Family, Life, Secrets

Until recently, here was my experience as a human: I was born on November 26, 1968 in Batesville, AR. As a young lad I was fortunate to have both of my wonderful parents around to take care of me and make sure I was fed, bathed, and full of food and fun. As I got older, my idealistic views kept me just on the fringe of trouble and harm. My college years were not quite as bad as animal house. Next thing you know I am happily married with a couple young lads under my care...Until Labor Day Weekend 2008 that has been the whole thing in a very tightly packed nutshell.

It was our maiden weekend up at the 'Lectric Duck in Lynn, AR. We spent our days on the Spring, Black, and Strawberry Rivers, swimming, fishing, laughing, and splashing. Our nights consisted of watching the Cardinals, playing poker (using roofing tacks and shotgun shells for chips), playing checkers, and all sleeping in one bedroom. It was there, that I realized what had been going on.

My mom and dad had been on vacation back in Eastern Tennessee where our family first took roots in the United States. Dad came into my office the week before we went to Lynn with lots of old family photos and documents, family stories and history. I enjoyed them all. While we were we going to put the boat into the black river that weekend, I saw an old photo on the wall in a baitshop that depicted a family on barge on the Black River in the 20's. I believe my mind had already begun to perceive the hidden truth. It is all about perception really.

We were all closed in the one bedroom that currently has air conditioning and a TV watching channel eight. Parker was commenting on how he loved that little 13" 1980-something TV. He thought is was the coolest thing and wanted it for his room. I said, "You know. When I was a kid, we had one little window unit air conditioner in my parents room and that little TV. In the summer, I would sleep on a cot in there and my little sister would sleep with my mom and dad. We spent every hot night of the summer that way until fall for at least a couple of years. We would watch channel eight and never miss Little House on the Praire or Star Trek late at night. We would stay up talking and laughing until we fell asleep one by one just like we are now." Then it hit me.

I had always wondered if there were some secrets that adults knew and shared amongst themselves...some great enlightenment meant only for those of a certain age that would make all things clear and raise reason from youthful bliss. Turns out I was about half right. I saw the circle of life there as I watched my family sleep. I saw all the life, love, and joy that my parents had sown in me grow, go to seed, and there it was again pushing its way up through the rows of time.

The secret, at least part of it, the part that can be spoken, is the realization of the privilege of life. The chance to take part in it, to bear it, to pass it on and knowing it all the while. That is as close I can come to verbalizing this "adult secret" that I had always known must exist but almost given up on. The rest, the bulk of it, the best of it, like all of the true secrets of life, is one that you never tell anyone. This secret is safe because it can not be told, only lived or perhaps shared in a knowing glance in our fathers' eye.

Anything That is Worth Doing is Worth Doing Really Fast

I have friends from pretty much all walks of life, and I love them all. Some of my closest, believe it or not, are those with whom I fish. Kurt Mourer is one of those people. His (legitimate) claim to fame is that he has the fastest bassboat in the world. Here is his website. http://www.go100mph.com/


One of my first experiences with Kurt's "Stroker Boat" was several years ago when we were fishing a "Winterathon" bass tournament on Greers Ferry Lake. He had forewarned me to dress appropriately and to bring a motorcycle helmet if I had one. I heard him, but as my wife can attest, I often like to try other options than those suggested.

It snowed on us in the dark that morning on the way to the launch. By the time we got to the lake, it really got cold...it was 11 degrees. As we pulled down to the lake, we saw a guy backing his 20 ft. boat and trailer in and out of the water because the boat was frozen to the trailer and wouldn't launch. It was a fine day for bass fishing.


After paying the tournament fee and waiting for blast off, Kurt sat there ready with his helmet on. I just knew the ski goggles I borrowed from my friend that fit so well around the hood of my duck hunting coat would work out just fine. No helmet needed.

We had drawn a double digit number for take-off, but were quickly ahead of the pack. By the time we hit 100mph, the goggles, cold and obviously brittle from the windchill, cracked and spiderwebbed to the point that I couldn't see a thing. I spent the rest of the 24 mile trip holding the hood over my head with one hand, gripping the oh-#&it handle with the other all the while mentally tracking the ChapStick as it moved from both my lips, around to my cheeks then eventually rejoining itself on the back of my neck.

Shortly after touchdown, I caught a two pound Kentucky Bass on my third cast...eight hours and a slightly warmer ride back to the weigh-in later, that was all we had. It was a tough day for everyone and we wound up in 4th place ...one place out of the money.

The Water is Always Bluer on the Other Side

So often we just go right by things of beauty and worth and do not take the time to appreciate them. Other times we notice those things and think of what they might be...dream about them just a little as we pass by them while we are on our road, time and time again, yet we soon forget their luster and never have even a little taste.

Near my home there is a small river called Salado Creek. It's meager beginning gathers near Jameston in Independence County Arkansas, flows southeast toward Midland then changes it mind several times in a generally north-northeasterly direction passing below Hwy. 167 and going near the community of Salado before giving itself to the White River. The water seen from 167 is seldom dark and has a swirling blue-green clarity that lends itself to dreams of one's childhood and the desire to join the Baptist Church.

Having crossed that bridge when I got to it hundreds of times over the course my life, I had looked at those waters always too long and ultimately drove either over the yellow or over the white line not wanting the moment to pass. Still, I never stopped. Always too busy getting somewhere I didn't really want to be in order to do something I really didn't want to do, I just kept on going, the last image of Salado being that reflected in my rear-view mirror.

I was introduced to Salado Creek by my first true love, The White River, while on a fishing trip several years ago. The open mouth of Salado that compliments the White River is almost like a different creature altogether than that which runs beneath 167. Bottomlands slow and stagnate the pools in the summer and the water is brown and navigically questionable with its unorderly shifting columns of stickups and snags. Still, she was a worthy find and always, always, when I was able to make long runs up her deeper spring-rain gorged channel, I wondered how close I was to 167...how close to knowing what it was that I had neglected all my life.

This year, I loaded up my son and my father and together we made a long run up Salado from the Hwy. 14 bridge up past the old sunken Rock Bridge. The water was high and murky. We kept the boat up on plane but mostly on faith as we knew the bottom was barbed with everything that sinks. The murk began to dissipate and finally was gone after we passed a small flow that contributed all of the muddy water. We were close, that was clear.

Immediately after passing the foul mouth, we turned the bend only to find our way blocked by a tangle which originated with a tree that had tripped accross creek and had gathered flowing pieces of its fellows unto itself. A small taste was all we were given. We were left with nowhere to go.

It was then, after that dashed dash toward the waters of the promised land, that I knew I had had enough of that for which I cared so little. The next day I new what I had to do. I didn't simply stop on the way to here or there. My destination was one place...the Salado water beneath 167.

Not wanting to be presumptious, I arrived at the water under the bridge without boat or pole. I wanted to introduce myself alone and with no distractions. The energy and dynamics of that place appealed to me more than ever. She was as I had hoped and I knew I was invited to enter. From the highway, the water appears to not welcome the launch of a boat, but indeed a subtle launch presented itself. My return was inevitable and preceded by the dreams of what will be.

I suppose the mother of all rivers is rain. Salado's mother was not ready for my return. It began to rain and didn't stop until after the biggest flood in 26 years emboldened all of the rivers around to leave their banks and wander among the hills and trees. http://www.thooster.com/Flood08.htm Salado was sullied, fast, and grim. My sons and I stood on her bank, watching the fast flow guessing the time of its ceasing.

...And cease it did. A week later, a close friend of mine was coming to visit. He was changing jobs and moving across country. Lots of changes in his life and all of them for the good. He was the perfect person to chaperon.

It was remarkable how easily the boat was launched. I had wondered about the softness of the bank but it turned out to be firm and reasonable. My friend was as enamored of it all as I was.

We dropped the boat in with no problem and immediately began to fish. Fifteen minutes later we had caught six largemouth bass and two warmouth bream, all of which were fat and healthy. We released them all with thanks.

We continued to fish for another hour without getting a single bite as the vehicles filled with jealous eyes passed over the bridge. On they went forgetting the sight of two dreamers on a journey through the unknown only to remember two guys in a boat. That was a shame.

We decided we wanted more. Downriver we went and were quickly met by a modest shoal that promised to stop us should we try to pass. She was having none of that. We were equally persuaded to not go upriver beyond the old rock bridge piling. Indeed, she was a lady.

The Wishin' Has Stopped...We've Gone Fishin'!!!!

To many Arkansans, Greers Ferry Lake is known as "The Dead Sea." Like most big things in life, Greers is open to interpretation. A super-high-water, cold, cloudy, rainy early spring day would be looked as a bad thing by many..."The Dead Sea couldn't be deader." We just couldn't accept that.

Friday, March 28, 2008 was not a bad day at all. After having our Fisher's of Men Tournament cancelled on Bull Shoals Lake, Cledas (yep...that is his name) and I drained all of the winter blah out of the boat and dropped it in Greers Ferry Lake at the Old Hwy. 25 Ramp. The water was VERY high (note the parking lot lines under the water), but that did not stop the ultimate demise of these 47 fish.

We fished in the woods in the back of Big Peter Creek with Smithwick Rogues, Lucky Craft Pointers and Live Pointers (Chartruese Shad). The white bass and hybrids were in spawning mode and were ready to eat. The woods were so thick that we were basically pitching these baits like you would a jig.

We pitched them out 10-20 feet or so and jerked them down a foot or two near the bushes....bammm!!! So sweet. I could do that everyday of my life. If we didn't actually get bit, we at least had a "flasher" or "follower". The fish were relating to the original creek channel as well as the merging of the clear and stained water. Stick a bush in the middle of that flavor of water and there were fish in it.

The Kentucky Bass are not far behind these whites and hybrids. Cledas captured three, the biggest is pictured. He also managed to land a hybrid bigger than mine, but I chose to only picture mine for obviously prideful reasons...:)

This bite should last the rest of the week at least. If you can at all, go get 'em.