I visited the most beautiful place I’ve seen in Arkansas on Saturday while fishing a short section of a river in Central Arkansas.
That is as precise as I will offer about the location because I’m protective of special places. It helps that this place is private, but it is possible to obtain a permit to visit. If you’re wondering how to get this permit, we covered that in a previous issue.
My feet have touched almost every square mile of my beloved state. Part of me is sad to know that it took me this long to see this particular place. Another part of me is overjoyed that there are still new places for me to see, and that some unseen might be even prettier than this.
A frequent fishing buddy actually obtained the permit. It entitled him to bring one guest. When he told me where it was, I was doubtful. It’s near the headwaters. There couldn’t be much water up there, especially as dry as it has been. I took a few plastic lizards, but I was so confident of thin, shallow water that I didn’t take any sinkers. I also didn’t take any hard baits, a miscalculation that I regretted.
As we left my house, I looked at the Google Maps route on my friend’s navigation screen.
“Why is it routing you that way?” I asked. “It’s a lot quicker to take Highway 9.”
“It suggested several routes, but it says this one is the fastest, so we’re going this way. Besides, I am not taking directions from somebody as directionally challenged as you.”
As it usually is, Google Maps was right by a fair margin. And it took me down roads that I have never traveled. There aren’t many, so again I was elated.
Finally we reached our destination. We walked down a hill into a field, and that’s where I was gobsmacked at the beauty of a vast, green valley encircled by low hills. It reminded me of places in Piedmont regions of Virginia and North Carolina, a verdant citadel walled off from the world.
We went through a gate and walked a few yards to the creek bank. Awaiting us was a big, fat cottonmouth that coiled up on the water surface and gaped its maw before retreating to a hole in the mud bank.
The pool was about 30 yards long and maybe 20 yards wide. The water was rust colored and mostly less than a foot deep. The bottom was all loose rocks covered with a rust-colored slime that was as slick as bearing grease. We had to walk very slowly and very cautiously to stay upright and avoid turning ankles.
We soon ran out of water and hit dry rock with water seeping through the bases. This was even harder walking. We groused disgustedly until the rock garden opened to a magnificent pool that stretched about 300 yards. Tons of wood cover littered the shallow water beside the banks. The shelves dropped precipitously over my head. Let me tell you, it’s hard to cast while treading water.
I caught a nice smallmouth bass on a weightless Zoom lizard, followed by a green sunfish. I got no more bites in the deep water.
My companion caught a giant green sunfish, but then he switched to a small chugger type plug. That was magic. He caught a rapid succession of Kentucky bass. At the far end of the pool he caught a smallmouth and a Kentucky at the same time.
The fish quit biting about the time we ran out of water, so we fished the pool in reverse before quitting. That was a mistake. A subsequent look at Google Maps showed us another long pool beyond that one. It also required walking a long way over a rock garden.
“As rough as that road is coming in, a lot of people would have said, ‘To heck with this,’ and turned around about a mile before they even got to the place,” I said as we drove away. “Everyone else would have punted after they got to the rock garden above the water moccasin pool. At our age, especially you with your replacement hip, I give it up to us to stick it out and do as well as we did.”
Here is where you think you’ve got me softened up to divulge the location. I can’t. I’m too directionally challenged.
