Chapter 5

Cotter, cameras and the sixties.

At this point my next stop would be Cotter. I had been on the river a couple of hours and was making better time than I realized. I still had my head in the navigational problems and my fear of the unknown evil shoals monsters. After all, I had been hearing about and dreading the shoals for over a month. I had reached Wildcat Shoals and was better than half way to Cotter. Heck, I was going to make Cotter by lunch time. It looked as if this trip was going by much faster than I had planned.

It wasn’t anything I was doing. I was just trying to keep the boat afloat and stay out of everybody’s way. I was trying to learn to work my gps and my little handheld depth finder with one hand but I still had a death grip on the tiller with the other. At this point there was no third fishing hand available. I was traveling in the waters of Troutzilla the world record German Brown Trout and couldn’t even wet a hook. Man, what kind of deal was this ?

The gps learning experience was a struggle. Mostly click and look to see what I had done. Trial and error is the way of a photographer. Read the manual at last option. The Delorme was a different animal. Even when I read the manual I couldn’t understand it or make the gps do what I wanted. Somebody needs to teach the Delorme folks what the term user friendly means.

The depth finder temp gauge was a different deal altogether. It was as easy to work as a flashlight and even looked like one. Place it in water two or three inches and click the switch just like turning on a flash light. One click gives you the depth and two clicks gives you the water temperature. Really neat info for under a hundred bucks. It came from Marine West in Garland, Texas.

The gps was indeed leaving a “cookie trail” and that was the main thing I was wanted to do. I still needed to learn more about how to mark places and designate them with various symbols but that would come later. The idea of a slow leisurely pace while reading the gps manual and practicing was not working out. I decided I would just go along with the river and do whatever it demanded, gps and fishing be damned.

Photography, did I say photography ? How is it that an “award winning” professional photographer has not mentioned pictures? The answer is very simple. Too darned much water and too little experience. This is the first time I have ever been in a river canoe by myself. I have never navigated a strange river at high tide so to speak. This is the first time I have run an outboard motor for any length of time since I was in high school. I am 61 and haven’t even thought of going camping in 15 years. Adventure ! I wanted adventure in my life, well by gosh, I got my share today.

The camera and two lenses were tucked away in one of the water-tight bags. The bags were full of gear and stowed all over the canoe. Each gear bag was tied to the boat and almost all were out of my reach. Even if I could have reached them, it was no time to be crawling around and trying to untie the knots. It really didn’t matter the fog was too thick for pictures.

Finally, as I neared Cotter the fog began to lift and the river widened slightly. What I did not know at the time was the river had dropped dramatically and slowed down while I was floating down from Bull Shoals. At that point I could get a few shots of the river scene. There was nothing spectacular to show such as the big bluffs I had seen but at least I could snap a few pics to give folks an idea of the countryside.

One thing I was more than a little concerned about was water splashing on the cameras. In this day and time we live with computers in everything. The cameras are very finicky when it comes to water. You can lose the whole body with just a small amount of water splashed onto it. The bouncing and jostling canoe was not my favorite shooting platform.

I brought only two lenses. A wide zoom and a medium wide zoom. I chose them because I figured this was to be an internet or book shoot and I wanted to tell the river’s story not critters on the bank or birds in the trees. Longer lenses would have added to the story but I didn’t want to risk the gear. That decision was beginning to feel like the only right one so far.

The fog lifted then rose again. The process seemed to repeat itself several times. The water was so cold, continuously 56 degrees, it clashed with the warming summer air. I guess the river was creating it’s own little climate.

One of the strangest things I’ve ever seen, and I mentioned this briefly, was what I would come to call the river spirits. Sprites might be a closer description. When the fog rose sometimes it would leave a few traces of itself hanging just above the water. Then as if the piece of fog would come to life it would begin to twirl like a dirt devil. As the fog “spirit” danced down the river it sort of made you look around to see if any one else was witnessing the same thing. It was one of those things where if in the company of others you would probably wait to see if someone else said something first.

I never saw a ‘river spirit or sprite “ in the presence of others but then I was seldom around people. Was it real or was it a haint ? Could it have been a figment of my imagination ? I know one thing for sure, they were fascinating to watch. Twirling, swirling, around and around, twisting up and down a few feet, then up into the warmer air to hide behind the sun.

Sometimes the sprites would twirl on down the river into deeper fog. That would be the last you would see of them. I don’t really know what caused them. I don’t know why I felt pockets of warm air when it was so cold. I had on a goretex rain jacket with the hood pulled tight over my Tilley hat. Over the rain outfit I had a full sized lifejacket. My upper body was warm but my shorts offered little protection for those skinny legs. I don’t know why when the sun was so hot and the foggy rain so cold. I don’t understand the cold air in the sunshine. None of it made sense and it kept my glasses fogged constantly. Not good.

I don’t know a lot about the river that’s for sure. I know I am drawn back. I can’t wait to go again. I think about camping and floating. I think about the fog and I wonder if it will be sunny or rainy the next time out. Like Alaska, the river gets into your blood and calls constantly. I keep thinking it must be the call of the wild. Or however we are supposed to explain those primeval urges built into our bones. Then on the other hand it could be the kicks provided by the adrenalin.

I have great memories of boating, fishing, water skiing and swimming on Lake Norfork and Lock 1 area of the White River as a kid.

Uh oh I think I see another off the river deal coming up…..

As a teenager I was drawn to a big sandbar below the dam at Batesville. That attraction might have had to do with another set of primeval urges and an altogether different set of jeans. Hormones and Levi’s with a little Budweiser thrown in might have had a little something to do with it. But all that was in a place far, far away, in a time long, long ago.

There it was, just below the dam, a big old sandbar with a few old cars, some big ice chests, a bunch of pretty pony tails, and the inevitable bonfire. Which all brings to mind the poetic essence of teenage America in 1963. A great American poet, Mr. J.P. Richardson, probably captured the eras’ primeval thought better than anyone before or after him. I’m not good at quoting poetry but here goes: “a wiggle in the walk, a giggle in the talk, that’s what made the world go round, ain’t nothing in the world like a big eyed girl, make you act so funny, make you spend your money, make you feel real loose like a long neck goose, aw baby you know what I like” .

Those sentiments must have been what drew us to the river in the days of American Graffiti. And yes, we all remember the day the music died. Rave on, Buddy, Big Bopper and my man Ritchie.