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.