Plan B

By all accounts, Sunday should have been a poor day for fishing.

The moon was big and bright, which often means that fish feed at night. The air was blue, clear and crisp amid a high pressure front driven by a steady north wind blowing 5-8 mph. The temperature was in the high 80s. It was too warm, and the light was too harsh for the kind of pleasant outing I expect in early fall. The conditions indicated that fish would be inactive.

Anglers understand that we fish the conditions we have, not necessarily the conditions we want. The day is the dealer, and that is the hand that we were dealt.

Rusty Pruitt and I originally planned to fish the Illinois River near Siloam Springs, an ambitious undertaking. From Central Arkansas, that’s nearly four hours one way. To fish enough to make it worthwhile requires leaving very early. As sometimes happens, some domestic issues arose, delaying our departure by about two hours.

“Let’s go the other direction,” I said. “We can be on the Caddo River in a little over an hour. That’ll give us about five hours of fishing, and we can be back home at a reasonable hour.”

Our plan was similar to the one that Alan Thomas and I attempted a few weeks ago. We started at the Amity Access and fished downstream on a day when conditions were very similar to those on Sunday. That was a short trip, too, and we didn’t catch many fish, but we enjoyed some great fellowship on a beautiful Arkansas mountain stream.

This time, I proposed fishing upstream from the Amity Access. I know that water better from my many trips from Glenwood, but I never fish it thoroughly because it’s usually about dark when I get there. I’m rushing to get out, so I blow through it.

“Whoa! That’s low!” Pruitt said when we crossed the Hwy. 182 Bridge to the Access. “Is it fishable?”

“About a half mile up there’s a pretty good pool, and another one above that,” I replied. “That’s probably enough to keep us busy for the day.”

Pruitt and I stashed our fishing gear and a soft-side cooler full of drinks and snacks into my Michi-Craft aluminum canoe, and we began the arduous walk up a very long, very rough rapid that had scarcely enough water to cover the rocks. At the end of it was a long stretch of flat water with an emerald hue as seen through my bronze sunglasses. I pulled my shades up and looked at it through unfiltered eyes. It looked very ordinary. I dropped my shades back down, and it looked extraordinary.

“We’re going to catch some fish in here,” I said. “That’s some fine looking water.”

A rock ledge runs nearly the entire length of that pool, allowing me to wade the entire distance with the canoe tied to my belt loop. Torso-deep immersion in the cool water was a comfortable counterpoint to the glaring sun. Pruitt rode in the canoe, and we both cast to a steep bank on river left.

“It looks like there’s a little more current on that bank,” Pruitt said.

With a Zoom Mini Lizard, I caught two little smallmouths right away. Pruitt caught two shortly after. After a short lull, he began catching them regularly. Catching those fish seemed to energize other bass, which began slamming baitfish against the bank.

“If they’re hitting stuff on the surface, then they ought to hit this,” I said, reaching for my second rod.

“Ahhh, the Whopper Plopper!” Pruitt said.

The sputtering topwater plug did not yield results right away. A few fish slashed at it but did not take it. Meanwhile, Pruitt’s tally with the lizard mounted.

At the end of the pool, we encountered a situation that makes anglers rejoice. The pool narrowed to a long, deep chute that ended at the tail of another very long rapid. There is a big gravel point on river left, and a shallow backwater on the left side of the point. Sunken boulders form a big rock garden in the backwater. At the point where the backwater merges with the main pool are two small stickups, so small as to be inconsequential. Whenever I see something like that, I see dollar signs.

It was an ideal situation for anglers of divergent fishing philosophies. The deep, narrow run was custom for Pruitt’s fly fishing preference. The backwater, its surface rippled by the wind, was custom for topwater fishing.

Pruitt continued catching smallmouth bass, longear sunfish and green sunfish against the steep bank of the run with a white popping bug.

I stood on the point, cast as far as I could and chugged the Whopper Plopper over a pair of boulders with deep gouges behind them and a gap in the middle. Black bass that appeared to weigh about 3 pounds smashed the lure. I didn’t hook it deeply, and it escaped after a brief fight. Eight fish slashed at the lure, and I landed two. Both were nice-size Kentucky bass. Only one barb was in their mouths. Another barb was in their sides.

“It’s like they’re tail slapping it,” I said. “It doesn’t look like they’re trying to eat it.”

Eventually, they quit hitting it altogether, so I spent some time shooting photos and video of Pruitt catching fish. When his fish quit biting, we trudged a distance up the next rapid and caught several bass in each of the deep holes.

“It’s a long way to the next pool yet,” I said. “We’ve got about another hour of daylight. The water we left has had some time to rest. Let’s go back down and see if anyone’s home.”

We stopped at the point again, and I caught four more nice Kentuckies, including a big one next to the sticks. My catch to strike ratio was about 1:3. When the sun dipped below the horizon, the bite was finished.

It was an economical use of limited fishing time, and we got home at a reasonable hour, thoroughly pleased with our best fishing performance of the year.