Summer night’s dream

SILVER HILL — After the campfire burned out and the other campers retired for the night, I kicked back and savored summer’s light show at Tyler Bend.

Across the black canvas of the night sky, a splash of stars glittered like truck stop lights on the highway to heaven beneath the ridges towering over the Buffalo River. A silhouette wall of trees enveloped the campground, forming a black stage for the legions of fireflies that flashed like butane lighters at a rock concert.

Subdued by the tranquility, the aches in my muscles floated away like foam in the current.

I had just finished an arduous, 16-mile float from Woolum to Tyler Bend, mostly in bright sunshine and withering heat. My skin and hair were gritty and greasy from sand and sunscreen, and I gulped water by the quart. I was happy to have completed such a long trip before dark, but I was thrilled to finally figure out how to get the smallmouth bass to bite. I went nearly two full days with scarcely a strike but, by George, the last 90 minutes were glorious.

I knew it would be a good day when I arrived at Woolum and saw Diane Wingard, one of my dearest friends, sitting in a canoe on the gravel under a bush reading a book. Her husband, Tom Wingard, deposited her, the canoe and her kayak, drove their vehicle to Baker Ford and then rode his mountainbike 30 minutes back to Woolum. He stows the bike in his canoe and shuttles it downstream. He arrived about this time, and we chatted before separating for our respective journeys.

That float began like the previous day’s journey from Baker Ford to Gilbert.

I fished hard and fruitlessly.

To make matters worse, the section from Woolum to Baker Ford features a series of long, deep pools where the current offered little relief against a persistent headwind. It required tedious, hard paddling.

For two days the bass showed no interest in my usual assortment of softplastic baits. They were not interested in my shadimitating stickbaits or spinnerbaits. I got a slight clue halfway to Baker Ford when I caught a few little bass in the riffles with a red, one-eighth-ounce Booyah buzzbait.

That’s where I took a brief intermission for some comedy. Below that riffle was another pool that split around an island. A sharp left turn led down a swift, narrow rapid with a tree stretching about four-fifths across. The right passage was clear, but too shallow.

I reported this assessment to a five-boat flotilla hovering above theleft chute debating which route to take. They were skeptical of my advice.

“It’s just like a colonoscopy,” I said to the three gentlemen in the first boat. “It’s scary, but it’ll be over before you know it.”

They were of an age to appreciate the analogy. They laughed heartily, and the stern man said, “You go first and show us the way.”

I nosed into the chute, paddled hard to the right, ducked under the last branch and made it through without a scrape. I pulled over to the gravel bar below to watch the others.

The older men started out well but lost their nerve when they neared the tree.

They turned sideways and the tree swept them under like a squeegee. The same thing happened to the second boat, and then the third, until the river filled with capsized canoes and cursing, coughing paddlers.

Ice chests and storage containers opened, spilling beer cans, clothing andplastic drink bottles into the river. Several people lamented their ruined cell phones.

After righting their boat, the older gentlemen floated past. The stern man looked at me, shook his head and said, “I’ll tell you one damn thing. I don’t want me one of them colonoscopies!”

This had a noticeably dampening effect on romance. The last couple to tip blamed each other loudly for the mishap.

After righting their boat and recapturing their gear, they cursed each other creatively. They were last seen pummeling each other with their paddles as they continued downstream.

All the other floaters took out at Baker Ford, and I continued in solitude. The fish still weren’t biting, and though I was disheartened, I refused to concede. The sun was setting when I entered a long pool and saw a nest full of young great blue herons overlooking the river. An adult heron stood to the side of the nest squawking at a black vulture perched on a branch near the opposite side.

It was the same pool where I caught a 4-pound largemouth on a Pop-R in 2006 while fishing with Jeff Bone. I tied on the very same Pop-R, cast it and began popping it across the surface, causing it to make a deep “plooking” sound while throwing a plume of water in front. I looked upat the herons, but in my periphery I saw the water open up around that lure. It plunged amid a big splash, and I set the hook on a substantial smallmouth.

I marveled as the fishjumped and tailwalked.

Then, it tore off a series of scorching runs, including one under the boat. The drag on my ultralight baitcaster fed line cleanly and blunted the fish’s brute strength against that light line. When it finally tired, I hauled it aboard and measured it at 17 inches before releasing it.

Farther down was another small pool where I usually get at least one good strike. This time I cast a Bomber Fat A in brown crawfish color at the confluence of a small feeder creek. I cranked the lure to the bottom, bounced it off a rock and then delighted when it came to a sudden, tense stop. I waited a split second and set the hook on another big smallie. This was right above a rapid, so I had to fight the fish down the rapid with one hand while steering the boat withthe other. It was 16 inches.

It went on like that until it was nearly dark, at which time I had to put away my toys and paddle home. In this newfound stream of euphoria, my discomforts and self-recriminations floated away like driftwood.

I put ashore at Tyler Bend sitting straight and tall. My wife showed up with the van and canoe trailer five minutes later. After all these years, she knows exactly when to expect me.

Later, feasting on grilled venison and homegrown squash, I listened to laughter and muffled voices from neighboring campsites. A lot of people were around, but I indulged myself with the notion that the firefly light show was just for me.