Outfished by a Friend — and Loving Every Minute
A snowy Meramec River adventure proves the best catches aren’t always your own
Nothing beats the thrill of a new personal best, right? For me, not quite. While I’ll never forget the adrenaline of hauling in a big flathead at Busch Wildlife's Lake 33 or fighting a four-foot bull shark onto a small Tampa Bay beach, those milestones pale in comparison to the joy of seeing friends and family land their own dream catches. The perfect example of this happened back in 2018, on a snowy, late-winter day on the Meramec River.
It was Sunday, and I had zero intention of being on the water. Winter was putting up one last fight before conceding to spring, with temperatures sliding into the low 30s and snow on the horizon. After spending all morning at church, my only plan was to relax at home with the beginning of a long work week only 18 hours away.
But before I could get too comfortable, I got a call from my good friend, Rob. He pitched me a plan only a madman considers: hauling our kayaks to the river and paddling upstream with our heavy catfishing gear to a promising hole. Weather be damned. His logic? We had a free afternoon and he had a “hunch.”
Naturally, the only thing that came to mind was Gimli’s line from The Return of the King: “Certainty of death. Small chance of success. What are we waiting for?”
Jokes aside, Rob’s hunch was grounded in solid science. Many people assume winter fishing is a dead zone — that fish hunker down and stop biting until things warm up. I couldn’t disagree more. While the bite certainly slows in the cold, catfish still need to eat to survive. There is no better time to capitalize on that than right before a storm hits.
An incoming front brings falling barometric pressure, a sure trigger that kicks feeding activity into high gear. As the air pressure drops, it exerts less weight on the water, causing a fish’s air-filled swim bladder to inflate. Fish hate this — it makes them feel bloated, like when you eat too much Taco Bell. A downward pressure shift has the greatest impact on small bait fish such as shad and minnows, compelling them to seek cover or deeper water. Predators know this and will gorge themselves before the pressure bottoms out.
Despite the biting cold, the conditions looked promising — though in fishing, promises don’t mean much. If I had a dime for every time I fished in “ideal” weather that resulted in a skunk, I would’ve retired years ago. Still, the only way to truly guarantee a skunky day is to stay on the living room couch, and Rob and I are far too stubborn for that. We might have been crazy for heading out into a snowstorm, but we were hungry for a fight.
After launching, we paddled upriver in our Field & Stream Eagle Run 12 kayaks. While Eagle Runs aren’t the most stable kayaks, they are certainly capable for fishing. They cut through the water like a knife and can turn on a dime. Although I wouldn’t try standing up in one unless I planned on going for a swim, they were perfect for our destination.
We were targeting a deep channel carved through a winding stretch of the river. Depending on the water level, this hole can range from 25 to over 40 feet deep, making it one of the deepest spots in the Meramec. To the east, a heavily forested bank drops sharply into the depths before the riverbed gradually climbs toward a wide, shallow flat on the west bank. Our plan was to drift nightcrawlers and chicken livers on Carolina rigs through the hole.
After reaching the spot, we put our plan into action. I rigged nightcrawlers while Rob opted for chicken livers. We set our lines a few feet off the bottom and waited — and almost instantly, a bomb went off.
Less than fifteen minutes into the drift, Rob started shouting. He’d hooked into something massive. At first it looked like he snagged a log. His rod was doubled over and he couldn’t gain an inch. But it didn’t take long to realize the “log” wasn’t stuck — it was towing Rob’s kayak across the water.
The fish was a monster, pushing Rob to his absolute limit. His reel strained every time the fish made a run. Between the powerful bursts and Rob’s effort to horse it to the surface, his kayak rocked so violently I was genuinely concerned he might capsize.
To make matters worse, neither of us brought a net big enough for this fish. My 18-inch Frabill dip net is perfectly fine for an average catfish, but whatever Rob had on the line was going to make that net look like a minnow scoop.
After a titanic struggle that lasted several minutes, Rob finally brought the fish to the surface — revealing a huge blue catfish. As expected, it was far too large for the net, and neither of us felt confident trying to lift it into our kayaks. That would have almost certainly ended with one or both of us swimming.
Fortunately, the long fight had drained the blue cat of its energy, allowing us to carefully guide her toward the bank and land her on solid ground. Once we stepped out, Rob hoisted his prize with the biggest smile I have ever seen on a fisherman.
“I feel like a million bucks, bro. First cast of the day… something we planned on doing and succeeded. My arms are more tired from the fight than from kayaking. I think this is heavier than my kayak. This is amazing.”
We estimated the fish weighed around 40 pounds — easily the biggest either of us had ever caught. That catch sparked a friendly rivalry of “BIGGEST CATFISH” that persists to this day. While I’ve caught fish that gave Rob’s blue a run for its money, he still holds the title — one I fully intend to steal sooner rather than later.
Rob let the beast rest in the water until she was strong enough to swim off on her own, leaving us in complete awe that the Meramec could produce such a massive, beautiful fish.
She isn’t the only one, though. Since that day, we’ve pulled several 20- to 30-pounders from those waters, and I’m convinced an even greater catfish is lurking somewhere in that river.
Hopefully I’ll be the one to hook it — or better yet, I’ll be there to watch Rob top his own personal best.