| Slow Road to Youth |
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| Written by Larry Rice |
| Thursday, 01 November 2007 01:39 |
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Their pace is mellower, conversations more sophisticated, but three grown men stir up their inner kids on the Buffalo River Although my good paddling buds, Cliff Jacobson and Jim Mandle, can be as chatty as a couple of teenage girls, their first view of Arkansas’ Buffalo River leaves them uncharacteristically speechless. Which has me concerned, because this particular destination for our annual buddy trip was entirely my idea. If the Buffalo doesn’t live up to all my boasting, these veteran canoe trippers will gleefully bestow on me all kinds of grief. Like three tourists out for a Sunday spin, we stand at the edge of the twisting highland road and mutely soak up the view. Far below, nestled in the folds of lofty forested hills, is a milky-green strand of glistening water, our meandering magic carpet for the upcoming week. By design, this will be the easiest and least complicated canoe trip the three of us have ever planned. We’re here to paddle our quick-and-nimble solo boats, camp in style, catch up on old times. And I can’t think of a better river to accomplish what we’re after than the stream that lay before us. I’ve floated the Buffalo before and have backpacked through its surrounding hills and dark, damp ’hollers, but it’s been nearly a decade since my last visit and I’m delighted to be back. Winding through the high and deeply dissected Ozark Mountains, the Buffalo National River is one of the few remaining unpolluted, free-flowing rivers in the lower 48 states. Although more than 10 million people live within 250 miles of the Buffalo, the steep, rugged, and remote nature of the place is demonstrated by the fact that only seven auto bridges—some of them just one lane wide—cross its entire 135-mile length. The Buffalo’s unique natural and historical features helped earn its title as America’s first National River in 1972, a federal designation that provides even more protection than that afforded under the Wild and Scenic Rivers Act. “Well, boys,” I finally utter, shattering the reverie from our lookout. “What do you think?” I have to remind myself that, though my pals have experienced countless Canadian river and lake expeditions, in some respects, they’ve both lived fairly sheltered canoe-tripping lives. For instance, this is their first time in the Ozarks, that 60,000-square-mile uplifted plateau that represents the largest area of highlands between the Appalachians and the Rockies. By contrast, I cut my canoeing teeth on Ozark Mountain gems like the Current, Jacks Fork, Eleven Point, St. Francis, and the Buffalo back when I was a flatlander residing in central Illinois. Taking his sweet time to spit out an answer, the slender, 5-foot-6, 129-pound-when-soaking-wet Cliff scrunches up his Woody Allenish face, tugs on the brim of his Tilley sun hat, and rubs his pointy chin. One of North America’s most widely published canoe and camping writers, and the recipient of the American Canoe Association’s prestigious Legends of Paddling Award, the former schoolteacher and wilderness canoe guide gazes toward the river in a rare silent moment of Zen-like contemplation. “Well, as far as I can tell, Riceman,” he says, cracking a satisfied grin, “it looks like we’ve got a home run here. Don’t you agree, Jimmy?” Standing beside his mentor, Jim, a workaholic inventor and registered New York State Adirondack guide, vacantly nods his head. The dark-haired, youthful 56-year-old learned a long time ago, ever since the three of us undertook our first trip together—an ambitious crossing of Canada’s Quetico Provincial Park—that it doesn’t pay to argue with Our Legend. After a restful night in Gilbert, Arkansas—an old-fashioned, friendly Dogpatch-type community of 33 residents—where we splurged on an incongruously deluxe riverside cabin complete with a full kitchen and hot tub, we load into a shuttle van for the two-hour, curvy mountain drive to our put-in. Our driver—a husky, no-nonsense college student set on eventually becoming county sheriff so he can wage war on the area’s homegrown meth dealers—deposits us at the western edge of the National River corridor. The Ponca launch site is about as far upriver as we can begin, given the current low to medium water levels. I tell Cliff and Jim how fortunate we are to be able to start here instead of farther below, as the next 20 or so miles is my favorite section of the Buffalo. Ever since we agreed to do this trip, our goal had been to paddle the Buffalo eastward from Ponca all the way to its confluence with the White River, a 125-mile undertaking. But now that we’re actually here, we’re reconsidering. The fact that the river has numerous access points has afforded us too many options. Cliff especially likes the idea of shortening our mileage. “You know what, fellas?” he says, smiling shrewdly. “With age hopefully comes wisdom. And wisdom tells me that it’s not the number of miles you paddle that matters, it’s the quality of those miles.” Physically, Cliff maintains he doesn’t feel much different at age 66 than he did when he was 36. However, now he’s reluctant to race down a river or plan a canoe trip involving lots of gut-busting miles per day. “I’ve seen my hundreds of thousands of caribou, been charged by grizzly bears, chased across a river by polar bears, paddled among beluga whales, done my share of dicey rapids, and I love all that,” he says. “But now that I’m an ole’ geezer, I’m more into slower-paced trips where I can spend time with my bros, play around in our solo canoes, and stop and smell the dogwoods!” At first, I argue it would be a weenie-move not to stick to our original plan. After all, we are supposed to be hardcore wilderness-trippers. But the more I think about it, the more I like Cliff’s scaled-down plan. Maybe it’s the rising heat and humidity, but I am starting to feel a bit unambitious myself. As we finish loading our sleek, 14-foot Kevlar cruisers, a sprightly elderly gentleman saunters up to us. In one of his callused hands is a cane fishing pole, in the other a heavy stringer of freshly caught smallmouth bass. “Looks like you fellers know what you’re doing,” he chortles, “not like some nitwits who take to this river. Hell, I’ve seen some yahoos here—city folk, mostly—who don’t know a canoe paddle from their own p----r!” After we stop laughing, the man introduces himself as Bucky, an 81-year-old “hiller” born and bred in these parts. Bucky, we soon learn, may be even more opinionated than our own self-confident Cliff, if that’s possible. “Forty-odd years ago, those sumbitch Army Corps Engineer scoundrels wanted to dam this whole river!” he scoffs, spitting out a stream of tobacco chew to accentuate his disgust. “Would’ve ruined everything in this valley. And for what? To make some rich bastards even richer? Well, I don’t trust our government one dang bit, but this here was one time I’m glad those Washington types stepped in. They killed the dam and saved this place.” Thanks, in part, to outspoken locals like Bucky, the 21st century is nowhere in sight as we ease our canoes into the rippling, free-flowing river. What little civilization that was apparent in the sleepy hamlet of Ponca (pop. 175) is gone in an instant, replaced by sheer, multi-colored 200- to 300-foot cliffs. While each of the river’s scenic miles provides splendid floating, the 25-mile stretch from Ponca to Pruitt Landing offers the most stunning run for paddlers with at least some canoeing experience. As we pass jumbled canyons, shaded glens, and fern-draped hollows—all part of the 11,300-acre Ponca Wilderness Area—names on the map like Close Call Curve, Crisis Curve, and Wreckin’ Rock hint at the mildly challenging Class I and II rapids to come. Few locals are out this early in April, leaving us with almost as much solitude as we’d find in the Canadian Barrens. By lunchtime we reach Big Bluff, at 500 feet the highest cliff face in mid-America. We beach our flotilla of brightly colored canoes and hoof it up the well-marked Goat Trail to a dizzying rock perch two-thirds up the massive sandstone and limestone wall. Our reward is a fabulous view of the river and its towering bluffs carved out of ancient dinosaur-era seabeds. Back in our boats, just two miles downstream, we spot the flat rock ledge that signals the trail to Hemmed-in-Hollow. A half-mile scramble up a narrow box canyon leads us to a stunning 200-foot, free-leaping waterfall, the highest of its kind between the Southern Appalachians and the Rockies. Jim has me shoot a bunch of digital photos of him posed heroically almost directly beneath the waterfall’s wispy arc to show his new bride, Grace, just how much of an explorer her hubby is. My friend’s not about to admit it—yet—but I’m starting to think that the Ozarks are challenging his loyalty to his beloved Adirondacks. We “Three Amigos” ease down the Buffalo’s pure, turquoise waters, a mesmerizing color caused by microscopic clay particles washed into the river from shale outcrops. It’s now Day Two, and the landscape continues to amaze, with some of the most awe-inspiring bluffs in the Midwest. And then there’s the no small matter—especially in a national park—of being able to pitch our tents anywhere and cook over open fires. These liberties makes it more of a real wilderness experience for Cliff, who shies away from the preponderance of rivers in the Lower 48 nowadays burdened by government regulations and restrictions. However, real wilderness this ain’t. The National Park Service maintains a number of “developed” vehicular-access campgrounds along the Buffalo. These fee-based sites come equipped with parking areas, drinking water, toilets, picnic tables, and pay phones. Which might come in handy if we run out of TP, our water filters conk out, or Cliff’s sophisticated satellite telephone goes haywire and Jimmy needs to check in with the missus again. By the time we reach the Parker-Hickman Farm, the oldest existing farmstead on the Buffalo River with log houses dating back to the 1840s, it’s obvious we’re not going to make it to the White River. Not even close if we continue to break camp late, get on the water at the unthinkable hour of 11 a.m., paddle only five to 15 miles, and pull into one of the Buffalo’s idyllic gravel bar campsites as early as mid-afternoon. “Who cares?” spouts Cliff, when Jim and I bring up our sluggish pace. “This is a float trip, not another one of our ass-kicking expeditions! To have no agenda? To chill and relax? What freedom! What joy! What wonder!” A brief discussion—made more palatable by bison steaks grilled to perfection, campfire-baked potatoes, and gourmet mint chocolate cookies washed down by several glasses of robust red wine—ensued that evening, and we unanimously downsized our goal. We’re now going to conclude our journey in easily obtainable Gilbert, 71 miles below Ponca. It’s all logical, we reason. Not only are our vehicles parked beside the settlement’s still-functioning 1901 general store (where we had left them for our planned second shuttle to the White River), but there’ll be a blessedly cool air-conditioned cabin, blasting hot shower, and a sweet little home-style café waiting for us. After six sun-drenched days of non-stop boy-bonding entertainment—like endless hours of competitive air-pistol shooting at matchsticks from 20 yards, pop cans at 40 yards, no problem!—we haul out at a wide gravel bar a short stroll from Gilbert. Of course, now that we’re into the rhythm of the river, we could easily spend another week exploring the lower, lazier sections, reveling in its present beauty and intriguing past. But even if we did want to continue our voyage, after showering and filling our bellies at the Gilbert diner that evening, we agree that perhaps it is time for us to leave. And rather soon. This resolution is reached after a certain 5-foot-6, 129-pound curmudgeonly Amigo takes issue with a local good-ole boy as we leave the convivial diner. It seems our forthright Cliffy, being a liberal Wisconsinite northerner, doesn’t appreciate one of the most controversial, inflammatory icons of American culture, namely the large Confederate flag hanging in the back of Bubba’s pickup truck, not to mention the quaint bumper stickers that read Why Do I Have To Hide My White Pride? and Yankee Hunting Permit—May Also Be Used While Under the Influence of Alcohol. “Hell, man, the Civil War’s over,” lectures our pint-sized friend to the befuddled Rebel, a big bruiser wearing a wife-beater and sporting a 100% Redneck tattoo on his beefy arms. “And you know what?” Cliff adds, defiantly jutting out his pointy chin. “YOUR SIDE LOST!” Before the red-faced tough guy has a chance to react, Jimmy and I push Cliffy toward the door and hightail it to our cabin. We rush inside, slam the door shut, and peer through the slits in the window blinds, hoping like hell we weren’t followed. And while we anxiously await our fate, Jim pulls a roll of Gorilla Tape out of his pack and threatens to muzzle the Legend the next time he opens his mouth. Yep, boy-bonding way down deep in the Ozarks, is more than merely getting down the river, shooting off air guns, sleeping on rocks the size of softballs, and sitting around a campfire at night discussing such wide-ranging topics as global warming, fast canoes, gun control, bent-shaft paddles, why women don’t understand men, bear-proofing your camp, retirement investments, why men don’t understand women, and the latest and greatest high-tech outdoor gear. Thanks to my bros, it’s also about getting out of backwoods Arkansas without getting shot. Larry Rice has paddled a canoe on all seven continents and written hundreds of magazine articles. But only Jacobson and Mandle can attest to how many days he can go without changing his socks on a canoe trip. Originally Published, Paddler November-December 2007 |
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