Making memories

The 6-year-old girl sat with her floppy brunette ponytail cascading from the tail of a black ball cap that read FDNY in red letters.

Her large brown eyes were intently focused on the tip of the rod gripped in both hands. This was her first fishing adventure. The thrill of being in a johnboat on the White River was darned near too much for anyone, especially a little girl determined to show she could hold her own.

She sat in a swivel chair alongside Richie Hays, a veteran guide for Gaston’s White River Resort just below Bull Shoals Dam. Hays, who I advised to start a day-care business if he ever gives up life on the river,might well be the most patient fishing guide in America. Hays also knows more about trout and this river than most, as evidenced by the stream of facts and expertise he offered over the course of a warm, blue-sky morning.

For now, his attention was squarely on Elizabeth Wade Masterson. “Keep your rod tip tilted down just a little lower, honey … that’s it … now wait for those jiggling tugs on your line, not those long, slow pulls. Those are the sinker dragging through the moss … the fish will always jerk a lot.”

Together they watched the tip wave slowly up and down. Then, there were the tappings that told her a rainbow had taken her bait. “Now jerk and reel,” said Hays, the father of three grown sons. A minute later Richie was scooping an 11-inch trout into his net.

She stared at her catch, obviously smitten with its bright colors and silver sheen. Then she turned toward her excited grandparents with a satisfied grin. It was her first trout on her first overnight fishing trip on one of the most magnificent clear rivers in the country.

As the morning progressed, Richie and “Miss Elizabeth,” as he came to call her, became closer friends despite her uncharacteristic shyness. He worked to bait her hook with the 3-inch pink plastic worm and a white artificial marshmallow, then cast it to just the right spot before placing it in her hands. When she’d snag another, he’d remove the hook and repeat the routine.

So here the four of us sat together, heading downriver past Stetson’s Resort, the Blue Hole, No Name Creek and on to the Narrows about eight miles downstream from Gaston’s. Along the shoreline, we watched blue herons wade-fishing from shore. And there was a bald eagle perched on a limb above us. That magnificent bird at one point swooped low to the water to snatch a small trout in its talons. Miss Elizabeth sat mesmerized by the sight.

Richie offered one tip and trout story after another. “The fish biteslows way down when the water starts dropping … Moss on your bait to a fish looks like a fly in our food … throw close to the bank. Trout won’t go more than a few feet to snatch a bait … A German fellow first brought 500 brown trout to the United States, which became the origin of every German brown trout in America today …”

Meanwhile, Elizabeth continued reeling in trout like she’d been doing it for a living. Then she held one up for a picture. Afterwards, she spent several minutes peering into the live-well and watched her bounty swimming. What a treat for any child.

Richie is a former Exxon engineer and “homebody” who left that corporation 18 years ago for 10 secluded acres near the river. He has since guided for 17 years, seven of which have been for Gaston’s, he said. Jim Gaston told me each of his guides are blessed with different qualities and abilities. He smiled when he said, “Richie’s best quality is that he cares so much.”

That sense of caring was evident to these grandparents who were content to spend much of the morning just watching their “grand” experience such an adventure for the first time. And while she was enthralled with catching fish, each of her grandparents had lived long enough to find fulfillment from the indelible memories created that morning. Later that afternoon at the resort’s pool, Miss Elizabeth frolicked, swam and showed off like any 6-year-old will when feeling happy and secure.

Before we pulled away from this peaceful haven, Gaston told me he believes making memories trumps any experience on the river. “It’s really what this is all about in my mind,” he said. “And it’s what folks take away from here that lasts.”

That was enough to remind me of what I’ve understood for some time. If each of us is allowed a few minutes of consciousness at the end of our lives, all we’ll have left are the memories we made. All the rest winds up on eBay or in a landfill. So we’d best be gettin’ on with establishing priorities and taking action to make as many good ones for us and those we love as we possibly can.

Mike Masterson’s column appears regularly in the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. Email him at [email protected]. Read his blog at mikemastersonsmessenger.com.