Mount Ida Adventure

     Some time back, a couple of my preachers, Neal and Scott, let me tag along on their spring fishing/turkey hunting trip. My friend Skeet was with us. "Skeet" is short for "Skeeter," which is short for "Mosquito," I guess.   

     The last time I tagged along, we were floating the last 17 miles of the Buffalo River. My partner and I didn't actually turn our boat over, we just took so much water in over the front in a rapids that it just sank part way. But we never abandoned ship, we were still paddling for the bank when we were chest deep in water. Neal, watching from above, shouted, "Hey! They made it!" then later, "But they sure look awfully short!" Using the term rapids sounds better, but with two preachers witnessing, I have to admit, it was more of a big riffle. A really big, wild riffle. I was glad to get to go along. I needed to redeem myself.

     This trip, Neal had gotten a really good deal on a very nice cabin on a branch of the upper Ouachita River near Mt. Ida.

     Skeet is a really old man, two full months older than me. Skeet and I got there early in the afternoon and fished and sat around, catching lots of sunfish, while we watched  what we felt like were three turkeys playing around up river. We had trouble conviencing Neal of that though, since he felt like finding three turkeys that easily was just too simple. We also saw a lot of deer. Neal and Scott got there in the middle of the night, because Neal felt he should help wife Teresa get the kids to bed at home first.

     When they arrived, with two canoes in tow, we got to figuring out who was going to sleep where. Neal and Scott had bunk beds in their room, and the other room had a double bed. Trying to be helpful, I said, "I don't have any problem at all sleeping with Skeet. Sounds good!" As a kid growing up in Wing, we kids often slept three to a bed. But Skeet, an only child, eyed me hard when I said that, and, deciding I was too agreeable, finally grabbed a couple of quilts, and headed for the couch. So, I had a big bed and a room to myself. Those things just seem to work themselves out better if one is agreeable enough.

     Sometime in the middled of the night, I had to go to the bathroom. Quick. Standard fare for us old men. Once stood up, the two minute warning sounds. I like to think that being old was not totally responsible for what happened next, because sometimes, my sleeping pill can make me a little crazy in the middle of the night.

     I totally have my path to the bathroom at home memorized, right down to the last detail, and no light is needed. Can't wake Barbara up. This night, I seemed to think I was still at home. I knew right where the bathroom door was, and it was just where I remembered it, except the bathroom had shrunk, and clothes were hanging everywhere. Well, I didn't have time to move all those clothes, so I headed  to the door into the rest of the house. Right where I remembered it. But now, someone had removed the doorknob, it seemed, and it was now shaped more like a window. I was beginning to get in a rush, and I ran back to my light stand to turn on my light. But, I felt all up and down that light, and the switch was gone! Time to move now, and I ran back to the first door, determined to search through all those clothes until I found that commode. Had to be here somewhere! No luck. As I headed back to that door that felt more like a window, The two minutes were up. Time for the last resort. I screamed for Barbara, maybe she could get her light on. No answer. Then, a tiny light of reality started to flicker on, and I found my light switch to my lamp way down on the cord. By then it was really getting ugly, so I will spare you the rest of the details, except to say that I had to convience Skeet the next morning  why I already had clothes washed, and hanging out to dry, at daylight. "Just forgot to bring extra underwear," I said.

     While Neal and Scott scouted for turkeys the next morning, Skeet and I fished some and sat a lot. We had to rest up for the big float trip. When the guys got back at lunch, they cooked up a meal. I had already eaten my meal, a peanut butter sandwich and three or four packages of  peanut butter and crackers. I like to keep it simple, out in the woods.

    We left Skeet's little red truck (Skeet only drives red automobiles, he has three or four of them. Red is the natural color of a truck, he says) at a bridge on the main Ouachita River. Neal led us to a spot upriver that would make for a four mile float, Neal says, and we launched our canoes. Neal and Scott, with pretty little seats (with a comfortable backrest) in their canoe, paddled a little, and fished a lot. Skeet and I, old men with no backrests in our canoe, (We forgot to bring them) fished a little and paddled a lot, so we were soon far ahead. Let's get this four miles in before our old backs give out, we decided, and we paddled on, fishing occasionally. Catching Smallmouth bass was the main goal, and we did finally catch one, along with a largemouth bass and lots of perch and goggle eyes. We paddled past a dead Smallmouth bass floating in the water, and I closed my fingers on it's tail momentarily. We had now caught two Smallmouth. Two Smallmouths sounded a lot better that one, which could be considered and accident. We just kept paddling on, and after we had gone six miles, Skeet and I figured, no truck showed, and our old backs were worn out. Then we put our rods away, and paddled on, now just trying to survive this thing with a little dignity, and strained our eyes to see that pretty little red truck.

     Helping a couple of other fishermen who had swamped their boat gather up their gear took our minds off our backs awhile, and we finally spotted our little red truck.

     We cooked up a mess of steaks, and our tired backs were forgotten by the time that meal was over. Neal said he sure got hot in his top bunk last night, and I told him he was welcome to share my double bed, but he didn't think that over very long, since I feel sure he had heard all the screaming for Barbara I had done the night before, and wished to not risk being mistaken for Barbara in the middle of the night. He allowed as to how he would just stick with his hot top bunk.

     The hunters were long gone the next morning when Skeet and I got up. When they got back, no turkeys were in hand this time. As we ate lunch, I thought it was a shame I didn't bring a gun. I could probably have picked off one of those turkeys up river from my lawn chair.

    As I headed home, just as I was coming into Caddo Valley, a big turkey gobbler flew right over my car. If I had only had my bow and arrow, I could probably have jumped out and bagged him right there. Next time, I'll have to bring it along, and help those young turkey hunters out a little. It never hurts to have a couple of woods wise old men along, passing a bit of our vast storehouse of wilderness lore on down to the next generation. It's just the natural way with things.