Taco Bag in Evening Shade

Taco Bag in Evening Shade





Original Cast of "Evening Shade"

 

Remember the TV sitcom “Evening Shade”?  I don’t really, other than Burt Reynolds was one of the stars.  I believe he was a high school football coach and Marilu Henner was his wife.  I also believe the show was set in a fictional town in Arkansas.  A few years ago as I traveled from Heber Springs to Mammoth Springs after the Little Red River had been blown out by an epic rainstorm, I passed through Evening Shade and thought: “what a coincidence.”  After doing a little research, I know now Evening Shade, Arkansas was the location for the show. 

Since then, I have passed through Evening Shade many times chasing water; attempting to find wadable trout water after the USACE performed their daily buzz-kill: elevating the water I was fishing from docile to treacherous.  Each time I passed through, I thought about a TV series I never watched, but other than a passing thought, moved on without significance.  Last summer, Evening Shade took on a completely new meaning for me. 

My friend, Robert and I traveled from Gulfport for a few days of fly-fishing.  Although Robert is a capable fly-caster and an avid outdoorsman, he had never been to Arkansas to trout fish.  Since I was the designated “guide” of the trip, I was determined Robert would have a great time and catch as many fish as possible.

After making the ten hour drive, we arrived in Cotter and stopped by my favorite fly shop, Steve Dally’s for licenses, information, flies and some cool Simms gear I couldn’t resist.  With most of the day behind us after the long drive and a longer than anticipated stay at Steve’s, we fished the White below Cotter.  Although the fishing was slow, the outing was not without excitement.  We got an up-close and personal view of the AFGA doing their thing.  The officer, who will remain anonymous, did an excellent job of rounding up a group of well-oiled boaters out for a good time.  Little did I realize this excitement was only a splinter of the forest of adventure we were about to enter.

On our way to Cotter access, I was stunned to see the old White Sands Motel I used to frequent had reopened under a new name—The Cotter Trout Lodge. Needless to say, we checked in for a couple night’s stay.   This was an awesome blast from the past and I’m sure Robert grew weary of hearing tales of my many adventures there and all of the characters I had met.  He did enjoy our conversations with all of the fly fishing guys who converge there after hours, turning the parking lot into what appears to be a drift boat dealership.

The next day we fished the Norfork and had a slow, but steady day.  Concerned about the USACE water generation schedule on the White River and the low enthusiasm of the trout on the Norfork, I decided we would move on the following day to Mammoth Spring and fish the Spring River.

“The trout are always hungry on the Spring.  It’s a lock.  The place never lets me down.  It won’t be a question of will we catch fish, but how many fish will we catch?”

I think Robert believed me.  Hell, I believed me. 

With visions of an eighty-fish day in our heads, we headed to Mountain Home and posted-up at Chili’s to celebrate our assured future success by knocking down a couple cold ones and watching some pre-season NFL games at the bar.

The next morning, much to the chagrin of the fine owners of the Cotter Trout Lodge, we checked out of the Cotter Trout Lodge a day early.  They were extremely nice and gave us a refund with no problem.  I’ll definitely be back next trip.

We made the trip to Mammoth Spring and arrived at the Riverview Motel where we secured a room.  Ten minutes later, we arrived at Lassiter Access.  The water was low and slow and the fishing even slower.  We chucked woolly buggers for four hours and only caught two fish in sections that normally would have been money shots.

“I made a bad mistake,” I said.  “I can’t believe how bad the fishing is.”  “It’s never been this bad.”…blah, blah, blah…

I’m sure Robert tired of hearing my whining about why we weren’t catching them like “I normally do.” 

Hot and exasperated, we drove out of Mammoth Springs on Highway 285 and onto Bayou Access, hopeful a modification of venue would change our luck.  No such providence.  After traveling seven miles of winding dirt road (one way), Bayou Access was a wasteland of low-holing worm and corn dunkers, kids swimming, and a drunken flotilla of  canoes, johnboats, kayaks, and rafts in incessant passage down the stream.  We never got out of the vehicle.  Slack-jawed at the menagerie I was witnessing, I shook my head and muttered something about it not being in the cards.  We turned around and headed back to Mammoth Spring in a trail of dust. 

On the way back, I decided the only way to save our trip was to roll the dice one more time and travel to my last ace in the hole destination—The Little Red River in Heber Springs. 

Meanwhile, all was not well with Robert’s vehicle, which was actually Robert’s wife’s vehicle.  It seemed while we were fishing, we developed a slow leak in one of the tires.  Usually this wouldn’t be a problem.  Unfortunately, it was Sunday and there were no tire repair shops open from Hardy to Koshkanong. 

Over the course of the afternoon, we made three trips to the air pump at the Stateline Truck Stop in Thayer, Missouri.  Robert finally called AAA and they came to the Riverview Motel where we were staying and changed it.  I know you are asking, why couldn’t two grown men change a flat tire?  I’m not sure I have an intelligent answer, but I will say after we got off the water, the day was hot and the beer was cold.  You’re probably also asking, “How does Evening Shade fit into this convoluted tale?”  Well, here it is. 

The next morning we left the Riverview Motel and headed to Heber Springs.  There is a tire shop in Mammoth Spring, but it doesn’t open until 8:00.  Our logic says even though we don’t have a viable spare, we will chance it and find a tire shop along the way for our repair. 

“I’m sure it will be fine,” Robert said.  “The odds of having a flat are slim.”

“Slim?” I said, wondering if two days of hard fishing in the heat had gotten to him.

We move through town after town without luck until we drove through Evening Shade: Population 465.  Finally, we spot it, a tire repair shop with no sign.  Actually a nondescript metal shed with no sign.  How did we know it was a tire repair shop?  All the tires stacked outside, of course!

Nothing is easy as you’ve seen from this tale.  And getting to the spare in the Dodge Durango is no exception.  The back of the vehicle is crammed with fly fishing gear and luggage, all of which we have to lug out, piece by piece to get to the lift panel and remove the back panel, get to the spare, unlock the spare, and twist the spare downward until it contacts the ground.  In the middle of the process, Robert has a bowel emergency and asks if he can use the “tire store’s” facilities.

                “Ain’t got no restroom,” the tire repair technician replied.

                “Uh, oh,” Robert says, looking around at the mine-field of gear strewn all around the yard. 

                “But,” the repair technician says, “There’s a convenience store just up the road a piece.  It’s where I go when nature calls.”

                The tire guy looks at Robert looking at our out of commission vehicle and eager to solve another problem, says, “You can take the shop truck,” nodding to a nondescript Chevy 4WD pickup of questionable lineage and year model.  “only thing is…”

                I held my breath.

                “Once you crank her, don’t switch her off, or she might not start up again.”

                Robert said, “So you want me to leave it running while I’m in the restroom?”

                “Yup.”

                “Aren’t you worried someone will steal it?”

                I look at the truck and wonder why Robert is being so polite in his volatile condition.

                “Do it every day.  Ain’t been stole yet.”

                So the tire guy turns the key, Robert gets in and disappears up the road. 

                While the tire guy is repairing the tire, I decide to get industrious and rig up.  In what most certainly must have looked like a scene from the Trout Bum Diaries, I used a set of 55 gallon oil drums as props for the 5-weights as I changed out leaders and tied on flies.  I got a lot of funny looks from passing motorists along Highway 67.  Even tire guy comes over to see what I’m doing.

                “I always wanted to try that fly-fishing stuff,” he said and spat a brown stream of Copenhagen on the ground.  “Go to the Little Red in Heber.  They got some big ones over there.”

                I thanked him for the advice.

                Robert returns, the tire guy, one of the nicest guys I ever met, fixes the tire, goes through the detailed engineering feat of putting the spare back without a hitch, and we transfer all the gear back into the Durango, pay the man and head to Heber Springs with visions of trout still swimming in our heads.

                We get to the Swinging Bridge in Heber, jump out of the Durango, pull on the waders and boots…uh, oh…where’s my Simms Taco bag with my waders and boots in it?  You’ve got to be kidding, right?  Robert, I’ve got some bad news…I think we left something in Evening Shade…

                To say I was in a panic would be an understatement.  I’m going over the various scenarios…did I leave it at the hotel in Mammoth Springs?  Did I leave it on top of the Durango at the tire place?  Did someone steal it and I didn’t know about it?  Next, I’m thinking about the monetary output necessary to replace a pair of Patagonia Rio Gallegos waders, a pair of Patagonia Rock Grip wading boots, a pair of Simms wading sandals, two pair of wading socks and my favorite Simms wading belt.  If I told you how much, you wouldn’t believe it.

                We break several speed limits on the way to Evening Shade, all the while trying to call the mystery tire shop with no sign or no name.

                “Hey!  Wasn’t there a Dollar General Store across the street from the shop?”

                No problem, call them and find out the tire shop number.  No so fast, my friend…

                No listing for this particular store.  We call a neighboring store in Cave City and they tell us the Evening Shade store is brand new, not listed in the book…yet, but I can give you the number… 

We get the Evening Shade Dollar General Store manager on the horn…

                “We’re all new here, sir.  Don’t have any idea about the tire store across the street with no sign.  How do you know it’s a tire store?”

                “All the tires out front…and we just had a tire changed there about two hours ago…never mind…”

                “What about the store?” Robert said.  “Nice folks in there.  Even watched the truck for me while I was in the bathroom.  If the tire guy goes there every day to use the facilities, surely they know who he is.”

                “Do you remember the name of the store?”

                “No, but how many stores are in Evening Shade?”

                I start Googling and find the only convenience store number I can find on Highway 67.

                They know the guy and will tell him we called if he comes by.  Best we can do for now.

                Needless to say, we didn’t get in touch with the tire store guy.  Finally, we get to Evening Shade and the tire store and guess what?  Straight up 12:00 noon.  The guy’s gone to lunch. 

                I will spare the details of how we recovered my missing taco bag, but I will say Robert performed the task of retrieval like a true professional.

                On the way back to Heber, the really nice tire guy calls.  It seems he went to the store to use the restroom and they told him we’d called.  He’s glad we found the bag and was concerned we’d forgotten about it and with no way to contact us…well, you get the picture.

                We have another slow day of fishing on the Little Red, it seems as if the change of venue had no effect on the summer sulkiness of southern trout.  These fish just aren’t biting anything we’ve got. 

                I could continue for another couple paragraphs and tell you how the bar I wanted to take Robert to for a cold beer after a hot afternoon of fishing was closed on Monday and we ended up socializing with the fine patrons of the Heber Springs VFW.  I could also tell you about the next morning and how we hammered a few trout at Cow Shoals access and how the trip ended up being exactly what it was meant to be…an adventure I will never forget.