Are we there yet?

April 10-16, 2017

Going home

By Jay Edwards

This piece is being republished from an earlier time.

“an ingenious Spaniard says that ‘rivers and the inhabitants of the watery element were made for wise men to contemplate, and fools to pass by without consideration.’” –  from The Compleat Angler by Izaak Walton

What is it about the water that is so appealing?

Why does it hypnotize us, as we stare at it and dream; and ponder, and remember?

And what is its force that makes us want to always return?

My family returned to the water for a day last weekend, to the river called the Little Red, to spend some needed time with friends, in a different place, where we would hopefully ease some of the recent pain still in our hearts.

To, as the piano man says, “forget about life for awhile.”

So we went to the river, near the town of Heber Springs and State Highway 25, down River Trail Road and the smaller roads from there, roads that would take us to the water, where we could laugh and fish as we listened to the locusts in the trees.

We arrived in the early afternoon, and soon choices were being discussed for the remainder of the day, with enough to satisfy everyone.

Some went to the lake, some to the town. And some of us chose the river.

We walked down from the deck that wrapped around our host’s large A-frame home, down through the midday heat and over the steep steps that took us to the cold water below, and the trout that live there.

On that day I was to be an angler. Perhaps not a “compleat” one, but at least one with enthusiasm, as I sat high in the middle chair of my friend’s flat-bottomed riverboat, while he skillfully steered us through the shallow water to the first spot we would fish.

In front of me, on the bow, sat my son, who loves anything having to do with being outdoors.

And he was in luck as we immediately saw a flock of Canadian Geese that stood on the shoals near the far bank.

My friend said they were always nearby, having found a permanent home in the cold water and warm air that is a little bit of heaven.

They watched us warily, but not too concerned, as boats and men are a common site on this river. The geese are not the prey.

My friend and guide found a spot that suited him, and he turned off the outboard.

He talked of baits and shadows, and told us where to throw and how fast to reel.

Fifty yards upstream was a lone figure standing in waist high water, casting a line just over the surface before letting his fly land.

He hailed us, and my friend said something back, just as that familiar splash, which even the most veteran anglers never tire of, pulled on the end of the man’s line.

We watched him bring in his catch, and quickly go at it again, soon getting another strike and another fish.

It was going to be a good day.

We began to drift, and my friend handed us our gear with a shiny lure he called a Rapala tied to the end.

I hadn’t made a cast in more than ten years and tried to remember the technique that I had probably never mastered to begin with.

My son was already reeling in his first throw while I stared down at the lever on my reel and tried to remember.

Behind me the fly fisherman caught another Rainbow, and I told myself they weren’t going to jump in my lap.

I held the rod above my head at about ten o’clock and began my move. My son, sensing my uncertainty, ducked a bit as I whipped the pole forward. I missed him but didn’t release the line quick enough, and my lure made a large plunk in the water about six feet in front of me.

Not the start I had hoped for, and tough to disguise from the two sportsmen I was with.

But as the day went on my casts thankfully got longer, with some of them even bringing in a trout.

Throughout the afternoon my friend was patient, and after switching us to Rooster Tails and later bottom fishing with worms, he returned to the Rapalas at just the right time, which quickly began to work.

As the sun got lower and the heat began to fade, a mist formed on the top of the water. The geese, which had been quiet all afternoon, begin to make some noise, and my son quickly spotted the cause of their distress.

It was a Bald Eagle, soaring down the river near the treetops, a sight to behold.

We floated back towards our hosts dock and he was soon rewarded with two good-sized Browns, the largest of the day. I was glad for him because he had been a patient guide and good friend, giving me something I hadn’t enjoyed in a long time – a day of fishing with my son.

And when I returned home on Sunday I felt a little more hopeful about life than when I had departed.

The water had worked its wonders again.

Jay Edwards is publisher of the Daily Record. Contact him at jedwards@dailydata.com.