Better than fish
Chance meeting creates new friendship
MOUNT IDA — Charles Lowe arrived at High Shoal minutes after I unloaded my canoe for a fishing trip on the Ouachita River.
A longtime Dallas resident, Lowe sold his place in the Metroplex and moved with his bride of 52 years to the Ouachita Mountains near Oden. How he found this remote access so far from home is a mystery, but then again, he might have wondered the same about me.
“What do you fish with?” Lowe asked as I pulled on my waders.
“I troll stickbaits through the deep holes,” I replied. “Stick … what?”
I showed him a Long A Bomber as I laced up my wading boots.
“Oh, a minnow plug!” Lowe said.
“I troll one on a light rig for walleyes and another one on a heavy rig for stripers,” I said. “The trick is training them to hit the right one. If a striper gets a hold of this light rig, you’re in for a rodeo ride.”
“I like a little gray Kalin’s twister-tail grub,” Lowe said. “You got any of these?”
I did not, so Lowe gave me a pack.
Lowe then volunteered to help me strap my gear-laden canoe to a trolley, which kept rolling out from under the boat on the steep, muddy hill that leads to the water.
“It’s still a lot easier than lugging all this stuff down by hand,” I said as Lowe helped steady the load and keep it on the cart. “One trip versus four or five.”
The last item I loaded was a Yeti cooler.
“That is the ultimate mark of confidence,” Lowe said, laughing.
“It’s a symbol of hope,” I countered. “Actually, I use it to add a little weight to the bow. Of course, it would weigh it down a little more if I caught some fish to put in it.”
When we reached the water, I observed that the water level and current were perfect for canoe trolling. It was vastly different from my last attempt, when the water was high and furious.
“Say, I have an extra life jacket in the truck,” I said. “Why don’t you come with me?”
Lowe declined on account of a bum knee. Quarters were a tad too cramped in the forecastle of that little 12-foot canoe, especially for somebody as tall as Lowe.
“I’ll just fish along the bank here,” Lowe said. “Holler if you need me.”
Conditions were bright and sunny, with a serious headwind that helps when trolling alone. In the calm, the 2-horsepower motor pushes a light boat a bit too fast. A headwind is like a brake. I motored upstream and got out at the first shoal. Using a bow rope, I towed the canoe above the shoal, jumped in and yanked the motor to life before the current dragged me back into the rocks.
I repeated the sequence at the next shoal, and again at the next shoal beyond. Above that lay the promised land. It’s two long, deep holes where walleyes, stripers and smallmouth bass abide. The first stretch is the Powerline Hole, a straight, 250-yard stretch that starts at a spring that tumbles from the rocks and ends at an electrical wire that crosses the river.
Beyond that is another deep hole that contains some huge boulders. Beyond that is the famous Striper Corner, at times a great place to catch striped bass. The shoal above the corner is also a great place to catch Kentucky bass and smallmouth bass.
Above that is a stretch containing a short, deep pool that sometimes holds walleyes and stripers. Above that is another long pool that ends at Saltpeter Rock. That is the farthest I go in a canoe, but I’ve gone as high as River Bluff Float Camp in jet boats.
Rounding the bend above the Powerline Hole, I encountered thick smoke from a controlled burn nearby in the Ouachita National Forest. My 17-year-old daughter loves Deep Purple, especially the Ian Gillan edition. “Smoke on the Water” is one of her favorite songs. I sang it in her honor.
Controlled burns and selective cutting have transformed this part of the national forest, and it looks positively beautiful. Not only will it improve forest health, but it will create a lot of fine habitat for bobwhite quail and wild turkeys. Unfortunately, it doesn’t do a thing for fishing.
I trolled the Powerline Hole three times without a bite. That was a bad omen. I also did not get bit in multiple passes through the Boulder Hole or at Striper Corner. I did not get a bite wade fishing in the Striper Corner shoal, nor did I get a bite in the pool above.
It’s a long, steep walk through very fast water to the Saltpeter Rock Hole. Hugging the bank, I was almost to the safety of flat water at the top of the shoal when my boot picked up a big rock and rolled it forward in time with my step. Then, the rock rolled to the side, and I rolled with it. I went down on my right shoulder in about a foot of water, which funneled through the top of of my waders and down to my feet. I was soaked, and I wasn’t proud of my language at that moment. Thank goodness the air was warm.
From there, I trolled up to the shoal at Saltpeter Rock, but it was too shallow. I could see the bottom almost the entire time, which meant there were probably no fish there.
I drifted in the sun for a while to dry my shoulders. A swollen moon filled the blue sky, and turkey vultures circled beneath it. I trolled the deep water at the bottom of that hole one more time, and then trolled back down to the Powerline Hole where I made three more passes. My lures bounced off the bottom the entire way, which is good. If a fish doesn’t hit, there’s not much else I can do.
With the sun setting, I paddled through the last shoal and approached the takeout. Lowe was there, still fishing. “Do any good?’ I asked. “I got two white bass, a few Kentucky bass and a pretty nice smallmouth,” Lowe said. “How about you?”
“One drum and a wood perch,” I replied.
Lowe quit fishing as soon as I beached my boat, so I’m sure he was waiting to make sure I got back OK. He carried my rods back to my truck and returned with my trolley, which he helped me position under the boat. Halfway up the hill, he stopped, gasping.
“Only got one lung,” Lowe said, chest heaving.
“Good lord, man!” I said. “I’ve got this.”
“Aw, it’s OK,” Lowe said. “I survived Vietnam. This is easy.”
“You got your lung shot out in Vietnam?” I asked.
“No,” Lowe said with a chuckle. “I got out of Vietnam healthy. I lost the lung from a botched operation.”
As I loaded my gear into my truck, Lowe and I talked of many things, of family, friendships, fishing and faith. Before he drove away, he gave me his last bottle of water.
Some people might say it was a bust of a fishing trip. I beg to differ.