35 The friendly folks you meet in Cotter, Arkansas

35


Cotter’s Home Away from Home.
Saturday, July 21, 2007


First stop was to go by the White Sands Motel. The little motel by the Rainbow Bridge had become an inexpensive alternative to a commercial campground. When I called the Cotter campgrounds I just didn’t get the feeling they were interested in tent or hammock campers. The Cotter Trout Dock had been more than accommodating. They were not a campground, but they were kind enough to let me crash in their pavilion. I just didn’t feel like imposing on them again.

The motel charged varying prices according to how much occupancy they had. The rates went from the $45 dollar range down to $38 or so. The RV campground had wanted $25 for a tent site. I found the people at the White Sands to be more than nice and stuck with them. The motel is nothing fancy. It’s just an old roadside motel from back in the fifties. The new owners are trying to do some fix up. I’m sure it will take quiet an effort to catch up to the years of neglect. However, the little place has a special kind of togetherness funk going for it.

I loved visiting with the guests. I really enjoyed the slack times when people were coming in or getting ready to go out again. When you step outside your room, the parking lot is right there. The talking points are all lined up and waiting to be put into the water. I’m talking about the guests’ boats and pickups. In the mornings the people are out at the boats fiddling with gear. They’re getting the fishing outfits ready for the trip home or the day’s fishing. Others are standing outside their rooms smoking or just hanging out with a cup of coffee. There are wooden park benches outside each room and the people take full advantage of the fresh air. I talked to a lot of folks and found it took the little motel from a zero to a five star experience.

Warning: If you are going to pick fault with your room like I do when I’m on business travel, you’re not going to like the place. However, if you will take it for what it is and for what you are paying, and then throw in all the nice folks you get to talk to, I think we are looking at a bargain. I liked the place. I like the people. Hellava deal.

My next stop was to check in with the folks at the Cotter Trout Dock. I needed to make final arrangements on our shuttle deal. I was to put the canoe in at Cotter and travel to Norfork. I was asking any available guide advice on going up the Buffalo to camp. The consensus was that there were some fine camping sites along the river and it was a good idea. I intended to go up the Buffalo until I ran out of daylight or ran into shoals that would stop me. The idea was to float back down the following day doing a little small mouth bass fishing and checking out the scenery. Obviously the GPS would be running and I would get some mapping done as well. At that point I think our agreement was that they would pick me up in Calico Rock at Jenkin’s Boat Dock. I was to call Debbie when I was ready for the shuttle. As usual it didn’t work out as planned. But it worked out. One thing is for sure on the river. One way or another things work out. And a bad day on the river is still better than a great day in the city.

My next stop was KT’s Bar B Q. I couldn’t wait to tear into another of their pulled pork sandwiches. They do it right with slaw on the sandwich and hot sauce on the table. I filled slap up. Great baked beans. They were better than mine and probably some of the finest beans I have ever eaten. Try KT’s if you ever get to Gassville.


Chapter Three

The New Supreme

After supper, I came back to the motel. I wanted to park in front of my door so I could unload the expensive gear into the safety of the hotel room. I had to circle the little car and trailer around in a tight parking lot. It took a little maneuvering but the rig fit perfectly in the little space. I began to carry all my gear into the room. The boat was literally five feet from my door. That would be another amazing attribute of the White Sands. You couldn’t do that at the Swissotel of Chicago. When I finished I moved the rig over away from the door so other people could park near their rooms as was intended. When I finally had the rig parked, a couple of fellows drove up with a brand spanking new 20-foot Supreme fiberglass jon boat. They were pulling it with a huge, super-long pick-up truck. They were really going to need a super-long parking spot and, uh oh, guess who had the only one available in the little parking lot. Yup.

So for the third time in 30 minutes, I pulled around in the tight circle and eased her back in front of my door. The two men said their room was next to mine and it would only be blocking our two rooms so no problem. These two fellows were my introduction to the talking hotel guests of White Sands. I know that must sound funny to people, especially those who were raised in a small town like I was. But after having lived in big cities for so many years, I am just not used to people striking up conversations and, well, just being neighborly. That’s sad isn’t it? When we got everything parked, I asked to look at their boat. It was a beauty. She was twenty feet, six inches of fiberglass sweetness. The boat had the classic “river guides” look of the long, wide jon boat. However instead of river green color, she had a great sleek-looking paint job consisting of nice bright colors with a blue trim. The White River guides were the first boats I have ever seen with this look and style. I am told it goes back to the days of having to pole up the river. The old river men needed something long and narrow so they could walk the pole up the boat especially when going over the many shoals offered by the White.

The two men were father and son. The older fellow looked to be in his early sixties and the son looked to be in his thirties. They were from Ardmore, Oklahoma and had been coming to Cotter since the younger man was 5 years old. Now they were buying a boat together and would continue on in this lifelong pursuit of the monster trout.

The fellows said they bought the boat from a local dealer in Gassville. I would later learn it was Dave of Dave’s Boats. They said the boats would be going up by some $1500 bucks next year and that prompted them to buy one. This was a deluxe model with all sorts of live wells, a bilge pump, trolling motor wiring and many other gizmos. The guys were super proud of their new fishing partner. The boat cost them around $6600 smackers and they felt it was a bargain.

I was told the Supreme line of boats were being made in a small cinder-block building just across the river from the White Sands. The building was the same one Forest Woods started his Ranger Boats in many years ago. I don’t know anything about them other than when you stop by, the guys working there are all very nice and will give you directions and all that neighborly stuff.

The new boat owners had traded around back in Ardmore and come up with a 25 Yamaha to power the boat. They said it was far more than the boat needed since the boat rode over the water so easily. The boat was comfortable looking with the four-legged cushioned chairs and all the built in equipment. The father and son are going to really enjoy their last ten or fifteen active years together. I can’t think of a better investment for a father-son relationship. The son said he builds airboats for use on the Red River but had wanted a White River guide boat since he was a child fishing with his dad. Now he had one. I don’t know who was prouder, the father or the son.

Later that evening I went down to the river to fish. I decided to try the point between the trout dock and the boat ramp. I wasn’t the only one with that idea. There were a couple more fellows with the same plan. At first I sent out a yellow Mepps of some sort. I still don’t know the names of the various lures. I was told the trout around Cotter are interested in yellow bait no matter what you’re casting. Something about them being fed corn as puppies.

I tried casting for a few minutes but kept getting hung up on rocks and grass. I wasn’t getting any bites and the two fellows on both sides of me were catching small trout. I asked what they were using. They were both fishing on the bottom with a White River rig. The fishermen were both using corn and power bait. They didn’t know each other but both were locals and knew the routine. I tried a different lure, lost it and left at dark with the knowledge that I hadn’t a clue what I was doing. I decided to go back to my room and try to set up a White River rig for the next day’s float.

Chapter Four

Here’s Fog in your Eye.

The next morning I woke up to a dense fog rising from the river. My room looked out onto a patch of woods growing from atop the river bluff below. The motel is just above the railroad tracks as they line up to cross the bridge. The automobile bridge, known as the Rainbow Bridge, was actually at the end of the motel parking lot. The river wasn’t visible from the motel even though it was less than two hundred yards below the hotel location. The fog was high up in the air directly over the river. By now I know enough about the river to ascertain cold water was flowing from the dam thereby creating the fog over the river. At first I thought the fog would delay my start due to lack of camera visibility. I was there with a vow to bring back pictures this time.

I made a teapot of hot water with the little Coleman stove. I went outside to sit on the bench and enjoy a leisurely cup of joe. But before I could actually sit down, I realized I might have a chance to shoot some neat fog shots from the bridge. Coffee mug in one hand and camera in the other, away I went doing what I do best, searching for pictures. I was able to snap a few quick shots from the middle of the bridge as the fog began to rise. Then the railroad bridge looked really tempting so I grabbed a few there.

After an all too brief shoot, the fog had lifted to the point that the scene lost it’s magic. I went back to the room noticing as I went that the fog was drifting downstream with the cold water. As the volume of cold water released from the dam swept down stream, so did the fog. The normal temperature river didn’t create the fog, only the estimated twenty-degree difference in temperature could do it. Amazing stuff. If you look at one of the pictures posted on the blog, the fog is rising from the riverbed just down stream from the Trout Dock’s little marina. When I saw that I finally understood how the cold water creates the fog by contrasting with the hot air. As the cold water passes and goes on downstream, the fog rise follows the cold water down stream. When the fog dissipates, apparently it means the batch of coldwater has moved on. If my theory is correct the fog should stay away until the next time the dam lets out more water.

When I got back to the motel I knew it was time to pack the boat and move toward the river. For some reason it takes me an hour or so to load and rig the little boat for running. As I brought everything out of the motel room and loaded it into the boat, I noticed several people were starting to come out of their rooms coffee cups in hand.

The family from Greenbrier……more conversations.

One attractive lady was from nearby Conway. She said her family, several brothers, sisters, nieces and nephews, were there with her. She told me her father had brought these same folks up to Cotter thirty years ago back when they were kids. Dad was gone but the tradition was still intact. It was kind of funny, later I would overhear middle-aged brothers and sisters having a good-natured argument about who made off with the last of the fried pies the previous night. When my grandmother made them I think she probably heard some of those same arguments.

This family sported Corvettes and some other very nice cars. They were talking about leaving Cotter and heading down to Gulf Shores on the Alabama coast. Sounded to me like they had all done well and were enjoying life. I guess the White Sands definitely has more going for it than budget pricing and funky fifties décor.

I finished rigging the canoe and loaded the motor into the back of the little HHR. The folks at the front desk were friendly and I decided I would use the White Sands on my return trip. The room, with coffee maker and shower, had been just fifteen dollars more than a campsite. They even had a little pool where the motel guests and their families had played the previous evening. They couldn’t have had more fun if they were in a fancy roof top pool in Chicago or Houston.

The couple from Kansas…….chatting again.

As I was placing the little Mercury in the HHR, another of my motel neighbors popped out of their room. They were a married couple from Lawrence, Kansas. They immediately got busy loading kayaks and mountain bikes onto their Toyota. The room must have been a little crowded with all that gear and the people as well. I had my car radio on fairly low and it was tuned to one of the XM jazz stations. The man from Kansas came over and wanted to talk music. He was wearing a Lead Zeppelin T-shirt. He was a part-time guitarist who played in some local bands back in Kansas. He worked for a big corporation in a printing plant and had done so for twenty years. He said the corporate culture was getting to be too much for him. He was trying to figure a way out. His wife had recently quit the plant scene by attending college and graduating. Now she was off to a new career and was making more money than ever before. He was still figuring out what he was going to do. One thing seemed for sure, he had had enough of working for the man’s time card. I encouraged the independent streak yet wondered if he was ready for the freedom and its prices. Not everyone is suited to working independently. Apparently, I was never meant to work in a structured, corporate, politically correct environment. I am beginning to believe there is a streak of independence that must come from drinking mountain water when very young. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Like it or not. Right or wrong.

The couple loaded up and were on their way for a little more vacation time before they had to get back to work in Kansas. I wished them luck and cranked up the little wagon. The Cotter Trout Dock was less than a mile down the hill and actually almost directly under the Rainbow Bridge. Soon I was bouncing my little boat and trailer over the rough, and I mean rough, railroad tracks entering the Cotter Park. Then we were at the Game and Fish Ramp and ready to launch the canoe. The fog had lifted. The water was at a medium height. Perfect for floating and fishing without a care in the world. I was feeling great. Quite a different situation from the last time I put in for a venture down the White. No butterflies this time, only righteous expectations. The water was so clear, one foot in depth looked like four inches. The water was cold but not near as cold as last time. At least this time, it didn’t hurt my toes to stand in it.

I was ready. I put the boat in and motored over to the Trout Dock’s little bay. I pulled her up on shore and went in to howdy the folks. Ron and Debbie were there. Debbie fussed at me because I had arrived late. I missed the guide who was going to give me my briefing on the lower Buffalo. I intended to spend the night on one of the gravel bars, so it would have been smart for me to visit with the gent. Whoops, this trip pictures were a priority. I would have to get along with whatever information I could pick up on the river. But I was satisfied in having photographed the foggy river. I guess I ought to fess up. The picture-making opportunity had caused me to completely forget to meet him. Ron said the water was dropping fairly fast. That was my briefing for the day.

36 Blue Nose and the Buffalo

36       Buffalo National River, Arkansas

June, 08

Three days after John Wong and I were on Big Cypress Bayou, I was back on the Ozark Plateau. This time I would test the big canoe on the Buffalo. We had floated and paddled from Baker’s Ford to Maumee North. My curiosity was killing me. I had to see what the two big floods had done to the river. This time I would try to complete the trip by putting in at Maumee North and ending up on the White at Buffalo City. That meant I would have completed a total of sixty some odd miles or the lower half of the river. That’s exactly what Old Blue Nose and I did the first week of June.

The river was not as crowded with canoe day-trippers as I had expected. I only saw three or four overnight parties during this 40 odd mile leg. I was surprised.

Unfortunately, I let my fear of the unknown rule my trip once again and hurried down most of the route on the first day. My concern was the river was dropping at a much faster rate than I had anticipated. I was worried I would get the heavy boat and motor in a situation that would cast me into a place where I would become a man of constant shallows akin to the man of constant sorrows. I did not want to be pushing that big son of a gun down a river without water.

A veteran guide had warned me of dropping river levels. He told me he had broken every fly and tent pole he owned trying to move his commissary canoe down the river. His ordeal ended only when he was able to get to a place near a road and walk out for help. He said he would have been there till fall if he left it up to Mother Nature.

The Highway Fourteen Bridge was supposed to be at three feet and eight inches that morning. By the time I made it from Maumee north, it had dropped to three feet. I was concerned at the speed she was dropping so I motored on way past my intended campsite near Cold Springs. The camp would have put me about half way to the White.

At five p.m. I stopped for the night across from Spencer’s Bluff some eight miles from the confluence. The water seemed to be holding up and I felt like I was close enough.

I enjoyed the help of the little Mercury six. We made about thirty miles that day. Which was way more than I paddled during those three shortened days in January. I was able to see the scenery but not shoot as well as I hoped due to some motor problems.

I was using my little G-9 Canon which required one to look at the digital viewfinder on the back. Here is the procedure: park sunglasses, hold tiller, get camera out of water proof case, turn camera on, line up view finder, oops that bluff has already gone by the way side.

The gravel bar was a good camping spot. After a supper of Dinty Moore, Chicken and Dumplings followed by green Jello embedded with fruit of some sort I was able to do a little fishing. Yes, actually doing what I came to do rather than fiddling with gear or cameras.

The Fishing Saga continues with little improvement. My membership in the “Brotherhood of the Fin, a Piscatorial Society” is tenuous at best. I have yet to earn my fresh water stripes, and I know some old angler somewhere is keeping a tally book.

But tonight I would set all things right. On my first cast my little colorful crawdad “wanna be” tangled all of his hooks onto the line and swam so weird I know he scared off any potential biggies. On the second cast, the little guy swam back perfectly and I started to feel a little confidence in my newly found fishing abilities. On the third cast, the end section of my rod sailed almost across the little hole I was fishing. I was dumb stuck. That was a new technique. What was I trying to do, club the little fishies in the head with the rod tip? I reeled the spinning rig back in and put it all back together. This cast, I was feeling a little chastised and threw out what I thought would be a long cast. The little fake crawdaddie created a big splash about ten feet from my feet. Before it could sink an inch, something grabbed it with a big old splash and took off half way across the narrow stream. Again I was as surprised as the young smallie contested my ownership of the little plastic mudbug.

He jumped and tail-walked like he thought he was a ferocious Boca Grande tarpon. Hell, as far as I was concerned, he could have been a great snook in Captiva Pass. He fought a little while and I played it for all I could get. It didn’t take long for the young fellow to come to heel so I could get him unhooked. At that point it was like he was a patient waiting for me to take care of his ailment. As soon as I got the hook out he was ready to rock and roll again. I let him down into the water and watched as he swam away just a little way. He tried to hide behind my foot so I scooted him into the deeper water and away he went.

I put the spinning rig up as the shadows grew across the gravel bar. That was all I needed. I was satisfied.

The camping set up was sparse since I really didn’t want to set a rain fly or a tent. It was hot and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. I threw my new “big man’s” cot out near my soon-to-be fire.

Since the Caddo Lake near heat stroke, I had decided to bring only a sheet and blanket. I built my fire and sat around watching night over take the big bluff. I thoroughly enjoyed the night chorus by Mr. Bull and the Frogs as well as their back-up group, the chick-ah-dees in the trees.

As the fire burned down, I began to notice moisture on my bedding and equipment. I thought it must be heavy dew coming in. Soon I saw the culprit. A deep fog drifted down the river and enveloped my little gravel beach. When I got into the bed, my pillow and top blanket were almost saturated from the dew and fog. The fog grew so heavy, eventually I had to get out of bed and find a Kelty tarp to pull over my bedclothes as if it were an additional blanket. That worked.

The next morning I was amazed at how wet everything was yet the fog lay barely twenty feet deep above the river. I drank coffee as the sun rose and enjoyed the river critters’ good morning chatter.

As soon as the fog allowed enough visibility for safe travel, I shoved off. The rest of the trip was uneventful, yet absolutely beautiful. The little motor trolled me down the river ever so quietly. On two occasions I surprised big does. I saw close range coons, wading birds and a Bald Eagle let me drive within 50 feet of its fallen snag perch. He never did fly, just watched me go by.

Soon, I was in wider water. I kept testing the waters temperature with my hand. I was trying to see if the White was backing up into the Buffalo. Before I knew it, I was turning into a swollen White river. It looked as if there were at least seven gates generating. I knew from the GPS I could do ten miles per hour unloaded with one passenger but no current. What worried me was what would the little six do against a strong 7 mph current in a big river. Do the math. It did what it should have, three miles per hour.

At first, it felt as if I were going backward. But then I was able to ferry to the far side and catch a little bit of relief from the current. It wasn’t far to Buffalo City, but I haven’t a clue how anyone could paddle upstream against that current. Joe Hipp said he had to do it years ago but would never want to try it again. I believe him.

After the shuttle brought my truck, yes I bought a new GMC Sierra and had a neat Leer shell put on the back, I drove to Cotter.

#24 A mountain river tide ?

On the Beach, Norfork, Arkansas


So what was I to do? The water was still dropping in the White. But the North Fork was putting out a strong current. I had only limited experience with Norfork Dam so I didn’t have any idea as to how long they would keep generating. When I turned into the North Fork to make my run up onto the gravel ramp, the current pushed the little boat back toward the White. I had to use a lot more throttle than expected just to keep my course.

The wide gravel beach that had once been the launching ramp for the area was now secondary. It had been replaced by a new handicap-equipped, concrete ramp with handrails and a wheelchair swing. But it looked like most people were continuing to use the old method of backing down the gravel riverbank. I guess it was easier to turn around than in the new high dollar ramp. The folks who came to the “beach” to fish were able to find parking just a few feet from where they were fishing.

The ramp was located at the confluence of the two rivers. The water from the North Fork is extremely cold since it is only five miles or so from the dam release point. I understand from some of the locals that the Game and Fish Commission stocks this location fairly often. Needless to say we are in the heart of some of the finest trout fishing in the entire world. The “beach” is a favored fishing spot for the local folks who want to wade, fish from the bank or put their boats in the river.

When both the White and the North Fork were down, the fly fishermen could wade and fish from the mouth as if it were dry land. People were casting the White from the confluence shallows as if they were in a boat. The fish that were used to traveling back and forth from one river to the other now had to pass within feet of these fishermen. On this Sunday night, fishing was good and there seemed to be a lot of young couples. I had assumed trout fishing was a male thing. I was wrong big time. There were ladies with and without male companions. They knew what they were doing and were more than keeping up with their male counterparts.

I thought this couple togetherness has to be a good thing. Young couples starting out fishing together in a wonderful setting. Good traditions will make good people. Good people will make good families. Good families make good children. Good children make good adults. Good grown-ups make a good nation. It’s a cycle that should be promoted rather than degraded by Hollyweird.

Fly fishermen next to the spinning rigs, next to the bass reel cats, it just didn’t matter here where the line hits the water, all were in harmony with the day. The sun sank and the day ended that way. The little canoe was pulled up as high on the bank as I could get it. The anchor was set out nearly twenty feet up hill. I had one of those el cheapo folding chairs and kicked back to enjoy the late afternoon light. I decided to drink a cold bottle of water and shoot a picture or two as the sun descended on what had been a beautiful day.

After I got a few river at sunset shots, I put the camera gear away. As I fiddled with the boat storage bags, a couple drove up and parked near where I was working. When they got out they carried pizza boxes instead of fishing rods. Hmm. Now this is a different approach. I got my cold water and sat back down in the shade. It was still hotter than a firecracker. The two of them came to within a few feet of where I was sitting and sat down on the grass. They were going to have their pizza picnic next to the river.

The man was a big old boy, way bigger than me. I figured he was over six-four and pushed three hundred. The woman was about his age both somewhere in their thirties. They were both very outgoing. She said she was from Chicago but I don’t think I ever caught where he grew up. They asked if I would like a piece of pizza. When they opened the two big boxes the smell swept over me like Napoli’s back in Garland. Before we were through I had eaten three slices of the pie. I had no idea I was so hungry. I had plenty of food in the can. I had planned on heating up some Dinty Moore beef stew in a few minutes. This was some of the best darned pizza I had ever eaten. The couple said it was from some little shop near the bridge in Cotter. I asked if it was a pizza joint and they said no it was something else like a hamburger stand. You never know the talents of a tiny community till you stop.

The couple began to tell me their story. They wanted to start a shuttle business and were visiting Norfork and trying to work up a little business. I would have used them had I not known about Cotter Trout Dock beforehand. The man, David Wells, was an injured railroad construction workman. My great-grandfather had been a section foreman on the L & N in Tennessee. We spoke of gandy dancers and my Irish side’s four-generation railroad history. The two of them had fallen in love with these hills and this river. They bought a little place way back in the hills. The place had no electricity but they were working on it. They really loved the way they were living and you could see they felt there was a future in the float fishermen. I did too. I encouraged them to stay at it by visiting all the outfitters and asking to subcontract out some of the shuttle work.

Here was another case of people who wanted to make a life for themselves away from the corporate world. David apparently did not enjoy what he was doing and his wife just wanted the independent life of working for herself. As they finished their pizza and got ready to leave, I thanked them and told them to keep after it. I told them if they believed in their dream enough and worked hard it would happen. I sincerely hope they get to live the life they have chosen. They seemed like a nice couple.

After the folks left I kept thinking of Jon Fogerty’s line about “people on the river are happy to give, big wheel keep on turning, Proud Mary keep on burning, rollin, rollin on the river.” Don’t forget the little canoe is named after the fictitious or real steam boat in the same Fogerty song. I know a lot of you young whippersnappers think “Proud Mary” is a Tina Turner song. The reason your ten-year music generation thinks that is because Tina Turner sang it in a way that made it a signature song for her as well as Credence Clearwater Revival. Some singers can do that every now and again but only Patsy Cline could do it every time.

When I say ten-year music generation I might be a little off. It could be fifteen-year generations. My theory is that most people really listen to new music for only a few years of their lives. I don’t mean to confuse a human generation with what I call a music generation. For example, had you been in Junior High in 1964 when the Beatles made it big,you would have been somewhere in the neighborhood of twelve to fifteen years of age. I would assume you would have followed the music and other popular tunes of an era spanning about fifteen years. Let’s say twelve plus fifteen, that would put you right into twenty-seven to thirty age range. Now what are young adults that age typically doing with their lives? Babies and careers leave very little time for new music appreciation. People begin to lose interest in new music and start to settle into a special interest genre. They begin to turn off top forty and hunt for stations that cater to their established preferential palates. Now we have a serious anthropological reason for satellite radio to succeed. That is exactly what Sirius and XM are offering. “Your” music on demand no matter who you are or what you enjoy.
The sunset had been nothing less than spectacular. As I sat in my little folding chair, I watched the old sun ball drop into the river. The water turned a bright gold more like a bright yellow. As the sun sunk deeper into the horizon the water turned a darker gold and finally the light show ended with an orange river. Then she was gone till the morning. Neat huh?

34 Finally Guion and a nice surprise

Chapter 34

Guion and a Surprise Welcome.

As I came around the last bend before reaching the old Guion Ferry, I saw the big bridge. I don’t know why it surprised me. I had heard about the closing of the ferry and the new bridge years ago. I guess I just wasn’t expecting it to be so tall. About the time I was ruminating over the bridge the motor quit. It didn’t take me long to figure out I was out of gas. The river was moving along nicely so I decided it would be easier to paddle than dig out the spare gas can and fill up in the middle of the river. It is a pain to turn around and fill the tank that is accessed from the top of the motor. Given the fact that the motor is almost head high and beside me the choice to paddle a half mile with the current was not a hard one.

As I closed in on what was the old highway leading into the river I saw a strange growth in the river. I don’t know what the river plants were but it was very thick, both at the Guion ramp and at Sylamore as well. I figured something foreign seems to be feeding on fertilizer run off or some other non-indigenous food source. I wonder why, in the ninety-two mile run, I saw this growth at two people-access areas and nowhere else. Hmmm. Whatever the stuff is, it is thick enough to choke a motor if you stay in it very long. Not good. I sure hope it’s not one of those fast growing oxygen choking, fish killers they have out west. That would be bad news for the fish not to mention the health of the river.

As I got close to the ramp, I was surprised to see my car and trailer. I had been told the shuttle would not be available until three p.m. and it was just now approaching one. As I paddled through the underwater weed jungle to the ramp, I saw a man talking to a couple under a big old shade tree. When he saw me he came to the river’s edge and asked if he could help pull the boat up. He introduced himself as my shuttle driver and offered me the keys to the car. I was glad to see him. It was hot and I was at the end of my little odyssey. I took the keys and headed to the car. I spotted priority number one just past my car. The port-a-potties were always a welcome sight after a few hours on the water.

As I passed my car I noticed the couple standing near a pick-up and jon boat rig. They were cooling it in the shade and looked relaxed. I “howdied” and they “howdied” back. I asked them where they were from and they said Batesville. I said, “Really, what’s your name?” The man said “Hughes.” I asked, “Which Hughes would you be?” He said “Jim.” I said, “Aw crap Jimmy, I’m Johnny Boykin, Bubba’s boy.” They had lived two doors from my father’s house when I was a teenager and on into my college years.

We got a big kick out of not recognizing each other and naturally we had a little catching up to do. I asked Jimmy if he had been my first boss. I remembered him from my short career as a newspaper carrier at the Batesville Daily Guard. He said no, that was someone else but that he had worked in the pressroom for fifty years before retiring. We talked about my trying to learn to write and how I would like to emulate his old editor Paul Buchanan. Jimmy still had as much respect for Mr. Buchanan’s talents as my family did. The guy was a great editorial and satirical writer. He could have gone to any newspaper in the world and been a honcho, no doubt in my mind.

I don’t know much about the newspaper now, as I haven’t seen the paper in fifteen years. But I can tell you from the fifties through the eighties, the paper was one of the finest small town newspapers in existence. I know it sounds like I am partial to my hometown paper, but it was good as a source of local and world news. We didn’t have to filter the writing to get past the reporter’s agenda like today. I remember good coverage from the wires as well as the latest gossip from Pine Hill and other surrounding communities. They reported the news the way it was, not the way the reporter wanted it to be. That would have cost them a career back in the better days of journalism. I still think twisting the news is a crime against the public.

I minored in journalism in college and at one time or another, have subscribed to some of the biggest and supposed top dailies in the country. When I lived in D.C. I read the Washington Post front to back on a daily basis. When I lived in Alabama I subscribed to the Wall Street Journal. When in L.A., I read the Times. I am now a subscriber to the Dallas Morning News. I read and enjoy newspapers even if I don’t agree with 95% of the opinions I find in the supposed factual stories. The Batesville Daily Guard was among the best I’ve ever read and the paper I use as a yardstick to judge all others.

Oops there I go again, now back to the Hughes family. Jimmy and his wife both commented on how much I looked like my dad, Bubba. I hear it a lot and don’t mind it a bit. Bubba Boykin was a special guy and,
like the Guard, he was one I looked up to.

I chatted with the Hughes folks for a bit and went back to the river to unload the canoe and get it onto the trailer. It was getting late and I wasn’t sure if I would stay in Arkansas or drive home to Dallas that night. As I was going about my chores Jimmy asked if I needed any help. I told him no thanks and they told me good-bye and left for their scenic drive back to Batesville.

I thought how nice it was for them to offer me assistance and wasn’t that just so normal for these hills. Unfortunately we don’t see that same kind of serious empathy for others when living in the ninth largest city in the country. Everybody’s just too darned busy trying to survive.

The shuttle man from the Cotter Trout Dock turned out to be a great guy and we had a super conversation on the way back to Cotter. We had a leisurely, scenic drive through the hills. In a short time we reached Cotter and the Trout Dock. There were a few folks gathered and we visited for a little while, but I was hungry as well as tired.

About that time it dawned on me that it was too late for someone in my worn out condition to begin a four hundred and fifty mile drive. I excused myself after paying for the shuttle and headed up to my new home away from home, the White Sands Motel. It looks like a no-tell motel but it is definitely a fisherman’s paradise.

I showered and drove to KT’s Bar-B-Q for one more taste of that fine pulled pork and baked beans. Back at the motel, I made a few notes and repaired some equipment.

I asked the motel owner if she would look on the Internet for Steel, Arkansas or Missouri. So I could maybe find one of those little motorboats.

I brought the gear into the room and was soon sound asleep. The next morning would be soon enough to deal with my main equipment problem. The little bitty boat in a great big river was a problem that had to be solved before I wore out my posterior.

The next morning I made coffee in the room and packed the car and canoe for the drive back to Dallas. Around seven, I pulled out of the parking lot onto the Rainbow Bridge. Just the other side of the river I came to the little shop where they build the Premier John boats. As I mentioned, I had heard it was the Ranger bass boats original shop as well. There were a few of the workman standing in front of the shop as if on break. The building is right on the highway with very little space for a parking lot so it was easy to stop roadside and chat with the guys.

I wanted to know where I could find one of those little pirogue or canoe-looking little boats. The guys at Premier all knew exactly what I was talking about and told me their dealer in the Cotter area sold a version of the boat. They told me his place was only a couple of miles away. There I should see a good selection of the boats. I turned the car and trailer around and went back to Dave’s Boat Sales in Gassville. The place was closed but it was easy enough to walk in and look around. Serious tire kicking should always be done without a salesman around. Shopping for man toys is just a lot more fun without the hot breath on your neck.

The absent Dave had several of the boats and they were called River Hawks. He had dorys as well as the Premier Jon Boat line and a few other types of river runners. Dave was selling riverboats. He didn’t have a lot of big lake boats or barges he was a highly specialized outfit. It was a small place but I was impressed with how his inventory fit his market. Later when I met Dave I would be even more impressed with the man himself.

I left Gassville and headed for Dallas. The time of day was a good one to be traveling through the Ozarks in the heat of summer. Cool air and easy driving with very little traffic was the order of the morning. By the time I had reached the relative flat lands of Conway I had decided I would really like to trade up to the little boat with the hard chine and the big wide seats. I called Dave at his dealership and asked about the River Hawks. Dave told me he was selling his business and was trying to reduce the inventory as fast as possible. He would be happy to give me a deal on the boat. Dave quoted me a price that was less than half of the “sales tag” I had seen on the boats. I took him up on it and told him which one I wanted. I ask him if I could send him a check from Dallas when I got home and he was happy to do it. I had bought myself a River Hawk. Now I would have to upgrade my little motor to accommodate the beamier, heavier boat. What I didn’t realize was the boat was the bait. The motor would cost me almost four times what the boat did. Oh well. Another lesson in life I guess.

This time I was going home with a little more confidence in my equipment and my self. I had learned a good deal more about the ways of the river. I weathered more than ninety-two miles of river ranging from raging torrent to mild- mannered swimming hole. I felt the cold rain and dodged its lightening bolts. I sweated through the heat of a deep south summer and endured shadeless travel. I picked up seat time affording me the experience I so badly needed. I was now much more comfortable with the river and the equipment. I didn’t know how badly I needed to get back in tune with the ways of the river and the hills. I was still a long way from being completely relaxed, but I was making progress. The outdoor instinct was coming back, little by little. Reading the water had become my major challenge and it would take more time, but at least I had a start on it.

At this point mapping the rivers had become the goal, but getting myself down rivers safely had become the challenge. On this trip home I decided I would like to do more than just the White. Maybe it was because I was feeling a little over confident due to having purchased the River Hawk and the stability. I wanted to go around more bends just to see what was there. I wanted to spend more nights under the stars. I was on my way to Texas, but my head and heart were now racing ahead of me onto rivers I had never seen.

Next little story will be centered on the North Fork of the White River. Hint….as I write, it is December and we have hit this little river twice. I have completed a total of six miles in my two attempts at what should have been thirty or so miles. So be sure and tune in for the story of the new boat that became a used boat very quickly. Here’s a hint. It was a rocky start, rapidly declining into a long drink of cold water. I know, I know what you’re thinking and I know who you are…argh. It’s not nice to make fun.

32 The river changes, wider, shallower, slower, warmer.

Chapter 32

Smooth, Wide, Warm and Shallow, All the Way to Sylamore.

Testing products on this trip gave me an opportunity to decide what belonged in the boat. It’s my opinion that some outdoor products are better suited for different situations. I am going to speak to how these products performed in this float fishing scenario only.

My drip coffee plastic filter holder is a Melitta #2. The little dripper worked super and would make a great couple of cups before getting too clogged up for the third to drain through properly.

Note: I lost the darned thing and now can’t find another one. This is a great little product and takes up very little space. I’ll keep looking for a replacement.

The coffee is always from Community Coffee. My choice is usually dark roast or chicory-flavored New Orleans blend. Most people don’t care for the slightly acrid taste, but I grew up drinking chicory coffee so I really don’t notice it.

I have given up on carrying a lantern. It is just too much hassle to worry about propane wicks and additional canisters of gas. Then there is the problem breaking the lantern glass. So now I have adapted to lightweight LED headlight. The one I am using right now is a Princeton Tec. It is comfortable and puts out plenty of light for working around a campsite. It’s not going to throw a big beam but neither does the lantern it replaces. I am happy with the price as well. The TEC is very easy on the batteries. Before Chris Leavitt and I started out on the first trip to Calico, I picked up a second one for back up. This time I paid less than fifteen bucks at Lowes. I haven’t tried the cheaper unit yet and I don’t know who made it, but at that price it should work out.

As I putt-putt down the river, I am enjoying the view and the day. I don’t know why these type situations trigger old songs running through my head. They are always old, old songs and usually triggered by a memory from the era the song comes from. The song and the memory may or may not have any thing to do with each other, but they are usually from the same time period. As the boat approaches Sylamore, I guess my subconscious drifted back to when I had grown up in a neighboring town and traveled through the area.
Here’s an observation from a guy who has seen many moon rises. When I was young I daydreamed a lot. I always dreamed of what if and why nots. Now that I am in my fall season, I daydream more not less but now the dreams are memories of what was and when.

In any case something triggered a 1962 or 63 song by a fellow by the name of Bruce Channel. As sixteen and seventeen-year-olds we had a bad habit. We smoked cigarettes. Before school, four or five of us would sit in my old Chevy and smoke one right after another until the bell rang. In cold weather the windows would be rolled up for warmth. The radio would be blasting from its little tiny speaker and we would be singing our off-keyed teenage hearts out.

We could make the guitar noises or do the doo-wop you name it. The smoky places mentioned in the song was that old fifty-three Chevy. Little did I know I would float down the North Fork with one of those same smokers, Mike Hill, some 45 years later.

In 1963, I never dreamed I would be introduced to Mr. Channel at a cocktail party in 1988 Nashville. It seems he went on to become a big time country music producer in the Music City. I was a big fan and was thrilled at having the chance to meet Bruce. He was gracious to a fault and seemed actually flattered that anyone would remember his one-hit wonder. In my mind that one hit was the best sing-along song in history. I heard Bruce had passed away this year. I’m glad I made him smile that one opportunity I had.

Hey, Hey yea, baby I wanna know oo if you’ll be my girl.

When I see you walking down the street I say that’s the kind of girl I’d love to meet.

Lawd she’s pretty, Lawd she’s fine, I’d like to make her mine all mine.

Hey, Hey yea, baby I wanna know oo if you’ll be my girl.

Hell of a song Bruce, God Bless you and thanks for the great harmonizing memories from a smoky, old four-door Chevy. I guess it was as close to a hillbilly doo-wop as we ever got. Thanks for the memory Mike Hill, Jackie Thomas, Virgil Anderson, Harris, Bickers and the rest of you cats.

Yes, we named cars then. I’m not sure who named my old Chevy with my football nickname but I think it was Bobby Bickers. Mr. Boothby painted the name on the truck and from that time on the old car had a name. I have to admit I got the idea after two JD’s kept cruising thru the lower high school parking lot. They were driving a black 49 Ford. Someone had used white paint to letter the words “Black Bastard” across the back of their trunk.

Now that was impressive to a sixteen-year-old just back from a year in military school where freedom is just another word you’ll never get to experience. I knew I wouldn’t get away with that sort of vulgarity at our house, but I liked the shock value just the same.

Sylamore was a big creek with a huge bridge crossing over it right next to the confluence. I wanted to travel up the creek a ways, because years ago it had a great reputation as a small mouth haven. I later learned, I could have motored up the creek just a couple hundred yards and been right at the doorstep of the Sylamore Campground. Next time I’m in the area I will check it out.

Where the Sylamore Creek dumps into the White River, the Arkansas Game and Fish Commission built access ramps on both sides of the river. There was a port-a-potty at the ramp on river right just across the creek from the Angler’s Trout Dock and Lodge. I bought a couple of bottles of ice cold water and a snack. Nice folks run this guide-oriented lodge and dock. They have committed to offering a shuttle service if you give them enough notice.

This is a good pit stop, as far as I saw, one of the few places to take on gasoline as well as ice and other supplies for the float trip. The campground might be just the right place to stop. Especially if you would like a good shower and a little more creature comforts than the ledge at Mt. Olive.

As I pulled into the Angler’s dock, one of the guides and the dockhand tried to help me secure my canoe to the dock. Being a novice canoe parker, I misguided the boat. Thank goodness the fellows on the dock kept me from crushing my new Loomis Crappie rod. It was sticking out in the front of the boat and I ran it into some sort of machine on the dock. The Loomis bent, warped and even did a little recoil dance but didn’t break. Man was I glad. Those things are not cheap.

I spoke to a couple of the Loomis sales reps at the Denver Fly Fishing Retailer’s Trade Show, expressing how pleased I was with the durability of the long rod. One of the fellows told me about an express exchange program they have for people who break the Loomis rods. The company will ship you one to fish with no matter where you are. I’m not sure how it works, but I think they are giving you a loaner until yours is repaired. But I would check that out before putting too much stock in it.

Next up: FISHING AT LAST

31 More ramblings from Mount Olive

Chapter 31 More Ramblings from Mount Olive

Developers, Lonesome Dogs, Wild Skies and Wal-Mart Fall Apart.

It was still light and there had been an older couple with a young girl across the river in front of a house. They were fishing while the child was playing and shouting gleefully to her, I guessed, grandparents. When it started to get a little late they packed up and left. I was surprised because I thought the house was their home. They had parked in the driveway and walked down to the river as if they lived there. I might have been busy and not noticed they had not gone into the house when they arrived. I just assumed they belonged there.

One of my cruiser visitors explained the houses on the island were built as first and second homes. I don’t know how true his story was but it made sense of the dark house. The problem, he explained, was the new owners didn’t know the history of the island. They did not follow the real estate practice of caveat emptor. He said the unsuspecting folks were taken to the cleaners by a shifty developer. For some reason the real estate promoter told the potential buyers that the island was higher than a one hundred year flood. Two years after the houses were built, a normal rainy-year flood came along and damaged every one of the houses. It seems in the hills or the city there are few sales pitches one can believe. All else requires a lot of research, especially when it comes to real estate developers. The man with the rumor told me the house across from us had been damaged in the flood. The house had been moved off its foundation and therefore was unlivable. Sounded just like the deal Amy and I got into in Colorado.

When the little girl and her “grandparents” left, something happened I still wonder about. A scruffy looking dog showed up and started scratching at the back door. There were no cars at the house and, according to the story, I wouldn’t expect any but the dog was convinced someone should be there to let him in. He kept scratching the back door. Finally, I got busy with something and forgot all about him. Every once in a while I would hear him or her whine or scratch and try to locate him in the fading light. Then I heard a loud thump and could no longer see the little fellow. I finally figured out there was a child’s gate guarding the front steps leading up to the front porch. The dog had climbed or jumped the gate and was now up on the deck scratching on the front door. He stayed up there all night and no one ever showed up. I don’t know if he was still on the deck when I left the next morning, but that was the last I saw of him. I still wonder how the little guy came out.

I also wondered if he had tracked the little girl’s family to the house and was convinced they were inside? I guess it will just have to be another river mystery for me to think about.

I was able to get my cell phone to work. I called and left a message at the Cotter Trout Dock for them to have someone pick me up at Guion the next day about one p.m. Guion was only eighteen miles down river. According to my map there shouldn’t be too many difficulties with shoals and that sort of thing. I then turned the phone off to conserve batteries as they had just about had it.

Now the Guion message was sure to raise an eyebrow back in Cotter. When I left Cotter, the deal was for me to go up the Buffalo, spend the night, then come down to Norfork for pick up.

As I waited on the dark, I listened to two crows talking to each other. Each crow had his own big old tree one on each side of the river. The one on my side was just fifty yards or so back up on the tip of the ridge above me. He sounds as if he were right over my head. They cawed and clucked at each other until the darkness seemed to sweep them away.

I had quite the unexpected treat when the sun began to set. From where I sat I could see the sun dropping behind a mountain. The camera perspective would make that hill appear to rise from the middle of the river. As the sun dropped behind the hill, the rays hit the water in a beautiful golden reflection. The water turned gold but still bright enough to hurt your eyes. I grabbed a camera and fired away. When I was able to get the pictures into a computer I played with the color a little and made them even more dramatic. That was a nice gift and I enjoyed recording the moment.

I see a note in my little handwritten journal that says, coffee, camp chair, river and sunset …not a bad way to end a day.

It was finally dark and I was ready for bed. But once again, the Lord handed me proof of his existence. I think it was about ten p.m. when it got really good and dark. I must have turned over on my back and looked up at the sky. It was like Christmas without the colors. I haven’t seen so many stars since the cold clear nights of Colorado’s Conejos Canyon. Then irony struck me. I laughed out loud when I thought of the stars of Arkansas outshining the Lone Star states stars. “Oh the stars are bright, late at night, deep in the heart of the Ozarks.” This was a highlight of the trip. The stars did not need help from the moon. The river had its own lights dancing with a brilliance that could have been mistaken for reflections of a full moon. With the reflection of the stars and moon it was if day had already began to break. It was a beautiful scene, one I will carry for the rest of my life. I gave thanks in prayer.

Funny, I didn’t have my pistol and for this night at least, I didn’t feel a need for it at all. I was sleeping without cover, on a cot, next to a road, that ended twenty feet away in the river. I had already seen quite a bit of cruising traffic but as soon as it got dark, all that stopped. It had been about fishing and nothing more sinister. I liked it here and felt secure without a weapon. Again, I don’t fear critters, only people. Maybe the serenity came with the stars and the prayer, who knows. I do know I was finally slowing down.

Mt. Olive is where you want to camp if ever the occasion arises. There is a funky, and I mean funky, port-a-potty furnished by the Game and Fish Commission. Other than a boat ramp, the woods are at your back and the river is in front of you, and that’s it. All around you there is an aura of wildness, history and beauty. Try it if you ever have a chance especially if you’re floating the river alone. The place almost talks to you. At least after the people leave it will.

I wonder why I was so awestruck with the history and so filled with song. I wonder why I had been guided to this very special place. I looked down river almost expecting to see a big old steamboat or even a keel boat with its crew of rowdies coming in to tie up at the iron ring. If there is such a thing as a black hole in space or parallel universes for aliens and such, I think I was sitting right slap on top of a history hole. Yes sir, you could almost hear the sound of the boilers working while the wood and whiskey was being loaded from this very ledge. You could almost smell the sweat and the tobacco on the men loading the cargo and fuel. They would be off-loading some freight. Most of the supplies for the region would be off-loaded on Polk Bayou near the old Ringgold place. Then the wholesale houses of Batesville would send them up river in smaller boats or by wagon. Eventually the railroad would replace the steamboats and the big semi trucks would replace the wagons.

Then Sam Walton would screw it all up for everybody trying to make a living out of the distribution of goods throughout the Ozarks. Sam’s China-made products would circumvent the American way all the while selling the yokels on company patriotism. I still can’t get over the communities with so little industry watching the shirt and shoe factories close while they are driving to Wal-Mart to buy “cheaper” shoes from China. Meanwhile the neighbor is out of work and the guy going to Wal-Mart is seeing his taxes go up to support all the unemployed folks in the hills. Wal-Mart, to me, is as evil and as big a drain on the hill people as methamphetamines. Wake up people, you are letting them do it to you. You are the cause of the jobs going over seas. Every time you walk into a Wal-Mart store, you are taking away an American’s job. Just think of it. Every time you walk into a Wal-Mart, an American loses his or her job.

When I woke up the next morning there was a large grey bird standing next to my now floating canoe. He was fishing and the canoe was bobbing as if suspended from its tether. The bird had a brown cap and was not as long legged as the Great Blue Heron. He had a wise look to his face like he was an old man of the river or something. I was peeking out of my sleeping bag and he had not seen me yet. When I moved a little, he flushed and was gone. He flapped his way across the river to a less populated and probably higher-class neighborhood.

With the rise in water level came the usual cold fog. I got up, threw on my rain jacket. By this time I had learned it was a necessity for mornings on the river. I went down to the riverside and filled my little teapot. Then boiled the water for coffee and oatmeal. It is a great time to reflect on one’s larger agendas, this gray, foggy dawn. I knew I liked what I was doing and had enjoyed writing the first entry into this journal. The maps were starting to look marketable. Maybe I was on to something, at least it gave me an excuse to get the cameras out into nature. It puts us back to where the cameras and I started in the late sixties.
.
As I sat on the ledge above the river, I watched the fog swirl from time to time. I was cold in shorts and rain jacket. I don’t know what the temperature was but it felt like the low fifties. It was a wonderful time to drink strong chicory coffee and watch the world wake up.

As I sat there, one of those old songs kept jumping through my electric brain. How did it go?

“Well, I woke up this morning, and you were on my mind, and you were on my mind.”

Wee Five, I think. I sure wish I could remember more than that. “Something about having “worries oh whoa.”

It sounded more like a folk song from the Kingston Trio than a rocker but it got my attention and was another great one to sing in your head. Can you imagine kids trying to sing along to rap songs? Whew. No thanks! I’ll take the simple 50’s and 60’s.

That one goes back to Memphis days and a really dull job in Holiday Inn’s accounting department. Thank goodness some nice people worked there. I would have gone bananas without them.

Before shoving off I checked my messages. Debbie and Ron had called from Cotter. They were not going to be able to come down to Guion until about three p.m. They had a lot of fishermen to pickup and transport that day. I thought, “OK, I can deal with that”. I will just fish and float longer than I had previously planned. I had my coffee and oatmeal and shoved off.

30 The Mount Olive Riverside Campgrounds

The Mount Olive Riverside Campgrounds
Chapter 30

Great Camp Sites, Rising Water and More Steamboat History

For the first time in my three trips to the river, I wanted to stay someplace instead of charging on down the river. The hardest part of camping or river travel so far has been slowing myself down. The transition from big city, twenty first century to a travel mode of 75 years ago is a big leap for the mind and body. I think I now understand why people lived on houseboats in the old days of the lower White. It really is soothing, this living riverside. The shade is cooling, the water is cooling, the food is damned good and the people are forthright and giving.

I finally said my goodbyes around two p.m. I filled the tiny gas tank and climbed back into my little cockpit. I gave the motor a crank. One time, that’s all it takes for the little Mercury. Away we went on a much wider and much smoother river.

“Rollin, rollin, people on the river are happy to give, big wheel keep on turning, Proud Mary keep on churnin,
Rolling, rollin on the river.” People just keep feeding me and being so darned nice. There must be something to Fogerty’s words.

The water was just as clear as before, but now I was seeing a little more evidence of agricultural bottoms from time to time. Not big valleys mind you but the bluffs were not coming down to waters edge anymore. The land was changing gradually.

In talking with the fellows at Calico Rock, it had been decided that I would need to change my route once again. This time I would need a good camping place with the ability to watch my boat. Terry had been kind enough to call the dam hotline to find out how much water was coming our way. Just as we suspected, there was plenty of water being let out at the time and Terry guessed it would over take me around midnight. He had suggested I stay at the Mt. Olive access area. Both men described the site as a great camping location and a place of great beauty.

I had planned to stay at a fishing resort down river. When the fellows explained that my campsite would be a pretty good hike up a hill versus the Mt. Olive spot was riverside, the discussion was over. I really am glad they made the suggestion. I have never camped in a site I enjoyed more than atop the limestone ledges of the Mt. Olive access area. I am sure this location had another name a hundred years ago. It must have been a major landing for steamboats at one time. Here was a road from a small community and evidence of frequent use of the ledges as dock walls. The ledge I slept on had an iron ring driven into the rock. It was used to tie off steamboats while they stopped at this location.

I had seen similar objects near the locks and dams around Batesville when I was a kid. John and Terry told me where to look for it. A man who had been fishing near the ramp came in as I was unloading my canoe. He pointed to the ring and told me the story of the steamboats. From what everyone said it had been an important stop for steamboats but I never got why. Boswell seemed closer to Melbourne, so maybe it was a better place to tie up or easier to get wagons down to the river here. Who knows? There was a good-sized “eddy” just below the tie up ledge. It didn’t seem as old as the others but then how can you tell the age of a rock structure? Somebody was going to have to explain all this to me because it didn’t make sense with the eddy on the docking side of the river and down stream at that. Oh well, I am sure there is a good reason behind all this. I know one thing. I was where the road came to the river and the other side of the river was a large low island. So it would not have made sense to dock on that side of the river at all.

I arrived at Mt Olive a little before five p.m. The heat was up and the river was much, much warmer here. The rock ledges had heated all day and were ready to cook eggs or me. Remember, we had not had much dam water in two days and what little water they let out had plenty of time to warm up in its seventy-five mile trek from the dam. According to Terry’s estimation I should expect a three-foot rise by midnight. I gave the little canoe plenty of rope and would need to keep an eye on it.

I moved the gear from the canoe up to the ledges. I would be using the aluminum cot again and would not be able to use the jungle hammock. This was a choice based on my need to keep an eye on the canoe. There was a great hammock site just fifty feet from where I would sleep. It was on sand and in the shade as opposed to being on the baking rock ledge next to the ramp. There was a fire ring with two big trees perfectly aligned for a hammock. The site had a great view of the river. I would learn later in the evening it was a wonderful place to watch the sun go down. The sun would drop behind a big old mountain throwing golden rays into the river as it sank. Quite a show. I should have moved the canoe and taken the better site, it had the view as well as the shade. Duh, again. I could have watched a super sunset from the comfort of my nice cool hammock.

I got the gear up the ramp to the ledges some fifteen feet above the water. By the time I was through I was soaking wet with sweat. The rocks were a sauna furnace by themselves and the sun ball was kicking in its share of misery as well. I got even. The water was great. Just off the end of the ramp and under about two feet of water, there was a small hole just about the size of a child’s wading pool. I used it as my personal cooling off spa. I rested about five minutes in the perfect water. You talk about getting the cobwebs and kinks out at the same time, what a great way to relax.

After my refreshing little dip I made coffee and drip dried in my folding chair. Several boats began to come to the ramp to take out. All the boats had local folks who had enjoyed a day of fishing. I didn’t see any guides down this far. I didn’t see them heading back down river or up river back to their docks of origin. I talked to the people as they brought the boats out of the water and prepped them for travel. My little unofficial creel count showed more small mouth than trout. The world had changed since Calico Rock. The water apparently was warmer here all the time ergo the bass. It also explained the lack of wading fly fishermen for the past many miles.

I got my rod and decided to cast a few to kill a little time. I had, you see, toned down my expectations of doing battle with Troutzilla. I would now be very happy if a bream or tiny baitfish would tug on the line and ask for a ride. Since losing several of my new lures I had come up with a new way of selecting the artificial baits from the tackle box. I looked for anything that was damaged either from corrosion or other abuse. I had made an executive decision. If I was not going to catch fish then why donate the newest and most expensive lures in the box to the bottom demons. If they were going to get my lures, then I would give them the old uglies and laugh.

I put on my oldest Colorado lure. I threw it out into the current and reeled it back fully expecting the bottom to grab it. It took me eight tries but finally my long awaited expectation came through. I was hung up as usual. I broke the line, another new annoyance. I put another one on to try once more. Surely there are fish out there that would love to make your acquaintance. First cast, nothing bad, nothing good. Second cast I lost my lure and patience. The rod went back in the boat.

I checked my rope and brought the anchor up to the ledge. I tied the anchor rope around a big rock right at the base of my cot legs. There was probably twenty-five feet of rope played out now. I waited for the evening to come. I was hot again. Down the ramp I went. With my fresh shorts, t-shirt and all. When I sat down this time, it was just as enjoyable as the first time. I stayed and soaked a good while then went back up the ramp to what had become the camp.

It was time for a large can of Dinty Moore. I heated the can of stew. Several people showed up in cars, four wheelers and pick-ups. It was nearing dark and as at Norfork, the night before they were checking out the river at sunset. This time I was right next to the little road so I was able to visit with them as they looked over the scene. I was getting to talk to them, so things were making sense. They explained why they were driving down to look at the river. They wanted to know if the water was going up or down. Apparently, every one of them had a favorite level for fishing. They were deciding to come back the next morning or stay and fish into the evening. It was river gauge sort of cruising.

Four or five folks stopped and visited. None seemed to be in a hurry. They were all in reflective moods as they chatted on the riverbank. I spent a good bit of time visiting with complete strangers about some of their deepest thoughts. Amazing again. The locals were frank and blunt but meant nothing by it. They were just being honest in their talk. I would say Dallas could use a few tons of that spread around.

A gaggle of grey geese (a gaggle to me is the same thing as a passel or a bunch, probably ten or so) passed by just swimming up the river in single file. I don’t know where they were going or where they came from but there they were, swimming maybe twenty-five feet out from shore, just a chugging along. I watched them until they were about two hundred yards above where I sat, and they sort of flew or skimmed across the river to the long low gravel bar of the island. There they disappeared behind some bushes on the backside of the bar. I assumed they were going home for the night.

29 conversatons and trout at Jenkin's trout dock in Calico Rock, Arkansas

29
Next up….Great fried trout and a gastronomical first.

Chef Jenkins, John and the Crawdaddy King.


I wanted a break from the canoe seat and the sun. I couldn’t help but remember how cool and inviting Jenkin’s Trout Dock was the last time I was there. Sitting on the porch “just a swangin” in the breeze. John Anderson would love the dock. With the cool river and the big old Cottonwood providing the air conditioning. Must be tough working conditions for John and Terry. I pulled the canoe up to the Calico Rock city ramp and tied off. I walked the few feet to the dock as I “howdy’d” the house. It’s a hillbilly thing, but the Navajo’s have a similar custom. All you’re doing is respecting the privacy of the occupants. John was sitting beside the porch swing having what looked to be a huge plate of fish and fried potatoes.

Terry was in the store/office/kitchen tending to his skillets and dishes. They were just finishing lunch. I sat on the swing and asked if he had any AA batteries for the GPS. My old ones still showed power but only a half. I didn’t want to take a chance and I only had one set left, so I thought I would buy some if Terry had any at the dock. He did better than that. He dug through a couple of drawers and came up with exactly two old off brand batteries he had bought for his T.V. remote so long ago he couldn’t remember. He just gave them to me. No charge. I put them in and they worked great. Then I bought a couple of spare bottles of water.

As I sat on the swing replacing my batteries, Terry came out with a plate of fish. He asked if I would like some trout. I thought he was offering me a piece of fish. I was wrong, he handed me a plate, replete with several pieces of fried trout, about half full of fried potatoes, and a bunch of “pork n’ my favorite kind of beans,” with three of four slices of white onion. I was actually starving even though I had eaten some Nabs and jerky up river a ways. Now it was like I hadn’t eaten in days. I tore into that trout. I’ve never been a big trout eater but “boy oh boy,” this was great fish. Terry explained how he filleted the fish, and a couple of other tricks that I didn’t quite understand about cutting a small line of bones out, as he dressed the fish. I ate several pieces without discovering a bone of any kind.

He also told me how he cooked the fish. Just like a bass or crappie but he added a little Lowry’s and some pepper. Darn y’all, this was serious fish. I’m talking the best trout I’ve ever put in my mouth. Granted my trout-eating experiences are confined to fancy restaurants in such places as Paris and other big cities. I know now I had not a clue.

Now, for the first ever experience. I took a bite of fish, and following John’s lead, chased it with a bite of that white onion. Now that’s no biggie to most people, but I hate onions. I loved the combination of the two tastes and washed it all down with a big old swig of ice-cold water. I wolfed down the potatoes and beans so fast I was sorry there weren’t enough to last through the fish.

I asked Terry who caught the fish. He and John had a chuckle over that one. Both men had been guiding this stretch of river since they were kids. Terry said that was just one of their routines whenever they had a slow day. They would send the early morning customers off with the guides and then rig up a boat for one or both of them. They would run straight to a favorite fishing hole, limit out, and come back to the dock, all in a very short time. One of them would take care of the dock business such as answer phone messages while the other fellow cleaned the fish.

About this time it would be near the nooning hour. Terry would pull out that big old black skillet. And with that, the feast would be on. That gave me plenty to think about as I finished my plate of perfection.

A tall slender man showed up as I was finishing my meal. He walked down the gangplank with a large ice chest on his shoulder. He came over to the edge of the dock where we were finishing dinner. He set the load on the dock floor. He leaned over the side of the floating dock, reached down and opened a door on a box I hadn’t noticed. I recognized the floating box as a keep for live bait. Terry and John were obviously glad to see him and it was clear he was an old friend. He beamed with pride as he opened the cooler to expose the contents. That big old cooler was about a third full of live, squirming creek crawfish. I was blown away. “Where in the hell did you get all those crawdads,” I asked? Immediately, I realized I had asked the man to give away his livelihood by giving up his trade secrets. I felt a fool. “From the creek,” was his response. Then he added a big old smile. I was thinking of the days when we were kids and we would spend what seemed like hours hunting crawdads in a little “branch” near our elementary school. I could not conceive how he was able to catch that many mudbugs. Even more amazing was the fact that this man catches these wild crawfish by hand and does it for a living everyday. Now you talk about an outdoorsman, this guy is really a man of the river.

They all confirmed these were not pond raised but were actual creek grown, wild crawfish. The man talked of conservation and concerns he had about hitting a creek too often. They visited about future orders and how many hundreds they would need and when he might be able to deliver them. I’m sitting there with my jaw dropping to the deck. This guy catches hundreds of crawdads with his hands on a regular basis. Somebody needs to check the Guinness Book of Records.

He is completely independent according to his customer Terry. Later they told me how professional he is about his business. Hillbillies are probably the most resourceful folks in the U.S. We have never had much to work with so we can usually figure out a way to make ends meet. That is probably the best description of the Ozark people. Their motto ought to be something like “We’ll find a way.” Or better yet, “We’ll figure it out.”

We sat and chatted awhile, something I don’t get to do much anymore. The porch swing in the cool breeze was a good place to visit. While I was having another cold bottle of agua, a pair of mink started playing leapfrog or chase right behind where we were sitting. Not more than twenty feet away, they were chattering and somersaulting over each other. I was really surprised when the fellows said this was the umpteenth generation that had played next to the dock since the late 1930’s. To Terry and John the mink were just another source of daily entertainment during a days work. Again, I envied Terry his position in life. What a way to make a living!

28 Eddies, Steamboats and Calico Rocks

28     A History Lesson Opens Questions.

No, I am not about to launch into a diatribe against the War of Northern Aggression, although I have been known to do that. The couple that gave me the pizza the night before were history buffs of a sort. They told me about a wall I would see further down the river. The wall, called an eddy, was built by slave labor according to my dinner pals and was done at the direction of the steamboat companies. Apparently, then as now, the river shoals and channels needed navigational help in the drier times.

The steamboat companies were paid by the amount of freight, whiskey and cotton they could bring back down the river. But first they had to get up the river to the towns and riverside docks. When they came up from Memphis, the boats were full of finished goods for the settlers in the mountains.

If a particular place was too shallow, they could partially dam the river from either one or both sides leaving a gap in the middle, thereby swelling the channel big enough for steamboats to pass. When the wall or walls forced the water into the narrow passage, the net effect was to have deeper, swifter water through the channel.

The walls were made of large stone or in some cases boulders. Snag boats and other workboats would bring the slaves up and build the walls to improve navigation. I am told without the eddys there would have been no way to deliver goods that far into the mountains. There were rugged roads leading out of the hills but nothing that would allow passage of large cotton wagons on those long distances to market. The terrain was just too rugged and the horse power needed to get through the ravines and gullies would have had to have been more like a 409 Chevy than a four mule or oxen team. Since there were no railroads, that meant there could not have been major commerce for the communities upstream. To make transportation matters worse, weather was a major factor when dealing with dirt and rock roads. When a river or stream was to be crossed, ferries or low water crossings were the only options. Steamboats opened up the markets of the entire world to the hill countries’ products what few there may have been. The little paddle wheelers were instrumental in the development of the Ozark nation.

When I heard the story about the slaves, I doubted it. I thought the steamboat companies probably had employees who did that sort of work full time. In some cases I would guess they even contracted that sort of work out to specialized workboat crews. It could have happened. I know there were slaves working the docks in Memphis. I mean, where else would we have gotten “tote that bar and lift that bale.” Maybe that was the source of labor needed for the construction projects on the river. I don’t know where to turn for this type of historical information. A book on the riverboats role in the development of the southern mountains would be a hell of a read.

The other factor here is the locals had a strong incentive to see the steamboats coming up the river. Again, other than wagon transportation, without the steamboats there could be no merchants because there would be no goods to stock store shelves. I don’t think the slaves would have been local as there would have been little need for slaves in the hill country economy. There wasn’t enough cotton grown in the hills due to the soil and other agricultural conditions. Cotton was the cash crop that brought in slaves. Besides that, slaves were very expensive and there was little cash money to be had in the hills. So, yes and no. If slaves did build the walls, according to present day legend, they would have come up the river with the workboats before the steamboats could traverse the shoals. I for one would love to know when and how the “eddys” were built.

I heard from some of the local folks that steamboats at one time made it up the White as far as Flippin. To me, that is completely amazing. I see the dams and the eddy and ride along in a little tiny, shallow, draft canoe and drag bottom several times a day. Yet, here these old timers from well over a hundred years ago brought those big old paddle wheelers up the river even further up than I was traveling in a canoe. Wow.

Having been out of the hills for almost fifty years does not help my knowledge of the local history. The eddys grabbed at my curiosity. I hope to I learn much more in the future.

My previous trip through Steamboat Shoals had been at high water. I read the river to stay right until I could see a channel open up. That’s exactly what I did. While fighting fog and rain, I noticed the water looked weird like it was damned up and going over a falls of sorts. That was on my left as I passed by. I couldn’t see on the other side nor did I have time to look too hard. But it just did not look right. On this trip through the shoals the water was really low. I was curious about that weird looking water I had seen on the previous outing. It was a huge rock eddy. The water was backed up and was going over and around the boulders. Those same rocks were now higher than my head. Glad I didn’t read the water wrong on that one. It would have been like going over a waterfall.

That wall was the one I took to be the slave eddy the folks told me about the night before. I don’t know if I have them mixed up but I think that was Steamboat Shoals. The name would make sense since the shoals were partially blocked to create a channel for the steamboats. Later, I saw another smaller yet longer wall on river right. I think that was Berry’s eddy. I have to assume it was supposed to have been what the fellow called a slave wall as well.

I wonder what sources there might be about the steamboats on the White? If anyone reading this journal knows of information concerning steamboats or packet boats on the White, please email me and let us share it with others who are interested in the history of the White.

At this point the water was so low I was getting hung up on rocks and gravel where there were no shoals listed on my little map. I kind of gave up on defining shoals along the stretch of river just past Steamboat Shoals. For a good part of the day I seemed to be going over a very shallow river with never-ending shoals.

Somewhere near Red’s Landing I spotted two real “sure nuff Bald Eagles.” They were flying around and apparently found themselves a meal of fish on a gravel bar. They dropped down and stayed to eat while I passed by fairly close. It was neat to see real eagles making a living on the White. I never thought I would see the day.

Down below Mathis Island I saw about a dozen fly fishermen wading in the shallows. The lady closest to me said she was doing well. I figured this must be a darned good place or all those people wouldn’t be out there flailing away with those fly rods. I should come back there someday and fish with them. There is one thing the wade fisherman has to remember at all times. Always have an escape route near. If that water comes up you are going to need a way to shore. The other thing you might want to do is keep one eye up river. Be very aware of your surroundings at all times. When you notice a little increase on depth or speed of the current, pay attention. It might save your life.

Do not park your car near the river. It will become one with the river if left there long enough. Make sure your car is out of reach of the high-water mark. This river does not need a rainstorm to sweep you and your property away. All it needs is enough gates to be open and for you to do something foolish, like stay in it too long. Hear me now. This is important.

The last few miles before reaching Calico Rock were a lesson in history and geology. All you had to do was sit and drift. Cast a few times trying to fish, but mostly just look at the beauty of the Ozarks. The Calico Bluffs are so unique and for the most part unchanged, no thanks to the railroad powder monkeys. The water spreads out and the river becomes much broader. The bottom for the most part is now gravel and shallow. Once again looking over the side, you cannot believe how wonderfully clear and clean this river truly is. Throughout what few older documents I have found, everyone comments on the clarity of the water.

The channel becomes elusive and I drag bottom and have to get out and push from time to time. Finally I found a narrow deeper channel on river left very near the shoreline. I used it most of the rest of the way to Calico Rock. Once I came into view of the bridge, the water deepened and I motored right into the Jenkin’s Trout Dock.

I had to chuckle as I got closer to Calico Rock. This was the same stretch of river that Chris Leavitt and I had started out. The water was as smooth as glass. It was the very best boating water I had seen since Bull Shoals Dam. The two big cheechakos couldn’t handle this easy water. I am so glad we scared ourselves. If we had gone up to Bull Shoals and put in with seven gates of water, I hate to think of the consequences. I think the way I did the float alone, thereby getting the experience, was a good thing. A little less water the first day out wouldn’t have hurt anything but I made it, so there.