Illinois River 7-25

    My grandfather-in-law, Joe B, is a retired doctor. He was actually one of the first doctor's in the Northwest Arkansas area.  Like most doctors back in the day, he made a nice chunk of change and bought a big plantation-style house on top of the hill, in what is now the historic district of Fayetteville. It's a gorgeous house with huge stain glass windows, a double staircase dozens of rooms hidden down dark narrow hallways.  In short, it's a hide and seek paradise complete with creaky floorboards and the distinct possibility of ghosts.   However, the house was sold about two years ago, since he hadn't been living in it for quite sometime. It turns out that Joe B is not your average doctor.  He prefers to wear his jeans tucked into his boots instead of the stereotypical khakis and loafers.  He is also a man who learned to fly fish at age 14 during a month long road trip to Colorado.  His supplies consisted of a flyrod, flies, a pup tent, a case of Aunt Jemima's pancake mix, a case of canned beans and a case of oil for the '38 Pontiac.  Needless to say some trout were killed during the trip, but he continues to lament killing the big ones. It turns out that they did not fit into the pan very well.  In keeping with his love of nature, Joe B purchased a 400 acre farm west of town that includes hollers, woods, pastures and, most importantly, a good 1/2 mile of the Illinois River.  Each of his sons were allowed to build a house on the property, which is how I came to get access to the water.  I truth, he'll let anyone fish the water provided that they access from the public bridge and don't disturb the cattle.  This is not something that you want to assume in Arkansas, as you are just as likely to get met with a shotgun as a "good morning".   Well, that's not exactly accurate, but it doesn't take meeting many shotguns to make a person skittish.
   The water tends to be muddy from chicken shit that's spread on the fields and two feet of visibility is about as good as it gets. I lived on the farm, with the girl whose now my wife, for a summer and managed to tread obvious paths through the streamside brush to the better pools. When I returned last weekend the brush was back, occasionally abbreviated by cattle trails.  Cattle trails are a mystery to me.  Trails made by cattle, or any animal, will inevitably lead you to water. I simply can't understand how such large animals can leave such a narrow trail. When walking down one, your feet feel like they are on a paved road while your flyrod gets constantly snagged by tall grass and tree limbs. This is one of the reasons why I keep my rod strung up once it leaves the truck. The line and leader keeps the tip section in place through snags and I'd much rather send a broken rod back to the factory than 3/4 of one. 
    When the water is at a fishable level it tends to glide by uniformly and at its leisure.  There are no tricky currents, making mending nothing more than a formality.  The technical aspect to fishing this water is provided by the spring rains that purge the banks of any trees clinging weakly to the banks.  The combination of poor trails, abundant water-logged trees and lazy current adds up to a fishing experience that most closely resembles a hidden bass pond on a breezy day with shade.
   There's no pressure or timetable.   I can drive my truck up and down either side of the river. There are no open container laws. If my wife needs me or if there is work to be done, someone can drive down on the ATV and find me.  Even the fishing is relaxed. Cast a popper to the bank, try to count to 100, strip, repeat.  Hell, the last to Kentucky's that I caught were hanging out in the middle of the river, so even accuracy is not that important.
  Last weekend I swung by McLellans and picked up some fancy deer hair bass bugs, including Whitlock's Fruit Cocktail, and one of those large angled scientific angler's fly boxes.  In an effort not to lose the expensive bugs I rigged up 3' of 20lb maxima chameleon off of the end of a clouser line.  It worked great and the fish didn't mind a bit, although I did bend the hook open on a taco pescado that was well hooked into a tree.  Not a branch, that would've broken, but the trunk of a tree.  At least I got the fly back.
  Muddy river, Busch light, bug.

Taco Pescado (before the tree incident) and pescado. Ran out of beer.