Trip/Fishing Report (7/16-7/19/2025)

[darbwa]

Andy Hart Memorial X
July 16–19, 2025
 

“The river has great wisdom and whispers its secrets to the hearts of men.”
— Mark Twain

     This year, the Andy Hart Memorial float‘n fish took place on July 16-19 on the beautiful Buffalo River.  After failing to make a trip happen in 2023 or 2024 the tradition resumed —gratefully, finally, and necessarily. For the last two years, life, as it tends to do, had intervened in all its complexity. But this year was different. We had to resume this tradition for a variety of reasons. For me, a recent cancer diagnosis gave me the wake-up call I may have needed to remain focused on the important things in life.

Planning for this year’s trip was the most challenging yet as I just could not decide which river to float. Unseasonally rainy conditions in Missouri and typical low-water conditions in Arkansas made the decision difficult.  Do we take higher, faster water that can make fishing and canoeing challenging? Or do we take the slow water through the Lower Buffalo Wilderness? After a lot of grinding over all pertinent water level gauges, talking to different outfitters about our options for a Wednesday to Saturday trip, we decided on the Lower Buffalo. So, on the Wednesday morning of July 16, my son and I headed out of Tulsa with plans to meet our good friends driving from Kansas City at Buffalo River Float Service south of Yellville, AR.

Preparation for these trips is a lot of work but after doing it so many times, it is not difficult to know what we need and what we don’t. If anything, our cargo load would be reduced over time if not for the increase in the number of beverages. But, just in case we were not provisioned perfectly, I made a call to an outfitter on the confluence of the Buffalo and White Rivers, Riley’s Outfitter. I asked them if I could persuade someone (with a sizeable tip) to take a boat upriver on Friday morning with a case of beer and two bags of ice to make sure we were in good shape for the rest of our journey. While I could tell my offer was appealing, I did not receive confirmation that someone would be coming to meet us.

After meeting at the outfitter and making our plans, we drove down to the Rush access point and loaded our canoes. We launched just after noon on July 16. Two father-son pairs: myself and Cullin, and our Kansas City crew—Mac and Mackie. Mac and I go way back to college, and both of us were lucky enough to call Andy a friend. We’ve walked miles of gravel bars together, shared firelight, fish stories, and loss. There was something fulfilling about returning to this river, this trip, with him by my side again.

The weather was exactly what you’d expect from mid-July in the Arkansas wilderness—hot, still, and heavy. The kind of heat that makes you sweat before you lift a finger. Loading a canoe results in an outpouring. On day 1, the clouds that drifted in sporadically seemed to arrive more as tease than relief. But the heat does not suppress the beauty nor the life that abounds in the lower Buffalo Wilderness. Before we had even reached Clabber Shoal, the first real bend of the trip, we saw a large bald eagle flying by to welcome us back to this slice of heaven.

The fishing was slow. There were catches, yes—but they were hard-earned. No hot streaks. No surprise honey holes. Just clear, skinny water and fish that weren’t too interested in what we had to offer. But oddly, that slow bite brought its own kind of peace. No one was in a rush. It became less about what we caught and more about what we carried—and what we left behind.

Our first night’s camp came earlier than usual. A shaded, roomy and familiar gravel bar gave us room to stretch out and reset. This spot was only about 4 and a half miles from our starting point, but we knew this was a good spot to camp from our trip through this section a few years earlier. The dads did most of the work preparing dinner while the boys gathered wood for a fire. The usual rituals returned: a shared meal and enough laughter to fill the warm evening air. As we sat by the fire and night set in, a light show began. We laid back in our Nemo Stargazer chairs as the stars, meteorites, fireflies, distant planes, and satellites came into view with increasing clarity and brightness as the sun’s light very slowly faded in the northwestern sky and our campfire faded. The sun’s indirect light was so slow to fade in the distance, we could hardly believe that there wasn’t a stadium lit up just beyond the horizon. But fade it did, and the sky continued to light up and become more entertaining. So much so that we let the fire burn out despite having plenty more wood readily available.

“There is certainly something in angling that tends to produce a serenity of the mind.”
— Washington Irving

Day two began with delicious breakfast burritos prepared by Mac’s wonderful wife, Carrie, in advance of our trip – another standing tradition on our trip that we are all very grateful for. After breaking down camp we cooled off in the river to relieve the full-on sweat that a little bit of work brought on. After a short run of less than 5 miles on day one, our plan was to cover at least 10 miles on day two and camp somewhere between Middle Creek and Leatherwood Creek.

The river moved sluggishly through long pools broken by shallow riffles—some so low we had to drag canoes over small portions of them. The weather remained hot and very still, but we were fortunate that a thin layer of clouds kept the pounding sun at bay just enough to make it tolerable to paddle through a few pools before cooling off in the river. Those long pools on the lower Buffalo looked like clear glass that we glided through. The stillness of the water made it exceptionally easy to peer into the clear water to see all the life submerged beneath the surface. But that stillness had some obvious downsides. The fishing suffered, and so did we as the lack of breeze made the heat that much worse.

We did not catch many fish in the still pools so we would fish mostly in the moving water and paddle through the pools once we reached the motionless stretches. But Cullin was all in. He once again took on the role of canoe engine, paddling hard and steady through the slow pools once we decided to move along. We picked off a few smallies here and there. No bragging rights, no photo-worthy hawgs. But we fished with purpose, with patience. And sometimes that’s enough.

We made good miles on day two, and even spotted our friendly eagle a time or two. By the time we reached what we thought was Middle Creek we had fallen into that river rhythm—the one where hours don’t really matter, only moments. We enjoyed the cool water entering the river through the creek and had some laughs. We began to discuss where to stop for the night and look for the right gravel bar that would provide the good morning shade we covet. When an appealing spot came into view we were surprised (and a little disappointed) to see that there were people there in kayaks with tents up. No worries, on the Buffalo another great camping spot is just around the bend. Sure enough, a short distance down river there was a gorgeous, smaller spot that was nicely shaded. But wait, it was also occupied!?!  A solo traveler had a spot that I am sure he must have known well. We paddled by and enviously said, “You sure have a beautiful spot here! Have a nice evening.”

After passing on a couple of other options I was very surprised to see a familiar sight that I did not expect to see until day 3 of our journey. It was most definitely Elephant Head Rock! I immediately reached for my map and hollered at the other group, “We need to stop.” Fortunately, we were at a great spot to make our home for the evening with a great view of Elephant Head Rock. Apparently, what I thought was Middle Creek must have been Leatherwood Creek, and we were significantly farther down river than I previously thought. Navigating a river in the heat of the summer can be tricky when you are trying to note ephemeral creeks entering (or not) the river!  Mac, true to form, brought the levity. He laughed hard and teased me relentlessly for losing track of our location, something I pride myself on. “Oh well! Looks like tomorrow will be a lazy day of paddling!”

Due to a later arrival at camp, we decided not to bother with a campfire at all. Unfortunately, the slight overcast sky hid the lightshow that we enjoyed on night one. No one complained as we were all pretty beat from a long day on the river. Camp was quiet that night as Mac and Cullin were quickly taken down by the sandman, leaving Mackie and I some time to chat and catch up. It is very gratifying to spend time with a young man who I have watched grow up.  Mackie is a laid-back kid with a kind heart and I feel very fortunate to have so many memories on the river with him. He too reminds me of my friend Andy in many ways. And even though I pestered him throughout the trip by quizzing him over every musical artist we listened to throughout the trip, I think he appreciates me too. At least that’s what I will tell myself!

“The act of fishing—for fish, dreams, or whatever magic is available—is enough. It transports us to a special world, and a state of mind, where we are free.”
— Fennel Hudson

Day 3 came early as it typically does for the dads who don’t sleep all that well anymore. Mac and I took some time that morning to do a little fishing near camp while the boys slept in. How my son can sleep in the heat until 9:00AM, I will never know! At one point while fishing near camp, I saw something floating down the river that grabbed my attention. It was a short fishing rod with a spinning reel and a foam float secured to the rod to prevent it from sinking. I yelled to Mac who was downstream about what was heading his way so he swam out and retrieved it. It wasn’t in too bad of shape and it didn’t look like it had been in the water for too long so we assumed someone we saw camping upstream from us had lost it very recently. I gave the setup a test. The reel was resistant to spinning so it needed some TLC. I put a little bit of reel butter on it and she was retrieving like a dream after a few more casts. As soon as I had her fixed up, the solo traveler from upstream came drifting by. Assuming the setup was his, I started to walk out towards him and asked if it belonged to him. Surprisingly he said that it was not. Huh, I guess it must belong to the kayakers.

After another round of breakfast burritos and some cold, canned coffee, we broke camp and started our lazy day with a plan to camp close to the confluence with the White – only 4.5 miles downstream. We had a short way to go and a long time to get there! We would make the most of it!

Day 3 on the river felt like the hottest and most still of the trip. It was a scorcher! We maneuvered the canoe into shade whenever possible and took copious swim breaks to drink cold beverages and cool our bodies in the river. We had a problem though…we were just about out of ice. Even the gallon of water that I had frozen solid was down to about a 12oz cube. On one of our breaks, when we saw the kayakers catching up to us, I grabbed the shorty rod/reel setup and asked if they had lost it. One by one, they all said that it was not theirs. I have no idea how this thing made it to us if it belonged to someone else that far upstream.

As the morning turned to afternoon, we discussed the likelihood that we would see someone making there way up river with the two bags of ice and a case of beer. The plan was to meet in the vicinity of Elephant Head Rock or down around 11. As the afternoon wore on and our drink supply dwindled along with our ability to cool it, I became doubtful. Mac, however, remained positive. He predicted that, “ol’ boy is going to come cruising up around the bend with his ol’ lady in tow and they will be hootin’ and hollerin’. It might be 5:00 but there is no way someone is going to turn down a Benjamin to take a ride in their boat with their woman and get paid for it!”

“A river seems a magic thing. A magic, moving, living part of the very earth itself.”
— Laura Gilpin

When we got to Hudson’s bend and we were at the end of our beer supply, it was about 3:00. The hope had faded. I had just said out loud, “There’s no way they’re coming,” when we heard the motor. As if Mac had foreseen it, a skiff rounded the bend like something out of a dream. Onboard: Gavin and Rhianna and a cooler with two bags of ice and a 30-pack of cold Miller Lite! Now, I am quite sure that Mac was the one that started the hootin’ and hollerin’ but I do believe that we got a little bit of that back from our fantastic and very friendly delivery crew! After a nice visit with our new best friends, we celebrated our good fortune. That moment—ice-cold beer in hand, sweat soaked shirt on my back, my son beside me, a bald eagle circling overhead—that was the river doing what it always seems to do: showing up when it matters.

Gavin and Rhianna let us know that some friends of there’s were hanging out down stream and that there was no one camping down stream for us, very good information to have as we wanted to be as close to the White as possible but also wanted a home to ourselves for the evening. As we pressed on, we quickly came upon Gavin and Rhianna’s friends, Jeremy and his wife (who I unfortunately cannot remember her name, likely because of the extra 30-pack). We decided to make another stop and chat with them for a while. It is funny how fast you can make friends on a river.

Night three was spent under a star-splashed sky at a picture-perfect gravel bar. We ate well, sat long around the fire, and remembered what this trip has always been about. Andy stories resurfaced—like the infamous “badger” incident, when Andy, wrapped in a blue tarp, squared off against what he insisted was a badger in the night (we still vote raccoon). We laughed like we always do when that one gets told, and it felt like he was right there with us.

Sunday morning came too fast, as it always does. We had less than five miles to go, so we fished the last stretch long and slow and caught one last glimpse of the bald eagle that followed us along our path once again down this stretch of river. We then moved onto the cold, rushing water of the White River. After our cold plunge on Smith Island, we plowed through the shockingly dissimilar river to our takeout spot at Shipp’s Ferry.

We made it back. We showed up. We fished, floated, remembered, and healed.

I don’t know what next year will look like. None of us do. But if I’ve learned anything on these rivers, it's this: time is precious, memories are fragile, and when the river calls, you answer.

Until next time.
ANDAAAAY!

[Daryk Campbell Sr]

Beautiful trip.   Well written. Glad you guys got to come together again.  

[gotmuddy]

3 hours ago, Daryk Campbell Sr said:

Beautiful trip.   Well written. Glad you guys got to come together again.  

absolutely stellar writeup which really shows the important things...living in the moment, comradery, family...those are the important things.  love the bit about Gavin, thats great 

[DADAKOTA]

What a great trip and a great read.  You captured it all very well.

[Gavin]

Glad you had a great trip! Thank you for sharing it with us!