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.