The Thing About the River

THE THING ABOUT ME IS -   I just keep going to the wild places, until a pretty good story comes of it. The thing about Neal Nelson is – he just keeps letting me tag along until a good story is created. Such was the case last April. Neal invited me along on his fishing/floating/turkey hunting trip with him, his dad Travis, and Scott Jackson. Neal and Scott are my pastors. Travis is retired, as am I. We planned a five day trip to float the last 17 miles of the river. The thing about the lower Buffalo is – it is relatively calm. It kinda gets a couple of old guys overly confident.

     Neal sent out instructions telling us all what we could and could not take. But nobody took it seriously 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 flatbottom boat down good. Too good. Hardly had room for us to get in. The thing about Neal is, he is an all – around outdoorsman of the first order.The best I've seen. Neal scouted the first rapids. He shouted, "Stay hard left" on the L shaped rapids. Travis and I went first, he in front, me in back. I was hugging left. Travis said, "Pull right! We have to go right of that bush!" I did. When we got to the turn, I knew we were too close to the middle.

     The thing about many rapids is, the largest waves are thrown up at the end. In the middle. We hit the big waves, expecting the front of the boat to ride the top of them. The heavy front end went under them. Neal was watching from above. "Hey, they made it!" Then, a moment later, "But they sure look awfully short!"

     Our boat floated, just under the water. Our gear was washing out. Our motor was under water. Fortunately for us, though I would not have wished it on them, two boatloads of turkey hunters were ahead of us. One of them swamped also. They were in position, gathering up their gear, and they started picking up ours also. Neal and Scott quickly crossed the rapids uneventfully, and started helping. One of the other boats approached us, and started giving us our gear.

     One said, "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 began spreading out stuff out to dry. The other group picked out a bar on down river. They finished first and went on. They had lost a valuable gun. Travis had lost very valuable rods. I lost two rods, myself, but they were garage sale specials, as is most of my stuff. We decided to spend the night there. Later, I realized. All my clothes, including my coat, were gone. All the clothes I had left was the wet ones I had on, still wet, and we were looking at a cold spring night.

     The river took all my clothes. Three days later, the river gave them all back to me, all dried and neatly packed

     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 WERE THEY THINKING? Does that seem like the natural course of events here? Does the river just normally take all your clothes, then spit them out, at your feet, three days later? Good grief! Are they thinking we have some sort of Jonah thing going on, since we have two preachers along? Or, more likely, have they not been listening to a thing I said. I vote for Jonah, but suspect the latter.

     Actually, I remembered later. They were all in a daypack, the "backpack" the other hunters found. As it turned out, they were camped far down the river. We finally met one of their boats coming back up river, told the guys they were ours, and when we got there three days later, the clothes were all dried, re-packed nicely, left lying on a gravel bar for us. I was so tired of those filthy, wet clothes I had been wearing three days. Travis and I had to wait awhile for Neal and Scott there anyway, the other hunters weren't home, so we just stripped and took a bath, right in front of their camp. Other boats going upriver ran us into the bushes a couple of times, though.

After Travis and I had swamped a perfectly good boat in the first fifteen minutes of our trip, I think Neal and Scott feared we had gone senile. Just taken these guys along one year too many. When another fairly large rapids came up, Neal kept coming up with, "How about Scott or I take your boat across?" or, "Why don't we just tie a rope on your boat and ease it over?"

     Travis and I would have died first. Our manhood was being called into question. "I was taking boats through worse places when you two pipsqueaks were still sucking a bottle" I was thinking. I felt sure Travis was too, though we never spoke of it.

     The thing about Scott Jackson is – he has an outfit called Outdoor Discipleship Ministries, and he takes groups of young people to the deepest, highest, darkest parts of the world, seeking unreached people for Christ. I had been on two of those trips myself, near the headwaters of the Amazon River. He is the perfectly organized camper. He had every kind of condiment we could have found at home: every kind of coffee, additives, 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 chairs on a gravel bar. When they returned, Scott noticed a biological phenominon. Dozens of beautiful Butterflies, both Zebra and Swallowtail, were swarming around a wet spot 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 exotic chemicals to the surface. He dug in the sand there. He examined it very closely. The true, latent biologist was awakening in him. Finally, fearing he was about to taste it, I could stand it no longer. "Uh, Scott, that's where I peed."

     Neal's true nature was revealed to us on that trip, though it was no surprise to any of us. Neal is the expert turkey hunter, Scott the novice. In the last place they hunted, and in 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 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, he's gone. Finally, the turkey was in the position for a perfect shot for Neal. Scott insistently scooted the gun over to Neal. Neal reluctantly drew a bead on the big gobbler. He had him dead to rights. His finger would just not pull the trigger. Neal's nature would not allow it. He spends his life, doing things for others before himself. That servant nature would not allow him to call a turkey in for Scott, then shoot it himself. At long last, the turkey strolled away.... Scott free, so to speak.

     The thing about my fishing career is – The good stories, and the 40 pound cat, are still out there, waiting somewhere beyond the next bend in the river. Actually, in case you have not yet suspected it, my lifelong love for the river is not really primarily centered on how many, or how large the catch is. Rather, it is all about just being out there.

     If you slide a 14 foot flatbottom boat into the gentle waves of the river at daybreak, maybe a family of beaver will be swimming around, slapping their tails. Possibly, an otter will be floating on his back, a shellfish on his chest, using a stone to try to open it. You may see a pair of wood ducks take flight through the mist rising off the river. Perhaps a big cottonmouth will swim by, floating like a long balloon on top of the water. You might, hopefully, hear a big bullfrog roar, like his namesake, in the distance. Sometimes, a doe and  newborn fawn will come down for a drink.

     Paddle along quietly for awhile, then just drift. And look. And listen. Then, you will know why I love the river.