody net. Just empty dirt and shattered dreams. Somewhere in Frog swims a blind, slightly concussed catfish with a puncture wound and a second chance at life. I hope he’s out there warning others: “Stay low, play dead, and if they take your eyes—swim like hell.” Honestly? I kind of felt like that catfish. Bruised, bewildered, and still flopping around in search of meaning… or maybe just lunch. Meng
My biggest on Clear Lake…When this fish hit it ripped 50 yards off my reel then turned and ran straight back at me. Approaching my tube I suddenly saw a wake and a fin rising just above water level. The fish then did a complete 360 around my tube before heading straight away for a second time. On the 3rd try I finally brought him into my net. Jerry
…I believe all of us here love being on the rivers and lakes and wooded settring, breathing freely as a break from our earthly tasks. The blessings of nature we have around us here at Henderson Springs derserves being shared with others. My hope is that we all can reach out to help others find their way to fish the rivers and the lakes of our wonderful world. Norm
Caught off the bank just under a tree branch on the right side of Clear. I was halfway down the lake, copying one of the great masters (Norm), slow stripping nymphs on dry line – likely an inch or two below the surface. The take was gentle, and it seemed like it took a moment or two for the fish to really figure out it was caught. Then it turned into a supercharged rainbow on steroids! Ran right at me sounding, then back to the bank and took off toward the corner of the lake – about 50 yards from me. It was all I could do to keep it from finding logs on the bank, just keeping it a foot or two away from it. It was running so fast that my line was pointing at a point least 15 ft behind the fish. I’ve never experienced that before – mind blowing.
At that point I recall thinking “what on earth have I got on my line – this can’t be real”
When it reached to corner of the lake, it took a hard right and continued its maniacal dash along the bank by the road – got most of the way to the put-in then turned and came full speed directly toward me. I got behind stripping, but it made no difference because it was moving so fast the line was bowed out behind it and its speed was keeping the hook firmly set. I knew because I could see it’s wake the whole time. Then it sounded again just before it got to me.
Final chapter was the fish sounding and jumping out of the water three or four times, sometimes heading away from me and sometimes making a beeline toward me. By this time, I was hooting and hollering like I was the lunatic – I believe folks were probably hearing me from all the lakes on the property. Norm and Mike complained about me supplying ear plugs next time I fished with them.
When I finally got it in the net, it was perfectly hooked on the tip of its upper jaw – a tiny tweak and it was off the hook. Took a photo and tried to get over the adrenaline shakes.
I let her go, and she just trucked off toward to bottom of the lake like nothing had happened – talk about healthy fish.
@Mark Henderson, BEST trout I’ve ever played. Thank you for a wonderful place to fish.
@Norm Sauer, thanks so much for the guidance – you made a lifetime experience for me.
Now all I have to do is get over the swelling of my right hand – I didn’t catch a fish under 20 inches, and one was between 24 and 25. But this one hen fish will live in my memory until my last day.
Peter
