LITTLE ROCK — I feel a sense of wonder each time I stand beside the frigid White River below Bull Shoals Dam and watch the sun’s rays shimmer across the surface. The sweetness of the experience is enhanced when the leaves are changing to red and gold in the fall and during the emerging lime greens of spring.
After seeing most of this country on a year-long fellowship tour in 1976, and living and working in six states over the decades, I know firsthand that there’s no more tranquil a place than this Ozarks stream.
It was with that in mind that Max, the youthful golden retriever, and I arrived at Gaston’s White River Resort the other day for another too-brief getaway from life’s demands.
Jim Gaston, the widely revered fella whose name also appears on the state visitor center just up the highway, took control of this place years ago as a summer project designed by his late father who hoped his son would learn the resort business.
Jim rooted himself along these banks and grew this unique place with its salmon-pink cabins into what today bills itself as “America’s #1 Trout-fishing Resort.” The adjacent 3,200-foot grassy airstrip accommodates a steady stream of private airplanes from virtually every state.
Max especially enjoys himself on the resort’s airstrip where darned near everything (except the gaggle of white geese) is green. He twists, frolics, chases his ample tail and attaches his considerable nose to the ground to get the news about every intriguing smell he comes across.
And there are lots of open acres to provide homes for birds, their discarded feathers, burrowing moles, and all forms of evidence of woodsy creatures for his flared nostrils to explore. This strip is the most openness he’s seen in three years of life.
It’s also an ideal place to throw a tennis ball, which is the only thing he prefers to a satisfying exploration by nose. I’ll heave a ball as far as I can, only to have him beat it to the landing spot 25 yards away. The boy can definitely sprint when motivated.
He likes waiting for the first bounce so he can leap into the air and snatch it before it can hit a second time. And he can hardly wait to stroll from one end to the other of the 60-yard-wide strip, which represents a mile-and-a-half stroll.
I can tell he appreciates being along this river as much as I do, only in his canine sort of way.
The one thing Max didn’t seem to appreciate was his first fishing trip in veteran guide Frank Saksa’s 20-foot flat-bottomed jon boat.
After being coaxed into a boat for the first time ever, Max plopped spread-eagled and clung to the aluminum bottom as we headed off past the blue heron rookery and bald eagles across the river.
But did he care? Did Max have any interest whatsoever in the surrounding wildlife, or even the rainbow and brown trout we continually boated? Not at all. This retriever was too busy just surviving.
He only stuck his head above the gunnels a couple of times only to see that he still was surrounded by all that clear moving water. Then it was “plop!” Back to the floor. And more panting.
He did manage to crawl beneath my seat for part of the trip. Then he edged his way back to Frank at the helm, who also tried reassuring the boy that he was just fine. But he wouldn’t even sniff all those fish we were trying to show him.
I thought I could visualize his thought: “Look, Dad, I couldn’t care less about those slimy things when this metal box you’ve put me in smells of exhaust and continually roars and bounces and obviously wants me dead.”
Meanwhile, another boat passed at full throttle, an excited Airedale posing at the front with a jutting jaw and wagging tail, looking much as George Washington must have while crossing the Potomac.
Max also didn’t care to look at the way alleged “water retrieving dogs” actually enjoy a boat trip.
We did make one comfort stop at the newly remodeled Stetson’s Resort a few miles downriver where we met owner Brenda Turner. Being a male who’s always loved females as much as tennis balls, Max took to Brenda immediately.
And when it was time to climb back into Frank’s boat, it was obvious he was sorry to leave behind his newest friend who preferred dry land.
By the time we arrived back at the cabin and climbed out of the boat, a good two hours later, I fully expected Max to begin licking the ground in a gesture of canine appreciation.
There’s no doubt he was smiling again for the first time since leaving the safety of Brenda’s resort. His feathery tail was actually raised back above his back from between his legs and wagging in fourth gear.
I suppose the biggest difference between the two of us when it comes to this truly relaxing place is that, while we each enjoy the grounds, that open airstrip, the good folks and the walking trails, I also appreciate the wonderment of being on this magnificent river, while he sees a boat as some kind of threat to his well-being and happiness.
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Mike Masterson’s column appears regularly in the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. Email him at [email protected].
Editorial, Pages 81 on 10/21/2012