Fish Tales

Embracing the Natural State may be the cure for the winter blues.

by

“The trout are always waiting, and usually willing. Soon, three or four fly-fishermen are looping casts over the shoals, testing their skills and bringing trout to the net with regularity. The early sun and fog make the river seem a magical place. Almost like a dream come true.” — Bruce VanWyngarden

Eleven months into a fairly rigorous, pandemic-induced self-isolation, my girlfriend and I had begun to go a little stir-crazy. Though we’re relatively young and healthy, I decided early on in the covid-19 pandemic that it was my duty to my community not to spread this disease. Since I’m able to work from home, for the most part, I’ve kept to myself. “With great privilege comes great responsibility,” to paraphrase Spider-Man’s Uncle Ben.

I live in a two-room apartment in the upstairs unit of an old converted Midtown home, and, when I’m not pecking away at my keyboard, I’ve perfected a Phantom of the Opera-esque moody pacing. It’s exercise, of a sort. Sometimes, though, it just feels good to get west of the Mississippi River, hike up a hill, and breathe a little fresh air.

Memphis has it all — the best blues, soul, hip-hop, barbecue, and chicken wings in the world. For a city mouse such as myself, that’s usually enough to keep me satisfied. The other great thing about the Bluff City, though, is its conveniently central location in the Central Time Zone. We’re in the middle of the Mid-South, a day trip away from an outdoor adventure. Last month, instead of climbing up the walls, Sydnie and I decided to climb into the car and make for the state line — and take a Sunday hike in the hills of Arkansas.

View from a Bridge

I wonder how many times I’ve crossed the Hernando de Soto Bridge, slipping over the state line and into Arkansas, to visit attractions in almost every direction. Lake Ouachita, near Hot Springs, is stunningly beautiful, a jewel of a lake where I’ve spent weekends hiking and camping. During one of those excursions, I’ll never forget being jolted awake by the bone-rattling yowl of what I later determined to be a bobcat in heat. I was sharing a tent with an old college friend, whose eyes were so wide with surprise they seemed to glow in the dark. We were perfectly safe, but I’ll always remember that night as the time I learned that bobcats sound much bigger and indescribably ferocious when heard in the woods in the dead of night. We also went hiking, of course, and wet our toes in the crystal-clear and clean waters of Lake Ouachita.

That trip is one of many, each with its own memories — the smell of campfire smoke, trailing my fingers in cold river currents, and flat rice fields giving way to rolling hills. I’ve driven to Little Rock to see concerts and watched Mick Jagger strut across a stage there. I’ve played my own gigs in Jonesboro, an hour’s drive away, where the “band from Memphis” status is sure to win audience favor — and not a few drinks on the house. Most of all, though, I think of the fishing trips I used to take with my dad, uncles, and granddad to Calico Rock in Izard County, a little place on the White River in north-central Arkansas.

Have Tackle Box, Will Travel

One White River fishing trip stands out like a beacon in my memory — the last one I took. These trips were usually smaller affairs — a few Tennesseans making time for a change of scenery, paying fishing license dues at Lindsey’s Trout Dock, and spending a weekend on the water. That year, though, Uncle Keith was in poor health, so the family rallied to spend one last weekend on the water.

At the time, my dad worked for Northwest Airlines, so we flew standby on a small commuter jet to St. Louis to meet extended family and make the drive down to Calico Rock. Disembarking in Missouri, my dad spotted a faux silver and gold watch band glinting from the avant garde airline carpet. Because all Davises are part magpie, he stooped to scoop up the piece of jewelry. Passing it to me, he said, “Might could make a fishing lure out of that. You never know.”

After a longer trip than usual, our caravan cruised into town around dusk. By the time we had checked into the little motel, most businesses had closed for the day, including the little diner where we always ate. So, grumbling stomachs as our guides, we set out to look for something to eat.

Dinner came that night, not in the form of a freshly caught rainbow trout or familiar fare from our favorite local diner, but in the form of a rodeo. If memory serves, it was my uncle, David, who pointed out the lights and metal horse trailers.

“Are we eating horse now?” my dad said.

“Every rodeo worth its spurs has a concession stand,” Uncle David replied.

So we bought hamburgers and single-serving bags of potato chips and ate them sitting on truck tailgates. I’m sure for the older guys in the group, it felt familiar — like a high school football game. My idea of a fun extracurricular activity always leaned more toward whiling away hours in the library, so to me it was entirely novel.

That was the single greatest hamburger I’ve ever tasted. To save my life, I could never recall what was on it — lettuce, tomato, ketchup, maybe? — but it was satisfying in a way no other burger has been before or since. Perhaps the most satisfying seasoning is a healthy dose of making the best of it.

Spirit on the Water

The next day, out on the water, I was lucky enough to have a few firsts. At some point, the adults let me pilot the boat. I still remember the way it bumped along the water, the difference between a motorboat and a canoe or a kayak. At that point in my life, it was the fastest thing I had ever driven. If I thought my day couldn’t get any better, though, I was woefully mistaken.

As we drifted downriver, having little luck trailing lines hooked with live bait, I made up my mind to try the homemade watch lure I’d crafted. I reeled in my line and switched out my hook for the lure. I cast the line and began reeling it in, repeating the process. I remember sunlight glinting off the White River, the little whorls and eddies around rocks and fallen logs. I remember, quite vividly, my dad saying, “You’re never gonna catch anything with that.”

He wasn’t being cruel. We were not a family that took many vacations, and I don’t think he wanted me to waste my time or remember this trip as a disappointing one.

But fishing is equal parts luck and patience. Something hit my lure. I gave the rod a jerk to set the hook and began to reel in a smallish rainbow trout. When my dad pulled it into the boat, water dripping from sleek and shiny scales, he wore the biggest smile I’ve ever seen on his face. It was the first time I ever proved him wrong. It’s an experience I hope to give to my own children someday.

Down by the River

The last thing I remember from that trip was struggling into waders and standing next to my father in the river, the current flowing all around us, joining us in a moment, a cycle as old as time. From the river to the sea, from my father to me. The sun was setting — the golden hour — a good time of day to cast a line. The fish are always biting, but it can build to a frenzy at dusk, when more insects come out and the fish are greedily snapping up their supper. I think, though, my dad chose our mode and time with two things in mind: to give my uncle and grandfather some time alone, and to make sure to give me a memory.

Grandaddy and Uncle Keith took a boat out together. It didn’t fully hit me then, but looking back, I wonder if they talked or if they were just happy to be together one last time, in nature, doing something they loved.

Dad and I didn’t speak much that afternoon, not as I remember it. There was just the sound of water, of boat motors in the distance, the whir of lines playing out, and the soft crank of the reel. As it swirled around my rubber waders, the water was cold — piercingly so. The White River, fed from the depths of Beaver Lake, is famously frigid. Maybe it’s the dusk light that brings the analogy to mind, but the memory feels preserved in amber.

I can’t recall if we even caught anything. Surely we must have, in that river so stocked with trout, at that fortuitous time of day. As an angler, I’m amateur at best, though, and no trout can match the joy of simply being together, away from the hustle and bustle, as the river flows onward.

River of Time

When I pitched this story in the first months of 2020, I had no idea how long it would take to write, before I would see it in print. This wasn’t the feature I had imagined — mostly reminiscing, more or less as I told it to Sydnie as we wound our way through Arkansas roads and, later and on foot, up and down Arkansas trails. My brother-in-law, my dad, and I had a trip planned, but we know what god does when man makes plans. There’s something to be said for resiliency, though, for traditions that outlast the hard times. I can’t help but think of this trip as a scouting mission, and I’m hopeful for many more camping, hiking, and fishing trips to come. Calico Rock wasn’t quite how I remembered it — the town has grown. Change is good, though, and Sydnie and I enjoyed playing tourist, following the meandering Calico Creek, and making plans for the future.

Hiking with Sydnie, telling fish tales from childhood, I couldn’t help but think of the days ahead. There’s a certain symmetry to these trips, too. The last time I traveled, it was for a feature for this magazine. Now, with some end in sight as we wait for a vaccine, those briefly deferred plans, hopes, and dreams float to the surface of my mind, like bubbles of air dancing up toward the water’s edge. By and large, I’ve escaped the troubles of the last year relatively unscathed, but all the postponed trips and celebrations — even Sydnie’s and my engagement as we decided to work and save money — have given me a renewed determination to cherish each experience.

By the time you read this, my sister, brother-in-law, and nephew will have moved to Memphis. I look forward to exploring a newly reopened Bluff City once it’s safe to do so. There’s a river tugging at my mind, though, too. The hook is set, and I catch myself looking forward to helping my nephew cast a line or clamber over a hill to watch the tree-covered horizon stretch out in front of him. Maybe my kids will one day too.

There may be some changes in store, some slight modifications to be made, if the tradition is to continue. I’m glad Sydnie came with me on this trip, for example. The old Davis fishing trips were something of a boys’ affair, but I see no reason why that should be. Sydnie can out-run, out-hike, and out-climb me any day. She’s faster on inline skates, the trails, or a treadmill, too. It’s been some time, but I have every confidence she could out-fish me, even with a lure made of scavenged flotsam and jetsam.

Maybe we’ll renew the tradition of going to Calico Rock and the White River, but the Black River and the Little Red River are great fishing spots too, or so I’m told. There’s really only one way to be sure, and the answer lies in the cold, cold water flowing through hills, just across the bridge.