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

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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!