A road trip for the ages

What do you do when the weather turns cold and the streams freeze over in your locale? Two words – road trip.

That’s exactly what I did this week as I headed to Paris … Texas. Unfortunately Texas isn’t exactly the trout fishing state Montana is so, after visiting with my brother and my folks, I turned the truck around and drove to central Arkansas to fish one of the best waters the nation has to offer.

I pulled into Heber Springs, Arkansas on Wednesday and met up with a buddy of mine. David and I met more than three years ago in Bozeman, MT where we were both in town to defend our master’s theses. By chance, I attended his defense where his facilitator announced that he “had fly fished his way to Bozeman and was going to fly fish his way back home.” We spoke after his presentation and spent the next several days fishing some of my favorite spots on the Gallatin River, drinking a few beers and getting to know each other. Upon parting, we vowed that we would fish together again and, after some near misses, it finally happened.

After unloading the non-essentials, we headed over to the Little Red River. The Little Red is home to the former world record brown trout, a 40 pound 4 ounce behemoth. The record has since been broken but any way you figure it, a river that can grow a monster that big has something to offer. The Little Red is a tailwater fishery and flows from the base of Greers Ferry Dam. I have fished tailwaters before, but the Little Red is a bit different as you really need to be tuned into the generation schedule as the river can rise rapidly once water is released from the dam.

We arrived at David’s chosen location as the water was receding from generation earlier in the day and had the place to ourselves. The fish were in the post-spawn mode and we threw egg patterns with a sow bug dropper. It didn’t take long before we found fish and I was shocked by the girth of the fish, a girth that threw off my ability to determine fish length. (My handy measure net settled any possible exaggeration.) Rainbows typically ran in the 12 to 13 inch range with browns averaging a couple inches larger. We fished until the sun was low on the horizon and headed for the only bar in the area.

Heber Springs is located in Cleburne County which is a dry county, two words that you would never see put together in my home state of Wisconsin. However, or should I say thankfully, a “local option” system allows alcoholic beverages to be served in non-profit private clubs and it just so happened that David was a member. We enjoyed a burger, had a few beers, and even met the former roommate of the drummer for Iron Butterfly.

The next day was nothing short of epic as the stars aligned with warm temperatures (nearing 70 degrees) and no water generation predicted. We arrived early, found fish in the riffles, caught countless browns and rainbows up to 18 inches, and each had a chance to land the fish of a lifetime (neither of us completed the deal). It was one of those days that make up for the times when the fish just don’t want to cooperate and, while the river was a bit crowded early, by 11 a.m. we once again had the place to ourselves. We celebrated our success at the “speakeasy” before heading back to our motel room. 

Early the next morning, I pointed my truck north and pulled into my driveway 15 hours later having endured four hours of freezing rain which served as my welcome-home present courtesy of the Badger state. It had been the perfect reunion with an old friend and a trip to remember.

At least I don't have to shovel cold

There probably aren’t many people who can say they summer in the U.P. and winter in Wisconsin, but I am one of them and a quick trip to Ontonagon this week illustrated why I leave there from December through March.

I headed north on Thursday right behind a weather system that had dumped freezing rain and the roads were still in pretty tough shape. A trip that normally takes me three hours drug into five and I was happy to pull into my first stop, the local bar. I caught up on the local gossip, wolfed down a burger, slid my way over to my cabins, and trudged my way through a foot of snow topped by a shin-busting coating of ice just to make sure all was fine. It was.

I then turned my truck north toward Ontonagon where I had a Friday morning meeting scheduled with a forest service official to do a year-end review and discuss other business.  When I arrived, Lake Superior was tossing enormous waves onto the shore and the sky was filled with snow that lasted all night and eventually covered the ground (and my truck) with six inches of fluffy lake snow. I had morning breakfast with some hearty locals, including one that had recently moved back to the U.P. from Arizona. He took plenty of ribbing for that relocation and when he said, “I didn’t shovel snow for 40 years,” I couldn’t help but reply with, “Up here you can get 40 years worth of shoveling in one season.” It continued to snow during my forest-service stop and, although I enjoy snow, it becomes more of a nuisance with each passing year.

By the time I got back to Wisconsin, the temperature had just climbed above zero and was forecast to stay there for some time. It was actually colder than it had been in Ontonagon, but I was still happy to be home. Why? I don’t have to shovel cold.