Conclusion - The thing about water

      Neal invited me along on his fishing/floating/turkey hunting trip on the Buffalo river with him, his dad, Travis, and Scott Jackson. Neal is the Baptist Collegiate Ministries Director at Henderson State University. Scott is my pastor, and a professor at Ouachita Baptist University. Travis is retired, as am I. We planned a five day trip, floating the last 17 miles of the river.

      The thing about the lower buffalo. It is relatively calm. Kinda gets a couple of old guys, like Travis and me, over confident. Neal sent out instructions telling us all we could and could not take. But nobody took it serious enough. We wound up at Rush with enough food and gear to keep an army comfortable for five days.

      I was traveling with Travis. We loaded our boat down good. Too good. It was packed to the gills. Hard to find a place for us to get in.

The thing about Neal, is, he is an all around outdoors man of the first order. The best I've ever seen. He scouted the first rapid. He said, “Stay hard left” on the L shaped rapid. Travis and I went first. Me in back, him in front. I was hugging left. Travis said, “Pull right! We have to go right of that bush.” I did. When we got to the bend, I knew we were too close to the middle.

      The thing about a rapid is, the largest waves are often thrown up at the end. In the middle. We hit the big waves, smack dab in the middle,

expecting the front of the boat to ride right up on top of them. This heavy boat went under them. Neal was watching from above. “Hey, they made it.” then later, “but they sure do look awful short!” Our boat floated, just under the water. Our gear was washing out. Our motor was under water..

Fortunately for us, although I would not have wished it upon them, two boats of turkey hunters were ahead of us. One of them swamped also. They were in position, gathering up their gear. They started picking up ours, also. Neal and Scott quickly crossed the rapids uneventfully, and started helping. One of the other boats approached us, turning over to us our gear they had collected. “I've also got a garbage bag, with a backpack in it.” “Not mine,” I said. We weren't planning any backpacking.

We pulled over to a gravel bar, and spread our gear out to dry. The other group took a bar on down river. They finished first and went on. They had lost an expensive gun. Travis had lost a rod he valued highly. I lost two rods, myself, but they were yard sale specials, as is most of my stuff. We decided to spend the night there. Later I realized that all my clothes, including my coat, were gone. All the clothes I had was what I had on, still pretty wet, and it was supposed to be a cold spring night. The river took all my clothes; three days later, the river gave them all back to me.

I always pause here, in telling this story, for effect, to see if anyone will react to that last statement. No one normally does. WHAT ARE THEY THINKING!?? Does that seem like the normal course of events to you? Does the river just normally take all your clothes, and just spits them out, at your feet, three days later!? Good grief! Are they thinking that, since we have two preachers along, we have some sort of Jonah thing going on!? Or, more likely, have they just shut me out, not listening to a word I am saying, at this point. I vote for Jonah, but suspect the latter.

. Actually, I remembered, they were all in a small day pack. The “backpack” the other hunters found. As it turned out, we found out later they were camped way downriver. We finally ran onto one of their boats coming back up river, told him they were ours, and when we got there three days later, they were all dried, and packed nicely, lying out on the gravel bar for us. I was so tired of those filthy, wet clothes I had been wearing for three days. Travis and I had to wait for Neal and Scott there, the other hunters weren't home, so we just stripped and took a bath, right in front of their camp. Other boats going up river ran us into the bushes a couple of times, though.

      After Travis and I had swamped a perfectly good boat, in the first 15 minutes of our trip, I think Neal and Scott now feared we had gone senile. When another fairly large rapid came up, Neal kept coming up with, “How about Scott or I take your boat across?” Or, “Why don't we tie a rope on your boat, and just ease it over?” Travis and I would have died first. Our manhood was being called into question. I was thinking something like, “I was taking boats over much worse places than that, when you pipsqueaks were still sucking a bottle.” I feel sure Travis was too, although we never talked about it.

      The thing about Scott Jackson is, he is a perfectly organized camper. He had every kind of condiment we could have found at home. Every kind of coffee, coffee additive, everything. All perfectly organized in a cute little box.

      A few days into our trip, Scott and Neal were scouting for turkeys. Travis and I, not hunting, were in our usual position, in our chair on a gravel bar. When they got back, Scott noticed a Biological phenomenon. Dozens of beautiful Swallowtail butterflies, both Zebra and Tiger, were swarming around a damp place in the sand. Scott was determined to get to the bottom of this. Why this wet spot, why not others? Maybe a strange spring, bringing some exotic chemical to the surface? He dug in the sand there. He examined it closely. The true, latent biologist was awakening in him. Finally, I could stand it no longer. “Uh, Scott, that's where I urinated.”

      Neal's true nature was revealed on that trip, though no surprise to any of us. Neal is the expert turkey hunter, above anyone I've known. Scott was the novice. The last place they hunted, and the most likely, They sat side by side, full camo', Scott held the only gun. Neal called, a gobbler answered. This went back and forth for a long time. Finally, Neal saw the gobbler. It was hidden from Scott. They waited for it to walk into Scott's vision. It just would not. Turkey hunters know, if you move, the turkey is gone. Finally, the turkey was in the position for a perfect shot – for Neal. Neal could likely have been successful in having Scott pass him the gun, below the turkey's vision range, He just could not. His nature would not allow him to call the turkey in for Scott, take the gun away and shoot it himself. At long last, the gobbler walked away, Scott free, so to speak.

      The thing about my second cat fishing career is, the good stories, and, the 40 pound cat, are still out there, waiting somewhere beyond the next bend of the river.

      Actually, in case you have never suspected it, my lifelong love for the river is not really primarily centered around how many, or how large the fish I catch are. It has everything to do with just being out there.

If you put a 14 foot aluminum boat in the river at daylight, maybe the beaver will be swimming and slapping their tails. You may see a pair of ducks take flight through the mist rising off the river. Perhaps a big cottonmouth will come swimming up, floating like a long balloon on top of the water. You might, hopefully, hear a big bullfrog roar, like his namesake, in the distance. Possibly, a doe and newborn fawn will come down for a drink. Paddle along quietly awhile, then just float. And look. And listen. Then you will know why I love the river.

     I will be off my blog for a week or so, finishing up another story. Thanks for reading!