The White River, # 19 Cotter to Buffalo City, second time around.

Rolling down the River.

When I had a chance, I asked Debbie if they had the merchandise for setting up a White River Rig. I had not forgotten the previous nights’ lesson. They had it all, right there at the dock office. There was power bait, corn, sinkers and small trout hooks. I bought some of it and Debbie donated the rest. I think she felt bad for me because I still had not caught any fish. Caught any hell, I hadn’t even had a bite. But given my history with any thing that required patience, it was not surprising that I was doing badly.

I finally pushed off around noon. The water was warmer but still cold. The air temp was getting fairly hot. The sun was bright and sunburn was a definite threat. The water had continued to drop since early morning. Now we were starting to get into the low water version of the flooded river I dealt with last trip. This ought to be interesting I thought. I checked the dad-burned GPS. Yes, it was actually working this time. Newly recharged batteries and the settings had been installed with the help of the factory tech via telephone.

The little canoe made its way out of the tiny bay into the current. I pulled the starter cord and she kicked right off. Away we went at a whopping three and one half miles per hour. That included help from the current. The last time we left that bay, I think we went to almost 10 miles per hour like it or not. It was quite a difference. But the most significant change was the ability to see more than twenty-five yards. I could actually see the banks and scenery for a change. Great, I would be able to do some of the much-needed photography. I had to have the river photos in order to complete the blog and potential book. So far I had been shut out due to rain and fog.

This was a reduxe. The GPS had not performed due to short-lived batteries. The photography obviously was still waiting for the camera to come out of the bag. We would get one take done this trip. No doubt there would be many more efforts searching for the pictures that would satisfy my picture editor’s mind.

As we traveled down the river I soon became aware of a new challenge. Instead of flying three to eight feet above the shoals and big rocks, I was now dodging them. Uh oh, this is not going to be a walk in the park like I thought. I had to be concerned about hitting the composite propeller against the rocks and breaking it in pieces or twisting the drive shaft. I wasn’t too worried about dragging the bottom of the canoe on the rocks as I felt it had been built to take that type abuse.
I was concerned about twisting the motor off the brackets if I hit it on the rocks.

(Edit note: It is now November and I am editing this story. Today I finished patching the bottom of the Mad River from this expedition. It was not built to take that type abuse. Nothing is.)

Oh well, at least I was able to take my time and guide the boat a little better this time. I would try to be vigilant and read the water. If I read it far enough ahead I should have time to miss whatever was coming up. The trip wasn’t a cruise through a park lake, but it sure was an improvement over the last time down the river. I was actually enjoying learning to read the water. I was becoming a little more accustomed to the ways of the river.

I had been told to watch for the eagles flying around Ranchettes’ Access. Somehow or another I couldn’t quite figure out where I was when I was supposed to be passing the Ranchettes area. The map I was using and my reader tracker GPS were offering two opinions while my brain offered a third. Amazing ! Here I am with a lap full maps and this high dollar GPS and I can’t figure out where I am. I think I passed the Ranchettes’ Access without ever seeing it. I must have been studying my map too closely or something. But I did see the birds. As I was passing some locals out for a great Sunday of fishing, I spotted two Eagles playing around on the side of a big wooded hill. They would swoop down close to the river then swing upward with the same pent-up energy of a roller coaster on its downhill run.

The birds were apparently swooping near a nest in the trees along the ridge then frolicking as gliders all along the hills and the river below. I watched the two with great anticipation. I was getting closer, my little motor humming along as quiet as possible. Soon one of the big guys swept low across the river, then turned almost straight up as it climbed up and over the ridge on river right. Then it was gone. I turned to watch the other and it had disappeared into the trees on the ridge where I had suspected a nest. No birds. I had not gotten close enough to really get a good look but I had called them to the attention of the Sunday fishermen.

I had been quiet excited and shouted over to the other boat “Hey, look at the eagles.” I was proud I had spotted them and they had been sitting there all along and had not seen the big birds. I thought my old eagle eyes were back. The guy who could always spot animals before everybody else was back on his game. I was kind of puffed up about it.

I reached a curve in the river and was surprised to see fifteen or twenty Eagles flying around the ridge and river. Then I saw another ten or so on the river bank just standing around something. Uh, oh. What a fool. Now I was close and my suspicions were becoming reality. Turkey vultures. Dammit! I revved up the little motor and moved down the river as fast as the little boat would carry me. I didn’t dare look back to see if the locals were falling out of the boat laughing. I could just hear them laughing at that old cheechako who didn’t know a buzzard from an eagle.

There was mercy in the noise of the little engine. Thankfully I couldn’t hear any laughter at this speed. The redness in my face was not sunburn this time. Oh well, another day, another little adventure.

Next up Buffalo City and a little commentary that’s been a long time in coming.