SADDLE -- Let me tell you about all the great photos I shot Wednesday on the South Fork of the Spring River.
I took some superb snaps of Alan Thomas holding big smallmouth bass that glowed like gold bars in the morning light. I had close-ups of longear sunfish that looked like dance hall mirror balls, and magnum size Ozark bass with their gaudy orange eyes. I had some gorgeous scenics of a thin stream lined with wide beds of water willow, and low bluffs hidden behind vines and bushes. My favorite was of a herd of cattle stampeding across the creek mere yards in front of Al.
I'd like to show you these pictures, but I can't. Late in the afternoon, I finally noticed the message on my camera screen. "NO SD CARD." I forgot to replace the memory card in the camera after processing the last batch of photos. Not a single image was captured.
Aside from than that lapse, the South Fork of the Spring River produced one of the best fishing trips in recent memory. I've wanted to fish this small stream for years, but I couldn't muster the desire to drive almost to Missouri to fish such a small stream. For that kind of trouble, you might as well fish the Kings River or Crooked Creek, or even Bull Shoals or Norfork lakes.
We had to get it out of our system, though, so we resolved to block out all temptations and distractions. Al wavered when I suggested stopping short and fishing the White River from Boswell Shoal to Mount Olive, but he refused to be dissuaded.
We put in just after sunrise at Spring River Resort, at the Arkansas 289 Bridge at Saddle, where we paid a reasonable $5 per vehicle to park at a campsite along the stream. Our strategy was, as always, to wade fish upstream as far as we could go with our kayaks in tow and then float back down.
We each had two rods and reels, soft-sided coolers stuffed with water, Gatorade and sandwiches and far more tackle than we needed. I don't know why I always bring so much. I only use a few soft-plastics and occasionally a crankbait and topwater popper, but I like to have options available just in case.
This stream reminded me a lot of the Kings River upstream of the U.S. 62 Bridge. It is thin, winding and shallow. It is also stained, which is uncharacteristic of most Ozark streams.
Unlike the Kings, it is not badly eroded, and its bed is not choked with gravel. Its banks are intact and healthy. It teems with baitfish, and there are a lot of rocky pockets where smallmouths can hide.
Upstream from the put-in, a farmer ran a brush hog in a pasture. It sounded like he was trying to grind up boulders.
"That guy is my hero," Al said. "Nothing gets in his way."
"It sounds like one of my teenage boys running a lawnmower, trying to tear it up so they won't be asked to do it again," I said.
"I bet that's Coach Bielema," said Al, a diehard Arkansas Razorbacks fan. "He's just showing what he's going to do to the SEC."
The farmer hit something so hard and unyielding that the shriek of the blades made us wince. That was followed by the clatter of fragments crashing against metal.
"See? He just chewed up Auburn!" Al yelled.
The first fish bit quickly, a smallmouth about 8 inches long. I caught it on watermelon/red flake Yum Craw Papi. Al quickly followed with a similar fish that bit a watermelon/red flake Zoom tiny Brush Hawg. Dissatisfied with the small number of bites I got with the Craw Papi, I switched to a silver Blue Fox Vibrax inline spinnerbait. I immediately caught a 15-inch smallmouth with a deep pot belly.
Al shot some photos of me holding it with my iPhone. These turned out to be the only photos of the trip.
That was the only smallmouth I caught with the Vibrax, but Al steadily picked up the pace with his watermelon/red flake Zoom Tiny Brush Hawg, including a giant Ozark bass that he insisted could be a state record. That spot is where my daily meltdown occurred.
It is so predictable that I don't even get mad about it anymore. Standing waist-deep, I hauled back to cast the Vibrax. The treble hook caught the tow rope that was attached to my belt loop and caused my baitcasting reel to backlash in a most spectacular fashion. I tried to untangle it for a long time until I finally gave up and cut out the snarl with a knife.
Meanwhile, Al caught one smallmouth after another at the mouth of the next riffle.
Two pools up, I cast a raspberry Pac-Nor soft-plastic crawdad into a current seam and let it drift in front of a rock. I felt the telltale thump of a fish inhaling it, so I set the hook with all my might. The hook buried into something big, but nothing happened. I might have mistaken it for a rock had I not felt powerful shakes on the other end.
I kept reeling, and finally a big tail slapped the surface and a big back rolled. It streaked across the stream and then launched about four feet into the air. Al and I cheered at the jump, and the fight was on. The fish ran straight at me and tried to go between my legs. It sulked and then charged in repeated attempts to snap the line. It never really quit. I just managed to jam my thumb in its mouth during a sulk, and it bit me defiantly.
Al wasn't as fortunate. It was near the end of the day when a fish picked up his bait and carried it across the current. Al rammed the hook home, and his reel buzzed like a tiny alarm clock as the fish stripped line against the drag.
"He's hee-UGE!" Al yelled, followed by a yell of anguish. "He broke me off!" He dragged out "off" in a descending, three-syllable staccato that sounded almost like a cry.
"He went straight to that log and broke my line," Al said as his broken line waved in the breeze. "He was not going to be stopped til he got to that log. Aw, man, he was a hoss!"
Al shook his head in tribute to a worthy opponent.
Too bad he didn't land it. It would have been a great picture fish.
Well, never mind.
Sports on 08/10/2014