A White River Adventure - Part 2

First posted on 01-27-2009

This is the second part of a two-part story. If you would like to read the first part first, just Click Here.

The fisherman’s daughter managed to reach her uncle who was now on his way with a heavy chain and a heavier truck. The relief of knowing that meaningful help was on its way gave enough hope to the fisherman that he decided to use his waiting time wisely and go fishing. He and his daughter jumped in their boat and cast their lines, staying near the landing to keep an eye out for uncle and another on the Explorer.

Damion jumped in the truck and bid farewell as he began his portion of our plan, and Zac and I headed downstream. The day had now grown to late afternoon but the weather was perfect. No wind, plentiful sunshine, birds singing as if it were spring and no competition on the river.

Since my boat’s gasoline tank only held two gallons of fuel, and since I had never floated as far as Sylamore so was uncertain of the exact distance by river, I decided it best to conserve fuel and float. Well, that and I wanted to do some fishing.

So, we cast off and floated for about an hour and were treated to some scenic tall bluffs, springs emptying into the river from hillsides, waterfalls and the solitude of nature. I’ve traveled the distance to Sylamore many times by car along Highway 5 which meanders more or less along the river so I kept trying to judge where we were and when I should crank up the motor.

Little more than an hour into our journey, what would become the only other boat motor we heard all afternoon came steaming loudly toward us from up river. It was the fisherman piloting his craft with the same idea in mind – Boswell landing was in ruins and Sylamore was the next closest port of call. He stopped by long enough to thank us for trying to help him and to say his brother was able to pop the Explorer free with ease thanks to a long pulling chain.

Just a short time later, the afternoon skies lazily gave way to early evening and the sunlight gradually began to fade away. Zac and I suddenly realized our warmer weather clothes were no match for the rapidly dropping temperatures. It was time to crank up the engine even though I suspected we were still several miles from Sylamore, an act that would certainly speed our journey but also proved to add a wind chill factor to our discomfort.

I piloted the 25 horsepower motor downriver at a steady if slow pace trying to estimate the amount of daylight we had left, an important factor since the Jon boat was not equipped with lighting of any kind. Once darkness consumed us, there would be no way to be seen by anyone who might be about, nor would there be any way for us to see to navigate. And since the water level was relatively low, snags, hangs, drifts and shoals were dangerous obstacles to reckon without the benefit of being able to see them.

The light began to fade more quickly, in direct proportion to how fast the temperature was falling. My left hand was all right as it was tucked inside my sweatshirt but my right hand was getting more difficult to feel as it was exposed to the elements. Still we moved downstream, but with no landing in sight.

After a while, several houses began to appear along the bank and I remembered seeing them from the road in better times. A good sign, but an indication that we were still three or four miles from our destination and, at our pace, probably thirty minutes or more before we actually got there. Estimating when it would be too dark to see, I figured our arrival at Sylamore would intersect nearly precisely with total darkness. Since the engine was full out, there was nothing more that could be done but strain to see drifts and pray that my calculations were close to correct.

Zac pulled his thin, hooded sweatshirt as tight around him as he could and faced aft to avoid the cold wind in his face. I had my hood up, which helped, but had to look forward to avoid … whoa!

What appeared to be only a ripple in dim light was actually a shoal with a steep drop that we narrowly missed. I saw it just in time to run the boat parallel to the shoal and steer around it. A dip in the drink was not in the cards that day, I’m glad to report.

Beyond the shoal was a new set of buildings, a restaurant and motel that signaled we were in the final leg of our journey. Not more than a mile remained, probably less than that and though the stars were beginning to stir more brightly in the sky, enough light was left that I felt I could maneuver us safely into the landing.

Zac, probably feeling a bit more confident himself, suggested we stop the motor and drift the rest of the way, maybe catch a few trout. While tempting to me, I thought the concept would be too tempting for fate. We motored on, the lights of the bridge that spans the river just downstream from Sylamore coming into view and getting brighter, bigger.

At last, I made the arc toward shore and we stepped out onto the bank at Sylamore. With a concrete pad and ramp, loading the boat back up was a breeze and the end of our long, eventful, very unexpected fishing trip was nearing an end. Except that I remembered the old trailer had long ago lost its tail lights and the old truck had long since lost its capacity for running anything less than high-beam headlights. Which would all be fine on a trip from the house to the river and back on dirt covered back roads, but a little more dicey with regard to paved highways where traffic may not see the back end of the boat but state troopers could take notice.

Zac and I did make it back the seven or eight miles it took to get to the house and we were more than happy to discover that the heater on that old truck had not lost any of its ability to work correctly. Once at the house, I unhitched the trailer, put up the boat and warmed myself in front of a wood stove as I dove into a plate of hot food. After a quick shower, I stowed my clothes, packed the car and we were off, headed back home to Missouri.

Many miles later, as I drove, I thought back on the day now behind us and realized that in all that time, I had only caught two fish. One got loose before I could get it into the boat and the other was, my heart sank. Still on the stringer I left tied to the boat.

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