Friday, September 17, 2010
32 The river changes, wider, shallower, slower, warmer.
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
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
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.
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
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!
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
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 ????
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.
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
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.
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