Stormy Sunday

EVENING SHADE — Never have I gotten so wet so fast.

It happened so quickly, a violent thunderstorm that raked the Buffalo River Sunday evening. Bill Eldridge of Benton, who organized this float, warned that isolated storms were in the forecast for the region, but there was no hint of trouble when we put in Sunday at Spring Creek Access.

The group included Eldridge, Rusty Pruitt of Bryant, Ed Kubler of Benton, Matthew Eldridge of Waco, Texas, and my sons Daniel and Matthew. The rest of the group proceeded quickly downstream while Pruitt and I lingered to secure our ample amount of gear and fish a while. Also putting in at that time were Alexandra Lewis of Hope and Blake Rhone of Hazen, as well as a group of Tennesseans who manned a flotilla of seriously overloaded kayaks. The most heavily laden of their boats was also leaky, and its pilot affected the others with a general mood of discontent.

All day, Pruitt had looked forward to observing the solar eclipse, but a heavy cloud ceiling wrecked that plan. It got progressively darker, and we deemed it wise to find the rest of the group and set up camp quickly. The others were entrenched on a gravel bar when we reunited, but Pruitt and I were too late.

We scarcely landed when the wind began howling. Pruitt’s tent blew away twice, and I used my body to brace mine in place while the rain poured in sheets and lightning struck all around. Fortunately, I was able to attach the rainfly, and I also stashed all my gear under my overturned boat, so everything stayed dry. Everything, that is, but me. I was soaked to the bone. Thankfully, Daniel and Matt had started a bonfire that survived the deluge. The storm passed, and I was dry after about 30 minutes beside the fire.

We ended the evening dining on aged T-bones that were so tender they practically fell apart at the touch of a fork.

We had 2 1/2 days to cover about 15 1/2 miles, so we devoted Monday to hard fishing. The Eldridges and Kubler are skilled anglers who fish a similar style. Pruitt and I fish in different layers of the water column, so our styles are complementary and allow us to spend most of the time together. It’s difficult to closely follow three good anglers who cover so much water as thoroughly as they do, so Pruitt and I went slowly and gave them time to get miles ahead of us. Pruitt fished with black wooly buggers on a fly rod and caught a string of smallmouth bass and longear sunfish early. I noticed that bass were thrashing minnows along shallow gravel banks, so I went after them with a small Rebel Pop “R.” The problem was that bass were targeting small minnows, less than 2 inches long. My Pop “R” was considerably larger than their preferred forage, but when one did hit the topwater, it hit furiously.

The Tennesseans got a late start after a night of joie de vivre. They were a congenial bunch whose company we welcomed in a stretch of skinny water that was loaded with smallmouths. I heard one of them say this: “We’re on the Buffalo River, in the Ozark Mountains! It don’t get no better’n this. We got some nice stuff back home, but we ain’t got the Ozarks. My friends asked me where I was going this week. I could’ve said the Buffalo River, but that don’t mean nothin’ to them. So I just told them I’m going to the Ozarks, and they were like, Awww, MAN!” It was almost enough to make me forgive them for that awful night in Knoxville in 1998.

By midday, the topwater bite ended, and I could not catch them on a Zoom Mini-Lizard, tube jig or a Zoom Baby Brush Hawg. So I turned to an old standby, the star of the 2006 Summer Smallmouth Tour, the YUM Craw Papi. I stuffed the hollow body with chartreuse YUM Trout Krilla, and I immediately started catching fish, just like old times. Some of those bites were obviously a lot bigger than the others, but they always came when the bait was behind the boat, preventing me from putting sufficient muscle into the hookset. Pruitt and I caught several 12- to 14-inch smallmouths in narrow, shady runs. The Tennesseans stopped to take pictures, and then graciously moved about 100 yards downstream to fish.

Later, we ran into them again at the AR-14 access.

“How far you guys going?” I asked.

“To the White River,” said their leader with the leaky, overloaded boat.

“Best fishing on the whole river down there,” I said. “Take your time and enjoy it.”

Then he asked how far it was to the White.

“It’s 32 miles or so from Rush to the White. From here, add another 8 miles or so.”

He looked at me in shock and asked if I were serious.

“It’s three days from Rush to the White if you fish. From here, tack on another day,” I replied.

He didn’t believe me, so he asked Pruitt. His identical answer prompted an urgent conference. We didn’t see them again and were certain they ended their trip there.

We spent that night at a place called Tony Bend, a few miles upstream from Rush. I pitched my tent at the end of a long gravel spit, with water on two sides. We spent the night watching satellites pass through the clear, moonless sky. With no threat of rain, I used my rainfly as a pillow and went to sleep under star light. I’ve never slept so soundly.