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.