By Rich Bitterman
There are days when the water doesn’t just reflect the sky—it reflects something buried in you. Something boyhood left behind, but never really let go.
I’ve heard it said there’s no such thing as a perfect lure. But I’m not so sure.
Now, I know some folks would argue. They’ll tie on whatever’s trending, flipping jigs at stumps or rattling crankbaits through the shallows. But I’ve come to trust a little thing that looks like nothing—and catches just about everything.
The Rooster Tail.
Mid-sized. Silver blade. White body. A red dot at the nose. Marabou tail so light it moves like breath underwater. When it spins clean, it flashes like a sliver of moonlight—subtle, silent, but somehow irresistible. I’ve seen it pull trout from shadow, bass from still water, and bluegill from brush like a gospel call to come forth.
But that lure’s more than tackle to me. It’s a thread, tied through one of those days that stays.
I was fourteen. Too young to know much, but just old enough to chase the hush of early morning fog down on Lake Taneycomo. I’d rented a little jon boat from the dock at Branson Landing—back when the Sammy Lane Pirate still fired his cannon and staged his show. Most tourists watched from the boats, laughing and waving. But not me.
I had a rod, a Rooster Tail, and a spot I swore was mine alone.
It was a late-summer morning. The kind of day where the clouds hang low, like heaven hasn’t quite pulled its curtain shut. A pre-front stillness hummed across the lake. No rises. No splashes. Just that gentle tension in the air, the kind that makes a boy believe something good is about to happen.
I sent the lure flying—long cast, tight line. It landed like it meant something. And two cranks in, the water cracked.
A trout rose from nowhere, as if shot from a cannon beneath the boat, and hammered it. The rod bent hard. That fish rolled and flopped and fought like he had something to prove. And when I finally slipped the hook and sent him home, I cast again.
Another hit.
And another.
For the next hour, I was lost in a rhythm older than language—cast, flash, strike, release. Thirty fish, maybe more. I forgot the pirate. I forgot the tourists. I forgot the world.
All I remember is the light on the water, the wind in the trees, and the pull in my hands.
And somewhere in that stretch of time, between the splash and the stillness, I felt it—that God was near. Not in a thunderclap. But in that secret joy of creation answering back.
Looking back now, I think that day was about more than fish. It was about learning that beauty doesn’t need to announce itself. It can be quiet, compact, unassuming—just like that Rooster Tail. It taught me that hope is always worth casting out, even when nothing’s rising. That faith doesn’t always come with fanfare—sometimes it comes as a flash beneath still water.
And maybe, just maybe, it was about understanding that what seems ordinary can hold something eternal.
So if you’re fishing these Ozark waters and you haven’t tied on a Rooster Tail, friend, you’re missing out. Not just on a lure. But on a legend.
“The charm of fishing,” wrote John Buchan, “is that it is the pursuit of what is elusive but attainable, a perpetual series of occasions for hope.”
That day on Taneycomo, hope had a silver blade, a red dot, and a whisper of white marabou.
And it found me.
To learn more about my Ozark writings click here.
Recommended Resource: If you’re studying the Psalms, you won’t want to miss my in-depth review of The Treasury of David by Charles Spurgeon. This timeless masterpiece unpacks the Psalms with rich theological insight, making it essential for devotion, sermon prep, or deep Bible study. Read the full review here.
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