Fun Stories Of Fishing
A Morning at Deer Ridge Lake: More Than Fish on the Line
It was 4:00 a.m. on Wednesday, July 15th. Even though the sun had not yet peeked over the horizon, the heat had already settled in,
and the humidity clung to everything like an overfriendly relative. I climbed into Laramie, turned the key, and all 350 horses woke with a happy growl, eager to charge into the darkness toward another fishing adventure.
As I rolled into our designated meeting place, I spotted two sets of headlights. Steve and Carl were already there, deep in conversation, no doubt discussing the foolproof fishing strategies that would guarantee they would out-fish everyone else. After a round of handshakes and enough good-natured ribbing to wake the neighborhood, we realized something was missing.
Actually, someone.
TJ.
Carl looked around, scratched his head, and finally called him. TJ answered cheerfully, “I’m just leaving Moberly.”
Carl paused for a second before offering TJ some “loving Christian encouragement,” which somehow sounded suspiciously like a lecture about clocks and punctuality. We were supposed to leave Paris at 4:00, but TJ didn’t arrive until 4:20. I silently wondered if this was going to be a preview of the day’s adventures.
I offered to drive Laramie because I know how much Steve enjoys her air conditioning. Sometimes I think Steve must have been an Eskimo in a previous life. If the temperature gets above seventy degrees, he starts looking for snowbanks.
In the end, we agreed to take Steve’s truck since it carried most of the fishing gear. I transferred my equipment, grabbed old Meat in the Pot, my faithful rod and reel, and we pointed the truck toward Deer Ridge Lake.
For the next two hours, Steve confidently reminded us—about every five miles—that Deer Ridge was loaded with giant fish that were so aggressive they practically jumped into the boat. By the time we reached the lake, I half expected the fish to be waiting in the parking lot holding welcome signs.
The lake itself was beautiful.
A gentle breeze cooled the morning air, wildflowers scented the shoreline, and the water lay as smooth as a newborn baby’s skin. It was one of those mornings when God quietly reminds you that His creation is far more beautiful than anything man could build.
We grabbed our weapons of choice and spread out along the dock.
Steve struck first with a little catfish.
Too little.
TJ answered with a bass.
Also too little.
Then Meat in the Pot finally came alive, and I landed a bass…
You guessed it.
Too little.
Carl finally broke the streak with a beautiful crappie worthy of the stringer. TJ quickly followed with a keeper bass and then a nice catfish. Confidence was growing.
Then came the catch everyone will remember.
TJ landed another beautiful crappie and headed toward the basket. Somewhere between his hand and the basket, the fish made a miraculous escape.
TJ insists the basket moved.
The rest of us maintain baskets have remained stationary for centuries.
Either way, that crappie is still somewhere in Deer Ridge, telling its grandchildren about the day it defeated a fisherman.
Carl added another fine crappie, which prompted Steve to proudly announce—for what seemed like the hundredth time—
“I told you so!”
Whether Steve was right about the fishing is still open for debate, but he certainly wasn’t lacking confidence.
Then the excitement reached another level.
TJ suddenly noticed a snapping turtle helping itself to the catfish on his stringer.
Now, most people would politely surrender the fish.
Not TJ.
What followed looked less like fishing and more like an Olympic wrestling match between one determined fisherman and one equally determined turtle.
I’ve known TJ for a while, but I had no idea he could move that fast. Arms flailing, feet dancing, fish splashing, turtle snapping—it was one of the funniest things I’ve ever witnessed. By the time the battle ended, nobody was entirely sure who had won, but all four of us were laughing so hard we could barely stand.
Eventually, as every fishing trip does, our morning came to an end.
As we packed our gear and headed home, I thought about the scoreboard.
The fish weren’t nearly as numerous or as large as we had hoped. We lost one to poor basket management and nearly donated another to an ambitious turtle. Steve’s predictions of nonstop action might have been just a little exaggerated.
But maybe the real catch wasn’t hanging on the stringer.
God gave four Christian brothers a morning away from the noise of everyday life. He gave us laughter that echoed across the water, conversations that strengthened friendships, and peaceful moments surrounded by His incredible creation. We encouraged one another, teased one another, laughed until our sides hurt, and made memories that no photograph could ever fully capture.
Psalm 133:1 says, “Behold, how good and pleasant it is when brothers dwell together in unity.”
That verse came alive on the dock at Deer Ridge Lake.
Years from now, we probably won’t remember exactly how many fish we caught. But we’ll remember TJ arguing with a basket, wrestling a snapping turtle; Steve predicting legendary fishing; Carl quietly putting fish on the stringer; and Meat in the Pot faithfully trying its best.
Most of all, we’ll remember that God wasn’t just in the fish.
He was in the fellowship.
He was in the laughter.
He was in the quiet breeze across the water.
And He was in four brothers in Christ who discovered that the greatest catch of the day wasn’t measured in pounds—it was measured in friendship, gratitude, and the blessing of spending another day together.
A Morning Blessed by God at Henry Sever Lake
The morning of July 7th greeted us with one of God’s finest creations. At 6:00 a.m., the air was cool, a light blanket of dew rested upon the earth, and a gentle breeze reminded us that sometimes life’s greatest blessings are found in its quietest moments.
The minnow bucket was full, our hearts were filled with anticipation, and “Meat in the Pot” was eager to prove once again that the fish simply couldn’t resist her hook. Laramie stood ready, almost pawing the ground with excitement, anxious to carry Pastor Steve, Carl Thompson, and me to Henry Sever Lake. We climbed into Laramie’s comfortable, air-conditioned cab, lowered our sunglasses, shared a few laughs, and pointed ourselves toward another day of adventure.
When we arrived, Henry Sever Lake welcomed us with calm waters that reflected the morning sky like polished glass. Frogs croaked from the shoreline while birds filled the air with songs of praise, creating a beautiful symphony that reminded us how wonderful it is to be alive and surrounded by God’s handiwork.
Soon the hooks were baited, and the lines slipped quietly into the water. It didn’t take long before “Meat in the Pot” began living up to her reputation, adding fish after fish to the basket. Pastor Steve was quick to join the action with several beautiful crappie, while “Meat in the Pot” proudly boasted the biggest crappie—at least for the moment.
Carl, meanwhile, was occupied replacing the hook he had just lost. Before long, a joyful shriek came from “Meat in the Pot” as another fish stripped line from the reel. The excitement spread through the boat like wildfire.
Finally, Carl landed his first fish. I have to admit, it was the biggest one caught at that moment, and his smile said everything words could not.
As the morning passed, Pastor Steve steadily filled his basket with fine crappie. “Meat in the Pot” continued topping off our basket with several more beauties, while Carl added fish after fish of his own—including a couple that certainly deserved to be called the biggest of the day.
Eventually, the time came to reel in the lines and head for the restaurant to enjoy a well-earned meal before making our way home for some much-needed rest.
Days like this become treasures that never fade. When life’s rain clouds gather, memories of peaceful mornings on Henry Sever Lake, shared with good friends, laughter, and the blessings of God, become the rainbow that brightens our hearts.
The fishing was good. The fellowship was even better. Our bodies found rest, our spirits were refreshed, and through the still waters and smiling faces, God’s presence was unmistakably near.
Those are the days that remind us life isn’t measured by the number of fish we catch but by the blessings we share along the way.
Fishers Of Men At Henery Severs Lake
Friday, June 19, 2026, dawned as one of those perfect Missouri mornings that fishermen dream about all winter long. The sun was shining, the wind was light, and there wasn’t a rain cloud anywhere in sight as we left Paris, Missouri, headed for Henry Sever Lake near Newark.
My fishing companions for the day were Leon, Paul, and Pastor Steve. Before we ever wet a hook, I reminded them how fortunate they were. After all, they were getting to ride in Laramie, my faithful Dodge Ram truck. Since Leon, Paul, and Pastor Steve are Ford fans through and through, I figured they should experience what a real truck ride felt like. They disagreed, of course, but that’s because Ford owners don’t always recognize greatness when they’re sitting in it.
Our first stop was a restaurant in Shelbina. Breakfast arrived hot and fast, and the coffee flowed freely. Leon topped off his eggs with enough hot sauce to remove paint from a tractor. Between bites, we discussed important matters, such as who would catch the biggest crappie, who would catch the most fish, and who would be forced to listen to the others brag all day long.
When we arrived at Henry Sever Lake, I introduced the group to the one and only Meat-in-the-Pot. Now, Meat-in-the-Pot wasn’t a person. She was my lucky rod and reel, and she had earned her name through years of faithful service. The lake was calm as glass, sparkling in the sunshine like someone had scattered diamonds across the water.
At the dock, Meat-in-the-Pot wasted no time proving her reputation. Within minutes, she and I had put the first crappie in the basket. Pastor Steve quickly followed with a nice fish of his own.
Paul, however, had other priorities.
He settled into a lounge chair, pulled down his sunglasses, propped his feet on the rail, and appeared to begin a serious study of the inside of his eyelids.
A little later, I noticed Paul’s cork racing across the water like it was trying to escape the county. “Paul!” I yelled. “You’re getting a bite!”
Paul glanced in the general direction of the lake and seemed completely unconcerned. The fish was apparently interrupting his rest period.
Meanwhile, Leon was helping Pastor Steve land a fish while his own cork was dancing across the water and disappearing under the surface. Fish were biting faster than fishermen could keep up with them.
About that time, Meat-in-the-Pot really found her groove. Crappie after crappie began finding their way into the basket. Pastor Steve heated up as well and started landing fish one after another. Leon joined the action and steadily added to our catch.
And Paul? Well, Paul was still mostly occupied with resting his eyes.
To be fair, Paul had been sick the night before. But after breakfast and a little fresh air, he seemed to recover remarkably well. Fishing can perform miracles that medicine can’t explain.
Before long, it was time to head home. I wrapped up Meat-in-the-Pot, woke Paul from whatever fishing-related dream he was having, helped Leon gather his tackle, and helped Pastor Steve load our catch. Soon we were headed back to the parking lot where Laramie patiently awaited our return.
One final stop for iced tea, hot sandwiches, and plenty of laughter capped off the day.
As we headed home with a basket full of crappie and memories, I couldn’t help but think that a day filled with fishing, friends, fellowship, and laughter is about as close to perfect as life gets.
A Day At Sugar Creek Lake
Five of us headed to Sugar Creek Lake for a day of crappie fishing: Carl Thompson, Carl Ball, Dawson MacKinder, Micha MacKinder, and me. The fish weren’t the only things biting that day—Carl Thompson was constantly teasing Dawson about stealing his fishing spot.
Every time Carl caught a fish and stepped away for a moment, Dawson would slide right into Carl’s position. Before long, Dawson hooked the biggest crappie of the day and proudly held it up for everyone to admire.
“You know,” I told him, “whoever catches the biggest fish has to clean all the fish.”
That took some of the shine off Dawson’s trophy.
Meanwhile, Carl Thompson had to stop fishing to rescue Carl Ball, who had somehow managed to get his line hopelessly tangled. Carl replaced a hook, tied on a new sinker, and got him back in business. By the time he returned, Dawson had once again claimed Carl’s fishing spot and had already caught another fish.
“This one is definitely the second-biggest fish of the day,” Dawson announced.
Nobody was sure how he could have both the biggest and second-biggest fish, but Dawson seemed convinced.
Later, Dawson started worrying about whether we’d make it to Don’s for dinner. Fishing was important, but apparently supper was more important.
Then came the mystery of the missing fish basket.
Carl Thompson caught another nice crappie and turned to put it in his basket. The basket was gone.
Carl Ball, leaning on the dock railing, pointed toward open water and said, “I think that’s your basket out there.”
Sure enough, it was floating away.
“Dawson, you untied my basket!” Carl accused.
Dawson denied it so fast and so strongly that it only made everyone laugh harder.
By the time we left, our ribs hurt from laughing. Dawson had outfished Carl, had definitely not stolen Carl’s fishing spot—according to Dawson—and was still hungry because we never made it to Don’s for dinner.