Balky motor aborts hunting trip
Depending on how you look at it, equipment fails at the worst time or the best time.
On Tuesday, Alan Thomas of Benton and I ventured to the Arkansas River to hunt doves at a secret place we call “The Gully.” It is a sandy spit on the riverbank behind a wing dam below the high-water easement, which makes it public property.
For several years, it was a regular stop in our annual “End of Summer Celebration,” which also included a couple of float fishing trips to honor the upcoming autumn and bid farewell to the departing summer.
Doves flock onto the spit in the evenings after feeding in nearby fields to eat grit, and then they swarm into a cluster of nearby trees to roost. The shooting only lasts for about 90 minutes at most, but if doves are flying, it’s a vigorous 90 minutes. We’ve shot several limits there over the years.
Of course, there’s an equally good chance that there won’t be any doves. When that happens, we just hang out in what little shade we can find, guzzle water and Gatorade and chat.
Reaching The Gully entails a fairly long boat ride. The trip back, usually in calm water and into a blazing sunset, is sublime.
Thomas and I met at 2:30 p.m. in Maumelle, where he transferred his gear to my truck. I proudly told him about having rebuilt the carburetors on my 25-horsepower Yamaha outboard. I gushed about how well it performed for Ray Tucker and me during its first post-rebuild voyage on the White River in June. We fished all day without a hiccup from Ranchette Access almost to Rim Shoal. We also took a long side trip to the limit of navigable water in Crooked Creek.
This voyage to The Gully was going to be a lot rougher than usual. A 15-mph east wind blew straight up the river, creating a hard, whitecap chop with 2-3 foot waves.
“Good thing it’s not blowing the other direction, or those would be 4-foot waves,” Thomas said.
After loading our gear in my War Eagle boat, I backed the stern into the water to submerge the motor. I always start the motor before unhooking the boat from the bow winch just to be sure.
I engaged the choke and hit the starter. The motor purred to life. Thomas boarded to run the boat while I parked the truck. While I was gone, Thomas ran the boat up and down the river a couple of times.
Everything was fine until I got to the bank. Instead of coming over to pick me up, the boat bobbed in the water. I heard the electric starter wailing as the wind pushed the boat upstream.
“It won’t start!” Thomas yelled.
“I see that!” I yelled. “You’d better paddle over here before you get blown out to the middle.”
We pulled the boat onto the rocks. The motor started one last time, ran about 15 seconds and quit. It didn’t come close to starting again.
I pulled the spark plugs. They looked pristine, but they were dry. Fuel wasn’t reaching the combustion chambers. There was plenty of pressure in the fuel line, and fuel definitely reached the fuel fitting on the motor.
“It ran all day the last time out, and I always disconnect the line and run it dry before leaving the water,” I said. “I wonder if the 93 octane gas I’m running today is too hot for it. I usually run 91.” “I doubt it,” Thomas said. My friend Bob Rogers said he had a similar problem caused by an improperly fitted fuel line.
“Mine was sucking air,” Rogers said. “If it’s sucking air, it won’t start no matter what you do.”
I always start with the cheapest, easiest and most obvious solution. Replacing a fuel line or a bad fuel pump is easy and cheap.
Meanwhile, Thomas and I ruminated on the lost greatness at The Gully while munching on Canada goose snack sticks made by a friend of his in Pennsylvania. It was delicious.
“I view things like this as being providential,” I said. “I figure it spared us from some unforeseen disaster.”
“You’re probably right,” Thomas said. “It’s awfully rough out there.”
“I’m just glad it quit here instead of three or four miles downriver,” I said. “We probably wouldn’t get off this river until morning.”
This prompted a lively discussion about all the close calls we’ve had boating on the river in past duck seasons. The Arkansas River does not graciously forgive bad judgement or balky equipment.