Boomer’s Mis-Adventure Journal- Solo

In search of the perfect float fishing river.

Expedition #2: Arkansas’s White River

Chapter One

Bull Shoals Dam to Norfork.

This time it was to be different. I was alone and had no one to wait on or worry about. I cleared my schedule and made a few calls to North Arkansas. I emailed several outfitters trying to locate camping facilities. I wasn’t making much progress. Finally, I found an outfitter who would actually talk to me.

Debbie Gamble of Cotter Trout Dock became that contact. She and her husband Ron were very helpful during the entire leg of the journey.

I drove nearly 500 miles from Dallas to Cotter on a Sunday in June. I arrived around 6 p.m. and was able to meet Debbie just as she was about to leave the dock. She was very gracious and suggested the motel near the bridge. I was more than a little concerned about leaving all that gear in an open canoe all night. The motel was in the town and on the highway next to the bridge. I had seen the motel and thought the parking lot was far too accessible for thieves. I was carrying my little outboard motor and all the fishing and camping gear in the canoe. I everything lashed down with rope but that would only secure it for travel and not from theft.

When I expressed my concerned for the gear she suggested I store my trailer behind the Cotter Trout Dock among their boats and other equipment. I jumped at that. She showed me a pavilion in back, where I could back the trailer into a protected area. I asked if she minded my sleeping there. She thought I was nuts but told me to go ahead if I wanted. Then she left to fix Ron a Father’s day meal.
The boat trailer backed right into a bay of the pavilion and left enough room for my aluminum cot. I had not used this cot since moving from Colorado some 15 years ago. As I started to put the cot together a major thunderstorm broke loose. The music from big shed’s tin roof sounded great. But now I had to figure out how to put the cot together. Isn’t camping fun? About the time you figure out how to put up the tent the next evil device is there for you to figure out. What really ticks me off is it takes me forever to figure out some engineers’ clever tricks. I think they do it on purpose.

Once together, the cot is really comfortable. I needed something for a pillow and tried to use my Cyclops bag cover. Nope, I wanted something softer. I pulled the hood of my new cheap sleep bag over it and that did the trick.

After setting up the cot I dug out my little Coleman one burner stove. I made a strong cup of Community Coffee’s chicory blend. Man, that java hit the spot. I had eaten a late lunch of great bar-b-q sandwiches from a roadside stand just north of Conway. I really didn’t need any supper.

With my little camp set up I drank my coffee and began to soak up the river scene. I was sitting no more than 10 feet from the water. I took notice of the volume of water in the river. The water was so high it was making a roaring sound as it strained against a boat dock across the river. It looked as if the current would take the dock away at any moment. I really had no way to judge but it looked as if the water was three to four feet above it’s normal line. The Cotter Trout Dock was situated in a protected cove so the current didn’t affect it. The Cotter Bridge was practically over head and quiet the edifice.

There is a spring fed swimming hole next to the Cotter Trout Dock. Apparently the water comes the subterranean route from one of the nearby creeks. The little rock lined pool was full of families with kids of all ages. The community had built a great rope swing by placing a leaning steel beam over the water and tying a rope to the end. The kids would grab the rope and swing out then let go just like we did from an old cotton wood tree years ago. I wondered if the kids had any idea who Geronimo was or if they still yelled the same thing we did. Of course the activity brought about screams and giggles from the girls and hollers of joy from the boys. They were having a wonderful time.

I was reminded an old article in National Geographic. I think the cover had a pretty Ozark teenaged gal in a swimming hole somewhere along this same river. I wonder if that was shot here at the spring?

The kids in the swimming hole and the girl in the article picture was reminiscent of the same good looks I had known as a kid in a town not so far down river. I had to reflect on the quality of the hillbilly gene pool. That same mixture of Irish, Scots, Germans and English was still pumping out the good-looking, fun loving kids.

Three or four of the boys were still swinging and yelling at 10 p.m. I was surprised at myself for not being irritated with them at bedtime. Instead, I took pleasure in their joy of life.

As I drank my coffee and then a bottle of water I watched it rain like cats and dogs. Two men were fishing on the other side of the little cove. They were standing near the Arkansas Fish and Game Commission’s newly improved boat ramp. I had forgotten to buy a fishing license before Debbie went home so I couldn’t fish the hour or so till dark. I regretted the fishing license goof up as I watched them cast.

As the rain fell even harder, the fellow grudgingly disappeared only to reappear in a big city trench-coat and his fishing hat. He then took up his rod and continued to cast like a man possessed.

When the rain quit another man joined him. I walked around to where the two were fishing. They were uncle and nephew and part of a yearly gathering from a geographically spread out family. Two of the older brothers had lived in Cotter as children while their father helped build Bull Shoals Dam. The man I spoke with had actually been born in Cotter.

The second fellow looked as if he might be nearly as old as his uncle. He wore the long braided ponytail of a biker. I asked neither man what he did for a living. It just seemed out of place and would have brought up thoughts we were there to forget. So I let that dog lay. We had a nice visit about fishing and the world. I don’t know what it means but I seemed to be closer politically to the biker than his uncle. Hmmm.

Dark came and the rain ended. The men were going back to their lives the next day and I was just getting my little expedition started. We parted and I went back to my shed and they to the little motel on the hill. Before they left I asked their opinion of the hotel parking lot security problem. They confirmed my concerns of vulnerability.

I haven’t mentioned the cats. For some reason there were 10 or more cats living in and around the fishing boats and equipment stacked in the Cotter Trout Dock’s work yard. I think it probably had to do with guides cleaning the days’ catch of tasty trout leftovers. I don’t think these cats were hanging around for generations because of some kind of homing instinct. The reason I bring up the cats is they seemed to lack a sandbox and I had to be careful of where I walked in the pavilion.

I tend to get up more at night than I did as a younger man. You “boomers” might identify with that deal. It is beneficial for one to notice where piles of cat poop are placed before testing your night vision. Being a dog rescuer teaches you a few things about critters and bare feet in the dark of night.

The other thing about the critters was their cat fights and hissing matches. During the night the ruckus would wake me up. There was a big vapor light on the opposite side of the enclosure from where I was sleeping. I could see the area pretty well. The cats would argue and then the loser apparently had the duty to do a twenty-five yard sprint. When they felt a safe distance had been achieved they would dive beneath a jon-boat or some other piece of equipment.

At first it freaked me out when the squalling and hissing would wake me up. I finally got used to it and let their occasional cacophony blend in with the roaring of the river. The dock across the river was really straining its’ cables.

I slept off and on until 4:30 or so. When I heard someone at the boat dock I checked my watch. It was Ron Gamble the dock owner, prepping his boats for the days’ charters.

There was a boat trailer in the big shed. It became the best seat in the house for coffee and watching the river at sunrise. Not long after daylight the water began to fall rapidly. The water line I had marked in just below my trailer perch had stayed at the same level all evening. By noon it would be down some three feet. It can come up even faster. This is no river to fool with and once again it caused me to doubt my river savvy.

Before daylight broke, I watched fish ripple the water and the first of the fishermen arrive at the boat ramp. It was drizzling a little with a fairly thick fog on the cold water. I was surprised at the women who came with their men and showed no concern about the rain or the coolness of the morning. They helped with placing the boat in the river, parked the pickups, and claimed their favorite fishing seat as the husband warmed the outboard. Then the twenty foot jon-boats would back out into the fog and turn upriver. The little motors would race and strain then slowly move upstream and disappear into the fog. The women and the men sitting like statues at ease in their chosen element. I envied them their lifestyles.

Our plan was to let Debbie and Ron get their guides and customers started fishing. Then Debbie would shuttle me to Bull Shoals Dam. I would motor back down to Cotter and check in with her for safety’s sake.

I made another cup of coffee and sauntered over to the office. Debbie introduced me to Ron and two of the guides. I was pleased to chat with the three of them about water conditions, shoals and other concerns. They assured me the shoals would be well under water but that the current would be very, very strong and I would need to contend with it constantly. Both guides and Ron were very generous with advice.

The for Arkansas Division of Tourism had given me a list of outfitters who supposedly provided camping and shuttle services for float fishermen. Most of that info was bad and some of the attitudes were equally as bad. One or two let me know they do not provide shuttle service to people who are not being guided by their staff nor did they know of any place a fellow could camp. I quit calling the list as soon as I found Debbie and Ron.

All the land along the river is private. The state access areas are off limits to camping. Other than the state park at the dam there is no public facility for camping. There were one or two private campgrounds near Cotter. I thought I would be spending my first night at one of them but they seemed to be geared to rv’s. When I emailed them one responded the other didn’t. One who responded warned me about pets and quoted something like $25 a night. For that fee I would be allowed to wander off into the back section of their property. There I would pitch a tent or in my case a jungle hammock. Obviously I wanted to be as near my canoe as possible. I certainly didn’t want to tote gear all over creation. Also, I thought $25 was a little steep. But the kicker was the anti dog attitude. I am a dog person. I rescue Boykin Spaniels and have the responsibility for four states as a regional coordinator. I don’t know why but they really stressed their displeasure with dogs coming to their campground. I decided I would sleep in my canoe before I would stay at a place that was so against dogs.

The folks at Cotter Trout Dock had an island camping place I could use and it was a days’ float from the Dam. I would take them up on the offer and shoot for Smith Island the first night. I suggested to Ron and Debbie that they should consider opening a little float fishermen camping spot behind the Cotter Dock. I hope they do.

The river runs over, around and through it…………and any place else it wants to go…remember that.