Sometimes it takes hard work to find good fishing, but the results are worth the trouble.
Last Sunday might have not have been the best day to chase smallmouth bass on the Caddo River. Hot, humid summer days are always sketchy, especially on rivers that attract scores of tubers and other assorted revelers, but Rusty Pruitt and I had a serious need to feel a tug on the line. "Lucky" Thomas, owner of Lucky's Canoe Rental, had the perfect prescription for our smallmouth fever.
"I'd do that upper float from Caddo Gap," Lucky said. "There ain't much water up there. It's really rough right now, hardly enough water to float, but ain't nobody up there. Those fish haven't been bothered. We had a couple of guys fish it last week, and they caught the 'slam fire' out of them."
A few minutes later, Lucky's folks deposited Pruitt and I on a gravel bar with an Old Town canoe and all our gear. Pruitt's mood soured immediately when he saw me deposit two cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer in his soft-sided cooler. Pruitt only drinks Sierra Nevada India Pale Ale.
"What'd I tell you last night?" Pruitt demanded. "I said that I didn't have any beer, and if you wanted some, you needed to get some!"
"I've got some beer right here," I said.
"I SAID that I didn't have any beer, and if you wanted some, you needed to get some!" Pruitt repeated.
"Well, that's a little different than, 'I don't have any beer and I want some, so get ME some,'" I retorted, tauntingly. I popped the tab on a cold PBR, took a long swig and groaned a dramatic, contented sigh that seemed to provoke Pruitt's ire.
"Man, I haven't had PBR since I was in college," I continued airily. "I'd forgotten how good this stuff is!"
"You're a total whack job," Pruitt grumbled.
Usually, Pruitt and I fish sparingly until about a quarter mile above confluence of the South Fork of the Caddo, but Lucky's comments made us cast early. We weren't disappointed. I caught a couple of little smallmouth bass almost immediately. Pruitt caught a couple of smallmouths and a few longear sunfish on his fly rod, which restored his good humor."
It only got better, which activated a dilemma that has plagued Pruitt and me for all the years we've been fishing together.
"You always say we should blow through all this water up here so we can fish all that better water down below," Pruitt said. "By the time we get to all that good water down below, it's dark and we're having to paddle 20 miles an hour to get out of here."
"We'll pace ourselves a little better this time," I promised. "We'll have enough time to work the good stuff."
"Like I haven't heard that before," Pruitt quipped.
I was very surprised at how well the fish bit considering how hot and still the weather was. It felt oppressive. It helped that the water was too low to float in most places. We had to stay in the water and walk the canoe a good bit of the way.
Finally, we reached the pool where the good fishing usually starts. I got a big bite immediately, but I was too slow to set the hook. The fish was gone when I snapped my wrists.
"If something in your mouth doesn't feel right, spit it out!" Pruitt said in a crusty accent. "That's what happens to all our relatives. That's how they took your daddy away. And your brothers and sisters, And Uncle Bob. And Uncle Larry. And Aunt Suzi. And they don't think twice about frying you up, either!"
"That's what happened to the catfish family from down the far end of the pool," I said.
"Remember the catfish? They used to bring us snacks," Pruitt said, continuing the banter. "We can't eat this, so we thought you might like it.
"If YOU can't eat it, what makes you think WE can eat it?" Pruitt asked, speaking bass dialogue.
About that time, ominous clouds boiled up to the north. Distant thunder rumbled. A gentle breeze rolled down the river and the temperature dropped noticeably. The fish got active and started slamming prey on the surface.
"Got the Whopper Plopper ready?" Pruitt asked.
"I left them in the truck," I said.
"Ohh, man! I bet they'd slam the Plopper!" Pruitt said ruefully.
Pruitt was doubtless right. The bass did seem to cool on soft plastic lures, but I did not have a single topwater lure in my kit.
In front of every rapid is a shallow gravel lip. As we approached each one, huge wakes streamed out of the flats upstream to deeper water.
"Those are all smallmouths," I said. "Every one of them looks like 2-pounders or better."
Amazed at the number, I watched more closely at the fish that swam close to the canoe. Not one of them was bigger than 12-14 inches.
The trip's defining moment came at a narrow run where I often stop to take photos of people tumping their canoes and kayaks. Only an adroit paddler can make it through in moderately high water. It would have taken a black-belt expert to get through last Sunday's water.
I entered the run thinking I could skirt to the left next to the gravel, but the current tugged the bow into a low tangle of bushes on the fast-water side. As I tried to correct, the current caught the stern and plunged us amid the bushes. Seriously not wanting to capsize, I lay on my back, grabbed the thickest branch I could reached and pushed up with all my might. That pushed the canoe down. Water filled the boat from the gunnels, but it remained upright, enabling me to roll out the side while Pruitt merely stepped out.
I ran down the gravel bar and waded into the river to intercept the things that floated out. We didn't lose anything. Then, Pruitt and I dragged the canoe into the shallows and drained it by rolling it on its side.
"It's been a long time since I've tumped a canoe," Pruitt said.
"We didn't tump," I said. "She stayed upright. It was a controlled sinking, and we abandoned ship on our own terms. We do not tump!"
As I organized our gear, I heard a pneumatic pop, followed by the sound of metal tearing away from metal.
"Well, how about that!" I said, turning to face Pruitt.
"I can drink a PBR when necessary," Pruitt said.
I pulled out my smartphone and aimed the camera.
"Don't you dare!" Pruitt said menacingly.
With about 30 minutes of daylight left, Pruitt and I blasted through the last several pools before reaching Lucky's.
"Man, this looks really 'fishy'," I said. "I wish we'd have got here sooner."
Pruitt erupted with laughter, knowing it wasn't the last time he would hear it.
A Whopper Plopper would have been murder on smallmouth bass Sunday evening, but the author left his in the truck. (Arkansas Democrat-Gazette/Bryan Hendricks)
Rusty Pruitt casts a fly in a rapid Sunday on the Caddo River between Caddo Gap and Glenwood. (Arkansas Democrat-Gazette/Bryan Hendricks)