Float Fishing America

35 The friendly folks you meet in Cotter, Arkansas

2010-09-22T03:18:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-22T03:17:00.001-07:00

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 ?

2010-09-22T03:17:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-22T03:16:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-09-17T14:55:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-17T14:50:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-17T14:44:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-17T13:55:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-17T13:51:00.000-07:00

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.

#27 Who took my river ????

2010-09-17T13:26:00.000-07:00

Chapter 27

Good Morning World! Who took my River?

Eight a.m. July 23, 2007, a Monday.

At six a.m. sharp, I heard a car drive onto the rock beach about twenty yards from where I was sleeping. I turned over and watched to see what was happening. As usual, after a fitful night, I wanted to go back to sleep rather than get up and deal with the day. As I slowly became fully conscious, I looked about for the canoe. The little Mad River was right where I left it. There was only one problem in the early light, I couldn’t see any water around or under the boat. Hell, I couldn’t see any water for forty yards past the boat. I could see a river of wet rocks and that was it.

Meanwhile the man got out of his Jeep wagon and began to unload his fishing garb. As he dressed in waders, vest, hat and the rest of his fly fishing gear, I decided I had better get up and figure this deal out.

The cover of semi-darkness was appreciated as I was without a great deal of covering of my own. Soon I had pulled on my clothes with slightly wet rain jacket and warm river booties. I started the little Coleman and went down to the river for water for the little teapot. It was getting light now and the scene was becoming all too clear. The White was still not producing any water and the North Fork was damned near dry. The little river only had a small twenty-foot channel on the far side from me. The canoe now sat on dry rocks some fifty feet from navigable water.

The opposite of the expected had happened between two- thirty and six a.m. We didn’t get the extreme river rise I had worried about most of the night. Both dams shut completely down. I decided it should be handled much as Scarlet would have done, “Fiddly Dee, I’ll worry about that later.” Right now I’m going to have my coffee.

The little 1969 REI Seattle teapot had a name. I had never noticed it before. It had Hope stamped on the lid but without a country of origin. She sure had been a good one. It boiled water super fast due to itsy shape. I had long ago decided the best parts about the pot were the lifting handles. They were made of hollow aluminum and stayed fairly cool even with boiling water inside the little pot. I really would like to know who made the pot and where it was made. Maybe someday I would run into more information and figure it out.

While the water was heating I thought I might as well join the wade fisherman and try to even the score with those trout from the previous night. I grabbed the long rod and a little box of Mepps. I stuffed the lure box into my raincoat pocket. The atmosphere was still damp from a slight morning fog thereby making the air a little chilly. I made my dripo coffee and marched into trout land ready to do battle. What else was I going to do? Coffee and troutzilla at sunrise, ah yes, the game was definitely afoot. Seemed like the right thing to do and I did it.

When I got to the water I was standing in what would have been the middle of the North Fork of the White as it emptied into the White. I was standing with my back to the North Fork and casting into the shrunken White. Again where the fly fisherman and I were standing should have been the exact middle of the North Fork, but we were standing on dry riverbed. As I walked out the fifty yards or so from my boat to where the man was fishing, I found two lures and a whole ball of fishing line. I thought someone ought to bring a metal detector out here. I bet you could open up bait and tackle shop with all the stuff you would dig up.

The fisherman was from Michigan and his name was Neimi. I had to ask if he was any kin to my East Side Elementary classmate Shirley Neimi, but he said he didn’t know of any Arkansas kinfolks. Too bad, I really liked the little girl who drew horses on her tablet all the time. She was a good kid and I wonder about her from time to time. I had never met any one else by that name until today.

We chatted a good bit as we cast for morning trout. He said he had caught a few and they had been biting a little. I thought good gosh, the guy hadn’t been down there fifteen or twenty minutes since he woke me up, how could he have already been catching fish. I didn’t say anything just because I was the greenhorn here and I was ready to believe anything anyone told me about trout fishing.

He did catch a couple of small rainbows while I casted not thirty feet downstream from him. He was using fly gear and I was using artificial lures from a spinning rig. Could there be that much difference? Surely not…I fished until I ran out of coffee in my mug. Normally I would have dropped everything and gone back for my second cup, but this guy and the fish were skunking me and it was ticking off my competitive spiritto no end. I fished another fifteen minutes or so without a bite. Defeated once again, I headed back to the coffee.

The Michigander was still catching fish as I drank coffee in my chair. I couldn’t stand it. I had to try one more time. Just as I got back, he had hooked another one. They weren’t big but looked like they would make a hell of a breakfast. I fished a little while longer and got blanked again. So as usual with my attention span and my short patience, both working against staying I decided to start packing up the gear for a portage.

By this time it was seven thirty or so. There was still no help from either dam. I thought one would start generating and that would definitely float my boat. Just a little back up from the White or even one gate from Norfork would do the trick. Nothing, nada, nunja, no help whatsoever. It was time to carry the stuff the forty yards or so and hope a sudden flood didn’t happen about the time I had it halfway loaded.

Another fellow had joined us while we were fishing. He had driven up in a pick up and started his fishing from the new ramp. Soon he walked out to where the two of us were and took a place just down from me. He was a friendly guy who owned a bar-b-que joint there in Norfork town. I asked him if he made pizza in his place and he said he didn’t but had thought about it. I told him about the folks with that great pizza from the night before. You could see his head wheels clicking trying to figure out whom in his small territory could produce a pizza masterpiece.

When I went back to the canoe and started packing up the gear, the Michigan man figured out what I was doing and could readily see what a fix I was in. He pretended to take a break from fishing. At this point he was probably bored because he had caught fourteen to my no bites at all. He didn’t rub it in, he just answered my question when I asked him how he had done.

By the time I had packed all the gear into the river bags, the other fellow showed up. They both came over and asked if I needed any help. I sure did and was grateful. These two were my age or maybe a little older. The Michigan man must have been retired, as he was one of those single men I referred to earlier. He had driven down alone and was staying in an RV campground some five miles away. He said he would be in Norfork about three weeks and does the same routine every year. The other man had been one of those loners who came to fish and decided to start a little bar-b-que joint to support his need for being in Norfork full time. He fished almost daily and enjoyed life much, much better than wherever he came from and from whatever he had done in the past. Hey, Boomers are not dumb. They find a way.

The two of them picked up the stern of the canoe and I grabbed the bow. We walked the canoe out to where the little channel ran along the opposite side of the now dry riverbed. I had removed the little motor and came back for it on the next trip. The two men struck up quite a conversation and I was glad they would now be acquainted and maybe become pals after I left.

I transported the gear bags across the rocks and loaded them into the canoe. I got everything in and I shoved off in the slight current. Paddling backward brought me out to the White in just a few minutes. I must have laid the motor on the wrong side or something because it was flooded. Luckily the current wasn’t bad. Finally, she kicked off and away we went. I had thanked the gents for the kindness. I had doubted if my blown out shoulders were going to let me lift that canoe over my head but that had been the intention before they came along and volunteered.

Nice fellows. People on the river are happy to give, Proud Mary keep on rollin’, big wheel keep on turning, rollin’, rollin’ on the river.

One thing happened that I didn’t mention. About eight a.m. just as we were carrying the gear across the riverbed, my drunk neighbors from the night before came to life. I guess the drunks were up and being loaded into the guide boats for a day of fishing. You could hear them from the time they hit the boat dock till the time they came down the river to pass us in the little channel. Hell, you could hear them as they went off under full power of the outboards. This bunch woke up drunk and loud. I was glad to see they went up stream and away from me. I did not want to float along side that mess all day.

By the time I left the mouth of the North Fork, there were ten or more people lining the same place the Michigander and I had fished earlier. Every one of them filled with anticipation. It was a good day to be on the river. It was a good day to be alive. Thanks be to God.

White River #26 A night on a rocky beach

2010-09-17T10:03:00.000-07:00

The speculation among the wade fishermen I talked to had been that Bull Shoals had been letting out water each afternoon after two p.m. They also felt Norfork would continue to let out water until about ten p.m. and then shut one gate. The net effect of this theory would be to bring one half as much water down the Norfork and about five times or more the water down the White. All should happen, according to rumor control, somewhere around two a.m.

The net, net effect would mean to me that I should see my little boat rise and float around on its tether, but my cot should stay above the water line. The key word here is should.

I went back to the canoe to bring the sleeping bag out and place it on the cot. I began to look for my gear that would be needed during the night or early in the morning. I wanted my rain jacket so I wouldn’t freeze when I was making coffee at dawn the next morning. I had placed it in a bag along with some other gear. When I reached down, I could feel something wet where it should have been dry. Apparently, when I put the fishing rod back in the boat I hit the spigot on the one-gallon water jug. It opened and spilled its contents on the floor of the canoe. Anything on the floor became a sponge.

Luckily the jacket was an REI Gore-Tex and water would run off of it by morning. There were a couple of towels in the bag, but they were destined to become the sponges that would clean the water out of the floor any way. I took care of the problem and then pulled the coffee and breakfast kit out from under the seat. I had installed fanny packs under each seat and each now had a specific job and carried only certain items. That way I was beginning to organize the load and at least have a modicum of an idea as to where everything traveled.

I hit the sack sometime around ten p.m. The last of the river checkers were still cruising, but there were fewer and fewer as each hour passed. My boat was pulled up near the bushes and my cot was almost in the high weeds. I was visible, but you had to be looking right at me. It was cooling off but still too hot to get into the sleeping bag so I sort of lay in and on it without zipping it up.

There is a trout dock with rooms for rent up the North Fork about a hundred yards. I think it’s called Rose’s. Well, they had guests booked that night and those guests were busy tying on a serious yee-haw drunk. I don’t know what kind of booze they were drinking, but I do know it was the kind that makes you go out on the porch and hoot and holler about every fifteen minutes. That deal went on until somewhere after two a.m.

I am fairly certain these were not indigenous drunks. The yee-haws and the lack of hog calling meant they were from out of state and probably Texans. As a matter of fact I would lean toward Texans due to frequency and volume of the yee-haws.

Finally it seemed to come down to one old hoarse-throat drunk and his yee-haws were beginning to sound more like gargling than hollers. Soon, even he shut up. The frogs and other night critters came back out when the drunks finally went in. I could hear the whippoorwills sing their songs and all was good, except the hour had grown late. I kept listening for the sound of the water to increase. That was my alarm clock. If all of a sudden the water was gurgling and murmuring that meant it was coming up and the current was singing through the stones on the shore.
Editorial note: I stopped writing this journal in order to read the long awaited mail order version of Henry Rowe Schoolcraft’s book “Rude Pursuits and Rugged Peaks”. This is possibly the best, if not the only, written documentation left to us from early white Anglo-European history of the White River section of the Ozarks. Mr. Schoolcraft and his traveling partner, Levi Pettibone, were a couple of young Yankee fellows who made a walking tour through North Central and North Eastern Arkansas as well as Southern Missouri. The season was winter and the year was 1819. That would have been a very few years after Lewis and Clark. They were there for mineral prospecting of sorts mainly, but as with so many, well educated, young men of his day, Mr. Schoolcraft was a naturalist and could not help but take samples and keep a journal of his scientific observations. That would be the opposite of my journal.

One special similarity of the two journeys some two hundred years apart was that we were both kept awake most of the night by drunks near the mouth of the North Fork. He at Matney’s cabin and I near Rose’s dock. How’s that for irony?

The other similarities were that we were cheechakos and neither of us with a clue about what we were getting ourselves into, nor did we have the experience on how to handle it. I would add to this list that we both underestimated the river and the hills. The final similarity would be that we both came out the better person because of our experience with the White River region.

Now back to our regularly scheduled program….

The other alarm clock would be the canoe rope I had tied to the leg of the cot. Every once in a while I would reach down and check the rope to see if it was tight or slack. It was staying the same. I was expecting it to start pulling away from me at any time. When that happened I would need to get up and pull the boat back up the bank. I would rise up on one elbow and look at my boat. It was still in the same place. It was dark without much help from the moon. I could see the canoe but couldn’t tell much about the river level.

It seemed I had just dozed off when I heard a galloping coming down the rocky beach. The sound scared me awake. At first I didn’t recognize the gait, I just heard the clatter of the stones. When I pulled myself up to one elbow in order to look in the direction of the sound, I came face to face with the largest German Shepard I think I have ever seen. When I say face to face, I am talking ten feet. Of course it could have been a midget version but to a guy laying on a camping cot, the whole world looks large, especially if you’re looking at the world sideways and back over your shoulder like I was. When the dog saw me come up from my prone position, it must have scared him as much as he did me. He put his all fours into a screeching skid. Rocks went flying in front of him in every direction. There was quite the clatter coming from his direction. I saw him about the time he saw me. I reached for a river rock of my own. Before the rocks had quit rolling underfoot he was woofing at me. I know what he was saying. I speak a fair bit of dog. He was saying, “Who the hell are you? What are you? And what are you doing on my jogging path?” I yelled back at him to go on leave me alone. With that he barked back, but never gave me a growl or threatening voice. I pitched a river stone in his direction and he trotted off. I had not scared him after he realized what I was. I think when he ran up on me, he thought he was seeing a new version of the rise of the Mummies or something. I don’t blame him for being startled, I sure was.

He was actually pretty neat when he trotted off. He just ran down the gravel bar a little way and jumped into the water. It was as if I was not going to spoil his nightly romp and ritual. He waded around in the cold water for about five minutes. I couldn’t see him very well, but it looked as if he was jumping around, sort of doing the porpoise thing. The big fellow was just having a good time. I think he must have been fairly young the way he was playing in the water. When he walked back up onto the beach he shook like there was no tomorrow. He took one look back in my direction then trotted off toward some houses or guest cottages up on the hill above the ramp. That was the last I saw of my late night visitor.

It had unnerved me to some extent. I was feeling a little vulnerable because of my proximity to the public road and the cruising of the pickups during the earlier parts of the evening. I was reminded more than once that I had run off and forgotten Mr. ACP. My constant security blanket was still in the car and of no help in case of an emergency. Oh well, at least I could throw rocks at the bad guys if needed. I just didn’t like going to sleep in a place so accessible to the general public. Critters were not a concern unless you counted the two-legged kind. It wouldn’t be long till daylight so I told myself to just go to sleep and forget it. I did.

#25 An evening in Norfork, Arkansas

2010-09-17T10:00:00.000-07:00

Sleep Sometimes is Easier Said than Done.

It’s still a fairly warm evening; the rounded little river stones are doing a good job of retaining the days’ heat. The water is doing its best to cool the air but the sun was still winning the battle. I was still in a holding mode. I was ready for bed but there were still too many folks fishing and for some reason I had begun to notice cruisers driving through the parking lot/beach.

I decided if I couldn’t beat them I would join in the fishing. But, and I say but, I was not going to take the canoe out and anchor with the boaters. My rear had had all the boat seat it could take for one day. I got my long spinning rod and walked down to where my cast would carry out to the current. The bait was a Mepps of some sort but definitely a yellow spinner attached to a two-pound clear line. The reel was the smallest of the Penn spinning reel series. I had splurged on the rod and was very proud of the idea behind the purchase. I was going to fight troutzilla on a spinning rig that felt like a fly rod set up. The long Loomis was a crappie fishing special. It was about nine and a half feet long and only broke down into two pieces. It was hard to bait and tend to in a small boat but great on the land casting situations. Even broken down and in the nice case, the outfit was too long for canoes and camping situations. But man, did it feel good in your hand.

With this rig in hand, I marched down the beach fully confident that I and only I could do battle with monster troutzilla. The reason of course was that I was bringing the right equipment to the fight. In other words, like every other fisherman or fisherwoman on that beach I thought I had it figured out. I thought that one last trip to the fishing store had set me up for the big win. If gadgets would catch fish, I should have had a boat full. I can tell you right now I still don’t have this fishing thing figured out. Maybe I will get someone in the boat someday who has a semblance of an idea as to what the hell I am supposed to do to catch trout.

I stood near some people and flipped the lure out trying to mimic what the others were doing. Apparently I had arrived just as the fish had migrated to southern Patagonia or some damn place. As far as I know I must be the trigger that sends the whole school into migration mode. It just has to be, because they go somewhere every time they see me coming with fishing pole in hand.

I piddled with the fishing until the stragglers begin to thin out. Dark was approaching and even the diehards were giving up on what had been a perfect Sunday by the river. Now most would go home, eat a late supper, go to bed and wake up to face a brand new work week.

Others, the old loners like myself, were going back to the hotel rooms or RV parks or maybe a café for a quick bite before bed. They would be on the river tomorrow or on the road home one of the two. I ran into quite a few of these gents. Most were married, but the spouses had other interests and stayed back in Chicago, Dallas, Memphis, St. Louis or on the Kansas farm. This was a vacation from life. They were on a real road trip with a purpose. This river was something to dream about when times were bad or slow. They were an interesting lot, these men. I enjoyed the few chats I had with them. Every one seemed to have a story of hard work and dreams gone by and now they were here in the evening heat after a gorgeous sunset. Things were going A-OK.

I loved the cold water for one major reason. No mosquitoes could live in it. The other bane of the camper the “no see’ums” seemed to live everywhere I had ever set up a tent my entire life. Here I would have no tent or jungle hammock due to the no camping on access areas rules. I had been told all the land along this part of the river was private. I didn’t seem to have a choice as far as I knew. Supposedly there were no campgrounds near the river so there I was breaking the law as inconspicuously as possible.

When it was good and dark, I pulled out my cot and sleeping bag. Once again, I pulled the boat up as far as I could. The water looked to be rising so I tied the boat rope to my cot just in case I needed a wake up later that night. The cot was placed less than twenty feet up the slight rise from the canoe. If the thing started to float off I wanted to be the first to know it. I would just reel it in and drag it higher ashore. No problem.

The real problem came as I crawled into my sleeping bag. I would not be able to sleep for constantly looking at the river to see if the boat was about to do a bon voyage on me. The water was staying fairly constant from the White River side and was quite low. The Norfork Dam was still putting out a strong stream and my concern was the White would start a rapid rise like the seven gates I had seen on my last trip and both the canoe and I would be floating.

A light mist began to rise as dark enclosed the little beach. I had not had to deal with the fog all day coming down the White. I did have to drag the bottom of the boat over rocks and gravel bars. The look of some of those shoals was completely different at low water. I had to learn how to read the water. This trip, there were sharp rocks right underneath those waves and ripples. The motor’s health and life span depended on reading correctly. Last time the high water was a completely different read. I could see boils and swirls but the read was to keep your boat upright and out of any kind of trouble mostly from the current’s power. The rocks might have been further under the water but the mishap would be a much more dangerous situation. Fast water causes fast consequences.

I see in my notes where I tried to mark all the shoals with the GPS. However there were some shoals that were so long I couldn’t tell where one ended and another started. I probably marked them wrong but who could predict how the river would look from one day to the next. I couldn’t. I think I was maybe more impressed with Buffalo Shoals this time. But then when you see the actual rocks sticking out of the water, almost any of them tend to impress the novice.

24 Norfork, Ark. On the beach just visiting round.

2010-09-17T09:47:00.000-07:00

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?

#23 More riverside nonsense

2010-09-17T09:33:00.000-07:00

Of Boats and Snakes and Such

Norfork a great place to launch your boat. But I wouldn’t recommend trying to sleep on the access area. For one reason, the Game and Fish folks don’t allow camping on their access areas. Secondly, there are way too many things going on and way too much activity.

However a neat thing happened to me at Norfork. I saw what I considered the perfectly designed boat for my river exploits. I pretty much decided I would have one the first time I laid eyes on a River Hawk.

As I was coming down the river from Buffalo City to Norfork, the weather was beautiful and the scenery magnificent. I was able to shoot several “keeper” pictures.

I was in a great mood. It was Sunday and the locals were out fishing on the river. It seemed there were very few guide boats out compared to what were obviously local folks in their garden-variety rigs. Sunday was the day the people of the mountains got to enjoy their river.

I would like to point out that to one non-local, ex-local, the river really does belong to those who live and make their livings in these hills. Folks who move in from up north or retire from Little Rock and Memphis have been welcomed. Tourists and rich fishermen are part of the scene now. But I don’t think any of the people who have come to the river late in life will ever understand the power this river has on the people who grew up along it’s banks. No matter where you go or who you think you have become in life, you will always have the White in your soul. Now at age sixty-two, I still refer to the White with a phrase, “on the banks of the beautiful White River.” I know that sounds strange but what is really weird is I hear the line coming from W.C. Fields voice. Ah Yes….I don’t know if it was a commercial logo for my hometown or what, but it stuck with me all these years.

I met an old fellow at one of the access areas along the way. We chatted as he and his wife readied their big jon boat to put it into the water. He told me something that really struck home. He said the people of this area loved living by the river. The river was very much a part of their lives. They were drawn to it, as we had been further downstream those many years ago. He told me a story about his father, a man who worked the rocky fields of the hills. The man moved his large family to a more suitable farm far away from the hills and the White River. He was a good farmer and worked hard. The new farm prospered and so did the family. Then one day he went to the man who owned the land and told him he was leaving and going back to the hills. The landlord was incredulous and asked why the farmer would leave prosperity to go back to poverty. The sharecropper told him simply, “ cause you ain’t got no river here”.

That sharecropper’s son told the story proudly as if to explain to me why after 50 years in a Wichita aircraft plant he sold out and came back home to the river. Here he was, as wiry and tough an eighty year old as I have ever seen. His wife could barely get out of the tall pick-up while carrying her oxygen bottle and nose-breathing apparatus. But you just knew you would have had to fight both of them if you told them they needed help in launching their rig. It was what they did and who they were. They had come home to the river and everything was right.

Most of the boats I passed were anchored with the people just kicking back. Most were having a cold drink while getting a little sun and trying to catch a few trout. A good many of the boats had families in them. Every time passing a boat with kids in it, I would motor fairly close and yell out to the kids. “Y’all be sure to remember today. This is the good stuff.” The parents would grin and wave at me. The kids would sort of look at each other and then wave a sort of questioning wave. I enjoyed doing it and did the same thing all the way to Norfork. I made it to Norfork around 6 p.m. Cotter to Norfork in six hours, I guess that wasn’t too bad for low water and not knowing what you’re doing.

Somewhere between Buffalo City and Norfork, I got a second look at a strange little boat. It was the same two guys I had seen at the Cotter Trout Dock. The boat looked to be a cross between a Cajun Pirogue, a canoe, and a jon boat. A real rock bottom shallow river man’s boat, she was shallow drafting and equipped with a transom for a motor. The beam was way wider than a canoe and there were three floatation filled bench type boat seats.

I was falling in love. I spoke with the fellows who owned the first one I saw. They were two big old country boys who just wanted a good fishing boat when they found this one. They were crazy about the little boat. I was looking at all the advantages not available to me with my canoe and motor set up.

They could stand up and cast. They could run a ten-horse motor or more. They were not afraid of tearing the boat apart when power was required of the engine. They had room to store all the gear as well as a small dry storage compartment. They were very happy about the way they could paddle it just like a canoe. They bragged on the little boat weighing a mere one hundred and twenty five pounds and yet it was fiberglass. The lightweight would qualify as light enough to fit my trailer and I wouldn’t have to buy another. That would save me six or seven hundred bucks and a bunch more tax money. The transom and sides were high enough they didn’t worry about waves swamping them. The list of safety advantages went on and on. I was impressed and admittedly my stiff backside must have been having some influence at that point.

I think I mentioned when I pulled into Buffalo City I had tired-tail syndrome. The tired tail had turned into a numb bottom and sleepy legs by the time I reached Norfork. The motor on the canoe was essentially hanging off the side of the boat. That meant the canoe would naturally try to tip over if something like a human didn’t offset the weight to the other side. There was a major problem in being made into a counterweight. The seat in the canoe was very narrow at the hips sort of like Jimmy Dean’s “Big John.” There was no room to “scoot over.” So in order to throw your weight to the opposite side of the boat, one had to lean away from the motor and sit on one cheek. When that cheek went to sleep you shifted your whole body and leaned even more away from the motor and sat on the other cheek. Now I know the Bible says we are supposed to turn the other cheek, but this was getting ridiculous. I had tried cushions and seats with back pads but nothing kept the posterior from napping after an hour or so.

All safety features aside, when I saw that big old boy sitting on a soft padded swivel seat and running his motor at will, I knew I had to get one of those little boats.

As far as the rest of it went, I was most impressed with the wide beam and the stability it lent to my river exploration effort. The only problem now was where to find a dealer or manufacturer. When I ran into the two young fellows just up river from Buffalo Shoals, they thought the manufacturer was out of business. I asked where they had gotten that one and they gave me a sort of hillbilly answer. He had traded a hundred dollars cash and a worn out chain saw for the one I was admiring. I shook my head. Smart. Wish I could do that in the big city.

At Norfork I ran into another boat almost identical to the one the two young fellows had fished from. This time the fellow told me it was a gunew or something and he thought it was made right up here in Steel. Not to look too ignorant, I pretended to know where Steel or Steele was but had not a clue. I remembered the Oates twins at C.M.A. were from Steele, Missouri so I thought it shouldn’t be a problem to find it. I knew as soon as I got to a computer I would Google the town and name and I would have my manufacturer. To fast forward a little I will tell you that didn’t work. The lady who runs the White Sands was able to come up with a Steel, Arkansas near Fayetteville but we couldn’t find it on any maps. Nor could we find a Chamber or any boat manufacturer there. So much for her Google.

After the Google failure I began to think all was lost on the inexpensive comfortable, safer boat idea. I would keep my eye out to see what I could learn as the trip progressed.

Well now the trip plans had changed and the new plan required me to camp here at Norfork. I knew the little rock beach fairly well having waited for Debbie there on my previous trip. I knew there were outhouses up on the hill and that was a welcome relief. I can’t believe I just used that word in this context.

The Fish and Game enforcement folks at Calico had told me camping was not allowed on the access areas. But they had suggested there might be land adjoining the access areas that would be OK to use. I was going to take them seriously or maybe have to draw up my own boundaries for their property.

In the case of Norfork there was an additional problem. There was absolutely no privacy available without going into very high weeds and underbrush. Here is where the rubber meets the road. Are you a true outdoorsman or not? Are you willing to wade into chest high weeds and brush in sandals and shorts, throw down a cot and sleep there?

The answer was not no, but hell no. I am scared to death of creepy crawlies. As Maureen Miller Johnson Brown, the black lady who helped raise my brother and me, used to say, “I don’t fool with no smooth shoulders, nuh huh.” She was serious and so was I. Once upon a psychology class at Tiger High, I was given a word test. When they gave you the word you had to tell the grad student the first thing was that came to your mind. When the guy said snake I did not hesitate and quickly said, “chopping hoe.” He was from somewhere in the northeastern part of the country. It was obvious he had no idea what I just said. He asked me to explain what I meant by the term chopping hoe. I explained it was an instrument used to chop the weeds out of a garden or a cotton patch. He asked me to describe this instrument of agricultural endeavors. When I described the hoe it seemed to perplex the MBA candidate even more. The next thing he wanted to know was how an agricultural tool had anything to do with a snake. My explanation seemed redundant to me but I told him anyway. When we were children, my parents, grandmother or Maureen Miller Johnson Brown would be watching over us as we played in our yard or at someone else’s home. We spent a lot of time in a wonderful White River community by the name of Bethesda. It really didn’t matter whether we were in a newly built post World War II subdivision or up in the hills at friends homes. There were plenty of copperheads, rattlesnakes and if you were near water, there were always the scary cottonmouths. Any of these “smooth shoulders” as Maureen called them, could kill a kid.

So whenever we kids or, more than likely, our dogs would spot a snake, there were no questions about the snake’s role in the ecology. Everybody yelled get the chopping hoe and cut his head off. If I see a snake today and it looks anything like a poisonous type, I going to shoot it or kill it someway or run like hell and possibly all of the above. They scare the hell out of me and I still believe we are to do battle upon sighting one another. On this matter, I quote Mammy Yokum and say, “I has spoken.”

The graduate student thought the people where I came from must be very unenlightened if we went around killing all those cute little creatures. I told him to go onto his next word or his little project was about to be over.

#22 The Captain and his crew

2010-09-17T09:10:00.000-07:00

#22 The Captain and his Crew

Then another boat came up the river. The big jon boat was heavily loaded and coming in too fast. When they beached her, everyone in the access area could hear the sickening screech of aluminum on concrete. It was an expensive, beamy boat with two older couples and lots of fishing and picnic gear. This was a heavy boat for its style and purpose.

The Captain sent his first mate to get their big four-door pick up. The man backed the trailer onto the ramp a little crooked. His partner started yelling at him to straighten it out. Both women took it upon themselves to relay the Captain’s order to the man driving the truck. Apparently everyone in the boat understood the man in the truck to be deaf except the driver himself.

Up until that point this operation had been fairly normal. Now we were starting to see a little kink in the armor. Apparently the old fellow driving the truck was deaf as a post. As far as the gentleman who was running the motor in the boat was concerned, I was beginning to realize he didn’t see so well. I was getting the idea that a show was in the making.
The captain had backed his boat back out into the river and waited for the trailer to be positioned properly on the ramp. Once the trailer was lined up ninety-degrees to the river, his job was to gun the motor and drive the boat up onto the partially submerged trailer. In most instances this was not a problem. There were only two things to keep in mind. One, don’t hit it so hard that the nose of the boat would crash into the boat wench at the other end of the trailer. Two, keep her straight so you line the boat up. It did take a little practice to build confidence but it wasn’t that big a deal. However, as usual, when dealing with the upper White River one had to take into consideration the considerable amount of current. As he approached the boat he would be fighting a side current of some five or six miles per hour. That side force would be doing everything it could to make the Captain miss his mark. At this time, I was giving the Captain a fifty – fifty chance of hitting the trailer no matter where it was parked, current or no current.

I am going to try to tell what I saw. I hope I do the scene justice. I was sitting on the edge of the ramp about even with the truck driver’s position and about ten feet away. I had a great seat for the show. No popcorn, but I did have my nabs and agua.

The trailer was crooked but not too bad. The main problem was that he had missed the ramp with the right wheel of the trailer. The submerged wheel had gone off the ramp and into a depression next to the concrete. Even the Captain, who didn’t see so well, could tell something looked very wrong. Once more, he yelled for the driver to pull up and straighten out the trailer. Again, the two ladies repeated what he said in voices that were becoming louder and shriller with each attempt at communicating with the driver. Almost predictably, the old man in the truck said, “What the hell did he say?”

The ladies had gotten out of the boat and were presently at their battle stations. One sun hat-wearing lady was near the river’s edge some three or four feet from the submerged wheel. The other lady was on the driver’s side of the trailer near the tailgate of the truck. I began to understand she was the spouse of the truck driver and the lady facing shore must be married to the “El Capitan” himself. Exasperation began to show in the face of the woman I had assigned to the driver. I assumed her to be with the driver because she looked at him as if she was about to take a club to his head. Her eyes began to squint and her face was turning a shade of red. I thought she was holding her breath there for a minute. She must have thought she was standing in the perfect relay position. I thought someone in that family needs to learn how to read lips or sign or something. Even if the driver did know how to read lips, it wouldn’t have done him any good unless he could read lips backwards through the truck’s side mirror. Whatever her position, it didn’t seem to help his hearing one bit.

The other lady had obviously seen this act before. I noticed she started to look around to see who was watching. She was wearing a large brimmed sun hat and seemed to be shrinking back into the hat somehow. I remember thinking if that lady pulls that bonnet down around her face anymore, she won’t be able to see. Then I realized that might be the idea. As she gripped the sides of her hat brim she started edging backward into a little stand of trees at the river’s edge and next to the ramp. It looked as if she was seeking protection from the tree trunks. I didn’t quite get that one figured out before my attention was called back to the boat’s stern again.

The man was still sitting in the river idling the motor and keeping his boat lined up against the light current. Every once in a while, out of impatience, he would gun the boat and make a big circle in the river. Then the Captain would come back to give orders and wait again. He hovered out into the river twenty feet or more. It was obvious from his position and posture he meant business. He fully intended to get a good run at the trailer when he got his chance. He repeated for the third time for his partner to pull up and straighten out the trailer then back down the ramp straight this time.

The relay lady gave up her position and came to the driver’s cab door. Again I am at ringside and can hear every word even if they are whispering. Whispering they were not. In a very loud voice and in a tone only one’s wife of many years could muster, she said. “He said pull up dammit!” By this time her mouth was no more than six inches from her husband’s left ear. He turns to her just as ticked off and says, “Well why didn’t somebody say so in the first place.” With that he gunned the pickup.

As she jumped back, she started a backwards stumble that only ended with a heavy sit down no more than a foot from my feet. The tires squealed for a few feet leaving black marks on the ramp. The lady looked up at me from her upside down position. As I extended a hand and began to help her up, I asked if she was OK. She had skidded a little on her more than ample posterior, so I was concerned about a broken hip or something. She said she was fine, just a little skinned up but mostly embarrassed. She then got up, rearranged her clothing, as if pulling her dignity back into place. She walked away without a limp. She did rub her rump a little. I bet it stung. She was fine. If it had not been for her age, I would have thought her “bouncing booty landing” was funny. Aw heck, I might as well admit it. It was hilarious but not near as funny as the lady with the sombrero Grande over in the trees.

When the trailer lurched forward, the wheel in the hole came right straight up in the air like it had been shot out of a catapult. For just a moment it seemed as if the trailer was in a freeze frame, one side four feet in the air with the other wheel dancing on it’s edge. Gallons of water splashed harmlessly upward with the tire came out of the hole. However, even more gallons splashed sideways toward, you guessed it, the lady standing or maybe cowering is a better word for it, just feet away. Her hands were still attached to the sides of her hat brim, pulling it ever tighter and downward. Her face could only be seen through something of a cone or tunnel created by the bend of the hot brim. When the sheet of water went over her it looked as if a transformation had come over her. She went from a surprised look to a drowned rat in a matter of seconds. One second she was there holding her hat with her eyes bigger than saucers and a sheet of water about to engulf her. The next picture in my mind is one with the lady standing there still clenching the hat brim but dripping wet from head to toe. She could not have been any more soaked had she just walked up out of the river. Did I mention how cold the water was? Cold, damned cold. It was way too cold for wading or swimming. It was trout-river cold.

I don’t know if she had visions of the future or this was an everyday occurrence, but I swear she just looked like someone who was expecting catastrophe and when it happened was almost relieved. She looked at the truck and trailer and then at the Captain. At that point she just sighed and when she did, it looked like all the air went out of her. Her shoulders slumped as she walked away from the ramp out into the sunlight of the parking lot.

The Captain was yelling, “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Just back that thing back down here so we can go home.” I don’t think he saw his wife over there dripping on the parking lot. I’m not sure how much of the truck and trailer he could see. But I do know he sure could yell.

The truck was now stopped in its own skid marks. I guess he liked stopping fast as much as peeling rubber. The relay wife walked up to where the driver was sitting and calmly said to him, “OK, now back it straight down the ramp.” The driver said, “What’d he say?” She yelled, “He said back the son-of- a-bitch into the river.” Our driver said, “That’s what I’ve been trying to do but everybody keep stopping me.” And with that the man backed the boat trailer down the ramp as pretty as you please. The trailer was perfectly aligned with the bank and was just a little short of being ready for boarding the boat. I thought I was going to fall over by this time. Needless to say, a crowd of fishermen had started to reel in and come to watch. This was not something you see every Sunday.

The lady relaying orders could see the trailer needed to come back a few more feet in order to be under water far enough for the Captain to run the boat up on it. The Captain could see the scene but probably not too clearly because he yelled for the driver to come on back about fifteen feet. Now fifteen feet might have looked right to him but it was going to put the entire truck, front wheels and all, in the water. We were just about to have a drowned truck. I guess this was the last straw for the lady in the wilted sun hat. She came back from her exile on the parking lot and asserted herself into the situation. She was ticked off more than just a little bit. She yelled at the relay wife and told her not to repeat that order. She yelled at the Captain, whom I think was her husband, and told him to shut the hell up. She then walked around the front of the pick up truck and slapped the hood with the heel of her hand. That got the deaf guy’s attention. I think it scared him.
When she got around to the driver’s side she became very calm and yet very loud at the same time.

She said, “ Back ‘er up about six or seven feet, watch my hand, when I tell you to stop, I mean stop.” He looked at her as if he had never seen any one as intelligent in his whole life. Then he said a quiet OK and backed up with his eyes never leaving her face or hands.

They backed up about six and a half feet. The fenders of the trailer were covered in water. The trailer was aligned perfectly for a run by the boat Captain. Now we have to remember that when this all started, the Captain was very much in charge and let everyone within earshot know it. Now it was his turn, and all eyes, the crowd now had grown to about fifteen bystanders, were turned to the boat. The Captain was not one to shirk from the limelight and seemed to be enjoying the attention. He backed the boat out into the river just a little, took aim at the trailer guides, and gunned the twenty-horse hard straight ahead. Now what looked like a straight shot to him must not have been what other people would have thought was a straight course. As a matter of fact he would have done well to have traded jobs with his better- seeing, hard-of-hearing partner.

When he came roaring in from abut fifteen feet out, his eyes must have crossed or something because not only did he miss his mark and run slap over one of the trailer fender guides but he kept the motor going at full tilt boogie for about five seconds too long. He hit the guide with the nose of the big twenty-foot boat, clipped it off, and ran the boat up on the fender of the trailer, thereby turning the boat on its side ever so slowly. Just as he got the motor shut off, the bow of the boat crashed into the trailer wench knocking it backward into the tailgate of the truck.

The truck driver heard the metal boat wench hit the tailgate, or felt it, I never will know which because it hit with a huge wallop. The boat leaned off the trailer fender and the right side went into the water. That meant the left side was almost straight up in the air. And we can assume where the Captain is by now. Yup, in the water. Thank goodness he had clipped the kill switch cord to his left wrist. When he was being unceremoniously dumped into the water, his left hand went skyward similar to a bull rider at the Mesquite Rodeo. That killed the sputtering motor as it laid half in the water and half out.

The two women looked at what had just occurred with mouths wide open. The crowd had to shut their own jaws. The Captain struggled to his feet standing in two feet of cold, cold water and sputtered and fumed, but he could not figure out how to blame anybody but himself. The crowd saw he was OK and started to giggle, then laugh, then belly laugh. The two women turned around and walked quietly together toward the ladies’ loo. The old fellow in the driver’s seat kept trying to turn around to see just what the heck was going on. I walked over to him and put my hand on his left arm. He looked at me with questions in his eyes. I told him to put her in park and get out to see about his buddy. He got out, took one look and started laughing like crazy. He then turned to me and said, “ My brother’s been doing this craziness for over 60 years and it gets funnier every time.”

The last I saw of them, the wives were still out of sight and the brothers were putting all the pieces back together. The guys in the crowd were helping them get the boat on the trailer and everyone was in a great mood, even the Captain.

After they were taken care of, I shoved off for Norfork town where I would see my boating future.

#20 Buffalo City on the White and folks you meet

2010-09-17T08:54:00.000-07:00

Buffalo City and the folks you meet on the river.

I pulled into the first landing area I saw when approaching Bufflao City access area. I got my body out of the little canoe, as quick as I could. While I was standing around trying to get some circulation back into my tired tail and stiff legs, I noticed and overheard a guy taking a creel survey. He would talk to people who came in from the White. Some folks he approached and others such as myself he did not. I was curious how he chose whom to ask about their catch. I guess to the trained observer the real fishermen were obvious.

I was planning on motoring up the Buffalo and spending the night on a gravel bar some 15 miles up stream. In order for me to reach my camping destination the water had to be high enough for travel. More importantly the water had to be slow enough for my little three and a half to motor upstream. I figured, who better to ask than the creel questioner himself. He must hear lots of info from both ends of both rivers.

Nope. Wrongo. He told me right quick he does not speak to people coming off the Buffalo. They don’t have creel numbers for his trout survey. Now I knew why he hadn’t spoken to me. I was in a canoe. Motor or not he took one look at me and decided I was not one of his people even though I was motoring in from the White River and coming from upstream while the Buffalo was down stream. Man. That was too bad. He was in a heck of a position to have a world of real-time knowledge about conditions on both rivers. He could have been ‘the man’ but he chose to be a bureaucrat. Too bad.

I noticed a couple taking their new Supreme jon boat out of the water. Luckily for me they pulled the boat, truck and trailer over in the shade near where I was hanging out eating my lunch of Nabs and Jerky washed down by cold water.

For those of you who may not have had the privilege of knowing Laddie Hutcherson or his more than lovely wife Nancy Wright Hutcherson of “Gin Head” fame, they coined the term Nabs many years ago when road trips meant gas station food and Nabisco packages of Cheeze and Orange Crackers or peanut butter and crackers from a machine. Most of the time, we would have a Coca Cola with them and then it was “Nabs and Coke.” That was lunch on the road with those two. There may have been other adult cold beverages involved but I can’t remember for sure as it’s been awhile since those Tiger High days in Memphis.

I still enjoy my “Nabs” lunches, but I have to think healthy now so I have added a couple of Oberto’s jerky sticks to the package and I know I am getting a truly balanced meal. Yes sir, all the food groups worth eating can, and do, come to you from a machine.

The couple allowed me to look over their new boat. It was just like the one the fellows from Ardmore had purchased the day before. It looked as if Dave’s Boats was doing a good business. They explained the attributes of their boat and I was impressed. Indeed the Supreme probably was the perfect White River fishing machine. I asked them about the motor. I thought it looked a little underpowered since the ones I had seen on this size boat had all been twenty horses or more. Yet, here these folks were with a Mercury ten horse. Herein lies a little hillbilly wisdom. When dealing with the feds, give the appearance of what they want and they will go away. It seems the government had decided there should be a limit on the size motors they would allow on the Buffalo River. The Park Service now rules the river since it was designated the nation’s first Wild and Scenic River. These hill people had been traveling the Buffalo in boats since before there were outboard motors. They knew more about the river than the government folks who were sent to dictate behavior on “their” river.

The hillbillies knew the river and its temperament. The Buffalo is one of the most dangerous rivers in the world due to its propensity to flash flood whenever there are heavy rains. The solitude and beauty of the river lulls you into complacency. The Buffalo is sneaky. It will wait for you to go to sleep on what you consider dry land, and then it will rise out of its banks and try to sweep you away. You may not even know about a rainstorm that is happening some fifty or sixty miles upstream yet the water will rise more than a foot per hour where you are camped. If you have not allowed for a camp exit plan, you may be in dire straits without Mark Knopfler.

Part of your exit plan may include your boat. In the case of a 20-foot long jon boat, you will need sufficient power to guide you through what has changed from a benign stream to a raging torrent. If your boat is loaded with gear and people, the dictated ten-horse motor might not be enough power. If your escape route involves motoring upstream, you could be in big trouble. The government looked on the Buffalo as a utopian canoeist and kayaker river. It looked good to the eco heads when they drew up the rules in far away Washington. As we all know, reality rarely touches Washington thought, so here the locals were left to deal with another of the bureaucrats’ unintended consequences.

Hillbilly engineering will conquer all. It seems you can take the carb off of the ten-horse and replace it with a fifteen-horse carburetor and whammo, you have a fifteen in ten’s clothing. Now you stand a better chance in cases of emergency. Thanks to the couple for letting me know how to do it. I want everyone to know this little engineering secret so they at least have a choice of rectifying a very scary rule. My rule in cars and trucks is to always have more engine than you think you will need. Period. I am quickly realizing the same reasoning should hold true with outboard motors and little boats.

The folks with the Supreme had just come from small mouth bass fishing up the Buffalo. Now I had someone with up-to- the-minute river information. These rivers are living, changing beasts. If you don’t keep up with the news of what they are doing real time, you can get yourself stranded or hurt. Chatting with other boaters about your plans is a good idea anywhere along the river. In talking to these folks I learned enough to completely change my action plan.

It seemed they had just come out of the mouth of the Buffalo. The water was down in the White, and the normal level of the Buffalo this time of year was typically low. The couple told me over the past few years the Buffalo had been filling in a gravel bar at the point where it emptied into the White. This created a problem when the dams were not letting out any water. The water level could actually go down so far that the gravel became a minor dam across the mouth of the Buffalo. This would keep normal boat traffic backed up until the dams released enough water to raise the White high enough to flood back into the Buffalo.

The fellow with the Supreme advised me not to go up the Buffalo that night if I intended to come right back out the next day. He was afraid I would go up the river and camp for the night and then be on the wrong side of the gravel bar with the water still falling. That was not a catastrophe in itself, but I would have a hell of a time carrying my boat and all the camping gear over quite some distance of gravel bar. He suggested I rearrange my route and do the lower Buffalo another day.

And that, my friends, is why we needed our little creel man to be attentive to everyone not just his charges. What we needed was a town crier as well as a fish counter. I did change my tactics and decided to travel on down the White and sleep on the access area at Norfork.

Sleeping on the gravel beach at Norfork proved to be a little more difficult than I imagined. But that story will come a little later.

The folks with the ten-horse on the big, good looking, Supreme left. I was still sitting in the shade on my little campstool, Nabs finished, but munching on a pear from my backyard tree in Texas. I liked sitting in the shade next to a cold river on a hot day. It made sense of the world.

#21 Ranting about my DeLorme GPS.

2010-09-17T08:53:00.000-07:00

Buffalo City and the GPS fiasco.

Let me get this out of the way. I haven’t seen any buffalo in Buffalo City. I haven’t seen any city in Buffalo City. I have seen a Game and Fish Commission ramp and access area. I have seen what appears to be a campground along the river. But I am not sure what I saw. I did see people walking along a well maintained shoreline so I assumed it was a resort of some sort. I know the mouth of the Buffalo River is not more than one half mile downstream from the access area. I am pretty sure the bluff across from the ramp is Stair Bluff and I think it may be the side of Turkey Mountain but I’m not sure about that part.

There may be a town up on the road leading to the river but I haven’t seen it. The next time I’m in that area I will go see if I can find out more and if there is a café, I am going to try to order a Buffalo Burger.

A couple of miles before I reached Buffalo City, the batteries failed on the GPS. I had not hit the three-hour mark this time. This was 12 miles at about a six-mile per hour average. It was, however, long enough for my posterior to be barking at me. The narrow little cane bottom canoe seat had already started to impose its’ impression on not only my buttocks but my back as well. I was going to have to figure some way to beat this problem.

Back to the GPS. It was a DeLorme PN-20. I had been told by an REI staffer, it was the best off-road topo gear available and so new they didn’t even have it in the stores. I ordered it from the factory and paid full retail for the rig. I got the chargers and all that they called “road gear” or something like that. We also bought the deluxe package to get the mapping software for the computer. That was the important part. We were told by DeLorme, almost any GPS could make a trail but making the maps was the specialty of the house DeLorme.

After three frustrating weekends, I think my computer guru wife would beg to differ with that assessment. Tedious would be kind from her standpoint. Amy was having a terrible time learning the “geek to geek speak” software in building the maps. She had printed out a three ring binder some two inches thick of instructions and still could not figure the thing out. There was nothing intuitive about the program and to make things worse when you got something finished if you tried to do something else it would wipe out the previously finished product.

Amy took DOS twenty years ago and has been using computers of all sorts ever since that time. She never has to call a help desk and does everything but write her own programs. Amy is seriously computer savvy. I, on the other hand, am not. She should have breezed through a consumer product like this. To her it was based on non-sensical logic and continually threw up roadblocks to routine procedures.

On my end, I was having a hell of a time learning and operating the GPS unit in the field. I would lay the manual down beside me and try to walk through the instructions to achieve simple goals like lay down a track. I wasn’t trying to get from Chicago to San Francisco and figure ETA’s or anything. I just wanted to lay down a track so I could make it follow me as I went about my travels. The next step would be to download the info with the markers I blazed, so we could build a map on the supposedly great topo’s from DeLorme.

One of the main problems was the nomenclature they used. I referred to it as geek speaking to geek without regard for the consumer or end user. Reading the wording in the GPS or in the instruction manual, was like reading another language. When I called the guy at the factory who had told me how wonderful the equipment was, I asked him to walk me through setting the GPS up for a simple tracking run. At that point, Amy had spent an entire weekend uploading their maps to the GPS unit. I thought she was going to shoot me before it was finished. Again, tedious would have been kind.

I was at REI in Plano asking for help from their resident GPS guru when the factory guy called back to assist me with setting up the tracking. He was the product manager or something. I had already had to have the charger and original rechargeable batteries replaced after the first trip. At this point I was in preparation for the Cotter to Guion trip and was trying to make sure I had the GPS thing down so the work would count this time.

I was due to leave for Cotter the next day and needed help. That morning I had called the DeLorme help desk or technical assistance desk, whatever they call it. I had gotten into an argument with the staffer who was handling my call. He was telling me there was nothing wrong and I was asking if that was the case why didn’t the map show up. I got ticked and asked for the manager. He came on all ticked off and eventually told me my learning process was not their responsibility. If the machine was not broken don’t call them. That is when I called the guy who had basically sold me the machine. It took him several hours, meetings you know, to call me back. I was, by this time, desperately seeking help from the REI guys in the Plano store.

The fellow was nice enough. I think he got ticked when he heard how I was treated by his “help” desk. He tried to walk me through his procedure to get my problem straightened out. It didn’t work. As I told him, he was speaking from a satellite and I was still on the runway. The words he was using to instruct me were his company’s words. They were geek speak and I might as well have been listening to someone speaking Greek because I had not a clue as to what he was saying. I still don’t know why they could not have used words that meant something to the everyday consumer especially since it was a consumer’s device. Those people are going to fail at this venture. I eventually had to send all the DeLorme equipment back for a refund. It was just too hard to use and, as I learned from the REI guys, they had a really bad reputation when it came to the help desk.

I instinctively knew it was too hard for me to deal with alone. Then when I ran into all that attitude at the help desk, I was sunk. Therefore they are going to sink as well. A couple of weeks later I went to a field GPS demo session put on by REI. There were several people there, none of which I would call a computer whiz. All had Garmin equipment and the instructor walked us through setting the units up from scratch. I was amazed at how user friendly they were. There were symbols that actually made sense to the consumer. The buttons were easy to understand and didn’t take a thick manual to figure out. Within a very short time I was feeling comfortable with the Garmin and realized I had bought a line of hooey.

Later I did go to the REI store and bought the Garmin top of the line GPS and the National Geographic Topo software for my area. There is usually a reason if one company is out selling the rest of the industry a gillion to one. Maybe I should have thought about that instead of listening to the hooey tipster.

The other knock I have on the supposed rock star of GPS units is that side by side in difficult locations the Garmins are able to get signals when the DeLorme hasn’t a clue. That could make a difference in the high-walled canyons of the float-fishing world. The best thing I can say about DeLorme is my contact took pity on me and accepted the products back.

Now back to the river. The DeLorme batteries went out in less the three hours. I want to make sure I say these were the new replacement batteries sent to replace the old ones that went out on the last trip. I had charged the darned things all night along with the older pair. But this time I knew exactly where my old funky Sam’s Club cheapy AA batteries were located. I had actually anticipated the factory’s failure. Of course the weather and the river were cooperating as well.

I had made an equipment change. Instead of the paddler’s wet bag for my camera equipment and batteries, I was using a photographer’s Pelican hard case. The thing was bulky, but it protected the gear from bumps much better and it was actually probably better in the waterproof department. I was keeping the case at my feet. The Pelican contained two professional grade cameras with lenses ready to shoot. This trip I was determined to get some descriptive pictures. This was much better access and protection for the gear.

I opened the back of the GPS and removed the old batteries and replaced them with my cheap AA’s and turned the thing back on. Whammo, we had GPS again and had not missed more than 100 yards of river. If you read the previous story, you will realize I am floating this section for the second time because my batteries failed in a storm and I lost two whole sections of my trip. That was a dangerous way to learn the value of the GPS unit and its batteries.

When we started the blog, the original idea was to pass onto others information about not only the river but the equipment as well. The GPS story will evolve and I will be adding information as we try new products.

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

2010-09-17T08:47:00.000-07:00

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.

The Buffalo and the paddle lesson.

2008-06-27T17:57:00.000-07:00

Buffalo National River

January 3, 2008

I posted a few pictures last January of a trip I made with Walter Velez and a Park Service Ranger on the Buffalo National River. It was beautiful but cold. The temperature was nine degrees in my tent the first night. I took way too much gear and the wind blew in our faces for all three days. We made very little mileage and most of that was my fault since I was the inexperienced slow paddler. I used the same little Mad River Explorer that was so faithful during the previous summer on the White. Of course, during that trip, the little 16 footer had a Mercury trolling motor strapped to her side. This time it was paddle only and 15 to 30 degrees with a serious headwind. Needless to say, I picked a hell of a time to learn how to paddle a heavily laden canoe.

Luckily, I had Walter with me and was reassured that if all went to hell in a hand basket there would be someone there to fish me out of the cold drink. I didn’t tip over and all ended well. The pictures and the experiences were amazing. I wanted to float or paddle this river since I was a teenager but had never had the opportunity. Now I had done it and in the dead of winter to boot. The experience was worth all the trouble a bad planner could put himself into and that is what I had done. I entered the river totally unprepared for the reality of what happens when you bring too much stuff, too heavy a boat, too inexperienced a paddler, too extreme a temperature and too damned dumb to realize what you were facing. Once again, I have learned you cannot fix a date certain on an expedition and then stick to it no matter what. Your entry into the expedition should always be timed with success in mind, not expedience or in my case convenience. Unless, of course you think you have so much experience you can take on anything the river has to offer. In that case, I would suggest you never, never mess with Mother Nature because just two months later the river was engorged by a huge flood.

The river had what has been called two one hundred year floods within three weeks of each other. In March the river rose some forty-five feet in a thirty-six hour period. The water was within four feet of the bottom of Highway 14 bridge. Every gravel bar we camped on was under water by over forty feet. The water knocked down great sixty-foot Sycamore trees and put driftwood high into the cliffs.

When I got back from the Buffalo I knew I could no longer rely on my luck to keep myself safe from the river elements. I taught myself a serious lesson. In other words I realized how much trouble I could have gotten into simply because I was too inexperienced for the situation.

2007-07-16T18:19:00.000-07:00

Boomer’s Adventure Guide

In Search of the Perfect River

Expedition #1: The White River of Arkansas.

Foreword

The very first thing I want to say is I AM NOT A WRITER. I am a photographer who tells stories with pictures not words. This writing thing is new and scary to me. I know I am limited in my writing ability but feel strongly enough about the subject at hand to go ahead and make a fool of myself.

Also, I am going to share my adventures and mis-adventures as I learn the ways of river travel. I am writing this journal in hopes that the lessons I learn will help others who intend to take up float fishing. I have decided to bare my soul in these journal entries.

I am going to look like a real idiot as you read parts of the story. So be it. I do some really dumb things and hopefully you and I can both learn from my mistakes. I am in the process of creating information for those who want to explore the White and whatever other rivers and lakes I paddle in the future. During these efforts I will learn, a great deal about rivers, nature and probably more importantly myself.

Prior river knowledge is important. But it is hard to gain. For safety’s sake it is incumbent of each of us to learn all we can about every river prior to launching our boat. Some of this river knowledge others have known all their lives. But every river is different and I am learning them one at a time. That is what launched me into the exploration mode. I wanted to learn about the white River and didn’t find a lot of helpful info on the internet. Having grown up on the White I thought I knew a lot more than I did. That was the first lesson.

I will be chattering on about all sorts of subjects most of which have to do with experiences with products I am testing or just life’s experiences and observations. I am going to open a window into my soul as I tell you how I feel and what I am thinking during certain parts of the trip. I know I am going to look stupid in a lot of cases but it is sort of my first rodeo so please try to cut me a little slack.

I can guarantee one thing for certain. Some of the things I say will tick some folks off. Sorry, but it’s my personal journal and if you don’t like what you see then you should quit reading.

The reason I started the maps and journal was a lack of information about float fishing and the rivers. I decided last winter that I would like to put my old canoe to use and take up fishing. I’m sixty one now but have no intention of slowing down. I am pre-boomer age by one year. I figure a lot of people are thinking they would like a little adventure in their lives yet realize they are a little over the hill physically. Float fishing include all the neat things involved in an outdoor experience. Fun stuff like camping, scenery, photography, birding, nature viewing, cooking over a campfire or not, boating, canoeing, kayaking, fishing, fly fishing and as I have learned the thrill of the unexpected testing your mettle.

I intend to establish an organization that will enable people to find each other to share trips and information. There are enough books and maps when it comes to the white water scene. But now we are older and it is time for a gentler less strenuous type of outdoor activity. Float fishing requires cooperation among participants whether for shuttle service or partnering for safety’s sake. The companionship and friendships made along the way are a bonus.

The organization will be named Float Fishing America. After I get some maps done and have some journal information to share with people I will establish FFA.
We will use that group to promote the sport and I think you will find “Boomers” jumping on the idea.

To wind up the foreword I want to stress one thing. I know there will be a some old river hands read this blog or journal and kick the crap out of me. That’s o.k., I ‘m not writing this for you. I’m writing it for people like me who have been away from Mother Nature way too long or like my pal Chris Leavitt who grew up in a large city and never had the opportunity to learn the ways of the outdoors. It does not make us bad folks nor should we be targeted for ridicule but if that’s your thing go for it. It will be your problem not mine.

I am having a good time learning and growing with nature. I would challenge you to come join us and lend your expertise so we can learn from you. There are so many people who have never known the beauty nor bounty of the natural world. I am convinced the world would be a better place if we could fill it with outdoorsmen.

If you have your own boat and gear and feel the need for adventure you might want come join us. If so give me a call at 214-912-9106. I will be happy to share info on the when, what and where of the next trips. I am not your guide nor do I represent myself as having a clue about what I am doing. I’ll learn and so will you. I’m not going to be your nanny or cook your food. If you want to be a working member then we will be glad to invite you.

2007-07-16T18:17:00.000-07:00

Boomer’s Mis-Adventure Journal- Solo

In search of the perfect float fishing river.

Expedition #2: Arkansas’s White River

Chapter One

Bull Shoals Dam to Norfork.

This time it was to be different. I was alone and had no one to wait on or worry about. I cleared my schedule and made a few calls to North Arkansas. I emailed several outfitters trying to locate camping facilities. I wasn’t making much progress. Finally, I found an outfitter who would actually talk to me.

Debbie Gamble of Cotter Trout Dock became that contact. She and her husband Ron were very helpful during the entire leg of the journey.

I drove nearly 500 miles from Dallas to Cotter on a Sunday in June. I arrived around 6 p.m. and was able to meet Debbie just as she was about to leave the dock. She was very gracious and suggested the motel near the bridge. I was more than a little concerned about leaving all that gear in an open canoe all night. The motel was in the town and on the highway next to the bridge. I had seen the motel and thought the parking lot was far too accessible for thieves. I was carrying my little outboard motor and all the fishing and camping gear in the canoe. I everything lashed down with rope but that would only secure it for travel and not from theft.

When I expressed my concerned for the gear she suggested I store my trailer behind the Cotter Trout Dock among their boats and other equipment. I jumped at that. She showed me a pavilion in back, where I could back the trailer into a protected area. I asked if she minded my sleeping there. She thought I was nuts but told me to go ahead if I wanted. Then she left to fix Ron a Father’s day meal.
The boat trailer backed right into a bay of the pavilion and left enough room for my aluminum cot. I had not used this cot since moving from Colorado some 15 years ago. As I started to put the cot together a major thunderstorm broke loose. The music from big shed’s tin roof sounded great. But now I had to figure out how to put the cot together. Isn’t camping fun? About the time you figure out how to put up the tent the next evil device is there for you to figure out. What really ticks me off is it takes me forever to figure out some engineers’ clever tricks. I think they do it on purpose.

Once together, the cot is really comfortable. I needed something for a pillow and tried to use my Cyclops bag cover. Nope, I wanted something softer. I pulled the hood of my new cheap sleep bag over it and that did the trick.

After setting up the cot I dug out my little Coleman one burner stove. I made a strong cup of Community Coffee’s chicory blend. Man, that java hit the spot. I had eaten a late lunch of great bar-b-q sandwiches from a roadside stand just north of Conway. I really didn’t need any supper.

With my little camp set up I drank my coffee and began to soak up the river scene. I was sitting no more than 10 feet from the water. I took notice of the volume of water in the river. The water was so high it was making a roaring sound as it strained against a boat dock across the river. It looked as if the current would take the dock away at any moment. I really had no way to judge but it looked as if the water was three to four feet above it’s normal line. The Cotter Trout Dock was situated in a protected cove so the current didn’t affect it. The Cotter Bridge was practically over head and quiet the edifice.

There is a spring fed swimming hole next to the Cotter Trout Dock. Apparently the water comes the subterranean route from one of the nearby creeks. The little rock lined pool was full of families with kids of all ages. The community had built a great rope swing by placing a leaning steel beam over the water and tying a rope to the end. The kids would grab the rope and swing out then let go just like we did from an old cotton wood tree years ago. I wondered if the kids had any idea who Geronimo was or if they still yelled the same thing we did. Of course the activity brought about screams and giggles from the girls and hollers of joy from the boys. They were having a wonderful time.

I was reminded an old article in National Geographic. I think the cover had a pretty Ozark teenaged gal in a swimming hole somewhere along this same river. I wonder if that was shot here at the spring?

The kids in the swimming hole and the girl in the article picture was reminiscent of the same good looks I had known as a kid in a town not so far down river. I had to reflect on the quality of the hillbilly gene pool. That same mixture of Irish, Scots, Germans and English was still pumping out the good-looking, fun loving kids.

Three or four of the boys were still swinging and yelling at 10 p.m. I was surprised at myself for not being irritated with them at bedtime. Instead, I took pleasure in their joy of life.

As I drank my coffee and then a bottle of water I watched it rain like cats and dogs. Two men were fishing on the other side of the little cove. They were standing near the Arkansas Fish and Game Commission’s newly improved boat ramp. I had forgotten to buy a fishing license before Debbie went home so I couldn’t fish the hour or so till dark. I regretted the fishing license goof up as I watched them cast.

As the rain fell even harder, the fellow grudgingly disappeared only to reappear in a big city trench-coat and his fishing hat. He then took up his rod and continued to cast like a man possessed.

When the rain quit another man joined him. I walked around to where the two were fishing. They were uncle and nephew and part of a yearly gathering from a geographically spread out family. Two of the older brothers had lived in Cotter as children while their father helped build Bull Shoals Dam. The man I spoke with had actually been born in Cotter.

The second fellow looked as if he might be nearly as old as his uncle. He wore the long braided ponytail of a biker. I asked neither man what he did for a living. It just seemed out of place and would have brought up thoughts we were there to forget. So I let that dog lay. We had a nice visit about fishing and the world. I don’t know what it means but I seemed to be closer politically to the biker than his uncle. Hmmm.

Dark came and the rain ended. The men were going back to their lives the next day and I was just getting my little expedition started. We parted and I went back to my shed and they to the little motel on the hill. Before they left I asked their opinion of the hotel parking lot security problem. They confirmed my concerns of vulnerability.

I haven’t mentioned the cats. For some reason there were 10 or more cats living in and around the fishing boats and equipment stacked in the Cotter Trout Dock’s work yard. I think it probably had to do with guides cleaning the days’ catch of tasty trout leftovers. I don’t think these cats were hanging around for generations because of some kind of homing instinct. The reason I bring up the cats is they seemed to lack a sandbox and I had to be careful of where I walked in the pavilion.

I tend to get up more at night than I did as a younger man. You “boomers” might identify with that deal. It is beneficial for one to notice where piles of cat poop are placed before testing your night vision. Being a dog rescuer teaches you a few things about critters and bare feet in the dark of night.

The other thing about the critters was their cat fights and hissing matches. During the night the ruckus would wake me up. There was a big vapor light on the opposite side of the enclosure from where I was sleeping. I could see the area pretty well. The cats would argue and then the loser apparently had the duty to do a twenty-five yard sprint. When they felt a safe distance had been achieved they would dive beneath a jon-boat or some other piece of equipment.

At first it freaked me out when the squalling and hissing would wake me up. I finally got used to it and let their occasional cacophony blend in with the roaring of the river. The dock across the river was really straining its’ cables.

I slept off and on until 4:30 or so. When I heard someone at the boat dock I checked my watch. It was Ron Gamble the dock owner, prepping his boats for the days’ charters.

There was a boat trailer in the big shed. It became the best seat in the house for coffee and watching the river at sunrise. Not long after daylight the water began to fall rapidly. The water line I had marked in just below my trailer perch had stayed at the same level all evening. By noon it would be down some three feet. It can come up even faster. This is no river to fool with and once again it caused me to doubt my river savvy.

Before daylight broke, I watched fish ripple the water and the first of the fishermen arrive at the boat ramp. It was drizzling a little with a fairly thick fog on the cold water. I was surprised at the women who came with their men and showed no concern about the rain or the coolness of the morning. They helped with placing the boat in the river, parked the pickups, and claimed their favorite fishing seat as the husband warmed the outboard. Then the twenty foot jon-boats would back out into the fog and turn upriver. The little motors would race and strain then slowly move upstream and disappear into the fog. The women and the men sitting like statues at ease in their chosen element. I envied them their lifestyles.

Our plan was to let Debbie and Ron get their guides and customers started fishing. Then Debbie would shuttle me to Bull Shoals Dam. I would motor back down to Cotter and check in with her for safety’s sake.

I made another cup of coffee and sauntered over to the office. Debbie introduced me to Ron and two of the guides. I was pleased to chat with the three of them about water conditions, shoals and other concerns. They assured me the shoals would be well under water but that the current would be very, very strong and I would need to contend with it constantly. Both guides and Ron were very generous with advice.

The for Arkansas Division of Tourism had given me a list of outfitters who supposedly provided camping and shuttle services for float fishermen. Most of that info was bad and some of the attitudes were equally as bad. One or two let me know they do not provide shuttle service to people who are not being guided by their staff nor did they know of any place a fellow could camp. I quit calling the list as soon as I found Debbie and Ron.

All the land along the river is private. The state access areas are off limits to camping. Other than the state park at the dam there is no public facility for camping. There were one or two private campgrounds near Cotter. I thought I would be spending my first night at one of them but they seemed to be geared to rv’s. When I emailed them one responded the other didn’t. One who responded warned me about pets and quoted something like $25 a night. For that fee I would be allowed to wander off into the back section of their property. There I would pitch a tent or in my case a jungle hammock. Obviously I wanted to be as near my canoe as possible. I certainly didn’t want to tote gear all over creation. Also, I thought $25 was a little steep. But the kicker was the anti dog attitude. I am a dog person. I rescue Boykin Spaniels and have the responsibility for four states as a regional coordinator. I don’t know why but they really stressed their displeasure with dogs coming to their campground. I decided I would sleep in my canoe before I would stay at a place that was so against dogs.

The folks at Cotter Trout Dock had an island camping place I could use and it was a days’ float from the Dam. I would take them up on the offer and shoot for Smith Island the first night. I suggested to Ron and Debbie that they should consider opening a little float fishermen camping spot behind the Cotter Dock. I hope they do.

The river runs over, around and through it…………and any place else it wants to go…remember that.

2007-07-16T18:16:00.000-07:00

Chapter Two

Getting ready, to commence, to begin, to start, to crank this thing at Bull Shoals State Park. Stuff about stuff.

Debbie Gamble of the Cotter Trout Dock guided me to the State Park at Bull Shoals Dam. I put the little Mad River 16-foot in and pulled the car and trailer back up. I had forgotten to unplug the taillights before they entered the water. As soon as I noticed the mistake, I unplugged them. Apparently they were not under long enough to hurt anything. When the rig was hooked back up the lights worked fine.

I had a little disappointment with the trailer. One of the plastic fenders must have fallen off on the drive up. The second one did the same thing as we pulled the rig out of the water. I threw it away after seeing the bolt holes had expanded from the road vibrations. I was ticked when I realized driving through rain was going to throw water right up into the boat. That’s a tough bailing job when your boat is full of gear.

The trailer is made for canoes up to 17 feet. The manufacturer is Trailex of Canfield, Ohio. My cousin harassed me about buying a trailer when all I had to do was lift the boat to the top of my little Chevy HHR. I told him it was because in a few years I might not be strong enough. I wanted to be able to go fishing and not have to worry about lifting a canoe to the top of a car. This is about having a little fun and not about the macho deal. I don’t think Johnny has made the inevitable leap from the twilight zone to the twilight years. It’s not that we have to give up our adventures we just have to prepare for them a little more. I has spoken.

I have been very happy with the trailer because of its ease of handling. Even driving through the mountains in my little Chevy HHR I can‘t feel the rig behind me. I can man handle it with a loaded boat, motor on floor and all, walking it around at will. The boat, trailer and all store in a fairly tight space. I like the place for a lock on top of the hitch. I padlock it while on the river. It makes me feel the car and trailer will at least be together when the cops find them.

When I was writing this journal chapter I decided to call the manufacturer and tell him about the fenders falling off. I did. He said no problem he would send me replacements. I asked if they would be plastic also and he said yes they had gotten a bad pallet of them back in the winter. The fender manufacturer said the plastic was mixed wrong and caused them to crack. He said they have been making this trailer since 1972 and this is the first time they have had a problem so he believed the guy. I believed the Trailex man. He took down my address and phone number and said he would send me a new set right away. That made me happy.

The trailer costs me only 2 to 3 miles per gallon behind my little HHR 4 banger. I am now doing the edit of this chapter and the fenders have arrived and been put on the trailer. It took less than a week from the time I called the manufacturer. I can recommend his trailers. I have been more than pleased with the product and think it is the only way to go. The single canoe version model number is SUT-200-S. The company makes trailers for more than one canoe but I didn’t have enough foresight to buy one. Should have but didn’t.

Warning to the mechanically impaired: This is a mail order trailer and it comes in three boxes. You know where this is going. Another engineer messing with my mind. Be ready to spend some time putting this thing together. It works but the instructions are vague to say the least.

Back to the river…..

I got my real first shock of the day when I waded out to un-strap the canoe. I was wearing my 12-year-old Teva sandals and the cold bit down like a vise on my toes. Dang it was cold. The water was about 55 degrees and right out of the bottom of the lake a few hundred yards away. I immediately found my brand new REI water booties. They are called Venture Warmers. They look like a rubber version of the old black, high topped, Converse basketball shoes. After putting them on it was like a different world. I could wade around all I wanted and the cold did not affect my feet. Even though the booties only came up to my ankles the cold didn’t affect my shins or calves. I assumed the shin and calf area is not as sensitive as the feet. I don’t know why. I just know it was much more comfortable with the wet suit type booties. I recommend to you cold water folks, get a pair right away. The wet suit type gloves work great as well.

When Debbie dropped me off I still had more arranging to do. I don’t know what my compulsion is but I seem to spend way too much time fiddling with gear. Before I could shove off I had coolers to ice for cold drinks and lunchmeat. I had two or three bags of excess stuff. Two days before I felt all of it was absolutely necessary and now I had a lot of dead weight.

I got everything into the boat, adjusted my outriggers so the floats would not be touching the water. Now a word about what my cousin, John Copeland McKelvey, aka Heinous McGurk, called my canoe training wheels. I don’t care if he thinks they are for sissies. I haven’t turned over in 56 degree water traveling at 6 mph and I don’t plan on doing so. At my age I intend to use wisdom and safety whenever I can. (if only I could recognize either of them it would help) I’ve spent my life doing it the other way and sometimes it can get downright dangerous doing things the hardheaded way. Nah ne nah ne noooon noooo, John Copeland, the damned things worked great and I made the trip with a greater sense of security with them.

My floats came from the same retail mail order outfit where I bought my trailer, Castle Craft Equipment of Braidwood, Ill. They were made by Spring Creek Design and worked really well both under power and just floating down the river. For someone who is nervous about the easily tilted canoes these outriggers are wonderful. If you travel alone like I do it’s ok to cheat any way you can for safety. It’s your life.

The two other cheaters I used were a three and a half horse Mercury outboard and two Harmony bow and stern stuffers. If my side outriggers were called training wheels then these heavy-duty, form-fitting blow ups could be called water wings for canoes. Again, at this age, caution is key. When canoes turn over they don’t float without some sort of floatation device helping. My Explorer has no built in floatation. So I thought if I turn over and get separated from the boat I would at least be able to wave goodbye.

At 16, two of my buddies and I swam the White just below the dam at Batesville. It was at night and a foolish thing to do but then we were bullet proof. Besides there were chicks on the sandbar having their senior week luau. Our chief trouble planner, Al Harris the Third, felt we had to do something impressive. After all, this was the class a year a head of us and we thought they were cool. I still don’t know if the girls were impressed but I still remember it 45 years later. That swim was a thriller and even though we thought we were tough we knew the river was boss.

Back to the river….

The motor worked great. I had made a couple of planning mistakes and a huge mistake when ordering it. I mistakenly ordered a long shaft motor. That made the shaft darned near six inches longer than the normal. What that does to a river runner is terrible. I had extended the motor far deeper into the water than necessary. I should have been working to keep the prop as shallow as possible.

The mistake was countered by adding a jake plate to the Mad River side mount. By adding 8 inches we lifted the prop to within 3 inches of the keel depth. The problem with that is I am going down the river with my motor darned near head high. That action has a reaction from gravity. By raising the motor so high I had inadvertently raised the boat’s center of gravity. Not good. In turn that makes the canoe even more tippy than when we started. Tippy is bad. Tippy is why we have training wheels in the first place. Tippy, tippy, tippy bad deal. The second problem is when you beach the boat it now needs a kick-stand. Yeah, just like a motorcycle. The motor is so high and the forty pounds becomes greater. The motor weight wants to turn the canoe over as soon as the large counter balance gets up off his seat and steps out of the canoe.

This is where the outriggers do double duty. By lowering the floats to the lowest position, i.e. touching the water, the left one actually does provide enough floatation to act as a water born kickstand. The motor had to be in the down or running position. Now at least the boat doesn’t fall on its side and fill with water.

The water wings had to be tied into place. When traveling at highway speed the wind whips at the rear float, and it attempts to fly out onto the highway. I deflated it and put it into the car rather than fight the forces of I-30 wind. You also want to tie them in place so they can perform their duties if the boat ever does capsize. It doesn’t make much sense to buy your boat water wings and then fail to attach them.

With all my little paranoid precautions in place, I still tie each and every bag and the motor to the boat. I want to be able to retrieve all my gear in case of turning over. I always wear my full sized life jacket. I don’t apologize for any of this behavior. I love life and plan on getting a whole bunch more out of it before I kick. It’s hard to get a thrill from canoeing if your under the water rather than floating on top and therein lies the bottom line. Live life to the fullest but be damned sure to come back alive so you can love it another day.

That’s my theory and I’m sticking to it. I has spoken…….

2007-07-16T18:15:00.000-07:00

Chapter Three

Talk, talk, talk………….
Finally, we’re gonna shove off…I think.

It turns out that Bull Shoals State Park is a great starting place. The park has finest riverside campsites I have ever seen. It has great camping for both tent and RVs. Just as importantly the park has good showers and bathroom facilities. The showers and bathrooms become scarce as soon as you shove off from Bull Shoals.

The riverside campsites remind me off a lakeside State Park somewhere in up state New York. Sorry, too many years have gone by since that one. Can’t remember where or even when I did that trip. Wooden platforms built for tents with a nice little picnic table and right over the water. Neat deal. It was a beautiful lake and scenery was fantastic. Some of the state parks rival National Parks in facilities as well as locale. My opinion.
Bull Shoals campground is very busy so be sure to make a reservation.

Next to the ramp is a great little dock with a ship’s store. They have ice, bait and tackle and are happy to see walk-ins. In other words they are interested in your float fishing business. I purchased my ice and walked a short 25 yards to my boat.
As I loaded the boat for the floating set up, several people stopped to chat. Most had a friendly question or two while some offered advice. Some suggested places to stay or maps to purchase. Many of the people were from the campground and were more or less stranded due to the high water. When I say stranded I mean they came to wade out and fly fish but the water is too swift and far too deep.

Unfortunately for many families there would be nothing but bank fishing for this vacation. The sad part of that was the daddies had counted on teaching their kids to fly fish. They took their vacation from work, reserved a campsite, brought his camper trailer and left his small boat at home. Now he needs the boat. It’s not good to try to cast the fly with people walking all around the shore behind you. Not good at all. I could tell the joy was out of several dads’ plans.

I heard the same story from several campers as they made early morning mournful walks up and down the gravel beach. They looked as if they were trying to stare the water down. Some had been there almost a week but it had been the same each morning. Later in the day I stopped for lunch and heard the same story from a couple of retired Texans.

Looking back as I write this journal, I have to think the fathers were probably better off on the beach. The people I saw in boats were not catching fish. The water was too swift for the kids safety. They might not have had as much fun but everybody got to go home when the vacation was over. They probably stood as good a chance at catching fish from that bank as others in boats. I fished for three hours from a boat and didn’t get a bite. I blamed it on high water. Who knows when it comes to fishing.

Shoving off

As I pushed off from the State Park the quickening water tugged at the little canoe and away we went. I cranked the little motor and she started right up. I turned the craft downstream and the game was a foot. Six months of conception and planning coming to fruition. I didn’t want to get too excited. Only last month Chris Leavitt and I had made the same drive and preparation. Ended up having to come back to the trailer with less than a 100 yards under our keel.

Soon I was in the river fog and putting along at trolling speed. Trolling in still water would run me along at somewhere around 2 miles per hour maybe a little less. In this current, the GPS said I was topping seven. It doesn’t seem like much but speed is relative to what else is happening at the same time. For instance if you’re trying to fish and your hook gets caught on the bottom. The current doesn’t stop. It just keeps on moving you downstream, reel screaming, line playing out, the river doesn’t care that you are about to loose your brand new $5 lure. As the man said, it just keeps on rolling along.

I was very much concerned about the shoals. I had been warned about the possibility of capsizing or ripping the bottom open. But today, rocks were not to be a problem. The flooded river would carry me high above the rocky shoals and save scarring the bottom of the little boat. I halfway believed everything was o.k. but the other half of me was looking for what Buddy Joe Hipp calls “gloom and doom”. I was nervous to say the least.

I soon learned the boat responded to the little motor’s direction “sort of, kinda, when it got ready, at it’s own pace”. I had too damned much gear. Over planned this deal as usual. It was sluggish in its’ turns but constantly in need for tiller. The river seemed to have a pulling power of it’s own. It seemed to always be pushing the boat toward one shore or the other. Especially, when I was looking away or trying to accomplish other duties. Here I am going down a strange river too fast for my experience level in a tipsy little boat and I am trying to learn how to work a complicated GPS and a sonar device at the same time. Not to mention I planned on catching the World Record German Brown Trout or Troutzilla as he is known locally. I also intended to float 60 miles or so in a couple of days. Maybe just a little ambitious, huh?

What I learned fairly quickly was the tiller has to be priority number one. You cannot let the current carry you into a group of flooded trees or bushes. You cannot trust the covered shoals because instead of rocks and rapids you are now seeing angry-looking boiling water. I noticed my left hand had become glued to the little Mercury’s throttle handle. I had to keep the motor running at minimum speed, yet not let it choke out. The boat had to stay on course lest I go for a swim while chasing all my fishing and camping gear. I had visions of myself swimming along amidst a flotilla of my water-proof gear bags. There I am trying to gather them up and swim to shore in the cold, cold water. Argh, not a good day dream.

Chapter 4 The dreaded moment...Proud Mary meet the shoals.

2007-07-16T18:14:00.000-07:00

As the boat picked up speed I was torn between looking at the campgrounds and trying to figure out how far it was to the first shoals. That dilemma didn’t take long to sort itself out. As soon as I looked at my Game and Fish map, I saw I was going over a shoals right then. The GPS can’t tell you about danger but it was doing a good job of telling me where I was and how fast I was going. At that moment I was thinking how I would really like to slow the whole deal down to slow motion. I just wanted to see what was ahead of me and the fog was coming in thicker. The visibility range was growing smaller and smaller. Not a good thing at all. No Sireee.

I knew Gaston’s couldn’t be far down river but my little map didn’t show the distance. My GPS knowledge was a little, no, a lot sketchy at this point so I just motored slowly and watched the shore. Islands were an immediate scare for me. I never knew which side to take. It seems that I always have to sweat it out until I can get close enough to see which is the wider channel. That makes me nervous because I don’t know what the shoals or current situation will be at that point nor do I know if my little motor will pull me to the correct side of the island if I don’t read the water quickly enough. Hell I’m new, the equipment is new, and I have never done any of this in my life. Its’ ok to be nervous, doofus. Don’t sweat it.

As I searched for a little cheater help on this deal I noticed the GPS had the county line running down the center of the river. I assumed the channel would be considered the dividing line between the two counties. That lead me to follow the route of the county line. Hopefully the river channel had not changed since the counties divvied up the land. The river changing course and creating oxbows apparently would happen more often in the delta counties than in the rockier hill country. This would be especially true in the leatherwoods where the hills tend to come right to the edge of the river. Limestone cliffs tend to dictate where the river is going to run for millions of years rather than a decade or so as in the delta.

Back to the river and our trout trail…..

Just below the State Park and before you get to Gaston’s, the little boat came to its’ first island. At Caine Island you have to choose the left side of the split and, in the process, got the first real shoals. This is one of those darned if you do and darned if you don’t deals. Go to the right and the channel is too small. Go to the left and you are with the main channel but it goes over some significant shoals. Since I was there at high water I can’t supply any information as to how these or any other shoals are to be run nor would I. Neither can I tell you what the other side looks like during normal water levels. There might not even be an island or a second channel on the other side but I wouldn’t know having been down this route only one time and at high water.

Every day the water will be different and each voyageur will have to read the water and make the best decision they can for that given moment. Each shoal on the river will change with the amount of water the dam is discharging.

You are always at the mercy of the power generation needs. Sometimes like this trip, they are putting out way too much water for fly fishermen’s wading comfort. It was uncomfortable for the float fishing as well as canoe newbies trying to GPS and fish at the same time. Kayakers, sans fishing, would probably have a ball.

But during some extended low outflow periods, they don’t let out enough water to keep the trout alive. There was a law passed, but I don’t think implemented, which will require the power company to allow a minimum water flow to feed the river. At least enough to keep the trout alive. So far the power company just does whatever they want, trout be damned.

The other thing everyone should know about this particular dam and it may be true of all power generation operations is they will never tell you their future water flow intentions. They will tell the Game and Fish Department how many gates they have had open. Southwest Power will tell game and Fish what they are doing right now. But they refuse to tell anyone of their future plans no matter what the rest of the world is trying to plan. Tough situation for Game and Fish folks to be in I would say. I understand how it must really frustrate people who are trying to make any sort of plans concerning the river. This affects the river for more than a hundred miles of shoreline. I really have no idea at this point how far down it does affect the water level. It is the primary source of the White until you pass enough feeder creeks to equal and surpass the volume coming out of the dam.

Back to the River….

Caine Island seemed to have shoals the entire length of the island. At least the water was bumpy and somewhat turbulent all the way through the narrows. After I passed the downstream tip, all seemed to smooth out. Soon after Caine Island, Gaston’s appeared on the left. Barely a month had passed since Chris Leavitt and I had eaten some really great smoked trout in that dining room. The place reeks of old money and charm. The food was good and not too pricey. About like Dallas prices for the same menu I would guess. Leavitt might have a different opinion since he was the guy picking up the tab that day.

Soon after Gastons, things began to pick up. The seventeen-year-old Mad River Explorer went thru Partee Shoals, Bruce Creek Shoals, Three Chutes and past Turkey Bottom Island, Blue Hole and White Hole. Seven miles from the Dam, I encountered White Hole Access. The ramps are provided by the Arkansas Game and Fish Commission. They usually have a couple of portable outhouses and a trash dumpster along with the boat ramp. They are a very welcome sight and a safe place to pull off the river. In many areas there were flooded woods on one side and high limestone bluffs on the other. So these ramps really come in handy even if all you want to do is stretch your legs or grab a bite to eat from your kit. But the main reason I liked them were the port-a-johns. Ah yes, very important sometimes.

At this point I had been on the river less than 7 miles and had crossed the same number of shoals. I needed a chance to catch up with my heart. They were not dangerous but they just made you very well aware that the river was in control and you were just visiting. The other part was maybe even more important. The morning’s coffee was taking it’s toll and I needed a pit stop badly. This is where the fog and the current become nefarious. They teamed up on me. I could not see either bank. I mean this fog was thick. I could see upward to the heavens, it was just a really heavy river fog. I couldn’t see 40 yards in any direction. At some points the fog danced and twirled in the wind. I wondered if this was one of those other world dimensions I had read about. Carlos Castenadas or Cormac McCarthy maybe? Who knows, just another faint memory in an overflowing hard drive?

All of a sudden, I heard a scary distant sound. This was one that should have been an obvious concern but I had not even thought about. The scary sound was a fishing boat coming up river but not be able to see it. It seemed like an eternity before the boat, usually a 20-foot Jon boat with a guide and his two or three passengers, would appear. When they, did the boat would usually be off my bow by some 40 yards and a little to the right or left. I was probably running in the wrong track. I had chosen to go as straight down the middle as I could since the only landmarks I could see were tops of trees or cliffs on either riverbank. If there weren’t any tall objects bordering the river then I had nothing to judge the shoreline. That was it. Look right, look left then adjust your course by trying to stay half way between what you guessed was the shore. I think I passed and island or two without knowing if I was on the correct side. I couldn’t always stop and look at the GPS to use my county line theory.

The guides were gracious when most slowed their boats down to a crawl while passing. I wasn’t putting out much of a wake as the little canoe was still putting along at trolling or minimum throttle. Sometimes, but not often, I would be passed by a private boat. At least they didn’t look like a guide and his clients. The private boats reminded me of Dallas drivers and did not slow down. That little bit of river etiquette could be big trouble for a canoe or overloaded small Jon boat. Big waves are not our friends and the guides recognize the fact. I think they probably do that for each other as well. Call it hillbilly manners but it is mostly common sense and the Golden Rule. I appreciated it for darn sure. Thanks for the courtesy y’all.

Here’s my advice to you who follow these “Trout Trails”, especially you old boomer guys. Don’t pass up any ramps or their services. You will suffer the consequences I promise. Apparently the Arkansas Game and Fish Commission ramp planners are old timers like me. Otherwise they would never of thought to place a ramp at the halfway point between every major take out on the upper river. I know they will deny what I just said and say it is for better access for the fishing public but I will always know I have discovered the truth.

These guys scouted the potential ramp location by boat. They had the same bladder urges any other red blooded boomer aged, coffee drinker would have at mid morning. Ergo the ramp locations make ideal pit stops.

Thank you Game & Fish and Red Wilson.

2007-07-16T18:13:00.000-07:00

Chapter 5

Cotter, cameras and the sixties.

At this point my next stop would be Cotter. I had been on the river a couple of hours and was making better time than I realized. I still had my head in the navigational problems and my fear of the unknown evil shoals monsters. After all, I had been hearing about and dreading the shoals for over a month. I had reached Wildcat Shoals and was better than half way to Cotter. Heck, I was going to make Cotter by lunch time. It looked as if this trip was going by much faster than I had planned.

It wasn’t anything I was doing. I was just trying to keep the boat afloat and stay out of everybody’s way. I was trying to learn to work my gps and my little handheld depth finder with one hand but I still had a death grip on the tiller with the other. At this point there was no third fishing hand available. I was traveling in the waters of Troutzilla the world record German Brown Trout and couldn’t even wet a hook. Man, what kind of deal was this ?

The gps learning experience was a struggle. Mostly click and look to see what I had done. Trial and error is the way of a photographer. Read the manual at last option. The Delorme was a different animal. Even when I read the manual I couldn’t understand it or make the gps do what I wanted. Somebody needs to teach the Delorme folks what the term user friendly means.

The depth finder temp gauge was a different deal altogether. It was as easy to work as a flashlight and even looked like one. Place it in water two or three inches and click the switch just like turning on a flash light. One click gives you the depth and two clicks gives you the water temperature. Really neat info for under a hundred bucks. It came from Marine West in Garland, Texas.

The gps was indeed leaving a “cookie trail” and that was the main thing I was wanted to do. I still needed to learn more about how to mark places and designate them with various symbols but that would come later. The idea of a slow leisurely pace while reading the gps manual and practicing was not working out. I decided I would just go along with the river and do whatever it demanded, gps and fishing be damned.

Photography, did I say photography ? How is it that an “award winning” professional photographer has not mentioned pictures? The answer is very simple. Too darned much water and too little experience. This is the first time I have ever been in a river canoe by myself. I have never navigated a strange river at high tide so to speak. This is the first time I have run an outboard motor for any length of time since I was in high school. I am 61 and haven’t even thought of going camping in 15 years. Adventure ! I wanted adventure in my life, well by gosh, I got my share today.

The camera and two lenses were tucked away in one of the water-tight bags. The bags were full of gear and stowed all over the canoe. Each gear bag was tied to the boat and almost all were out of my reach. Even if I could have reached them, it was no time to be crawling around and trying to untie the knots. It really didn’t matter the fog was too thick for pictures.

Finally, as I neared Cotter the fog began to lift and the river widened slightly. What I did not know at the time was the river had dropped dramatically and slowed down while I was floating down from Bull Shoals. At that point I could get a few shots of the river scene. There was nothing spectacular to show such as the big bluffs I had seen but at least I could snap a few pics to give folks an idea of the countryside.

One thing I was more than a little concerned about was water splashing on the cameras. In this day and time we live with computers in everything. The cameras are very finicky when it comes to water. You can lose the whole body with just a small amount of water splashed onto it. The bouncing and jostling canoe was not my favorite shooting platform.

I brought only two lenses. A wide zoom and a medium wide zoom. I chose them because I figured this was to be an internet or book shoot and I wanted to tell the river’s story not critters on the bank or birds in the trees. Longer lenses would have added to the story but I didn’t want to risk the gear. That decision was beginning to feel like the only right one so far.

The fog lifted then rose again. The process seemed to repeat itself several times. The water was so cold, continuously 56 degrees, it clashed with the warming summer air. I guess the river was creating it’s own little climate.

One of the strangest things I’ve ever seen, and I mentioned this briefly, was what I would come to call the river spirits. Sprites might be a closer description. When the fog rose sometimes it would leave a few traces of itself hanging just above the water. Then as if the piece of fog would come to life it would begin to twirl like a dirt devil. As the fog “spirit” danced down the river it sort of made you look around to see if any one else was witnessing the same thing. It was one of those things where if in the company of others you would probably wait to see if someone else said something first.

I never saw a ‘river spirit or sprite “ in the presence of others but then I was seldom around people. Was it real or was it a haint ? Could it have been a figment of my imagination ? I know one thing for sure, they were fascinating to watch. Twirling, swirling, around and around, twisting up and down a few feet, then up into the warmer air to hide behind the sun.

Sometimes the sprites would twirl on down the river into deeper fog. That would be the last you would see of them. I don’t really know what caused them. I don’t know why I felt pockets of warm air when it was so cold. I had on a goretex rain jacket with the hood pulled tight over my Tilley hat. Over the rain outfit I had a full sized lifejacket. My upper body was warm but my shorts offered little protection for those skinny legs. I don’t know why when the sun was so hot and the foggy rain so cold. I don’t understand the cold air in the sunshine. None of it made sense and it kept my glasses fogged constantly. Not good.

I don’t know a lot about the river that’s for sure. I know I am drawn back. I can’t wait to go again. I think about camping and floating. I think about the fog and I wonder if it will be sunny or rainy the next time out. Like Alaska, the river gets into your blood and calls constantly. I keep thinking it must be the call of the wild. Or however we are supposed to explain those primeval urges built into our bones. Then on the other hand it could be the kicks provided by the adrenalin.

I have great memories of boating, fishing, water skiing and swimming on Lake Norfork and Lock 1 area of the White River as a kid.

Uh oh I think I see another off the river deal coming up…..

As a teenager I was drawn to a big sandbar below the dam at Batesville. That attraction might have had to do with another set of primeval urges and an altogether different set of jeans. Hormones and Levi’s with a little Budweiser thrown in might have had a little something to do with it. But all that was in a place far, far away, in a time long, long ago.

There it was, just below the dam, a big old sandbar with a few old cars, some big ice chests, a bunch of pretty pony tails, and the inevitable bonfire. Which all brings to mind the poetic essence of teenage America in 1963. A great American poet, Mr. J.P. Richardson, probably captured the eras’ primeval thought better than anyone before or after him. I’m not good at quoting poetry but here goes: “a wiggle in the walk, a giggle in the talk, that’s what made the world go round, ain’t nothing in the world like a big eyed girl, make you act so funny, make you spend your money, make you feel real loose like a long neck goose, aw baby you know what I like” .

Those sentiments must have been what drew us to the river in the days of American Graffiti. And yes, we all remember the day the music died. Rave on, Buddy, Big Bopper and my man Ritchie.

2007-07-16T18:12:00.000-07:00

Chapter 6

Back to the river………..Cotter

I think I left off in the fog. It was a little chilly but not near as much as it would be later.

Since I am making a map of my own I should mention the maps I used on this trip. The Game and Fish map from the trout fishing booklet was great. I had purchased a Jim Priest map at the Cotter Trout Dock. Unfortunately, I stored it in a bag I couldn’t reach without docking the boat. I had been told it was a superior map but at this point there wasn’t time to compare.

The Game and Fish map worked great for my purposes. Later I learned the commercial map was larger and added info on the outfitters. It would have been nice to know what services they offered float fishermen. Most of the outfitters really don’t offer us a lot. I do know I clutched that little booklet with an eagle grip. It was the only way to know when the next island or shoals would show up. That was important information. It also gave me an idea which side of the island the channel followed. I would think that in low water times that wouldn’t be a problem at all. When the water is this high, both sides of the island look to be the “real” channel. The false channel could drive you right into a grove trees or vine covered saplings.

Back to the river….oops… I didn’t make it last time.

The fog had more or less lifted as the Cotter Bridges came into view. I was able to snap a few pictures and the water seemed to be tamer.

I still wasn’t comfortable running hands free to shoot pictures. I had not wet a hook. It was now noon or a little after. The belly was telling me to stop and eat. Also I needed to find the port-a-potty. The Cotter Trout Dock began to look like a port in a storm. Little did I realize how meaningful that phrase would become.

As I eased under the Cotter bridges I looked at the big old bridge pilings. On the downriver side of the closest piling was a giant whirlpool. That big old swirl was larger in diameter than my itty bitty canoe was long. I steered as far away from it as I could. I knew that thing couldn’t take me to the bottom of the river. But as a child I had learned that bad things happen at the bottom of whirlpools. Folklore is usually based on some sort of logic to keep people from harm. If nothing else the people of the “Leatherwoods” had folklore galore. I had been a downriver kid from a “big” town of 5000 people. I should not have been exposed to the legends of the hills. I guess some of those old wives tales must have floated down river. I don’t know where I heard the stories but it must have been the old folks.

I can’t prove there isn’t some sort of sea serpent at the bottom of White River’s whirlpools. Nor can I prove he’s not down there waiting for the next careless boater. I am sure that someone could go down there and disprove this hillbilly legend but I know one thing for sure, it ain’t gonna be me.

As I motored into the Trout Dock’s little cove I soon saw why the river had begun to feel a little tamer. The places I had marked the night before were now three feet above water. They had shut down the seven gates. The water must have been dropping down the whole time I had been on the river. I had been on the tail end of the crest. So I guess the Proud Mary was surfing the back side of a wave. That’s probably weird water logic but it makes sense to me right now.

I parked the canoe as high up on the grassy lawn as possible and threw out the anchor. I took the bow rope and tied it to a stake in the lawn just in case.
I went in to say hello to Debbie and Ron. Debbie was there but Ron and the guides were out on their appointed duties. One client had cancelled that morning causing the dock to have to pay a guide for a lost day. If they can’t collect from the customer the last minute cancellations are tough. People apparently wake up with a hangover or cold or the wife wants to go sightseeing so they cancel.

This morning when the dock folks called the client at his hotel he said his wife was scared it was going to rain. The dock told them no problem they furnish little poncho’s just in case. The city man couldn’t believe they would go fishing in the rain. Rains come and go on the river. It might rain all day or fifteen minutes. The dock master told him, “you bet especially if you and I have to pay the guide rain or shine”. The man showed up an hour and a half late. Sometimes they don’t even bother to call to let the dock know they’re not coming. Tacky folks. We all agreed that being a mom and pop business has gotten a lot tougher. People have decided to listen to lawyers instead of living up to their word or handshake. Now we have all these laws and nobody pays attention to them. We were much better off when the original Ten were obeyed. Sometimes it’s better to be on the river and not try to figure it out. I wonder who we have to blame for this mess? I can tell you it did not start in the “leatherwoods.”

The guides tell me things are not the same in the hills as they were when we were kids. They tell me to be sure to lock up my gear especially my fishing stuff. Both guides agreed, camping with my gear had been a good idea.

When I asked why the changes in basic community morals they told me it was a recent thing. I guess in the back of my mind I already knew the answer. I just didn’t want to hear it.

Methamphetamines………ice. It is the scourge of the Ozarks just as it is in such formerly pristine places as rural Iowa. Meth is eating rural America bite by bite. Little towns and villages are losing their good hard working young people to it. There seems to be nothing to save us from this plague.

I keep thinking someday we will have a great revival in this nation. I keep thinking Christianity will rise up and take this country back. But it is so, so hard to help the young ones when all of their information comes from the hard left. That includes the government indoctrination schools some call public. How can you combat all the movie and television leftist propaganda? The revival has to be felt among the children first. I’m afraid it will take the hand of God to change their minds and hearts. I just hope HE doesn’t use the Old Testament examples of attention getting. It’s a toughie and I don’t have an answer except to pray for a gentle form of Divine intervention.

Back to the river…………..

Debbie was quite surprised to see me. She thought I wouldn’t arrive until late afternoon. I was just as surprised. She must have thought I was out there fishing my little heart out. Little did she know I was white knuckling the tiller almost the entire time. Debbie and I discussed whether she could meet me at Norfork the following day. I asked how long she thought it would take me to reach the island. I wanted to make sure I could reach it by dark. She said I would need to get back on the river fairly soon to make it. I agreed. I would hate to set up a wilderness camp in the dark. I would be shoving off as soon as I finished one chore.

I had decided I was dealing with what two more great American poets, Delbert and Lyle, called “Too much stuff”. While I was docked near my car I took the opportunity to unload about a fifth of my gear. Extra food, extra fishing rod, extra paddles, seats, you name it and I got rid of it. It’s a problem with me. This too much stuff thing. I always try to plan for the “what if”. Then when I get to a real “what if”, I have so much gear I can’t find my “what if” fix it gadget.

ARGH…happens all the time. With my camera gear I have a lot of gizmo’s but each of those have a specific purpose and are kept in the same reachable place at all times. I say put it back where it lives so we will know where to reach it the next time. It always works. There is a lot to be said for the familiarity of a daily routine.

With all of this camping, fishing, boating, eating and mapping gear who knows where to find anything. I needed to cut down on stuff. We’ve got too much stuff to deal with emergencies. Even after I unloaded the extra gear, the canoe still weighed too much. Unfortunately, I didn’t know it at the time. Nor was I aware how important it would become a few minutes later.

I had tied my GPS to a bag right in front of my cramped knees. That darned tackle box had me where I couldn’t straighten my legs. A few days before I thought I just had to have a big box so I could put all my fishing tackle in one place. When I did my test run on Lake Lavon it was not a problem. I didn’t have all the other gear in the boat. The lake was calm and I could lean back against my little canoe seat and prop my feet up on the tackle box. I rode along at trolling speed thinking I had it made. This was not Lake Lavon on a calm day. This was a much longer trip. I needed room for my legs.

After repacking the canoe I shoved off thinking I would take a break at the first Game and Fish ramp. At that point I would be able to grab a quick lunch. Now I know why the outfitters prefer a shore lunch. It’s too damned much trouble to eat in the boat. The next stop was to be a short run and I was hungry.

The river was about to teach me a lesson in time management and relativity. One, time is everything in an emergency. Two, neither the river nor weather gives a damn about you or your time perspective. The river and weather are going to do what they are going to do no matter whether you like it or not. So get used to it and either deal with it or get off the river.

All this conversation about the rough water and being concerned should be taken with a grain of salt. The river changes from hour to hour depending on how much electricity is needed by the grid. One or eight gates, it’s all the same to the power generating guys and the river. The amount of experience you have in your boat and on the river is what will create your comfort level. Having said all that, I am afraid I have left the impression that the White changes constantly. It does not. The river might go for months with very little change in volume. I just happened to hit it on a rough few days. I heard later the level went down about the time I left and stayed there for weeks. Just my luck I guess.

My comfort level had reached a high anxiety zone and stayed there immediately after shoving off that morning. If I had been an experienced river hand I would have enjoyed the high water. The old heads would love going over the shoals at this speed.
Again, it’s a personal thing and I don’t mean to scare anyone. I do want you to understand what you will be facing. Then it’s up to you. If you are comfortable with your equipment and experience then jump on it. Contact the outfitters or Southwestern Power to learn about water conditions then make your decision on river travel for that day.

As I shoved off from the serene little cove at the Cotter Trout Dock I had no idea my anxiety was about to reach new highs. As I reached the channel I noticed the speed and power was returning to the river. The water was on the rise again. The turbulence was back. It was boiling underneath the little craft as I motored out into the current. I had noticed the clouds while packing and repacking the gear. I was hot and sweaty from the sun and I enjoyed the coolness of breeze. I dipped a little 56 degree water and poured it over my head and shirt. I did not take into consideration what that cool breeze meant.

I was less than forty-eight hours out of big city life and had not reacquired my animal instincts. That put me at a disadvantage. Normally, after being in the out of doors for a few hours you notice the primitive instincts start to creep back into your soul. Possibly they had returned but maybe it had been too long and I had forgotten how to pay attention. Maybe the caution instinct was overshadowing all the others? In any case I was thinking like a city guy. In present day society rain is, at worst, a minor nuisance. Our travel decisions are made on the time required to achieve a goal rather than the consideration of a real and present danger. Safety from the elements is almost a given in our cars and homes. We just don’t worry about the weather unless it is a severe storm like a hurricane or tornado. My senses should have been shouting. “Those are storm clouds you idiot. You have to stay at the dock until they pass”.

Instead, I pushed on, anxious to get to the next ramp and lunch. Then onto the camping area and in general keeping up with my self imposed schedule. Same thing got me into trouble in Costa Rica once but that’s a different story.

2007-07-16T18:11:00.000-07:00

Chapter 7

Welcome to the River’s World….or
nature takes control.

Within seconds of entering the main channel I felt like I was flying down the river. The boat was going over what I figure is Roundhouse Shoals. The map shows an island coming up. I began to line the Proud Mary up for a run at the left side. I checked the GPS to see if it is showing the county line going in the same path. The darned thing is completely dark. I tried to restart it figuring I had turned it off while at the Dock. Meanwhile, I feel the involuntary tightening of my fingers on the tiller. The fog begins to set in and I hear thunder above the little Mercury’s chatter. Uh Oh, now we’ve got a real problem.

Those clouds don’t just mean rain, dummy, they have thunder and lightening in them as well. How could you forget or be so arrogant as to think you could go out in this situation and ignore lightening????

But here’s the kicker. I really am at work. This whole trip is about making a map with the GPS. If the GPS isn’t running it doesn’t create the required tracking history and I am not getting my job done. Not only am I wasting time but I will have to repeat this leg of the trip. With the GPS not working I am actually placing myself in harms’ way for no reason. This is part of my job. It will also mean another 1000 mile drive.

I think how can this happen? This morning I put in brand new, fully charged, high dollar factory batteries and now the darned things aren’t working. No problem. I can just replace them.
About that time the rain started coming down harder and the thunder started to get closer. I realized I didn’t know where I had packed the backup AA batteries. I wasn’t thinking straight or I would have remembered the batteries were in the camera bag at my feet. I thought I would have to crawl up to the front, untie a bag, if I figured out which one, and bring it to the back. Then take the back off the GPS and replace the batteries in the rain.

I realized crawling up the boat and the rest was not an option. The water was roiling under the boat. The island was fast approaching and that would mean faster water through a narrow chute. None of this was making me feel good about my situation. I took what I thought would be the safest course. I turned the little boat around and headed her back upstream to the quiet little cove. The current had carried me no more than 500 yards down the river. The rain and fog were increasing but I could still see back up river when I turned her into the current. At least I had this option and wouldn’t have to travel the five miles in a storm.

At least that’s what I thought. Wrongo, el stupido. The little Mercury just wasn’t big enough to handle the challenge. I don’t know a lot about outboard motors but I think I mounted the motor too high and at the wrong angle to get a power prop attitude going. I gunned the motor about one third throttle and waited. I looked at the bank. I was still sliding backwards down river. I could tell I had slowed the down river movement some but I sure wasn’t going upstream.

Now here’s a little problem that had always bothered me. I was concerned about the motor mounting system on the canoe. Without a transom on one end the canoe folks have come up with a bracing bar that fits across the rear of the canoe. That brace has a big block of wood on the left side where the motor clamps. The brace itself has to clamp onto the boat’s wooden gunnels using a big screw down bracket on each end. The wood of the gunnels has to be strong enough to handle the torque of the engine. It also has to handle any shock created when the motor hits rocks or logs.

I had concerns the seventeen-year-old wood might have dry rot. Would the clamps rip the wood off the gunnels if put under enough stress? We were about to find out. The mechanics had warned me about torquing the bracket off. Now all that information rushed into my little paranoid, freaked-out brain.

Needless to mention, low batteries became less of a priority. I gunned the motor to two-thirds power. I looked over at the shore to judge my progress. I should have said lack of progress. I was staying even at best. That might have been a little generous. I was really concerned about wood gunnels now. If that happened I would have to watch my little motor spiral to the bottom. That would leave me one motor shy of a full deck but certainly not high and dry.

I knew I was not canoeist enough to control this heavy little boat especially in this water. I had seen that as I paddled out at Bull Shoals. The boat was still loaded too heavy, the current too strong and the paddler far too inexperienced.

At this point I decided to cut my losses or create new ones depending on how this gamble played out. I turned the boat toward the island chute and headed down river into the storm. I think it was at this point the fog came in for good and the temperature dropped quickly. Only minutes before I was throwing water on my shirt to cool off. Now I was cold. I knew I was in for a tough 5 miles.

The natural question would be why did you think you had to wait five miles to get out of the storm? Call it stupid or what you want but I think was just as scared of the shoreline as the river and lightening. I knew the access area would be a good place to safely beach the boat. Again, the river is flooded out of its’ banks. The banks on one side usually had a high bank or bluff so that side was not an option. In those cases the other side would have lower banks but they might be covered up in overhanging trees. In some cases there were homes with boat docks. The boat docks concerned me because I didn’t want to try to dock on the upriver side due to possibility of the current pinning the boat to the dock. If I tried to come in from the downriver side I didn’t have enough power to maneuver into the boat slips. I just kept moving with the flow looking through the fog to see if I could locate a nice smooth place to run the boat up on the shore.

Soon the fog set in so thick and the rain coming down so hard I couldn’t even see my options on the shore. At that point, I just wanted to motor my five miles as fast as I dared run the engine. I had her cranked up to about half throttle. What had felt like breakneck speed now seemed like a crawl. The lightening was in the distance but closing fast. The thunder kept me aware of my predicament.

I had goose bumps all over. I was cold. I wanted my rain parka. I hurriedly pulled my life jacket off. I’m thinking, how ironic, lightening, fog, rain and fast current and he pulls his life jacket off. What a dummy. I got the parka on and then squirmed back into my “life” vest. I think I might have set a record that the fellows on the Bering Sea would envy. That’s’ when I realized they call it a life preserver for a reason. My legs were purple or blue or some wigged-out color but I would survive the water. I had never seen my legs go Technicolor. I pulled my parka hood tight over my new Tilley hat and snapped the throat closure. The Warmer’s shoe booties were working great. My feet were wet but warm.

I kept motoring as fast as I dared push the motor and the wood. All of a sudden the motor jumped and lurched. There was a brief cavatation sound. The motor jumped up like it had hit bottom. Then it happened again. I cut the engine to idle for a moment. My heart was in my throat. Everything seemed to be working all right so I kicked her back up and off we went again. In about 15 minutes I heard another cavatation sound and looked down in front of the motor and beside the boat. A branch from a tree was lodged against the front of the shaft. I reached down, pulled it out and threw it away. That was the last of those little shenanigans. I figured the Proud Mary had run over a submerged tree.

Meanwhile the fog would come and go. Once again I saw a sea sprite or whirling dervish made of fog. Hmmm, that spooky river trick was starting to get old.

The fog lifted as I passed a particularly nice riverside home. I could see a man through the rain. He was out walking around on his big old deck. He had docks, boats and quite the set up. When he saw me looking his way from maybe 75 yards, he started waving for me to go down stream in a hurry. He wasn’t frantic but he sure wanted to let me know that I needed to be making time. I was doing all I could without increasing concern about the little motor tearing itself out of the boat.

I waved and yelled to him that I was trying to get to Newport. I don’t think he got the joke. I don’t think I got the concern he had for me. About five minutes later I caught on. The man apparently had just seen the weather report and was telling me to get the hell out of there. The thunder popped close by and a chill went through my body. The rain came down harder and the fog was back. I still had not smelled the ozone. I was thankful for that.

Four more miles. Calculate how long will it take to get to Rim Shoals. Estimate your speed. Figure it out. Good now that you have all that figured out, all you have to do is dodge the lightening bolts until you get there. Let’s see 40 pounds of steel attached by crow clutch and 600 miles or so of grounded water under the boat. No problem. I am the highest point on the water to the tree line. Holy crap, I’m a sitting duck waiting on a bar-b-que.

Oh yes, there is one thing I have forgotten to mention. This scene is not complete without one very, no make that two, irritating problems. I wear glasses. I need glasses to see my map. I need glasses to see shadowy figures coming at me through the fog. I have a vision problem close up as well as distance. So I need my glasses, period. It an age thing. I’m an old cat and I can’t see like the old days.

So what happens amidst the thickest of fog and rain and lightening and thunder ? Not just once but several times I hit air pockets. Hot pockets or cold pockets I don’t know but something caused my glasses to fog completely. I’m not talking about the rain that was already on the lenses, but a fog on the glass lens front and back. This is a serious fog you can’t see through. This was the kind of glasses fog that you wipe away and immediately it’s back on the lens.

I needed to wipe the lenses. I had tied a bandana onto my seat just for general purposes. It was completely soaked from the rain. I tried the one around my neck. It was hidden from the rain by the parka but was still damp from wiping sweat at the dock. It was my best bet so I untied it and pulled the thing from around my neck.

For some reason when I reached up to pull my glasses off I felt something weird happen. Simultaneously, I had a change in vision. Uh oh, the right lens had popped out and was no longer in the frame. Where in the hell did that thing go? In the meantime I still have a grip on the throttle trying to make time down river. The thunder is booming closer and the rain has not let up. And now I can’t see for diddly. Geez Louise, what else could happen? Now I know, I started looking for the lost lens. I had taken enough rain into the canoe that I have a sizable puddle under my seat and feet. Great. I start feeling around in the water leaning over trying to look over a fat belly covered by a puffy parka and a full sized even fatter life preserver. Get real, there is no way I can see over all that. This is to be a brail search. I’m stooping, patting the canoe floor in the water when “the what else could happen” question is answered. I can’t see thru the right eye because the lens is no longer there. The rain is like needles in the eyeball when I try to open that eye. I can’t see thru the left lens because it is covered with fog.

I am basically driving at 8 mph down river with about thirty yards of limited blurred vision when I hear that dreaded hum of a guide boat coming up river. Usually it takes about two to three minutes after I hear them until I actually see the boat coming at me. Maybe I have time to find the lens. Did I mention it was lightening at the time? Well it was!

Sure enough, my hand hits on the unseen lens just below my right knee. A little gasoline floating around in the water shouldn’t hurt the glass, I hope. I wipe it down carefully with the damp bandana. It’s about as clean as I’m going to get it. So I attempt to put it back in the frame.

I gingerly take the glasses off my head and wipe the left side lens. Then set about adding the errant right side. I was trying to be careful not to break the frame or lens. The lens popped in but I could tell it didn’t seat properly. I tell myself, if it will just stay long enough for me to get past this boat I will fix it properly later. But once again I have to sweat it out. Where is the boat going to appear and how far or close will it be to little Proud Mary? The guy shows up with his three passengers. He’s just off to my right. The exact opposite from the way we are supposed to pass.

His boat looks like a guide boat but he doesn’t look like the part. He’s dressed way too fancy. The passengers look wet and ticked off. Sort of like four wet chickens in a rainstorm. They all have on rain gear but you can tell they are not happy about the state of affairs. I don’t blame them. Hell, I’m not happy about it myself. The boat driver doesn’t do me the courtesy of slowing down to lessen his wake. It’s o.k. I decided I would keep my speed as well. As if my little wake would bother them. I will handle it. That boat driver generated a piece of river karma he will have to carry, I guarantee. I wave. They point at me. Whatever.

I got past the boat and took my glasses back off. By this time they had fogged again. I fiddled with the right lens finally getting it back into its’ proper setting and felt it snap in correctly. Now I just had to be super careful when cleaning them. It apparently was going to be a constant battle with the glasses. The fogging and defogging lasted until the rain went away.

Next up Rim Shoals and safety.

2007-07-16T18:10:00.000-07:00

Chapter 8

Rim Shoals and Lunch

At that point my little rain soaked government map indicated I was approaching Rim Shoals access point. I ran her aground at the wrong location. I had mistaken a steep private ramp in a cluster of nice new river homes. I guess I was so anxious to get to dry land that any old access looked like the one on the map. After standing there for a moment I realized there were no government signs and more importantly no porta pottys. Oops, wrong place. It had looked good in the lifting fog. About that time the sun came out and warmed the world. I shoved off and motored down around a slow sweeping bend and there was an obvious Fish and Game access area. I plowed into the grassy shoreline. The water had come up quite a bit since I left Cotter an hour before. It was apparent I was parking the canoe on the lawn.

I dragged the boat as far up as my strength would allow. The river was rising rapidly. I noticed the garbage dempsey dumpster truck at work. His charges were located next to the outhouses. When I reached the outhouse the stench of the freshly dumped garbage bins was absolutely awful. Some sort of fish slime still oozed from where it had been spilled by the truck. Flies were everywhere. The buzz was a minor roar like a swarm of bees or mad yellow jackets.

As I walked back from the loo, I looked the other way to avoid the stinking slime on the ground. It was, after all, lunchtime and the Proud Mary was serving.

I tried the GPS again but still could not get a signal of any kind. I looked for the batteries but gave up too quickly. I was hungry thereby the ruling factor was food not batteries.

There were a couple of fellows in fly-fishing outfits standing on the bank using spinning rigs. I knew from one glance they had the same story as the folks back at Bull Shoals State Park. Flooded out of their waders, these two were giving it their best but to them it was a wasted vacation. We chatted briefly about their homes in Texas. Both were of retired. One fellow was laid back and said very little. His fishing buddy was a little more opinionated and much more vociferous. As they were leaving I was wolfing down Deviled Ham with mustard on a cracker. I was so hungry I was spilling ham and cracker crumbs all over the grass. My chin had become a mustard roost between bites. From time to time the bandana would rescue the chin from its’ epicurean disgrace.

I was so hungry I didn’t worry one whit about my manners. The boat’s nose became my plate as I plowed through the can. The two fishermen began to pack up. I’m not sure if the manners had anything to do with their decision to leave. I didn’t mean to be rude but I just didn’t care. I was hungry. The talking guy had to say something as they left. I don’t know why maybe it was my Tilley hat but the guy says, “ We’ll see ya Willard”. I wondered what the hell was he talking about. The he says you know you look like Willard the weatherman, right? Now I have always liked Willard. I have even excused his working with what I consider communist propagandists and Clinton apologists which ever is worse. I took another bite, chewed it a minute, and realized I had just been insulted. They had their windows down and were beginning to drive off as I yelled. “Willard, my ass”! Now why I said that I don’t know. Normally I am good at trading insults with folks, not today. Apparently, my mind was a jello jumble or something even less likely to create intelligent thought.

The river was kicking my butt and I knew it. I needed to get control and stop feeling like the river was controlling me. Maybe with the lightening going away and the sun peaking out things were going to get better. We would see very soon. Maybe I would be able to settle into this river thing and it would all come together. We would see with experience. I might have made a mistake. I might have just thought I wanted outdoor adventure back in my life. Maybe in my old age I was too spoiled by civilization.

The sun warms things up and all is much better…..thank goodness.

2007-07-16T18:08:00.000-07:00

Chapter 9

Rim Shoals to Buffalo City

Relief …….the worst is behind us now.

The worst was over. The sun was warming the air. The fog was not constant now but the cold river and hot air would continue to create fog all day. According to my little map it was another seven and a half miles down to Buffalo City and the junction with the famed Buffalo River. At my average rate of travel that day I should be there in a little over an hour.

The little mercury cranked up and looped me around toward the middle. The current caught the boat immediately and before I could get her turned around I was headed into a batch of willows. Normally they would have been well up on shore but with the water so high they were right in my way. We got her turned just in time to miss the trees. Maybe I caught a little luck.

Life looked much better without the rain, fog, lightening and thunder. The current was still there. So were the flooded banks. But overall things were becoming less concerning and the little motor more reassuring.

As the boat passed over Rim Shoals I thought, “Hey, I can do this”. It’s not near as bad as it was earlier. It’s boiling and bouncing a little but the little motor keeps me lined out. What I didn’t realize at the time was that I was beginning to learn to read water again. I was starting to pick better lines in the shoals. Part of the reason was that I could see where I was going and I starting to concentrate on the water rather than other problems such as weather.

If I learned one thing that day it was the other things don’t matter if you don’t handle your boat properly. The river will kill you for sure. The weather can kill you but only by chance and mistake. Watch your river first and foremost. The water is always the boss.

I was making good time and the weather decided to send me another round of showers. This time it was only rain and fog without the lightning. The moisture came with a cold wave of air that stayed. I pulled on my rain jacket. Once again, I felt as if I was defying death by letting go of the tiller to change outerwear. I was reminded both my wife and my cousin had sternly warned me as to always wear a life jacket. I thought of the irony again.

By this time it was approaching two o’clock. I felt I was making excellent time although I wasn’t getting my GPS work done nor was I getting any of the great scenery into the camera. I had basically given up achieving any of my goals and was content to get to Buffalo City and the campsite alive. That was the effect of my first seven gate morning.

The ride didn’t call for much power from the little motor so I was running at about one fourth throttle. The river was moving but it didn’t seem as violent as before. I watched my map and read the water. The traffic on the river remained quiet. The fog gradually lifted and the rain went away once again. It was still a little chilly so I kept the jacket.

I knew from the map I was going over shoals areas and I could see turbulence but not near as much as the morning. I was a happy camper.

Before I knew it I was actually able to see some of the scenery. I even shot a couple of frames. In no time it seemed I reached Buffalo City Access and the magnificent Stair Bluff.

Next up……The Boomer meets the Cub Scouts.

2007-07-16T18:06:00.001-07:00

Chapter 10

Buffalo City and the Cub Scouts

When I landed on the boat ramp there were two men and three or four boys milling about. They were part of a Cub Scout Troupe from Houma, Louisiana. One of the Dads was a really nice guy. He came over and remarked on my jacket and how cold it could get and how fast it could happen. About this time the sun was out it was turning hot, very fast. I couldn’t peel the jacket or pfd off fast enough. The Scouts were busy unpacking their canoes. The rental company was on the way to pick up the boats. It seemed they had come down the Buffalo. Each of the boys had earned a Merit Badge. The Louisiana man said there had been more kids but they had taken out upstream where the merit badge requirements had been met. Those dads’ needed to get home a day or two before this group. All had gone well with a couple of exceptions, according to the man from Houma.

They had only one mishap with the canoes. He chose the wrong side of an island and tipped over when the canoe got caught in trees and vines. They swam for the gear and only lost one bag. He said it scared him more than his son.

His other adventure on the five-day trek was the big rain from the night before. I mentioned I had been in Cotter during the late afternoon storm and he asked about the wind. I told him as far as I could remember it was fairly unremarkable because I couldn’t remember much about it like I could the volume of rain.

He said, where he was on the Buffalo the wind was so strong it tore his tent apart. He illustrated by pointing to a soggy tent fly hanging from a nearby tree. The boys then became animated and gathered round to tell me all about the ferocious storm they had survived. It must have made quite an impression on them because they all had a story to tell.

The Scout leader from Houma was interested in my GPS problem. By this time I had figured out which of the gillion storage bags I had the batteries. He was a GPS savy guy and I had come to the right place. I told him of my plan to put new batteries in now that it wasn’t raining and hope that would solve my problem. He said it might be something that needed to be reset. By taking the batteries out and replacing them it would be akin to rebooting a computer. Either way it wouldn’t hurt to replace the batteries. I was fairly sure it wasn’t a battery problem because I had three hours on the brand new set sent from the factory. I had charged them all night so I was certain we had a good charge.

We pulled the rechargables that came with the unit out and replaced them with cheap AA’s that I use in my on camera flash. Shazaam, it came right on and was ready to go to work. Apparently the factory batteries didn’t hold the charge as well as they should of or I just didn’t know what to expect out of them. Whatever the case three hours just was not going to cut the mustard.

Note: I have since requested and received a new set of batteries and charger from the factory gratis. I charged the new set and drove to Texarkana working the GPS on the way. The batteries went out again in less than three hours. I will use only cheap double AA batteries in the future. They last longer and are more dependable. DeLorme has a problem best I can figure.

The man and his merry little band of Cajun scouts were as happy to be at Buffalo City as I was. They were now seasoned little river rats and proud of it.
The canoe livery man showed up and the troupe got busy. Soon they were gone. Nice kids. Nice people. I like Cajuns. Always have.

I shot a few pictures of Stair Bluff then pushed off toward the nights’ campsite on Smith Island.

2007-07-16T18:06:00.000-07:00

2007-07-16T18:04:00.000-07:00

Chapter 11

Onward…..Smith Island…..Here we come.

As I moved downstream from Buffalo City I looked for the mouth of the Buffalo. As soon as I got around the first sharp curve in the river there it was. The Scouts had said it was a tough quarter to half mile paddle. I believed it. I don’t know how they did it. The water must have been lower when they came up.

The mouth of the Buffalo looked like a flooded cave. It was bigger then I had imagined. Overhanging trees and bluffs gave it the cavernous appearance. I looked forward to coming back down that river. I have heard stories from friends about the Buffalo all my life and have never accomplished it. I’ve gotta do it just to join the club.

Now it looks as if I will try to simulate what the White River guides do when they take clients up the Buffalo for Brownie or Small Mouth Bass fishing. From what I gathered at Cotter Trout Dock they travel down the White and then up the Buffalo just short of Rush. They do not try to breach the shoals with the 20-foot Jon boats and motors. They turn it around there and begin the float fishing back downstream.

There is supposed to be a great gravel bar to camp on somewhere in that vicinity. I would be over ten miles up the river. I want to run up the Buffalo just far enough to place some of it on my trout map. It is an important river and should be introduced to the trout fishermen.

I mean why not cast a few at some nice Small Mouth Bass and see the nation’s first National Wild and Scenic River. An easy day of fishing on the lower Buffalo, unless there are storms upstream. In that case you get to see one of the premier flash flood streams in the country. I am told the Buffalo can raise it’s water line faster and higher than almost any river in the country. That’s another good reason to never become complacent your boat or campsite.

Somewhere on the Buffalo, my cousin, “Killer” McKelvey, woke up one night with water rising in his tent. Needless to say he and his son, Colin, got there act together and abandoned the gravel bar.

I wouldn’t want to be in that position but I know anything can happen on either of these rivers. Awareness and experience are the only two defenses.

Next up….let’s go set up camp.

2007-07-16T18:03:00.000-07:00

Chapter 12

Camping on Smith Island

The Buffalo passed by quickly. I didn’t get too long of a look as I had to start navigating the Smith Island chute. With as much water as there was in the river I had to look at my map to see which was the main channel. I remember Debbie of the Cotter Trout Dock telling me to stay left and go to the far end of the island. There I would see the tents and steps.

I did that and was again concerned about the speed I was traveling. The island seemed to be flying by when I saw the steel steps. The tents were visible in the background. I was going to have to do this right. The current was not going to give me a second chance. I turned the craft toward the bank and gunned it with all the throttle I dared. The little boat kicked around and slid right in next to the steps. Slick ! I mean, if anybody had been watching they would have thought I knew what I was doing.

The water was up to the top two steps. I guessed it to be three feet above normal. At this point the steps were almost a necessity due to the steepness of the slick muddy bank.

I pulled my canoe as high as I could. It was way too heavy for the sharp incline. The first thing I did was to take the little motor off and carry it up to the flat.
Then I began to unload the canoe. Since I was going to be there all night why not get everything out then drag the canoe up further. I had not a clue how high the water could come up but there was flotsam high above my head in the trees. That’s what I did. I unloaded and placed all the gear on a high point near the kitchen tarp. I then pulled the canoe up above the steps thinking that level would be above the present seven gate high. Water higher than the steps would require a rain caused flood. Surely I was safe for the night.

The Cotter Trout Dock owns this campground. I had paid to camp here. It was a pretty decent set up for their group fishing charters. There were three wall tents each containing three big beds. A cooking tent and a dining shelter with banquet tables was set up nearby. Debbie had been quite proud of the work Ron had been doing all summer and well she should have been. I would have been happy to find a place in the woods without high weeds and underbrush. They have cut the weeds and made a clearing of about a half acre. I walked barefoot the whole time I was camped there.

The island was a big sand bar with huge trees on it. I figured the cold water would keep snakes from crossing over to it. I have always been very careful about the creepie crawlies.

Note: I later learned from Debbie the Buffalo and the White sweep all kinds of critters down from upstream. Snakes, bears, deer and you name it can be spotted on the island. They get there involuntarily and adapt to life on the island. The cheechako didn’t know this at the time. Duh, no double duh. Or as the man in James Lee Burke mystery novels says, “No duh”.

I could see what looked to be a couple of out houses in the distance but figured I would explore that later. There I would be able to look through them and locate everything I would need to set up camp and fix supper.

It was hot and muggy in the shade of the island canopy. I was sweating big time while unloading. The jungle hammock went up between one of the tent frame 4 by 4s and a tree. I wasn’t thinking about anything other than two strong points to tie the hammock ropes. Later I would learn my mistake.

I know. I know. Why would you put up your own shelter when there were three wall tents and two big rainfly’s? I told the folks I wanted a place to camp and that is exactly what I intended. I wanted to sleep in my Clark’s hammock. I had looked forward to it. It was comfortable, cool and bug free. The jungle hammock does a good job and is fairly quick and easy to put up. The big fly that goes over it provides shade and rain proofing. The mosquito net walls allow fresh air all the way around. I will admit in this situation a breeze would be helpful.

I categorize my equipment when making checklist into five groups shelter, food, canoe, clothing and camp comfort. I made one shelter equipment mistake. I picked up a summer sleeping bag at Sam’s right before the trip. I thought that would make sense since it was summer time. The Swiss Army bag was cheap and I mean cheap like in less than thirty bucks. It did the job when I used it on the cot the previous night. Now in the tight confines of the hammock it was way too bulky. The bulk was a problem in packing as well. It required too much space in the boat bag as compared to my seventeen year old, minus 30, Goretex, bag from my Continental Divide hunting days.

I planned to make a switch and bring the Colorado bag on my return trip. At this point what I really needed was a cloth sheet for the hammock. I would remember that as well. The hammock and a sleeping bag sock should work well in the summer. If I get cold in the mornings I will zip up the sides of the jungle hammock and little cocoon will warm up.

Once, my shelter was set up, I turned my attention toward food and supper. “Old faithful”, my little one burner Coleman was there. The little tripod stove was great and had been with me twenty years or more. The other old timer in my cook kit was my teapot. I had purchased it during my “On the Road” years. I walked into a store some Bellingham, rugby playing, firefighters told me about. The guys called the store the Mountaineer’s Co-op. It was in downtown Seattle near Eddie Bauer. I had to pay $5 or something to join the coop and shop. I have been a member since that summer day in 1969. They had a new name and later on expanded it as Recreational Equipment Inc. I think they are probably still my major source of outdoor gear. Sometimes I think they get a little to hip for my old ways but they are young people serving a young market so I guess they should be excused.

I met the rugby playing, ex-Marines on a forest fire near Lake Chelan near Wenatchee, Washington. I spent a month fighting fire with those guys. I was on the road riding a 500cc Kawasaki (it was a big bike in those days) up to Alaska. The goal was to get on with the soon to start Alaska Pipeline project. The pipeline didn’t start construction for another two or three years but no one could predict that at the time. It was first come, first serve on the jobs. Instead, I blew the rice burner up when the oil injector failed. I was half way to my destination with little or no money. The parts were in Japan and would have to be ordered. There was a big back order due to the damned things blowing up all over the U.S. The folks at Burien Honda told me to chill for a few weeks. I thought what the hell am I supposed to do way up here where I don’t know anyone. When the Seattle newspaper said the Forest Service needed fire fighters I became a fire fighter with his thumb in the wind. I smelled a paycheck and a campsite. Wenatchee, wherever you are, here I come. I made enough money to get my motorcycle out of the shop. But it was getting too late in the summer to be going to Alaska on a bike. I would try again the next spring. And did.

Good experience. Good people. Good country. Lots of White River origin folks who had gone to Wenatchee to pick apples and stayed. It seemed like every time I met a local they wanted to know if I knew their relatives in Guion. People don’t realize that before we were over run with illegal Mexicans, hillbillies were this country’s migrant workers. When I was a kid I remember people talking about picking apples and working wheat. I was under the impression the folks were making good money. I guess I didn’t understand the economics of migrant labor camps.

In any case, I enjoyed my summer in the Cascades. I met some really interesting folks and picked up some memorable experiences. I lived out of doors for a couple of months and loved it so much I signed up for Forest Fire duty the next year in Alaska. That was just as much fun but just a little further out in the boonies. A month of the Grayling waters for bathing and I was ready for that Fairbanks sauna and other neat Alaskan indoor experiences.

Now back to the camp…….

My two old friends the teapot and the three legged stove were ready. I screwed the little Coleman gas container onto the stove and set the water to boil. I pulled out the little coffee drip gizmo and set it into the plastic cup. Tonight I was living high. It was cocktail hour and I had some of that good old chicory laced Community Coffee. To a coffee junkie this stuff is hard to beat. There is no cream or sugar allowed, its’ a camp rule. I decided that one long ago when I found ants in my gear. The culprit was a broken sugar sack. No, no, not again thank you.

While I drank my after work coffee I enjoyed some of the cookies I had lifted from the grandkids’ stash. After all, old “gram”daddy wouldn’t want the little ones eating stale cookies? Hmm…cinnamon gram crackers of some sort. This is good stuff with strong coffee. While I enjoyed my repast I continued to unpack gear onto a banquet table. I got my supper out and heated more water for the double oatmeal packets. Then dumped the oatmeal into one of my little backpacker pots. I stirred in the water and hooray, we have a warm supper. There were canned entrees in the pack, but I missed out on my planned oatmeal breakfast that morning so I was making up for it now.

Desert was a large can of peaches. The after dinner kicker was the peach juice right from the can. Oh yeah, just like Steve McQueen or somebody in the Magnificent Seven. Or was it Steve McQueen as Max Sand or whatever his name was in the movie about Hop-A-Long Cassidy and Howard Hughes. Anyway I knew that movie cowboys had always favored a can of peaches so that was enough for me.

After supper, it’s supper in the hills. Dinner is what you have at noon. I walked down to the steps and washed out my little pot and cup. I hope the trout like the left-over oatmeal. I had a feeling they would.

I packed everything back into the water proof bags and sealed each of them. I didn’t know about bears or coons so I wanted to seal away the smell best I could. I was half way expecting a big old blow that night so it wouldn’t hurt to have everything stowed in a position where it couldn’t fly away. The mist started to build on the river as I listened to some folks somewhere upriver talking and having fun. I couldn’t exactly hear what they were saying but it was nice to hear the cheerful voices.

The river was still high but didn’t seem to be rising. I pulled the canoe higher as it was lighter now. I tied it to a tree with plenty of slack in the rope. I wanted it to float and not be tied on a short rope in case the river rose drastically. I could look around me and see drift wood in the trees above my head.

I was still hot and it was still muggy. I realized how much I had perspired that day and how much I needed a shower before bed. Uh oh, here’s where the rubber meets the road. I rummaged through my gear and found my kit. There was a bar of soap handy so I grabbed that and went to the steps on the bank. I was well aware of the 56 degree water but the shock of wading out into it waist deep was an eyeball popper. To lean over and grab double hands full of water and throw them all over your head and shoulders was breath taking. So there you are exactly what you want to be at bedtime, breathless and wide eyed. Except this time I don’t think the words meant the same or had anywhere near the same effect.

My towels had been used as a cushion in the floor of the boat when traveling on the trailer. The little motor was lain on them for the trip to avoid friction with the boats floor. I am afraid they were rained on and might have even had a little gasoline dripped onto them. They were not an option for drying off. I did have a little golfer’s gimme towel. I had stuffed it in with the kitchen gear. It now became my plush Four Season’s robe. I loved it. The warm humid air on the cold skin was good. Now to bed.

I climbed in and realized I was actually laying lower than the sides of the hammock. If a breeze came through it would pass over me with little relief. ARGH, again. I was tired and didn’t want to fight it so I just laid there and sweated. In a few minutes I felt coolness against my back. Where the bottom of the hammock touched my back there was a cooling effect. Soon the rising fog crept into the campsite and helped me forgot about the heat. Before I knew it I had dozed off and was knee deep in never, never land. Just about dark I heard a noise that awoke me. Oh that noise, yes, I know what my snoring sounds like even in a deep sleep. Then I heard a reactive noise. A very loud “whew !” Silence, took over. I had spooked a deer and he or she had sounded the alarm. I laid still and tried to see through the mosquito netting but I had the wrong angle of view. I couldn’t see into the woods in the direction of the warning sound.

I couldn’t see a thing. My hammock was strung wrong. I now wished I had turned it to face the river. “No Duh”. I was so intent on just getting the thing hung I had not thought of the first thing every tourist looks for, a room with a view. Now that ticked me off especially since I was at an odd angle and couldn’t see into the woods or the river. But I was too tired to change it all around.

I waited 15 or 20 minutes then got out of the hammock. The deer had left. Apparently, I was in their evening pasture and they were not happy about it. I hated it, but that’s the breaks. The brush cutting the folks from Cotter Trout Dock had done resulted in a good deed for the deer. The young short grass was providing great pasture for the Smith Island deer herd.

The evening went well. The rolling storms abated for the night and I dozed on and off. I had a headlamp in the hammock as well as my old pal, Mr. ACP.
Soon enough my eyes were used to the dark. I really didn’t need any help from the lamp. As far as Mr. ACP went, well he just always goes where I do whether he is needed or wanted. He doesn’t bother anybody, eats very little and gives me great peace of mind.

Thanks to my little cousin Johnny McKelvey for turning me onto James Lee Burke. I read around twenty of his mysteries last winter. The guy is a great writer and lives in two wonderful locals, Montana and South Louisiana.

Next up….. train, train,
train I ride.

2007-07-16T18:02:00.000-07:00

Chapter 13

Hear that train a coming,
coming round the bend.

We’re gonna miss the Man in Black

About two a.m. I heard another old, old friend. I heard the deep loping sound of giant cams in a big old triple diesel set up. I should have realized how close the railroad tracks were since they ran along side the river in the narrow valley. The tree canopy created a great sound chamber. The three engines probably were not more than 30 yards away. It sounded as if I was in a small room with the giant engines. It was music to my ears. The loping engines were in neutral coasting slowly. I tried to imagine what he was doing. I decided it was one of two situations. Either the engineer was waiting on the slack to come out of his train. Or he was waiting on the slack to come in. The nose being pushed up an incline while the rest of the train finished coming over a hill some half mile to the rear. Or his head end was starting up a hill while his caboose was still coming down the last hill. (note: there are no cabooses anymore) I waited for the inevitable. The hoghead would give her a little throttle and then a few moments later the slack would slam out. The throttle eased out slowly to one notch, then two and three. I worked the throttle with him. In my mind, laying in a hammock, I could see his every action by listening to the sounds of his train and his engines. As he picked up speed and the coal cars lined up for the pull up the hill. Each car shifted backwards as the train pulled away and up the hill. Gravity pulled them downhill and the engineer was pulling them up the hill. One by one each car slipped backward that few inches inside the loose fitting steel coupling. As it hit the downhill side of the coupling the car made a banging sound. When you hear a hundred or more cars make that sound in rapid succession the railroad men call that the slack coming in or the slack going out. Either way, it makes a hell of a noise and once learned cannot be mistaken for any other sound.

To some it would sound like a huge racket in the middle of the night but to me it was a trip down memory lane. I heard him toot a faint quiet little road crossing with his two shorts a shorter short and a short. Note: it is supposed to be two longs a short and a long. He bent the rules but he didn’t create havoc with those big horns way out in the wilderness. There wouldn’t be any traffic that late at night not on a little old dirt road next to the river going nowhere. Good hoghead. (Note: hoghead is an non-endearing term brakemen used for engineers) Good man. I listened to him pull away and then began the squeal of the steel wheels on steel rail. I thought, yeah and your wheels were probably made down there in Dallas at Maple and Motor near BWC, the once great and powerful photo lab.

When the screeching wheels were distant the quiet came back to the forest. Then a bird began to sing it’s night song. My old pal the Whipporwill showed up. I had not heard one in years. My God, they are soothing to the soul. Then an owl and something that sounded like it was doing the chorus from the “Lion Sleeps Tonight” chimed in and created my night choir. The Tokens never sounded so good. It was a great way to drift back off to dream land.

The next morning we had a repeat of the evening show. I made a noise that apparently offended Mr. Buck Deer and he let me hear about it. Again, I froze in my hammock trying to at least get a look at my furry neighbors. No luck. Like the night before they didn’t bust brush they just melted away without a sound.
I thought they didn’t need to see a human at this time of day. I was just trying to use a little woodsy manners. I waited until I thought they were gone and clamored out of the hammock ready or not.

Coffee was quick. Matches were a little problem striking but I found a sure fire way to make water proof matches work. It seems no matter what type of matches I buy and put into my little orange plastic waterproof containers they just won’t strike when I get them out. They aren’t wet they just don’t have good striking material on them. When I was a kid we could strike matches on our jeans or fingernails or in Jackie Thomas’s case on his teeth. But that was Jackie, he could do lots of things other kids couldn’t do. I don’t think the darned things would strike when I bought them at the grocery store. Ergo don’t ever trust your matches. Get the sure proof answer. No get two of them. They are called a Bic lighters. I keep both lighters and matches in baggies, double bagged and zip locked. When I am ready to light my little Coleman I simply flick my Bic and light the match with the lighter. Why? Because lighting propane stoves with a lighter can be hazardous to your knuckles. Matches let your fingers stay a little further back when the propane decides to ignite. Simple logic learned from basic stupidity. That’s my method and I’m sticking to it.

I was using bottled water stored in the ice chest for both my refreshment needs and cooking. I didn’t like the trash I was generating due to all the water I was drinking to keep from dehydrating. But I didn’t have an answer. I thought of bringing a gallon plastic collapsible container but backed out. I have a PUR water filter pump combo but it is so old I wasn’t sure the filter gizmo would still work. The combo of the two should have been the solution to my water needs. I could have used my cup and been in good shape except for keeping the big bag of water cool. I want to leave the ice chest behind on the next trip. Too much weight and space. If I were not motoring I could use my wire fish basket as a cooler.

As far as the quality of the river water, I drank it as a kid but a lot of years and a lot of bovine have visited since that time. I will probably stay on the safe side and either drink it filtered or boiled.

My little mountaineer’s teapot holds just about a bottle and a half. That ends up being enough for coffee and a double bowl of oatmeal. So one boiling takes care of my caffeine and breakfast needs.

Rinse out the cups and mini pots and we are ready for the day. When I broke camp I added a little nylon rope and a few little bungee cords to my jungle hammock bag. I found I might want to use the fly from the hammock as a rain protector and yet sleep on a cot with a sleeping bag. The advantage in these woods was there were few mosquitoes due to the cold temperature of the water. Therefore I could actually sleep exposed to the night air without fear of the dreaded buzz and subsequent itching. I will try it out on the next trip.

As far as shelter goes the Clark is supposedly good for winter temperatures as well. Each hammock has pockets that are sewn to the bottom of the rig. You are encouraged to stuff them with articles of clothing or some other insulating material. I guess you could use leaves or whatever was available to stop the cold from coming into the hammock bottom therefore your backside. The Clark also has a roof that zips to a cocoon setting when warmth is need or blowing rain is coming in under the fly. Just zip it up and the elements stay outside. I know I am tooting the Clark horn here but so far I like it as lightweight and practical while being compact.

If you need additional protection or warmth the big old fly is actually a separate piece of material can be dropped down to wrap the cocoon in a double layer of fabric. I am told this makes the thing darned near bomb proof. I look forward to comparing it to my old Moss tent. That thing has been packed away for 16 years but when I pulled it out of it’s sticky little bag and spread it out it looked like it’s old self. I can’t wait to see if it leaks or if the rubber coating withstood what no other tent of mine has ever been able to handle, packed away for long years of a hot dry garage.

I purchased the tent from a back-packing store in Colorado Springs some 17 years ago. It was a high dollar purchase but was supposed to be the ultimate cold weather tent. I was doing a lot of elk and deer hunting up on the Continental Divide and needed something to combat the snow. I also had an Explorer Scout troop that loved camping in the snow. The little tent worked better than anything I had ever owned but that was limited to cheap family tents and a big old Montana canvass wall tent with a wood stove. I liked my little Moss.
When the weather turns cooler I think I will take it along to see if it has dry rot. Apparently, I had my priorities screwed up for quite a while there but I seemed to be coming back to reality with this trip.

I rearranged things in the waterproof sacks so they made more sense in terms of trying to find related items. The oatmeal kit would now live with the coffee kit. The little stove and its’ propane would live with breakfast rather than with supper.

Expensive fragile equipment like cameras got a better bag and were consolidated with padding. I carried everything down the bank to the canoe. The little boat was almost entirely out of the water. The current was pleasant and almost all of the steps were now showing. I guessed the level had dropped two and a half feet over night.

As I tied the safety cord to each of the bags, I couldn’t help but notice how peaceful my little world had become. That isn’t to say everything was quiet. The woods sounded like a jungle movie. There were a couple of squirrels chattering at each other and a pair of crows giving each other the dickens. It seemed all the other winged neighbors had decided to gather and crow good riddance to the big ugly stranger as he packed his boat.

I had to chuckle at the racket they were creating. The peaceful mood might have been within me. But the scene looking out across the rising river fog was what Glenn Campbell might call, “Gentle on My Mind”.

Next up…it’s a great day to be alive.

2007-07-16T18:00:00.000-07:00

Chapter 14

The River from Smith Island to Shipps Ferry….. a wonderful day……

I pushed off and headed to Norfork and the end of this Trout Trail. I was in no hurry. For the first time I was able to see the bottom of the river. I was shocked to see how shallow it was. Thinking about the breaks I would be traveling through later in the morning I decided to check my depth meter. It looked two feet deep but was at least twice that much. The water was so clear it fooled me big time. I checked the temperature and it was hold steady at 59 degrees some 33 or more miles from the damn. When you considered the amount of warmer water the Buffalo was contributing this was a significant hydrology temp.

What a commute! While my colleagues in Dallas were fighting the freeways and toll roads, I was drifting down one of the most scenic rivers in the world. The best part was that I was working at something I thoroughly enjoyed.
Actually I wasn’t exactly drifting I was trolling. The fog began to lift and it looked like it was going to be a beautiful day. I knew I was way ahead of schedule as I was not due in Norfork until late afternoon. With the current still running over 5 mph I should be into Norfork town no later than 1 or 2 p.m.

After passing over a shoal called Nellie’s Apron I continued on down river. My excitement over the rising fog came to a halt. The fog sprites began to dance and here it came again. It got thicker and thicker until it was almost back to the hot and cold rainy day level of yesterday. A boat was coming my way. I thought oh yeah just in time. It took a couple of minutes but then they appeared just off to my right. Three guests and a guide I guessed. Sure enough that’s what it held. These were a little less sodden and a lot less sullen than the day before. The guide actually slowed down his craft to keep from rocking me. I waved a big appreciation and they waved back and off we went.

Soon I passed the Cartney Access without ever seeing it. Couldn’t see the shores but I could see tree tops so I guided by them and the tops of cliffs. No pictures though. It wasn’t that I can’t take pictures in the mist or fog it’s just that I don’t want to take my hand from the tiller nor my attention off my river. Too dangerous for the cheechako.

A little after Cartney, I came across Barren Creek Shoal. I wondered if that was the same Barren Creek that was under Lake Norfork. When I was a little kid the family would motor from Shelton’s Landing to Brushy and Barren Creek area of the Lake. We had a 14 foot Arkansas Traveler with a 22 horse Mercury on it. We thought we were flying. There we would spend an evening fishing for crappie. Great memories. I was not all that far from the Dam so it could be the same. I might find out some day.

The water was lower than I had seen it for the entire trip. These were the first shoals I had experienced at normal water levels. I had no problem. The water was easier to read. At least now I could see the obstacles and steered away from the big ripples and waves. This is where the little motor really paid off. It is just enough power to guide the boat in the direction you want to go rather than the way the current would take you. A good canoe paddler would have no problem. An experienced kayak fisherman would laugh at my speed as well as maneuverability. I had been amazed at how well the kayakers seemed to get around. It always looks effortless and they are so quick.

But back to the Proud Mary and the three and a half Mercury. They were doing very well this morning and after the first set of shoals I was feeling a lot more confidence in my rig. When leaving Smith Island I made some changes to the outriggers trim. I moved the floats from skimming the top of the water to all the way up where the floats would not hit water unless we were almost capsizing. That would help in the splash factory if I did hit any white water shoals. It was like taking the training wheels off a bicycle for the very first time. I could tell no effect. I balanced the canoe as always. Everything went as normal. Apparently I had not needed the training wheels near as much as I thought.

After Barren Creek Shoals the fog receded, as did the clouds. The sun came out and the world was absolutely gorgeous. I cut the motor off, pulled a paddle near, found my fishing rod and set about pulling a plastic box full of Mepp’s lures from the big old tackle box. At this point I decided I had had it with that big old box and it would not make the next trip. It was a fine box but the thing just took up too much room. That darned ice chest wouldn’t make another trip either. I was tired of not being able to stretch out my legs because of those two. Jettisoned, they would be, yes. As Yoda would say.

The boat drifted peacefully as I rigged the Browning four-piece rod and little Penn reel. I really enjoyed using these two products. The Penn was the next to smallest of their line and was loaded with some four-pound line. I brought a nine-foot plus crappie rod with me but unloaded it with all the other excess equipment back at Cotter Trout Dock. I had looked forward to fighting a nice trout with that long rod. I thought that it would give me the action of a fly rod while letting me use the spinning rig. Maybe next time for that one. I’ve already packed the tall Loomis for the return trip. I have a lot of ambition for that crappie rod.

So for the last seven or so miles of this trip I simply relaxed and enjoyed the fishing. I didn’t catch a thing. I didn’t even get a bite. I kept casting just as if I knew what I was doing and really didn’t mind not catching anything. It was a wonderful day and a great time to be alive. I couldn’t ask for a more glorious way to spend a morning. I thanked the Lord, fishing pole in hand, eyes wide open. I hope he didn’t mind a prayer from a canoe instead of a pew.
The sun shone so brightly before I realized it the white of my bird legs, as my daughters call them, were turning pink. I had a bottle of sun block hanging from the canoe seat for just this occasion. I was never one for sunscreen or suntan lotion. Neither did I use bug spray unless I was in dire straights. I just have never liked greasy smelly stuff on my skin. But, and I say but, since having dealt with skin cancer on my face and other dermatologist types problems this past winter I was going to do my best to stay out of doors and healthy at the same time. The Tilley hat was working. Hopefully the sun screen would do its’ thing as well.

Note: They both did great and I have since purchased another method of protecting my face from bouncing sunrays. This is crazy but if it works I won’t have to put greasy stuff on my face. I bought a mosquito net that hangs from your hat and covers your face and neck. I have no idea if this method will work or if it will be too hot but I am going to try it. The idea is to deal with the glancing sunbeams bouncing off the water up onto your face by hanging the mosquito net as a sun block. I hope the air will flow through it o.k. I originally bought the hat net for use in sleeping outside the hammock or tent when it’s really hot. But I am also thinking of the time when I plan on charting maps through the White River National Wildlife Refuge and the concerns I have for the bugs down there.

The current did its job and in no time at all I was taking pictures of a big old bluff known as White’s Bluff. I think the bluff had been misnamed by the mapmakers. This bluff was white in color and if I knew my Leatherwood folks it was named for it’s color and not as a possession. It probably should have been White Bluff. But that’s just my cynical opinion.

Next: The town of Norfork and the Norfork River.

2007-07-16T17:58:00.000-07:00

Chapter 15

Norfork Town

After the bluff I had to start paying attention to guiding the craft. The map showed highway 341 crossing the river. The bridge was really tall. I was surprised at the expense and the expanse. Not long after the 341 would be the town of Norfork and the mouth of the Norfork River.

I had driven the two lane highway past this spot many times but had never realized the river was directly behind the Old Wolf Homestead cabin. I just remembered the cabin as a special pioneer family location and knew it had something to do with John Quincy Wolf who, if I remember correctly, wrote the “Life in the Leatherwoods” book. I read the book in college but didn’t know a great deal about the family. I think the Wolf folks had some relatives in one of my home town’s older families but can’t remember which one. Our Main street and the older section of town was full of pioneer descendents.

I could see the gravel shoulder just the other side of what appeared to be a big bayou or slough coming into the White. After a quick glance at the map I realized that was the Norfork. Apparently while I had been drifting fishing and day dreaming the gates had been opened at Bull Shoals and the river was rising again. I yelled to a fishermen who was fishing the mouth of the Norfork and asked if the gravel beach was indeed the Game and Fish Ramp. He said it was but there was a newer one right around the end of the gravel bar. I thought the heck with it the bar looked fine so I gunned the little Mercury and beached the Mad River like an old salt. I got out of the boat and searched for the ever present often needed out houses but couldn’t find them. I learned you had to walk up the road a way. There they were in a parking lot on a level above the ramp and out of sight from river level.

I checked and there was excellent cell phone service. I called Debbie at Cotter Trout Dock and asked if she was ready to come pick me up. She was surprised as usual at the early arrival time but very pleasant and said she would be in Norfork in 30 minutes. What a great lady and what a great service they provide. There is no way I could map or float fish without help on the shuttle end. I mean the last thing you want to do is beach your boat and leave all your camping and fishing gear at a public access point. After leaving your gear unprotected you would have hitchhike for hours while your gear lays there exposed to every meth head in the world. The shuttle service is so important, it will dictate what rivers and sections of rivers I am able to map.

I called my wife and let her know I was o.k. I told her I would be starting home soon. She was relieved and cautioned me about driving too late. It would be 3 p.m. before I was on the road and five hundred miles is a long way. Unfortunately I was at the mercy carrying gear in an open canoe and affords very few options for rest.

I got to work repacking everything for the ride. I took the motor off and laid it on the grass. The bags had to be shuffled around and the water wings had to be deflated and taken into the car. As I worked the sun beat down. By the time I had finished my little chores I was soaking wet. Well we sure knew where there was a big old fashioned cooler, downer so I had at it. Kersplash. Ouhh that thing is still cold. It didn’t take me long to get cooled off. I was out of the river in a flash.

When I came out of the water I sat in the grass under a great shade tree. There I drip dried, drank a cold bottle of water and watched the people fishing. As I sat there, I saw something I hadn’t seen on this river. Here was a seasoned citizen couple guided by a fellow standing at the oars of a Snake River dory. Kewwl, I thought. They were flyfishing down the Norfork. The last one of those things I saw was on-assignment in Idaho. I always thought they were super neat and would love to fish from one someday. Maybe I will. I need to go back to the Snake and Idaho to shoot some more pictures of the dories in action. I loved the beautiful scenes, with the classic fishing action, perfect for stock photography.

Debbie arrived and we loaded the boat onto the trailer. The first thing I did was forget to unplug the trailer’s taillights before I backed her into the water. A few minutes later I noticed what I had done and unplugged them. I was afraid I had shorted the whole thing out and would have to drive through all those little towns and I-30 east Texas speed traps without taillights. The lights seemed to be about half full of water so I was sure I was doomed.

I got her loaded easily enough. The river was rising rapidly again. I think it was a private little message to let me know it was still in charge. I got the message. I believed the river. It would always be in charge. I pulled the boat and trailer out of the water and then went back to hook up the lights. I let them drain for a minute or two and then plugged them into the car socket. They worked great and nothing blew up. The water was out of the lens and everything was good with the set up. Wow! Maybe the luck had changed with the weather. At least it looked like it.

We got back to the Cotter Trout Dock and Debbie made coffee. I cleaned out the boat the best I could but I had standing water in the floor and apparently some gas had leaked from the motor as it lay on the bottom. The bath towels I used to pad the floor were soaked with a gasoline smelling brew. I found some more towels in the back of the car and placed them under the prop as it lay on the floor of the canoe. I wanted to prevent it from rubbing the floor but I wanted to soak up that gas as well. I used the towels to soak up the foul liquid and rung them out a few times. That was the best way I could figure to get the water out. The problem was the water on the bottom between the storage bags. I didn’t want to unload the boat again. I figured gas on all of my equipment including the waterproof bags could not be helpful. So the theory of soaking it up then blowing it out over a 500 mile, 70 mph evaporation process should take care of the problem. I know that was the lazy way to bail the canoe but I was ready to drive.

Debbie wished me well and pointed me toward a great smoked meat place they called a bar-b-que. It was near Cotter just a few miles back to the east on 62 in a community called Gassville I think. The place was called KC’s or something like that.

I went there and ordered two small bar-b-que pork sandwiches. The young woman running the cash register was very professional and the place was clean and decorated well. The smell when you walked in was of hickory smoke. The sandwich was wonderful and much larger than I had expected. As we talked the young lady introduced her husband and said they had purchased the restaurant from a Cajun couple who had retired. The new owners were from the great city of Bellingham, Washington. I had good memories of a rugby game in that town in the late sixties. They were a nice young couple and asked me to try a couple of their baby back ribs. Dynomite, hickory smoked with a glaze of some sort I would guess. I enjoyed the conversation and the food and was impressed with the way the treated an old cat with several days of beard and a funky river look to him. Nice place, nice folks they will do very well there. The Ozarks gravitate to people like that.

I asked the bar-b-que lady to wrap my second sandwich up as I would probably need it before I reached Dallas. I took the tinfoil package and headed to the car. I checked all the straps and the taillights once again. Then off our little outfit went toward the big city lights of Dallas some 500 miles to the South West.

2007-07-16T17:56:00.000-07:00

Chapter 16

A simple drive doesn’t always stay simple.

Or never speed on a highway with speed traps every thirty miles, dummy.

The trip was going very well. I stopped in Clinton for coffee and then again somewhere south of Little Rock but mostly just kept the hammer down listening to the XM jazz stations. Sometimes XM will play good stuff on bluesville or Bill Wax will have a guest and I get to enjoy whatever blues trivia they kick up. I always check into Bluesville first.

Unfortunately along about 11 pm, a black Texas Highway Patrol officer somewhere around Mt. Vernon decided I was speeding and wanted to have a chat with me. I was in the process of trying to get around a string of 18 wheelers about two miles long. I do not like to drive my little HHR with tiny boat trailer in the midst of all that. Guess who he picked out as the tourist. Yup, I was the one. Radar said I was speeding. I was no doubt but so was every other vehicle on the highway with me. Oh well, it had been a long time since they nailed me so I guess it was my turn to be the revenue turkey.

The policeman asked me to get out of the car and to come to the rear of the vehicle. OK, but I thought that is unusual they normally want to come up and talk to you from right behind your ear. That roadside manner always makes me think I am about to be shot in the back of the head. I like for cops to keep their hands where I can see them. I don’t trust them. I’m sorry I’ve just heard way to many stories. God, those guys make me nervous.

I guess I fit some sort of bad guy profile because they all seem to come on with a hell of a lot of attitude. I’ve really never understood that part of who they are or why they think they have to act like Billy Bad Ass. Maybe it’s in the training but I think it’s more who they want to be, not who they are. I’ve never seen acting to be necessary. This guy could have used a little lesson in manners, but I guess someone told him nobody would respect him if he acted like a nice guy. Who knows why people do what they do. I sure as hell can’t figure it out.

Anyway, the policeman asks what was my reason for speeding. I asked him to repeat that as I was unaware it had been proven that I was actually speeding. He said, “well you were”. I said, “really how fast was I going” ? He says you were doing 77 in a 65 zone. I think to myself aw crap that is exactly what I was doing. But I had mistakenly thought the speed limit was 70. Apparently they lower the limit by 5 mph after dark. Uh oh, this could be expensive.

I hung my head with shame. Not really. I was ticked off at myself for getting caught when I had seen cop cars between every town since the Texas line. Obviously they were having a big fund raising night and the cats had just bagged another sucker trying to get himself home at a decent hour. They knew who they wanted. They knew who would pay the fine and they knew who would not cause harm to them. That is the target audience of the Texas State trooper. Let’s don’t forget that Interstate Highway 30 is the main connection to I-35 from the Mexican border.

My pal, Harris in Arkadelphia, had told me years ago that this stretch of road gets the heaviest use by drug traffickers on their way to northern cities. I just hung my head and kept my mouth shut. Drugs flow north, tourists return home by going south. Methinks they are chasing the wrong side of the highway. While he writes the ticket I can’t help but thinking what a waste of resources in our supposed war on drugs. They have an army of cops chasing revenue by going after speeding business people and tourists instead of trying to do something to reduce the drug scourge of the nation. I wondered what his ticket quota was for that evening and if he had already made it and was on bonus time. The guy gave me a lecture about speeding and all I could think about is just give me the damned ticket and shut the hell up you pious hypocrite.

The rest of the ride to Dallas went well enough. I toned the autopilot down to 73 and hauled it home. The reason I was on 73 is that there was a speed trap set up about every 40 miles and a Texas Ranger had told me that under 74 and no one would ever pull you over. I guess I felt like taking him up on it. I still had a long way to go and it was getting late.

2007-07-16T17:54:00.000-07:00

Chapter 17

Smell the roses dummy, you’re getting old. Summing up the sum up…that’s river talk.

It had been a good experience. I had learned a hell of a lot. I had a little more confidence in my boat, my gear and myself. I had learned I needed to cut the amount of gear down. I found some of my gear wasn’t needed at all. I knew the river had scared the hockey out of me. I also learned I had to give nature more respect especially in the planning stages. I would do that but I was not nearly as intimidated as I had been driving up.

I would be back. The river has called me every day since I returned to Dallas. I would come back with a better sense of who I was and what the river expected of me. I would come back more attuned to nature. I knew I would be more a part of nature than observer the next time. I had been there as a kid and I lost the connection somewhere around the time I thought I grew up. No more. I would be back, more attuned and happier than ever. Although I would probably wait until the river was back down to normal stages and I swore I would spend more time fishing and enjoying the roses.

2007-07-15T18:36:00.000-07:00

Chapter 18

Posting the summed up, sum up, after thought, finish, post mortem, ending for this the Second Expedition of the Upper White River, this time a solo account.

The best thing about a solo trip is no one can tell a different version. Its' your story alone. So you can stick to your account and no one can ever contradict you. I love that.

Whats' on the schedule ?

Next up---Cotter to Buffalo City redux…then a few miles up the Buffalo and back down trying to catch small mouth.

Then float down to Norfork from the Buffalo. Next put in at Norfork Dam and drift down the Norfork back to the town of Norfork……just fish and map this part. There are supposed to be giant Rainbows in there.

If time allows, drift on down to Calico Rock and or further.

After that comes Calico to Sylamore Creek. A short run up the Sylamore for brownies and mapping. Still researching this one.

Then Sylamore to Guion and we are thru with this part of the White. I hope to get this project finished by late August. September should find us on the lower White and the White River National Wildlife Refuge.

I always welcome fellow travelers. If this account of the trials and tribulations of the expedition or my politics don’t scare you off, then come join us. Email or call me and I will fill you in on the next trip. All you have to do is bring your own boat and gear. I won’t cook for you or clean up after you. You will enjoy the same comforts as you provide yourself. If you want to come along call 214-912-9106. The email is john@commimage.com. There is no charge but you will have to pull your own weight. Remember, I am not a guide nor do I pretend to have a clue. Your safety is entirely in your own hands. I am lucky to take care of myself. This expedition is a commercial enterprise and my goals to accomplish the endeavor may interfere with some leisure activities along the way. In those cases work will have to come first. Be aware.

We are making trails for boomers looking for a little outdoor adventure. The good part is we get to experience that adventure first. Then we tell them about the fun stuff. Come on, join the fun.

I hope you get a kick out of this blog. I treated it as a personal journal so I could take as much poetic license as I wished. As you saw I did just that.

This is the first thing I have written since Memphis State freshman English. There one course was able to ruin my writing confidence. This thing flowed so I just stayed with it. Hope you enjoyed it.

John Boykin 1975 railroad nickname the "Boomer"
www.commimage.com

Chris L's Adventure

2007-07-07T12:46:00.000-07:00

When I tried to fish…

John Boykin was the photographer for a magazine I worked on. It was a magazine for employees of a well servicing operation out of Midland, Texas. I grew up and have lived all my life in suburban Philadelphia, so that job was an amazing experience. I was able to visit places it’s unlikely I’d have seen any other way. I also got to meet a lot of great people, and John is one of them. The best way I can describe John is to say that there may be very little worth doing he has not done. He’s had a lot of fascinating jobs, both in big cities and tiny towns all over the country. (I’ll let him recount some of that when he feels it’s appropriate.)

Anyway, he has always been very kind to this city kid who found himself in unfamiliar territory far from home. My favorite example of that is when my fragile stomach rejected a large quantity of steak fingers from Buddy’s Drive In of Andrews, TX. I lobbed those fingers back up while hanging out of John’s Tahoe driving from Midland to Dallas. I was fairly successful in stretching out the window to ruin only my sportcoat and kept the interior relatively finger-free. Even though this whole incident was immediately after the worst photo shoot ever, John was nothing but sympathetic.

So, when John suggested that we go float fishing, which I had never done, I figured it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

This entailed a substantial drive from Philadelphia to Arkansas. The first day, I drove from Philadelphia to Dayton, OH, stayed the night, and visited the Air Force Museum there. Upon leaving around 11 a.m., I called John and was informed that I should be there in about an hour. I thought we were planning to meet the next day, and in discussing it with him, I realized that he was 100% right and there was no way to reconcile what I thought the schedule was with any kind of reality. I did some quick calculations with a road atlas and my GPS and said I would drive straight through and get to Calico Rock by about 9 p.m.

This was where things started to fall apart. I looked at the map, and taking interstates most of the way looked like it was very indirect. So, I asked the GPS to calculate “shortest distance”—which would use any available road—to Calico Rock.

All went well until the GPS directed me to a ferry. The ferry had closed at 5 pm, and it was now around 7. I had put “no toll roads” into the GPS, but apparently a toll ferry is not a toll road.

So, I looked at my map. I was at Aker’s Ferry, at the racist corner of roads K and KK in Salem, MO. I put “detour” into my GPS to take me around the ferry and kept driving. The GPS was directing me down what appeared to be a fairly well-maintained road.
I continued about two miles, then reached a fork. (I should mention that the road has been getting progressively worse, and where the road was less clear, as I drove along.) Looking at the GPS, I decided I took the wrong fork. So, I backed up, and proceeded down what looked like the right way.
At this point, the road looked very unroadlike. And, at the most 50 feet down the path, I started to slide sideways down a sort of a ravine. I might have been doing 5 mph, at the very most. This is what went through my mind very quickly:

1. I am driving an Isuzu Trooper. This vehicle is not very stable when exposed to lateral forces of any sort, and flips easier than a toilet seat. It is now sliding sideways. If it rolls, I’m probably dead, and they’ll find me sometime in the Fred Thompson administration.

2. For some reason, I remembered very clearly a description from Car and Driver of Land Rover’s “Hill Descent Control” technology, which automates the process of descending a steep incline. It basically pumps the brakes and maintains a very slow speed without the driver being involved. The key thing that stuck in my mind was that the technology was designed to make sure that you didn’t lock up the brakes and just slide down the incline, and was designed to make sure that you didn’t roll down the hill so fast that the vehicle was uncontrollable. So, if you’re going downhill, that’s the behavior you want to mirror.

3. So, I steered into the inevitable trip down this ravine and pumped the brakes on the way down.

I turned around at the base of the ravine, put the 4WD into “low,” and tried to drive back up from whence I came. This simply didn’t work. The road surface was basically grass with ruts, and my passing over the “road” caused the right side of the road to collapse and slide off in a big dirt and mud chunk. To get out, I would have had to drive over this chunk, getting traction in wet mud to do so. This was not going to happen.

I was still fairly hopeful that this was no big deal. I whipped out my cell phone, and there was no coverage. There had to be a pay phone back at the canoe rental office at the anti-African-American intersection (K and KK), and that was probably 3 miles away. I’m in horrible shape, but I can still walk 3 miles. I’ll walk, call, and get a tow. So, I marked where the Trooper was in my GPS, and started walking.

When I got there, the phone didn’t work. I’m still thinking this is no big deal. It’s around 8 pm., I’ll walk back to the town I passed through on the way. A few GPS check indicated this town was something like 15 miles away.

Now, I’m starting to think this is a big deal. I debated going back to the truck, but decided I would walk towards the town. I made it about 4 miles in about an hour, all of it uphill. Then, a truck was coming the other way. The truck stopped, and I explained that I needed to get to a pay phone and that the one next to the ferry wasn’t working. The guy was very helpful, and his big black dog was very friendly. This is where I really screwed up.

We drive. We drive the four miles to the ferry/canoe office down at K&KK. We drive past the road down which the Trooper was stuck. We drive about another 3 miles to a series of cabins, and I try to use the pay phone there. It doesn’t work. The guy in the truck explains that there’s nowhere else to get a pay phone that’s less than 20 miles, and he doesn’t have time to drive 20 miles. I offer him some compensation for his time and gas. He still doesn’t have time. I offer some more compensation for time and gas. “I don’t have time.” Well, maybe he really doesn’t have time. OK. He asks me, “What are you going to do?” I say, “Damned if I know. I guess I’ll just sleep here.” What did he think I was going to do? Make a satellite phone out of my boots?

So, I decided to sit for a while and hope for a car to drive by. No deal. Then, I decide to try to walk back to the town, which is at least 20 miles now. In retrospect, this is clearly when my judgment was starting to fade from fatigue.

Before I could get back to the new center of my universe (K&KK), my feet started to bleed so badly that I couldn’t walk any more. By now, it’s about 1:30, and I decide to sleep by the ferry/canoe office. The next 5 hours are spent sitting on a plastic lawn chair and fading in and out of consciousness. The office was scheduled to open at 7.

Around 6:30, a park ranger drove by and was able to call a tow on his two-way radio. By 9:15, I was in the office and was able to call John and quickly told him the situation. I also called my wife, who had apparently spoken with John that morning.

By 9:30, the tow guy was there. We were able to find the Trooper fairly quickly, thanks to the GPS. His technique was pretty amazing. He had an about 1990 Chevy pickup. He navigated through the mud basically by hooking a winch line to the nearest tree and pulling his truck from place to place. In about an hour, I was out. The only problem was that the driver’s side of the rear bumper cover was pulled off its mounts in the extraction. I temporarily attached it with two bungee cords running up to the roof rack.

Another hour is spent following the tow guy back to his garage so he can run my credit card, which puts me about a half-hour out of the way to Calico Rock.

From there, I am finally driving towards Calico Rock. I passed the Lum and Abner museum, which is dedicated to an old radio program. It was closed, and apparently had been for quite a while. I also passed the “Clinton Lie-brary,” which looked open, but I lacked the time to soak that in.

I arrive at the Jenkins Motel in Calico Rock and see John’s truck and canoe. I move my stuff into the room, take a shower, and put some gauze on my feet to cushion the blisters and soak up some blood. Teena was very helpful in bringing things out of the car.

I felt incredibly guilty that I screwed up the schedule in the first place, then cost another day with the stranding. So, I insisted that we get on the river ASAP. We run up to the fish and game office for the license I would need to make my inevitable fish haul legal, then drive down to the river.

At this point, I realize that I am completely useless. I’m in pain from my feet, and am unbelievably tired. I was fighting nausea, and it was kind of hot. John had done a great deal of preparation for me, and had everything I would need to fish ready to go. I really appreciated all the work he had put in. He was asking me to tie/untie ropes that were holding things in the canoe, and I could barely do it. Part of this was fatigue; part of this unfamiliarity with knots. I’ve never even been a Cub Scout. (I refuse to join any organization where the promotional path entails participating in something called “weeblo.”)

We finally, with no help from me, get the canoe in the water. John gets in, and I have a hell of a time throwing myself in the boat. I have zero experience with these things, but it seemed like we didn’t have enough clearance between the water line on the side of the boat and the top of the edge of the boat. At this point, I feel like I need to hold the sides of the boat and actively tack against any forces that might try to move it off center even slightly. John interpreted this as panic. It was that, too.

At this point, John fires up the motor and starts to drive the boat upriver.

The thrust provided by the boat starts splashing water over the front of the boat. I assumed that John has to see this, and not knowing any better, I think it’s normal.

It reminded me of Tom Wolfe’s Bonfire of the Vanities. There is a scene where a guy who charters planes to Mecca describes a bunch of distant desert dwellers in a plane crash. The plane catches a wing on the ground as it lands, and spins around. Everybody calmly picks up their goat and gets off the plane. “That’s how they think it’s supposed to go.”

I’m thinking that taking on a little water may be the way it’s supposed to go.

John asks, “Are we taking on water.”

I say, “Yeah.”

John says, “What.”

I say, “Yes, we’re taking on water.”

John says, “OK, we’re done.”

So, we give up and head back to the dock.

We chatted with some folks while putting the canoe back on the trailer. The guy who runs a fishing service in town grew up where I live in Paoli, PA. We had an interesting discussion about how rural the area was when he went there in the ‘70’s versus today. A couple who run a B&B in town chatted us up and described their establishment. They came back again describing individual rooms with pricing, as if they really, really needed some revenue.

John and I went to a supermarket and bought some bread to go with the cold cuts he had brought. (He’s very well prepared, again.) Around 8 p.m, I collapse and sleep straight through the night, which is pretty rare for me.

The next morning, we decide to drive around the area. The roads were very curvy and would have been a lot of fun to drive. I think John enjoyed the roads, even with the canoe and trailer on the back. We would up at Gaston’s, which is a well-known trout fishing resort. They had a large grass landing strip for planes, with a few small prop craft parked right by the door.

We had lunch there, and it was very cool. I had smoked trout, which I had not had before. I’m unlikely to have it again: I’m sure it was the ne plus ultra of smoked trout, but it was not my deal. They had several collections of everything on the walls: bicycles, old radios, gas station signs. It was visually amazing.

At this point, we go back to the hotel to pick up my vehicle. We both chat with Teena for a while, and depart.

It was definitely an unforgettable experience, and I hope that John and I can get together and do it again. Properly, this time.