High Heat and Tall Tales

Jim Spencer shows off an excellent smallmouth! Photo by Jill Easton

Summer rivers often require pulling a canoe. Photo by Jill Easton

The heat didn’t ruin the beauty of the river in summer, and if you tried to stay in the shade, it wasn’t so bad. About mid-afternoon, it was 108 degrees, and I’m sure I have never been on the water fishing anywhere when it was that hot.

The fish weren’t tearing it up. I think most of them were reacting to the effect of warming water, and perhaps seeking deeper places to stay cool, wishing they had a cold watermelon! Fish love cold watermelon on a hot day.

Nonetheless, Jim was casting a small spinner-type lure he normally uses for trout, and he hooked into two or three hard-fighting smallmouth which were getting up close to two pounds. He’d land the fish, then release them quickly so they wouldn’t die of heat stroke.

Every now and then we’d beach my 19-foot square-sterned canoe on a gravel bar where there was a nice, cool, deep current and a chance to catch a fish, and we would wade out up to our armpits and cast to the other side. It didn’t work, for some reason; maybe the fish could smell us. In heat like that you sweat a lot, even in the water. I think maybe, in that river, we had an easier time of it that day than other folks in the Ozarks.

As I mentioned in my last column, outdoor writer and book author Jim Spencer and his wife Jill Easton, also an outdoor writer, spent a couple of days at my place last week when the heat was so awful. They were on their way to a trapper’s convention, as Jim still traps on the lower White River and has written a book on trapping.

When outdoor writers get together, they get outdoors somehow, so we went to the river and fished. The Niangua is one of my favorite rivers, though certain sections of it have been ruined by canoe rental companies who just pack it with people, and the refuse and waste that comes with great numbers of people, a number of them with drugs or too much alcohol. But there are places on this great smallmouth stream where the chaos and capsize crowd doesn’t go. That’s where I go. Only a few years ago, the biggest smallmouth I ever caught in an Ozark river, came from the place we fished last week.

I told Jim and Jill the story about that big fish, which I released, and showed them where I figured he still lives. When two outdoor writers are together, one can’t tell a fishing story the other doesn’t try to top. Jim held up that little brown hairy jig with a spinner on it and said, “See that lure? I caught a trout down on the White River not far from my house that would likely be able to eat any smallmouth in this river in one gulp.”

I listened, and though I hate to admit it, I think the story was probably true. Jim said it was a brown trout, and he figured it was a little better than 30 pounds. He was fishing with light action spinning gear and four pound line, after the stocking-sized rainbows that go 14 or 15 inches and rarely larger. The monster brown lay in deep water, and took the little spinner when it passed too close. Spencer was by himself, with a small net, and he kept the fish on for an hour.

“There was four different times I had that big trout up beside the boat, wallerin’ on top of my net, and all four times the net was too small to get him into it. The fourth time he gave a surge and the line broke. All I would have needed to land him was a big net, but who carries a net that big… who expects to ever catch a fish like that?

Big brown trout lurk in the White River, where they spawn in the middle of winter. There are a number of them in the fifteen- to twenty-pound class, and who knows how many that are larger. The biggest landed so far was 39 pounds.

About that time, Jill hooked a scrappy bluegill and hoisted it in. On those small spinners they were catching bluegill and green sunfish right and left, some big enough to put on a platter and make a nice fish fry.

On shallow places below the shoals, where you could see the gravel two or three feet below us, there were dozens and dozens of big black fish, slowly, slowly moving upstream. You could have gigged a hundred of them during the day, drum from two to eight pounds. I have never seen so many drum. Since they sometimes hit small lures, I am surprised we didn’t catch one or two. If you could have drifted a nightcrawler down along those gravel shoals and held it there awhile, I think you could have caught several.

But drum are not prized. The meat is white, and good, but the fish has such a large spine and rib cage that you have to have a big one just to get a filet of any significance. Nevertheless, no one complains about the fight they put up, as they are real scrappers. Before the day was over, we must have seen several hundred of them, a sight I never witnessed before.

We paddled upstream for hours, a couple of miles or better, than turned and headed back, well into the afternoon. I kept using a big buzz-bait, sure that I would hook a hefty bass that Jill could get a good picture of. Just before we reached my pickup, along a deep quiet bank with lots of logs, a monstrous largemouth bass followed the topwater lure and boiled at it right beside the boat. My jaw fell open as I saw his broad side and tail sweep across the surface. I am not exaggerating when I say he would have weighed seven or eight pounds.

Jim heard the eruption of water and turned to see the commotion on the surface beside the boat. “How big was that one?” he asked.

I just told him it was way too big to get in the net! But at least he didn’t break my line.

Last winter in early January, a friend and I floated an Ozark river hunting ducks when it was eight degrees at dawn. All day long the temperature never rose above twelve or fifteen. I have floated the rivers for years and years and years, beginning when I was just a small boy. In all that time, I never floated when it was that cold or when it was as hot as it was last week. But when it is hot, it is easy to cope with. You just get in the water, and stay wet all day. In that extreme cold, you are in real danger. With hip boots and heavy clothing, you are so bundled up you might not get out if you went in. Hypothermia is a killer that comes on you when you don’t know it is there. But what a day it was for duck hunting, mallards were everywhere. The only trouble is, I was so cold I couldn’t shoot worth a darn.

In 108 degrees, it is easy to cast, easy to paddle and easy to swim. Still, I think I will be happy when the cooling weather makes the fish hungry. In October and November, April and May, I won’t complain about a thing. If I should, somebody remind me about what July and early August was like. At my age, I might forget.

Write to me at Box 22, Bolivar, Mo. 65613 and e-mail me at lightninridge@windstream.net.

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Observations From My porch

How to spend a very hot day and never complain about the temperature.

I sat on my screened porch this morning early, when it was at least as cool as it is going to get. A squirrel made a hole in the screen last winter, coming in to get at a bag of birdseed I had setting on a table. And a raccoon made a bigger hole last summer so he could get into a bag of corn cobs leftover from roastin’ ears I should have thrown out in the back lawn. So I am going to have to fix some places, when it cools down. I said that in February too… “I am going to fix that screen when spring gets here.”

As I get older, a lot more things go undone. You know what the problem is? When it is too hot, you can’t work, and when it is too cold, you can’t work! When it is just right, you remember how hot it was or how cold it was, and you take that time to go hunting or fishing rather than work, knowing those perfect days for hunting and fishing are all too few. That’s the way it ought to be. What harm does a hole or two in the screened porch do? If I just leave the screen door open, the coon won’t make the hole any bigger, he’ll use the door. And why worry about constantly mowing. My back lawn has a lot of wildflowers in it most all summer if I don’t mow, and there are baby rabbits in there, and more food for the birds if I don’t mess with it.

If you mow all the time, you have nothing but grass. If you don’t, there is variety and diversity, more wildlife and more birds. Dozens of species of birds live in the trees and shrubs behind my screened porch. One I saw this week was an indigo bunting and his mate. The female is very drab, but that male is a bright metallic blue, a tiny little guy whose color makes him stand out. I seldom see the bigger rain crows, also known as yellow-billed cuckoos. They are shy, and hard to see, because they actually see you and hide behind large branches. Their call is loud and raucous, a diminishing cluck, cluck, cluck, which old timers said would foretell the coming of a rain. Every morning and evening I hear them, and true to the legend, a rain always comes….within a couple of months. It happens every time I hear them.

Rain crows have had a feast this summer because they are one of the very few birds that will eat fuzzy, hairy caterpillars, and a huge crop of walnut caterpillars descended upon us in June. They stripped the leaves from walnuts and hickories and pecans, and some of the big trees in my lawn are nearly leafless. It won’t kill them unless it happens a couple of years in a row, and then it might. But nature doesn’t work that way usually, as things of mass destruction and aggravation, like those darned noisy cicadas, usually come in cycles. The numbers of walnut caterpillars across the Ozarks this year were unbelievable. They are gone now only because they changed into little brown moths with rusty-red colored collars, a little better than an inch long, and for the past week you could see them by the millions beneath lights at convenience stores. They have short lives; they just lay eggs under leaves and then die.

Sitting on my porch, I notice leaves on redbud and mulberry trees turning yellow, probably as a result of dry weather and heat. I watched a few yellow leaves drift down off the mulberry tree, giving just a little hint of the coming of fall, now only a few weeks away. Another hint is the maturing acorns on the branches of a giant white oak tree that grows nearby to shade my porch. That’s good news; we need a good white oak acorn crop for wildlife species of all kinds.

The heat is awful, and I suspect I should keep an eye on my pond, which I made years ago on this high ridge to give water to wildlife, a home for some fish and bullfrogs, and a cooling relief for my Labradors. As the water drops, the mud around it is an indication of all the visitors; raccoons and skunks, a fox and a bobcat, and several turkeys and deer. Because of the dry hot summer, we will see some deer dying in the Ozarks due to blue-tongue… also known as epizootic hemorrhagic disease. Deer which die from that awful affliction come to water to die, more of them in August and early September. Some years are worse than others, and I think this year will be one of those.

I still don’t know what the wild turkey hatch is going to be in this area. I haven’t seen many poults, but late-hatching turkeys are hard to see until late summer and early fall. The quail seem to be non-existent this summer, up here on Lightnin’ Ridge. In past summers, as I sat on my porch early in the morning and late in the evening, I have heard four or five bobwhite roosters whistling. This summer I have heard only one, and I heard him only one morning. What a shame that this Ozarks country will have fewer and fewer quail, until someday, I think we will have none at all.
Tomorrow, early in the morning, I will be on the river. An old friend of mine, outdoor writer Jim Spencer, will be here to visit, and we are going to float the Nianqua River and catch some bass on topwater lures. Another old friend, river guide Dennis Whiteside, reports that bass are clobbering the buzz-baits we love to use, if you know the water to fish. You have to seek out shady, deeper water with a little current to catch bass, but from now into September, buzz-bait fishing should be excellent for those who know what they are doing.

Jim Spencer and I began writing about the outdoors when we were just kids, back in the sixties. Looking through old magazines a few weeks back, I found an article he had written when he was 14 years old for Harding’s magazine, now known as Fur, Fish and Game. It was a trapping article, and he was paid for it.

Like me, Jim has always lived in the woods, his home now is at the edge of the national forest down in Arkansas, off in the middle of nowhere. We both obtained wildlife management degrees the same year, mine from Missouri University, his from Louisiana State University. About the same time, we began writing for Outdoor Life and Field and Stream magazines.

Not long ago, I found a book produced years back entitled, “The Best of Outdoor Life… the Greatest Hunting, Fishing and Survival Stories from America’s Favorite Sportsman’s Magazine.” In it were articles Jim and I wrote in the early 1970’s, and with our stories were others written by Zane Grey, Jack O’Conner, Archibald Rutledge and a list of famous writers who were old men when we were born, or long since gone. It made me realize that we are the last of a dying breed.

I don’t think the world will miss us when we are gone. That’s why we are going fishing tomorrow, with Zane Grey and Archibald Rutledge and Isaac Walton. It is going to be a great deal cooler, standing out in that current under a shade tree, than it is on my porch. If anyone needs us just… well, heck, nobody ever has needed us. I keep forgetting that!

My mailing address is Box 22, Bolivar, Mo. 65613. See www.larrydablemontoutdoors.blogspot.com
Posted by Sondra Gray at 8/01/2011

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The Little Jones Boy

The two little boys were only 7 years old. Cousins, they had spent a day at their grandparent’s place in the country, and had wandered off down to the river, where they were forbidden to go. Their mothers had been distraught, threatening to never let them visit their grandparents again. Both had received a spanking, and they were pouting about the harsh discipline meted out. After all, their fathers had been there fishing only the week before, and the river sounded like great fun.

That evening they were sitting on the porch with their grandpa, and he was sympathetic. “Nothing seems fair when you’re seven years old,” he said, “and subject to the whims of cruel mothers set on keeping you from having fun.”

He had their full attention that warm summer night, as the sun began to set and they were all three enjoying a glass of lemonade Grandma had brought them. “I reckon it’s all because of that little Jones boy, years back, that they is so doggone mean to you two,” he said, “but I reckon we can’t speak of that, it's too awful to remember and I promised I wouldn’t tell you little guys that story. It was a bad, bad thing…best forgotten and too bad to talk of.”

It wasn’t quiet long. The two wanted to know who the little Jones boy was. Grandpa could tell that much, he reckoned. “Cute little guy… lived down the road apiece, but mean as a pet Billy goat. Course I can’t say anymore about him, cause nobody talks about it nowadays… reckon he’d be nigh onto a growed man now if he’d just not been so determined not to mind his ma.”

“Was that a whippoorwill I heard,” the old man took out his pipe, and seemed to want to change the subject. The two little boys wouldn’t hear of it. “Tell us about the little Jones boy,” they said, nearly in unison.

“No, no, boys,” the grandpa shook his head as he filled the bowl of his pipe. “It’s a story you don’t want to hear and yore mothers would skin me alive if I told you about that little Jones boy and the awful thing what happened to him.”

With an interest heightened by his hesitancy, the two begged him to tell them the story. “Please grandpa,” said one, “we won’t tell nobody.”

As the urging continued, the old man lit his pipe in the fading light of evening, swatted a fly with his fly swatter, and gave in. “Well, all right, I’ll tell you, but you’ve got to always keep this a secret between the three of us. Cause I may be the only man what knowed what happened to that little Jones boy.”

The old man sent a puff of sweet-smelling pipe tobacco smoke into the air, and took a deep breath, the two little boys’ attention riveted on him. “I reckon I was just a young man back then, when the little Jones boy up and disappeared. He was bad to just ignore his grandma and his ma, and folks thought for a while he just wandered off into the woods and might wander on back when he got good and hungry. Some folks said maybe he went off down to the river and got drowned or ate by a giant alligator snappin’ turtle or something, but his ma had told him never to go to the river, and she said he was sure to stay away from there, bein’ the kind of good kid he was.”

He drew a puff from his tobacco, noting he had the two boys in undivided awe; their mouths open with anxiety. “Only I never did figger he was a good kid. Mean as a snake, I’d say, bad to lie and sneak off, not mind his ma and kick old dogs and throw rocks at the chickens and that kind of thing.”

The old man continued as dusk settled and the sun left a blood red sky to the west, “So as I remember, that’s when I went down and set me a trotline for catfish in that big deep scary hole of water down there where you boys was just a couple days ago. And I baited it with big old worms and some shade peerch I had caught from the creek.”

With his two grandsons sitting on the wooden floor of the old porch before him, the old man shifted in his rocking chair and put his foot up beneath him, the way that old-timers do. The boys were totally enthralled with the forbidden story.

“Well sir, I tell ya,” the old man puffed on his pipe and listened as a screech owl wailed from the woods across the gravel road before the old farmhouse. “When I went back in the middle of the night, dark and scary as it was, I figgered I’d have me a big ol’ catfish. But I went out there in my ol’ boat and that line was hung up down deep on the bottom pulled back in under a big rock bluff.”

The screech owl wailed again, and the western sky began to dim as the old man continued. “I couldn’t pull that line up at all, so I just strips off my overalls and my boots, and I grabs my flashlight, and I dives into that clear deep river to see if I can unhang that hung-up trotline.”

Dramatically, he took his pipe out of his mouth and shook his head. “Don’t know if I should tell the rest of it,” he said quietly, looking at the floor beneath his rocking chair in mock anguish. The boys, beside themselves with excitement, urged him to continue the story, as they were now on their feet beside the rocking chair, hair standing up on the backs of their necks as the screech owl gave forth its eerie cry again.

“Well boys, you got to remember that its natures way to rid the world of the weak and the stupid,” he said, “when a kid won’t obey his mother, its like a little duck that gets off away from his brood and gets ate up by a big ol’ bass or a fawn that won’t stay hid, and gets ate up by a wolf…”

The little boys knew something awful must be coming. “Go on Grandpa,” one urged.

“Well I swum down into the deep dark water with my flashlight, an’ there he was, a humongous ol’ catfish the size of a full growed Hereford bull. A good axe-han’les distance it was between them beady little horrible eyes…”

Well boys I hates to tell it, I hates to remember it, but there ain’t no way to forget what I saw… there sticking out of his big ol' ugly mouth, full of jagged old teeth…”

The old man’s voice was just a whisper now, as he glanced over his shoulder as if afraid of what might be behind him… “Stickin’ out of his big ol’ ugly mouth was that little Jones boys leg!”

Years later when the two boys were much older, their mothers commented on how they never went near the river again when they were small. Sometimes it takes a grandpa to help raise little boys.

You can see this grandpa’s website at www.larrydablemontoutdoors.blogspot.com or write to me at Box 22, Bolivar, Mo. 65613. The e-mail address is lightninridge@windstream.net

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The Rescue

Larry Dablemont paddles the first official "float" of the new johnboat

Last November, I drifted slowly down a river in my johnboat, with a blind attached to the bow; limbs of sycamore and oak to hide me and the boat as I floated down the river. It was getting cold. I figured there would be mallards on the river, but there weren’t many.

As I looked downriver, trying to make out the movement of a flock of ducks, three wood ducks flushed from some brush alongside me, only twenty or so yards away. I dropped my paddle and picked up my shotgun in time to drop the last one of the three. A beautiful drake wood duck in front got clean away, but the other two were hens, and the last one folded cleanly and fell to the river downstream from me.

That night, I admired what a beautiful creature she was, and cleaned her, cutting out the two sides of meat lying to each side of the breastbone. The meat was dark, and red. I soaked it in milk overnight, and the next evening I cross-cut the two breasts into a total of 8 little steaks about an inch and a half wide, wrapped each in a small piece of bacon, sprinkled some special seasoning and garlic on them, and put them on a wooden skewer, with a slice of onion and green pepper between each piece of meat. In about fifteen minutes over a hot flaming grill, the meat was cooked, and it was delicious.

If you are a vegetarian, that is fine with me, but I am not. I like wild game, and I would not hunt anything unless I prepared the meat and ate it. That makes me a predator. You would think I would sympathize with other predators.

That brings me to only a few days ago, when I drove a couple of miles down the road that takes me from this wooded ridgetop where I live, and started to pull out on a two-lane highway, just beside a bridge over the river. As I stopped there, I saw another wood duck hen fly along before me, only a few feet from my hood, and right above her was a sharp-shinned hawk, death on wings.

The hawk nailed the woodie in flight, and drove her to the highway shoulder pinning her with its talons, and trying to rip away her neck with its sharp curved beak. I just stopped my pickup in the middle of the highway, jumped out and ran toward the scene of the crime, and rescued the squealing wood duck by threatening to make a football out of the hawk. It tried to carry the hen away, but he wasn’t quite as heavy as she was, and the hawk couldn’t get airborne.

Freed from the iron grasp, the hen waddled out into the highway as if stunned, the feathers on her back askew, her mouth open, squawking as only a hen wood duck does, a sound like no other on marshes or rivers. There had been no traffic, but I looked up to see a couple of oncoming vehicles now stopped, drivers frowning, not understanding the urgency of the situation. I got back in my pickup and the hen took to flight over the bridge, and was nailed again by the hawk. The feathers flew from her back when he hit her and knocked her to the bridge-top pavement.

What could I do? I jumped out again, screaming threats at the hawk, and the wounded wood duck dived over the side toward the river as the hawk retreated. I don’t know what happened to her, but I gave her a chance. Drivers in both lanes now were stopped, yelling something out their windows, hopefully directed toward that villainous hawk. If they were talking to me, I hope they are ashamed of themselves. After all no one should be in such a hurry so early in the morning, and patience is a virtue!

Reflecting on it later, I felt bad about what I did. Not so much about stopping traffic, but for not realizing the hawk had more right to take a wood duck for a meal than I do, because he was merely being what God created him to be. It isn’t his fault that he looks wicked and mean. Actually, I too have sharp toenails and little beady eyes. Certainly his plumage makes him more beautiful than I, and his graceful, swift and powerful flight is spectacular. When I am chasing rabbits out of my garden, there ain’t nothin' swift or graceful about it.

If the hawk had shot the wood duck with a shotgun, and cleaned her and cooked the meat, I would have less of a problem watching it. But the attack of the sharp-shinned hawk is swift, savage and heartless. In his talons, the duck would not die quickly; she would be partly eaten before her heart stopped beating. Maybe it is that part of it which makes it hard to watch, difficult for us to accept. Nature is perfect in its functions, but brutal at times.

I am a naturalist, trained and existing that way since boyhood, and I know what happens in the woods because I have always lived there and worked there. It doesn’t bother me to watch a hawk kill a rat, because I don’t care much for rats. I can hardly stand to see a little fawn or a baby rabbit killed and eaten by anything, even though I know the great Creator made it to be that way, and I need to accept it.

In the reality of it, there is nothing more brutal or savage than man. Man has this little streak of evil that wild creatures do not have. He is destructive, gluttonous and barbaric at times, and yet in most all of us, there is a ton of goodness, and compassion and sympathy. I see my friends and neighbors showing love and generosity constantly, and find it more often than not in complete strangers. But men are not part of nature any more. Neither am I. That poor hawk may have gone hungry that day, when God meant him to eat, to serve his purpose in nature thinning out the weak and sick, feeding his youngsters just as we must feed ours.

But if you were in one of those vehicles behind me, He meant for you to be a little more patient when somebody is trying to save a wood duck!!

What a great day we had at Bull Shoals State Park in north Arkansas, last Saturday, building an old time White River johnboat. A big crowd turned out and it was fun. We took the boat down to the lake and gave folks a boat ride and it didn’t leak a drop. Now we don’t know what to do with it. If you know someone in need of a 20-foot wooden johnboat like they made almost a hundred years ago, contact me. And you can see photos of the event, and the finished boat, on my website, www.larrydablemontoutdoors.blogspot.com

My publishing company has a facebook page now. You can find it under Lightnin’ Ridge, if you know the way to do that facebook stuff. The ladies who work for me, Sondra and Dorothy and Diane, take care of facebook and websites and computer stuff. I am a grizzled old veteran outdoorsman, and I ain’t never gonna get involved in such technical, modern nonsense. There’s fish to catch, rivers to float, wilderness to explore and computers are evil, to my way of thinking… like them darned hawks.
Write to me at Box 22, Bolivar, Mo. 65613. Or e-mail me at lightninridge@windstream.net. E-mails aren’t evil, I don’t suppose.

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Hot Summer, Cool Stream

If you have the ambition to get away from the air conditioning and get your body acclimated to summer, find an isolated section of river where canoe rental people do not operate, and plan a two- or three-day trip in the middle of the week with a friend who is inclined not to complain much about sleeping in a tent and having wet feet.

By doing so, you can actually get off away from the world’s problems. Float downstream and find a gravel bar or sand bar to camp on, where there is some shade of course. In the cool of the evening, find a deep shoal and wade out up to your waist above it or below it and cast a topwater minnow or a little popper of some kind with a spincasting outfit or maybe even a fly-rod. There will be bass waiting to jump all over that lure, I’ve seen it happen! When it gets dark, push your boat or canoe out into a big eddy fed by that river current, where there’s some deep water and rocks, and fish without lights, letting your eyes become accustom to the night. Cast a jitterbug toward the bank with a casting reel and a stronger line, and work it steadily across the surface.

If there’s a big bass anywhere close, he will jump all over that jitterbug. This time of year, the rock bank towards the upper end of the eddy where the current feeds it will hold the smallmouth, but the lower sections of a big deep hole, on the opposite bank where there might be logs and limbs, are where you will find river largemouth, and they can’t pass up a jitterbug either.

If the eddy is good and deep and has a bluff, chances are there’s a big flathead catfish, or several, maybe up to 25 or 35 pounds. I have caught a few catfish from small Ozark rivers that exceeded 40 pounds. Flatheads can be caught on trotlines set deep, across the eddy and baited with LIVE bait, like chubs or sunfish, or even small suckers. There are channel catfish in many streams too, and they will take nightcrawlers or dead bait, even chicken livers. It takes a lot of work to set and bait a trotline, and it involves some danger, as you can get entangled or hooked and pulled under by a weighted line. Have two sheathed knives on your belt to cut yourself free if you need to. If you set trotlines and run them in that deep water, DO NOT DO IT FROM A SMALL CANOE, USE ONLY A VERY STABLE CRAFT. I would never ever trotline from a seventeen-foot double end canoe! Actually, I wouldn’t even float the river in one.

I know it is hot, but I am tired of staying inside. I have fishing to do, and I have missed it. I don’t know that it was as hot when I was a youngster, fishing up and down the Big Piney River in July and August. There was no reason to hole up in the house, because we didn’t have air conditioning, and maybe everyone could stand the heat better because of that fact. What man has done to make life easier for himself has gone a long way toward destroying himself. Just think about that, there are so many areas where we have created monsters… not knowing it at the time. Maybe computers and televisions and some medicines fall into that category. I think everyone sees what alcohol and drugs have done.

Maybe air conditioning has us in a destructive grip as much as anything else. None of us would choose to live without it, but I know that men who lived without it stayed outside more and could take the summer much, much better. Of course our ancestors were tougher… they had to be.

We fished all through July and August, and as a teen-ager guiding float fishermen, we never let a 95-degree day never stop a daylong fishing trip. My clients would show up and we would start very early in the morning, when it was cooler. But we would float the river all day at times, always catching fish, even in the middle of the day. Of course, the river was more shaded then, because landowners hadn’t started clearing the banks of shade trees as much back then. There were a lot fewer cattle. The river had much more water in those times, and it was much cleaner. Shady gravel bars offered great places to stop and relax, and swim in a cool river current for a little while. Then it was back to fishing, casting to whatever shaded bank there was, where the water had a little current and a little depth.

It is a tragedy that so many of deep holes of water are filled in, and Ozark rivers drying up more and more. So many of the gravel bars now are covered with cow manure. It doesn’t have to be that way, as government programs pay for watering-devices up away from the river, and for fencing the cattle away from the stream, for setting aside strips of land which can be placed in grasses and planted in trees which support wildlife. Numbers of landowners have joined those efforts, and the results are amazing. But you have to pay for the work first, and then through the agricultural department, you are reimbursed for your efforts. Some landowners just don’t want to do it, and care little for our streams. But there are far more of them who would indeed join that effort if they just had the money to put up for the initial fencing, watering and planting. Of course, we have a state conservation department which has millions of millions of dollars they could use toward that purpose, and since they federal government would give it back to them, why wouldn’t they, as a CONSERVATION agency, want to see our rivers preserved? It could be done so easily, but it isn’t.

One landowner Bryant Creek, with some eroding banks along the river become worse each year, ask the Missouri Department of Conservation to come in and help him fix the problem. Two of the agency’s people showed up at his request, looked at the long stretch of eroding bank and said they could fix it for $18,000 dollars!

There is no money to help save our rivers…but we are paying hundreds of thousands of dollars to stock elk, and a million dollars to finance a study to see if we have enough black bears in Missouri for a hunting season.

If the MDC would commit to a program of putting up the initial money to repair and fence off buffer strips along the streams which are so much treasures in the Ozarks, they would get it all back in little time, from the federal government. And all by myself, I could sign up dozens of landowners on our best streams who would be ready to make the change. Operating on nearly 200 million a year which we all give them, and wasting large chunks of that, the MDC will never spend a penny on such a rivers projects. I keep hoping that some private group like the Smallmouth Alliance, or Ozark Paddlers, or maybe even the Nature Conservancy, would just tackle one pilot project along one of our rivers to show what could be done. If you would like to see how this works, we will run a magazine article in the Lightnin’ Ridge Outdoor Journal’s September issue, showing and telling what one river bottom owner has done with that government program, and why he says it has paid him big results… why he urges other landowners to do the same.

My website is www.larrydablemontoutdoors.blogspot.com, and you can e-mail me at lightninridge@windstream.net. Write to me at Box 22, Bolivar, MO. 65613

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No Icebergs for this Titanic

   LEBANON, MO - I wouldn't exactly say this trip was a luxury cruise like those on the long running television show "The Love Boat." Nor, would I consider it a complete catastrophie like the one experienced during the famous movie "The Perfect Storm."


   Instead, our day upon the beautiful Niangua River proved to be one filled with adventure, moments of excitement and plenty of laughter.

   Our vessel, the oddly named Niangua Titanic," must have appeared a bit strange to many of the canoeist and kayakers occupying this portion of the river. Fortunately, there were no icebergs floating on the Niangua River this day.

   With two slightly overweight outdoor writers perched in the front half, the relatively short jon boat seemed to be a bit front-heavy as it headed down the river. I can best describe this as trying to carry an otherwise empty and flimsy paper plate with two loaded quarter-pound hamburgers sitting on the outside edge.

   Due to the interesting weight distribution and his location in the back of the boat, a much smaller veteran river guide Chuck Anderson of Lebanon rode considerably higher in the water. To outsiders, it likely appeared he was steering this unusual craft from high above the poop deck.

   "I've never paddled a boat with this much weight in the front," he said in an almost apologetic manner as we spun in circles through the first riffle. "It might take me a little while to get the hang of it."

   Outdoor Guide magazine editor Bobby Whitehead occupied the middle of the boat, while I was precariously perched just inches above the waterline on the bow. I'd like the think that some folks on the river may have confused me with Leonardo DeCaprio and his famous "I'm the King of the World" scene in the "Titanic" movie.

   "One bright point is that you have an excellent view of the river ahead," Whitehead jokingly told our 20-year-old guide. "You are sitting much higher in the boat than either of us."

   Fortunately, the river was clear, relatively calm and running at about normal level. It wasn't long before Captain Chuck regained his composure and had our boat almost fully under control.

   This exceptionally scenic stretch of the river just outside Bennett Spring, the famous Missouri trout park, is loaded with smallmouth bass and goggle-eye, as well as rainbow and brown trout. We were all anxious to test our skill at landing a few of these fish.

   "I always seem to have my best success using a simple marabou jig," said Captain Chuck. "This little lure will catch just about everything in this river."

   Rummaging through my limited tacklebox, I soon discovered a lack of marabou jigs. However, I did have an ample supply of C.W. Wilson's Crappie Rockets (www.crappierocket.com). Though these particular lures were not made from marabou, past experiences have proven the hair and tinsel jigs to be excellent fish producers.

   Soon, I was casting my lure to various likely spots along the river. And, it was almost like these fish had never seen this particular lure. Soon, I was enjoying one of my best float trips ever on a Missouri stream.

   After my third smallmouth in as many casts, Whitehead commented that these lures might also need to be called "Smallmouth Rockets."

   This little lure also produced numerous feisty rainbow trout and several goggle-eye. Nearly every stretch of calm fishing water seemed to produce fish.

   The others in the boat, too, were enjoying excellent fishing. Whitehead was using a small inline spinner and Captain Chuck stuck with his known fish-producing marabou jig.

   Though most of the action came while fishing from the boat, we would occasionally pull over to a gravel bar and fish both ends of a riffle. Here, too, we seemed to enjoy good fishing success.

   Even with the occasional spurt of excitement caused by riding out another riffle, our short day on the water seemed to end too quickly. The best part about ending our float was the One-Eyed Willy's concession stand situated on the gravel bar where we pulled out. Here, we enjoyed some delicious hamburgers, brats and other snacks following our float trip.

   Missouri offers many excellent rivers and streams ideal for floating. However, the Niangua River would certainly rate among the state's finest. Here, anglers and canoe enthusiasts will find plenty of outfitters, lodging and campgrounds to fill their needs.

   This particular float trip was hosted by fine folks from Lebanon Tourism and One-Eyed Willy's Campground and Canoe Rental. Numerous other similar facilities can be found all along this stretch of river.

   Folks wanting to learn more about floating the Niangua River or wishing to arrange for canoes, rafts or other watercraft can contact One-Eyed Willy's at 417-993-2628 or Lebanon Tourism at 866-LEBANON.

   It has been several years since I last floated a Missouri stream. This particular trip was so enjoyable you can be assured I'll be returning soon.

   But, float trips are not the only reason to visit this fabulous community. Here, there are more still great sites and attractions. For one, Lebanon is considered the gateway to fabulous Bennett Spring State Park. This is one of the most scenic and popular trout fishing areas in the entire state.

   Along with great trout fishing, the park offers fine dining, exceptional lodging as well as a modern campground with all the amenities.

   Lebanon also offers numerous fine restaurants including Dowd's Catfish and BBQ Restaurant, Napoli's Italian Restaurant, Andy's 417 Restaurant and Ollie's Ozark BBQ. Among the countless other attractions in Lebanon include the Lebanon I-44 Speedway, the Shepard of the Hills Outlet (world's largest Case Knifes outlet), the Heartland Antique Mall, the Route 66 Museum and Research Center.

   With all this and much more, it should come as no surprise that Lebanon was named to Outdoor Life's "Top 200 Towns for Sportsmen" for the third consecutive year.

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LAKE MURPHYSBORO FOR GREAT EATING FISH

Sitting on the dock fishing, one soon begins to talk with fellow anglers. I was surprised at the number of fishermen who are seeking fish to take home to eat.

Some anglers want fish for their family fish fry and do not need to catch and release all that they acquire. Some anglers just want some peace and quiet and a few fish for supper. Lake Murphysboro in southern Illinois is just the ticket for the angler in search of eating good fish.

As the clean waters warm during the summer, the catfish and bluegill fishing does the same. This 145-acre impoundment is located in a state park of the same name can be found about 1.5 miles west of the town of Murphysboro, Illinois in Jackson County. Camping, boat rent6al and access ramps are readily available. The 10-horsepower limit on marine engines helps to maintain a tranquility on found on the more popular nearby Kinkaid Lake. There are no pleasure boaters with whom to compete.

To reach the park travel Illinois Route 149 west of Murphysboro, turn north on Murphysboro Lake Road or Lake Access Road and follow the signs to the park.

The park’s hardwoods provide a shaded shoreline for the enjoyment of all on a hot summer day. Docks allow anglers to fish further away from the shoreline in comfort. Picnic tables are spread throughout the area and often find their way to the shore area.

Those wanting to fish without a boat can plant their lawn chair on one of the docks or along the shore and enjoy a relaxed atmosphere. Fishing pressure is not heavy during the week and only moderately so on the weekend. Holidays are another story. Trying to fish with all the family picnics going on can be a bit of a problem.

The numerous brush plies, submerged timber, rocks, drop offs and dead falls are home to an excellent population of bass, redear sunfish, bluegill, catfish and crappie. Fish attractors are strategically placed within casting distance of the docks. They are easily located by looking for a steel post sticking out of the water.

For the shore angler, the area from the concession parking ramp west all the way up to the disabled pier is a good bet. Another popular location for finding fish is in the far northeast part of the lake where there are numerous brush piles. Fly fishing anglers catch many bluegills from the well manicured shoreline.

The dam area and the small boat dock will also produce fish.

Weedy areas provide good cover for the lake’s sizable bluegill population during the summer months. Find the clear pockets in the vegetation and drop a worm impaled below a float for instant action. Bluegill and their cousin the redear sunfish tend to hold in water 6 to 8 feet in depth. Both will take worms, wax worms and crickets. The fish will be near the bottom. A popular rig is a small wire hook with a piece of nightcrawler impaled upon it. The weight of the bait allows the light line to sink to the bottom. If a float is to be used, the slip bobber is probably a good choice. One the depth of the fish is located, the slip bobber allows the angler to fish the same depth with each cast.

Good numbers of crappie can be found during the summer in water ranging between 12 and 18 feet. The area around the old concession stand area is a good place to start. The popular jig and minnow combo is a good idea. It tends to out produce the jig alone. Small minnows are preferred by locals.

In August the catfish tend to congregate along he dam and rip rap areas. Nightcrawlers and cut shad are the best baits. Other catfish locations are on drop offs in the north and east necks of the lake.

Don Gasaway - The Ground Pounder

http://www.dongasaway.wordpress.com/

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