Buried

Isaiah 41:10 Fear thou not; for I am with thee:  be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.

After 20 days of 100+ temps, the August weather greeted me with a crisp fall-like morning. I prayed my usual prayer: “God, just keep me safe.” The long walk to my favorite fishing spot was pleasant with little wind. The river welcomed me with only a few foggy curls but several fishermen. I hiked toward the end of an island and found my favorite place already occupied by a man and his 3 teenage boys. Their canoes full of gear rested high upon the bank. Dad directed his boys on where and how to cast their spinning rods. Two boats full of clients with their guides drifted above the next site. So I stationed myself between the two boats and the canoers.

I tied on a Little Randy, named after a local guide who ties them. I had one take, a small Rainbow stocker, but no other interested parties. Next I reverted to my go-to fly, a Partridge and Orange. Several tiny pecks let me know small fish were intrigued but no hook-ups resulted. Growing frustrated I noticed a lot of surface action and tried a zebra midge with a silver bead and was rewarded with another small Rainbow.

It was time to add tippet and I was hungry. I walked downriver and passed the stringer of the canoers. The fish were in much too shallow water and most were already dead. The guys were gone but I could hear them talking upon the island. One of the boys hid almost lost in tall weeds reading a book unaware of all the activity around him. I stopped to rest on a grassy knoll, cleaned my fingers with a wet wipe, sipped from my small canteen and munched a golden peanut caramel bar. By this time the sunshine stole all the fog away. I absorbed the view from my perch and took a deep breath, grateful to be alive on such a stunning morning. Could life be any more perfect?

A fellow fly fisher stopped to talk. From Louisiana, he spoke in a soft accent and told me that he visited the area usually twice a year and enjoyed fishing when the river was not crowded. “I’m not like some of those guys who say, ‘look at me I’ve caught the biggest fish,’ he said. We spoke a bit longer sharing fly suggestions and stories and then he traipsed on upriver. By this time I was anxious to return to the water. I often struggle with my surgeon’s knot; but after 2 attempts, the new tippet held. I attached a green Anna K with dark wings and hooked it into the small eye near the rod handle as I always do when I finish.

As I stood, I reached for the rod with my right hand. Somehow my momentum created a sliding motion and a sharp bite occurred. My eyes widened as I saw the hook buried in the soft pad underneath my index finger. I quickly sat back down and stared at the problem of my own making. Multiple solutions rampaged through my brain. Should I cut the line, gather my gear, walk back to the car and drive myself to the ER? I tugged gently trying to back the hook out. Don’t faint. But the hook held fast. I pushed the opposite direction hoping maybe I could pull it through. No luck! I began to wonder if I should seek help from my fellow fishers. Whom should I choose? Mr. Louisiana self-centered? How about one of the teenagers or their dad? Dead fish indeed! Did I really want a stranger pulling this fly out? I tried to think rationally. Thank God I‘d just had a tetanus shot 2 months ago! Thank God the hook was barbless!

Deciding to attempt one more withdrawal, I fumbled the forceps into my left hand, closed my eyes, gritted my teeth and pulled. Nothing … one more time … much harder. At last the hook came loose in my hand. Relief and gratitude washed through me. I knew I hadn’t accomplished this by myself. My earlier prayer for safety echoed in my mind. I cleaned my bloody finger, wrapped the wet wipe around it and applied pressure. I seriously thought about calling it a day. But the morning was young and I was stubborn. God had given me another chance. Why not use it? There were more fish to be caught and cool weather might not show its face for another month. I applied more pressure, swirled the finger around in the cold river water and began to fish.

The green Anna K outperformed my earlier flies. Sore finger quickly forgotten, I caught fish after fish. Grateful for another opportunity, I fished until heat and hunger forced me back to my car.

On the drive back home, I couldn’t resist calling my choir director friend, Terre, who I knew would be working in her office after staff meeting at our church. As soon as she answered the phone, I began to sing to the tune of the old railroad song.



I’ve been fishin’ on the rivvvv er

All the live-long day.

I ran a hook

up in my finger

And it went in

all the way.

Don’t ya know

I had to get it?

But I pulled it out

real slow.

Rolled around

in the gravel.

Yelling oh oh oh oh OH!



Of course I took her by such surprise she began interrupting my singing:

“Did you have to have stitches? Are you alright?” And soon the entire story rolled out with multiple questions until I reassured her I was fine.

At our choir picnic the next evening, I sang it again to my alto buddies. What was serious only a day before became another great tale from my fly fishing escapades. But as usual on my adventures, I came away with new bits of knowledge: Always begin each outing with a prayer. Don’t panic. God will provide a solution. Keep your head. Consider your options. Accept God’s second chances.

And never … forget your wet wipes!

Yearning to Yield

Matthew 28:6 He is not here; for he is risen, as he said. Come, see the place where the Lord lay.
Dreaming of low water became a reality recently with zero units at Bull Shoals Dam. I quickly quaffed a big breakfast planning an all-day trip.
A lonely parking lot with only one vehicle greeted me. Wonderful! Almost the whole river to myself. I pulled a fleece jacket over my head, wrapped a headband around my ears and shoved my winter hat on my head. My rod came together easily. The wind whistled at my back as I noticed my tangled fly line within the reel. The prospect of pulling the reel apart by pushing the button caused my sore thumb to protest. But there was no option. After a couple of fruitless tries, I saw the owner of the vehicle arrive. I asked how he did. “Pretty slow,” he said. We spoke and I continued to struggle, but decided I wasn’t too proud to ask for help.
He quickly pulled the reel apart and told me what flies he’d used. “I’m gonna rest my back awhile. There are a few Caddis hitting the water.” The last comment changed my battle plan and I decided to start with a large blue/green soft hackle with sparkle to the tail. This character captured lots of fish during the last Caddis hatch.
As usual, since I hadn’t fished in several weeks, it seemed to take forever to gear up. I longed for my feet to fly across to the main channel, but had to satisfy myself with a slow steady walk across two shallow gullies until I reached my chosen spot.
The soft hackle warranted only one small take which I missed. After that it produced nothing. I did notice a few Caddis dance on the water where trout gobbled the tasty morsels; but I observed nothing quite as exciting as the frenzy exhibited during a large hatch.
I switched to my old standby Partridge and Orange with no greater results. Within the next several hours, I fished with an emerger, a Green Butt and a Caddis Sparkler. Eventually I switched to a strike indicator and alternately tried a pink jig, a white jig, and a pink midge.
My frustration built. Would all my waiting and hoping and longing for low water reap no results for this day? Finally I realized my tippet had shrunk and it was time to tie on more. I made my way to shore, sat on a grassy hump to rest myself and tied on an extra-long length.
This time I thought long and hard about my fly choice. I hadn’t tried a yellow Anna K, so named after the granddaughter of my friend and fly tier, Ron McQuay. Maybe, just maybe this would “represent” those little Caddis to the right trout.
Within 2 casts, my choice was rewarded with a small Rainbow. Since I’d tied on extra tippet, my line was now too long to get the fish into my net in deeper water, so I backed up into shallows and quickly landed and released the fish. My pulse thrummed after catching a fish on this long day of failure.
Over the next hour, I tried several spots where I’d been unsuccessful the whole morning. Each one produced only average stockers but a lot of fun. Finally one take seemed particularly vicious and I could see a thick Rainbow fighting to lose my fly in the deeper water. Again I had to back into shallower flow to work with the longer tippet, but landed a fat feisty customer around 14” who was starting to develop the big head of a much larger fish. This was worth the whole day, I thought.
A couple in a canoe with two small dogs paddled by, headed straight for a large rock. She paddled while he used his paddle like a rudder and they managed to miss it. They pulled up on the large gravel bar downstream and the dogs jumped out to play. Within a minute, another couple in a canoe swept by. She crouched in the bottom with head against the middle seat while her partner did the work. “Looks like the lap of luxury to me,” I called out.
She hollered back, “I’m lovin’ this.” They joined their friends and the dogs, spread a blanket and had a picnic.
My sore muscles told me it was time to head home, but I saw one more spot in a different rock bed that I hadn’t tried. The current was faster there and I picked my way carefully over slick rocks and the harsh push of the water until I arrived at my destination. After a couple of casts, I landed another small Rainbow. The wind kicked up even harder than the morning and I decided to quit, go home and prepare for church the next day.
Sunday morning I arrived in the choir room to unexpectedly learn that I was helping serve communion. I mentally reviewed the tasks from the last time I’d assisted the minister. When the appropriate time came, I carried the plate of small “wine” cups and bent to each kneeling member, held out the tray and said, “The blood of Christ shed for you.”
This simple task always strikes me as a humbling experience. Not only am I acting as a servant of God, but am allowed a closer observation of the faces of those who kneel. They communicate through unguarded expressions eagerness, gratitude, and something else … yearning for the forgiveness and restoration that this experience brings.
And as I return to the choir loft and we begin the last hymn, I carry those looks within me as tears cascade down my cheeks and realize that in those yearning-to-yield faces I find my own.
Are you trudging through your own gullies of sin and worry this Holy Week? Have the dark winds of despair swept across your spirit bringing no answers? Easter Sunrise calls to us across the river. The risen Christ stretches out his nail-scarred hand. All we have to do … is clasp it in our own.

Muddy Monday's Messiah

Luke 2: 12 And this shall be a sign unto you;Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.

The Monday after Thanksgiving I rushed to do my chores and catch up after spending the holidays with family. After a two-week hiatus, the dam was shut down and I was anxious to fish. Just as I finished my work, however, the rain began. For about ten minutes, it poured buckets and gobs; but finally stopped in time for me to gear up, grab my old rain jacket and mount my trusty four-wheeler.
Several weeks before, I had changed to a different access point, as the steps on my neighbor’s property had fallen into the gully. Another gracious summer-home owner had cleared off a spot next to the river and encouraged me to enter there. Much steeper than my other spot, it required some caution descending until I could reach a small knoll and approach the water.
On this rainy day, I inched my way down, careful to watch my feet and use my wading staff as a mud-detector. Just as I passed the knoll, however, my left boot took a mighty slide and I flopped on my back side. Pausing to catch my breath, I found no wounds except a tiny bit of ruptured pride; then consoled myself with the idea that I could wash off my muddy backside by wading out a bit further than I normally do.
The second gully I needed to cross was swifter than I had hoped. Not feeling confident at this point, I nevertheless tried twice but had to turn back on the second try as my cell phone rang. I couldn’t maneuver and answer before the caller disconnected.
I eyeballed the ditch, chose a different point and made it across. Two weeks before, I had caught twenty-five fish per day during three days of fishing soft hackles fifteen yards below the end of the gravel bar. Today the same spot with the same flies produced nothing.
I trudged upriver to my favorite riffle. A thin mist kissed the river. Silence comforted me with no boat motors or chain saws to interrupt my enjoyment. My cast flew smooth and true with no wind gusts to tangle my line. My favorite Sims waterproof hat with the chin flaps kept me dry. Droplets waltzed quietly from the brim.
I changed from my Orange and Partridge to a larger soft hackle similar to a Green Butt. Casting below the rock piles, I allowed it to drift before beginning to strip the line. In a split second a large fish struck on the fly’s upward move; and in my excitement I missed the take. I tried all the other runs with no results.
The day was too perfect to quit, so I walked further upriver almost to the end of the gravel bar where the ’08 floods had gouged a deeper cut. Changing flies again, I chose another soft hackle I had never used, a yellow color not quite the same as an Anna K.
Remembering my earlier mistake, I cast and waited until the fly began to ascend again. A fish struck and missed. I didn’t move but corralled my beating heart and waited. The second time he didn’t miss and neither did I. When I lifted the rod, he took off for deeper water. Since I stood on the precipice of the run, I carefully cranked with the proper rod tension and waded toward shallower water.
I glimpsed golden color when the fish heaved and twisted and knew I had a Brown. When I captured him in my net, I reveled in his perfect color and his attempts to throw the hook. Only about 15”, nevertheless he had put up a worthy battle. I quickly laid him down, snapped a picture and released him.
Within seconds, I threw into the same spot and reaped the reward of another Brown whose courage surpassed the first. Believing he was larger, I exercised even more caution until I’d duplicated my earlier efforts and scooped him into the net. Pausing, I again admired his vibrant colors, reversed the net and freed him.
I decided to quit for the day. Upon beginning my ascent up the hill, I reminded myself of my earlier debacle. I had almost reached the crest and safety when both boots slipped at the same time throwing me down on one arm and elbow. I wheezed out a strangled cry; and for a moment thought I’d fall to the bottom. Somehow I made it to my knees and finished the climb in that position; then stood to assess the state of my equipment. Mud smeared both sleeves of the blue rain jacket as well as my gloves. Sticks and copper-colored pine needles coated my waders and grit covered my reel.
As I staggered back to my four-wheeler, I focused on the day’s events through the perspective of a Christmas journey. As we prepare our hearts for the coming season, are we stymied by a non-producing spirit of despair? Do we stumble through the rocks and gullies losing sight of the stable we seek? Do we miss the vibrant colors and breath-taking sight of that starry night so long ago? Are we afraid to wade the muck to the stable and look in the tiny infant’s eyes? One courageous step up the path is all it takes.
He is waiting.

Reference the Rock

Psalms 18:2

The Lord is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer; my God, my strength, in whom I will trust; my buckler, and the horn of my salvation, and my high tower.

Ask any fly fisher about her fishing outing and she’ll usually tell you two things: where she fished and what fly she used. For instance you might hear someone say she caught them at Roundhouse Shoals on the far side of the island with a zebra midge. In mid-August, the water was shut off but hadn’t dropped out in our part of the river. So I decided to fish my other favorite spot, The Narrows
Low water had been a scarce commodity this summer and I was anxious to go. When I arrived at my preferred rock pile, I located two square rocks. In between these unusually shaped landmarks, there is a tiny waterfall that pitches into a deep drop-off. I love sailing my line out into swift water and watching it travel back into this select spot. I attached my favorite Partridge and Orange and began to fish. At first, takes were slow. I landed two below-average stockers.
After about thirty minutes, however, I received a stout tug on my line and a remarkable Brown surged out into deeper water. After a short tussle I captured him in my net. I was anxious to try out my brand new camera, an Olympus Tough 8000. Luckily I had it strung around my neck. I hurriedly took two shots of the fish in the net; then quickly positioned Mr. Brown on one of the square rocks, where I laid my rod next to him. He cooperated for a few seconds and I scooped him back into the net and released him. I continued to fish the somewhat bedraggled Partridge and Orange for a few more minutes without a single take. When I reeled in to check the fly, however, I saw why. It was gone! What a relief that the fly had come off after and not before.
I decided to switch to a green Caddis sparkler. Within a few minutes a larger Brown tail-danced for me; and, like its brother, broke ranks for swifter water. My 4 wt. Albright rod and Galvin reel were a match for his prowess, however; and my sharply bent rod made my pulse thrum faster. I kept the pole at the proper angle, didn’t rush, kept focus on the fish and eventually detained him. His large hooked jaw and gold splotched body made a striking image, one I needed to capture before he stressed and died. I rushed to a nearby grassy knoll on shore, laid him next to my rod where for several heart-stopping seconds, he refused to oblige. Finally, with the picture done, I splashed back into the water to release him into a shallow spot. Too late I realized there wasn’t enough water to get him revived. I’m sure the sight of this stooped woman herding a fish into the depths with her net provided many stories for the other fly fishers that evening. Finally, the tired fish rested in a deeper place, turned over once, causing my blood pressure to rise; then righted himself and plunged back into deep water.
This time I had the presence of mind to check my fly. As I felt down the hook, the point came off in my hand! Another near miss on a big fish. My brain turned to oatmeal as I contemplated the possible loss of this great creature.
Having no more of the same flies in my box, I decided to try a grasshopper. The week before I’d read in John Berry’s column as well as Jimmy Traylor’s blog about tying a midge to the bend of the hook below a grasshopper. I’d struggled to accomplish this task and had yet to reap any results. With my morning’s success spurring me on, however, I tied on the rig and held my breath, knowing how easy it was to wrap the entire mess around my rod tip if I didn’t exercise care with my backcast. The “hopper-dropper” settled back into calm water and lingered there a few seconds. Suddenly the yellow grasshopper lurched sideways. Was this it? Did it function like a strike indicator? Sure enough I lifted the rod to find a feisty Rainbow on the other end. A few seconds later, I caught another with the same set-up.
I checked my watch and knew the predicted generation was close at hand and decided to call it a day. As I slogged to my car, I realized all the lessons I’d learned today: always check my fly after catching a big fish, keep more than one type of successful fly in my box, and listen to my fishing mentors.
Spiritual tutorials abound in today’s fishing event. Since the Lord is the corner stone of my salvation, do I cite him enough throughout my daily existence? Each moment in my spiritual life needs a reality check to assure that my feet are on the right path. One method isn’t necessarily the only way to reach those around me and I must listen to my faith advisors. When all these elements are combined with a strong blend of prayer and scripture, then and only then have I built my life on The Rock and not the rock pile.

Backward Blessing

And his fulness have we all received, and grace for grace.

John 1:16

Anxious to re-visit the new narrows access on the White River during low water, I pulled on waders, boots and vest; then set out across the gravel bar to the main channel. A kind flyfisher shouted, “There’s a Caddis hatch on.” I thanked him and wondered if the Orange Partridge fly I’d attached would work.
I slogged my way upriver from him to one of the rock piles from which I’d pulled some good fish last fall. After wading in, I sipped the glories of a late Spring day: trees now green and fresh, an imposing bluff guarding the river, and sky so blue it dazzled. No fish grabbed my fly in this pool; so I moved up to the next spot.
Here I tied on a Green Butt, a successful fly on the Norfork River the week before. No takers on this one either. Golden teardrops of Caddis continued to fall. The trout feasted, smacked, jumped, and guzzled. All around me, they cavorted and consumed copious quantities of the small moths, but still refused my fly. I resisted letting them ruin my day, but I admitted to growing irritation.
Finally in desperation, I tied on a tiny Zebra Midge. We had ordered a different variety, this one having black fluff near the top of the hook. I walked up to yet another part of the river where I cast downstream and let the fly drift out of the current into a calm place only a few feet from the bank. Suddenly a giant fish hurled its body out of the water in front of me. Just as suddenly, I realized the trout was attached to my line; and came to my senses soon enough to keep the slack out and watch enthralled as she flung herself once more into the air.
“Please don’t let me lose this one,” I muttered. She headed for her comfort zone, deeper swifter water; and I exhorted myself to be patient and careful to keep tension on the line, not reel too fast and wait until she tired.
I tried to steer her toward me and at the same time to back up into shallow water. This was hampered by my wading staff, now loose from the pile of gravel where I’d stuck it. I couldn’t step over it and lose my balance and I certainly couldn’t lose focus on the fish. I stumbled once in the loose rock and attempted to slow my pounding heart.
At one point, she stopped just long enough for me to see how large she actually was and I knew this was no mere stocker. Once more she plunged out into deeper water. I remembered a trout show, On the Rise, where the guide lectured the stubborn client to let go of the reel handle. So I patiently let the drag do its work. The reel sang a lively tune a couple more times, until Ms. Brown began to tire. I methodically cranked in a steady rhythm and then wondered how I’d get her into the net.
Remembering another lesson learned from my friend and casting coach, Lori Sloas, I steered the fish up into shallow water, until I could scoop her into the net. Not wanting to create a scene … fly fishers are notoriously humble on the river … I only gave a minor squeal as I tromped up the bank to quickly measure her with the only thing at my disposal, my rod. Mentally marking that she came to the first notch after the butt, I clumsily attempted a picture with my cell phone camera to no avail. I longed for a way to measure her girth, but there was nothing. Worried at the amount of time she’d been out of the water, I released her and waited till I was assured she swam away before I breathed a sigh of relief.
Not only had I conquered my lack of finesse with midges, but I had managed to land the largest German Brown trout I’d ever caught.
I marveled at the number of flies I’d tried and my disillusionment and frustration. Isn’t this often how God works in our lives? We search for ways to prove our worthiness to him by changing our approaches to his goodness, hoping to land that whopping amount of grace by all our efforts. And then, when we least expect it, along comes a giant measure of it, a backward blessing … unexpected, not requested, simply given like salvation, complete and blessedly free.

Birthday Bonus

For ye shall go out with joy, and be led forth with peace: the mountains and the hills shall break forth before you into singing, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands. Isaiah 55: 12

Low water for my special day would make the perfect gift. The night before my birthday I checked the generation prediction number. My brain screamed yahoo, when I learned Norfork River would be wadable until 11:00 a.m.
For safety’s sake, I called the dam generation number the next morning, learned that the prediction was true and hurriedly loaded my gear into my car. Skipping breakfast, I remembered to pack a small chest with drinks and throw in a packet of cheese crackers. Breakfast could wait!
When I arrived at Ackerman Access on the Norfork River, I saw a packed parking lot with a small spot remaining just the right size for my tiny car. I quickly parked, tugged on waders and boots; and then began to string my rod. My friend Bob, who was preparing to leave, told me he’d caught and released only two. His suggestion was a Zebra Midge. This is a favorite fly at Norfork, but unfortunately I rarely have good luck with it. It takes a finesse I haven’t acquired yet. Instead I attached an Orange Partridge, a success from my last trip here. Before I entered the water, I scanned both up and downstream. As usual, people stood near each other in a long string like bulbs on a Christmas tree. I marveled once again why fishers choose such close proximity and still hope to catch fish.
Instead, I decided to hike up to the first island where it appeared there were few of the same energized individuals. After the flood of 2008 and high water last year, the island now has a break where water gushes from a small pool to the main channel. Always on the look-out for a fast riffle where trout might be waiting for a ready supply of food, I cast into the run
and let the Partridge drift into the quieter waters below. Within a few casts I was into fish and landed a small stocker whose silver body shimmered in the warm April sunshine. I continued to catch a few more of the same stature until I felt a harder tug and knew this one was better. Like those nature shows, where the big ol’ gator thrashes and rolls over, this Bad Boy tried the same maneuver. Wondering if I’d lost him early-on, I kept the line tense and brought him almost to the net before he strained once more and spit out the hook.
Refusing to be disappointed, I relaxed and continued to fish enjoying the delights of my special day: the call of a Kingfisher as he flew over the water, the antics of a large heron as he patiently stalked the minnows in the shallows, and an abundance of sunshine after a long dreary winter. My attention returned to my fly and another sharp yank brought a larger Rainbow to my net. This was the best of the morning and simply the frosting on an already glorious day.
Eventually, two men from downriver wandered into the lower part of my area and immediately began catching fish. Unfortunately this interrupted my lucky streak. Since time for dam generation was close, I decided to call it a day aided by my now-mewling stomach.
Since it was my birthday, I decided I was worthy of extra calories and stopped by Shady Grove Grocery, the best kept secret of the Ozarks. What appears to be an ordinary convenience store at the crossroads of Highway 201 South and Shipps Ferry Road, contains some of the best made-from-scratch food you’ll ever eat. Guaranteed to make even your grandma swoon!
Since the morning chill had settled into my cold feet, I asked what they had hot. The reply made my taste buds do the Happy Birthday Dance: grilled cheese sandwich on jalapeno bread and loaded baked potato soup. I waited patiently and read my book, beginning to relax and feel my feet again. Soon the food was delivered by the young server and I dug in, enjoyed my book and resisted licking the bowl of the last droplet of soup. Of course, since calories were not measurable today, I inquired about dessert options. The wonderful chef at this establishment had just finished fried pies in my choice of blackberry, blueberry, or cherry. I chose blueberry, still warm, with a crust more like a light scone than a fried pie and ribbed with feathery white icing. I found myself making small comfort-food noises and quickly looked around lest someone think I was crazy.
Somehow I waddled to the counter, paid my bill, shouted congrats to the chef and drove unhurriedly back down Buford Cut-Off toward home. On the way, I spied a small boy jumping on a trampoline in his back yard. He leaped with joyful abandon apparently unencumbered by worldly worries. On this perfect day, I understood!

River Rehearsal

I will praise the name of God with a song, and will magnify him with thanksgiving. Psalm 69:30

The famous philosopher Camus wrote, “In the depth of winter I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer.” After spending the Christmas holidays with family in Oklahoma during the state’s worst blizzard in history, I could relate to the depth of winter part. Arriving home, I received only a brief reprieve before we received our own “after-Christmas-gift” of snow, leaving the roads a frozen mess after a day of record-breaking low temps.
Stepping out on my back porch to empty trash in our big barrel, I heard a heavenly melody from one of our resident Cardinals. Balancing on one of the suet cakes swaying from the edge of the porch guttering, he puffed out his tiny red chest and sang as though his small heart would burst from the joy of it. The freezing winter wind ruffled his top-knot and still he continued.
I stopped a moment and observed our fluffy landscape through new sight: the coiled-up water hose, now unhooked, where I’d normally rinse off waders and boots after a morning on the water; the bamboo-like river cane, forever green, silently keeping time to the bird’s symphony; and the hole in the large tree at the edge of the campground steps where squirrels nestled each night, sleeping part of the winter away. There was peace and contentment in that observation.
Waiting another moment, I watched the river churn below me off the edge of our campground. The rushing water created its own composition more like a moving gospel piece than a waltz. The White River is considered a tailwater and therefore at the mercy of the Bull Shoals Dam generation schedule. For the past several weeks, there have been large numbers of units generated round the clock with no wadable water; but the magnificence of these high flows was not lost on me either. In about ten more days when the measurement is back to power pool, there will be low water and giant trout ready to garner my fly into their strong lips, providing delight inexpressible to other types of fisher folk. With the plethora of food provided, fish will have grown plump and feisty and assault anything that moves. There is hopefulness in that vision.
I daydream of four-wheeler rides downriver to my neighbor’s back yard where I will park and tip-toe gingerly down his homemade rock steps across the deep gully. Then I will trek across the large gravel bar to my favorite riffle. My mind wanders to the new narrows access above Wildcat Shoals where I’ve only fished twice; but found to be a paradise truly worthy of those who make the effort to walk across two islands to arrive there.
And I retreat to my cozy kitchen and gaze out my bay window at the birds. Now I understand the songbird’s message. In the sunny days to come, there will be a great thawing. Spring will bring new hope and enjoyment of the sport I love ….
And I too will sing.