Fun Stories Of Fishing

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.

Missouri River Fun

   The Missouri River was rolling hard that Saturday morning when the Fishers Of Men crew gathered before daylight. The first stop, as always, was the diner down by the highway. The smell of bacon, biscuits, gravy, and fresh coffee filled the place while fishermen swapped stories that got bigger every year.
   Steve Miller leaned back in the booth and said, “Boys, today we’re gonna need bigger coolers.”
   Leon Pease grinned and answered, “I already brought mine. I’m planning on catching the state record.”
   Pete Mohn laughed so hard coffee nearly came out his nose. “You couldn’t catch a cold in January.”
   The whole diner erupted with laughter while the waitress kept refilling coffee cups. By the time breakfast was over, everybody was full, half-awake, and fully convinced they were about to catch a mountain of catfish.
   Things started going wrong almost immediately at the boat ramp.
   Steve Miller was backing the boat down the ramp while trying to look over his shoulder and talk at the same time. Somehow he twisted himself around in the driver’s seat like a pretzel. One hand was on the wheel, one foot was on the brake, and his hat was halfway over his eyes. The truck jerked sideways, and Steve hollered, “Who moved the ramp?”
   Before anyone could answer, Pete Mohn stepped onto the slick edge of the dock. His feet flew straight out from under him like a cartoon character. Pete went headfirst into the Missouri River with a splash big enough to scare fish clear into Kansas.
   Bobby Lee nearly fell over laughing while Pete surfaced sputtering muddy water and yelling, “That river’s cold enough to freeze a muskrat!”
   But Bobby Lee’s turn came quickly.
   He grabbed the rope tied to the boat while Steve eased the trailer down the ramp. Unfortunately, Bobby Lee forgot one important detail—he was wearing old slick sandals. The boat started floating, the rope tightened, and suddenly Bobby Lee was skiing backward down the concrete ramp like a barefoot water-skier. His sandals flopped wildly while he hollered, “Somebody stop this boat!”
   By then everyone was laughing too hard to help.
   Once they finally got on the water, things settled down for a while. The river was peaceful, lines drifted in the current, and the men started pulling in nice catfish one after another.
   Then Steve Miller managed to steer the boat straight onto a rock dike.
   BANG.
   Everybody lurched sideways. Pete yelled, “Steve, you trying to drive this thing on land now?”
   Steve rubbed his back and groaned while the others laughed so hard tears rolled down their cheeks.
   Just when the crew thought the day couldn’t get any crazier, Leon Pease’s rod bent double. The reel screamed like a fire alarm.
“BIG FISH!” Leon shouted.
   The battle lasted nearly twenty minutes. Men stumbled over tackle boxes, grabbed nets, and yelled useless advice. Finally, a giant blue catfish surfaced beside the boat.
   That fish weighed every bit of 75 pounds.
   Leon stood there grinning like he’d won the lottery while the others stared in disbelief.
   “Well,” Pete said, soaking wet and muddy, “looks like Leon actually can catch fish.”
   By evening everyone was exhausted. Pete was still wet, Steve was sore from bouncing off the dike, Bobby Lee’s sandals were ruined, and Leon wouldn’t stop smiling about his giant blue catfish.
   On the way home, the crew stopped back at the diner for supper. Over burgers and coffee, they laughed about every mishap of the day loud enough for the whole restaurant to hear.
   The Fishers Of Men may not have looked graceful on the Missouri River, but they sure caught some nice catfish—and even more laughter.