I can’t say I jumped up and down with glee when I heard that the company trip/seminar/vacation I’d been invited to attend was in Tunica, Mississippi. Gambling Mecca's with their smoke filled lounges, neon, and continual pinging and clanging are not my cup of tea.

Then Rusty tossed out the golden caddis, the magic nymph, and the strike-producing wooly bugger all at once. “We could” he suggested, “get done Friday night at Tunica, and drive over to Arkansas,” I waited for the tippet to hit the surface.... He continued, ”the Little Red is only three and a half hours from there.”

Wham! I hit that offer with the force of a West Coast steelhead. Told the folks at the store to handle it, I was taking some vacation days. Got on the computer and tapped out a message to my buddies on the Virtual Flyshop message board, too.

Guide Danny (Arky Dan) Hudgins happened to read that post, and knowing that I was acquainted with the Caney Fork Three Amigos (see “Infamous Fishing Buddies”) and offered to meet up with us, show us around, and take us out on the river as only someone who has fished it for fifteen years or more can do.

Of course, I struck on that offer, too. Not to say I didn’t find a few things to enjoy in Tunica. I spent considerable time watching catfish, crappie, gar, and turtles rising and basking in the moat of Mississippi River water that surrounds the Grand Casino. The area was fenced off, and for one afternoon, Rusty was in meetings, and not around to tell me I couldn’t fish in the moat. I weighed the consequences of fishing in an off-limits area, without a Mississippi license, and on Rusty’s company trip, and decided to leave my rod in the car.

I went shopping at an outlet store and bought a pair of bright lime green Converse high-top sneakers. I ventured out to the edge of the lake on the golf course and checked for fish there (none).

We had a nice dinner with the rest of the group. The next morning found me having breakfast with the wives and significant others. They talked about their children, their homes, and their lives. I listened with interest, but my mind was on TROUT! We then met up with the rest of the group for a meeting, while I fidgeted and squirmed, wishing I had my handy little hot-weather chest pack with me, so I could be re-arranging flies, pre-tying 7x tippets, cutting strike indicator yarn in handy ready to use pieces.....Oh, it was agony, but wonderful agony.

That afternoon, with the choice of golf, a visit to the spa, or trap shooting with Rusty and two other guys from the company, I chose the latter. The Willows Gun Club in Tunica was a terrific place to be, even on a hot July day. I hadn’t shot trap in at least fifteen years, but still had the knack. Then a shower, a Vegas-style show, and some sleep....dreaming of the Little Red and the kind of trout that make the Three Amigos camp on the banks in a tent and fish for a whole week.

The next morning arrived, hot, humid, steaming windows of the convenience stores we passed en route to the highway. Rusty is the map king of the world. He checks his maps, checks his directions, and estimates the time. All wonderful traits. Give me a map and my reading glasses, and show me where I’m going, and I’ll navigate pretty well, making sure when we stop that Rusty looks at the route I’m seeing and agrees that it’s the best one. But between him telling stories of his old days running race horses in Arkansas, me spotting flattened armadillos by the road, and seeing unfamiliar row crops (we didn’t raise such things as rice in California) we got a bit off track, putting us in Heber Springs, Arkansas about 1:00 PM.

We found the Ozark Angler, a great fly shop close to the Greer’s Ferry dam, and got some information. Rusty got information, that is. I sorted through flies, fondled fly rods, you know, all my usual fly shop activities. Since the generators had been running, we were told we’d find the most wade-able water near the dam.

Fine with me. It was so hot; I for once did not hurry to put my waders on. But when Rusty was ready and I wasn’t, I told him I’d get rigged up and catch up, and he should not wait for me. The last part of that, I told to his backside, as he trotted off to the river.

Passed another fly fisherman on my way to the river, and a welcomed “Trophy Section, Catch and Release Only” sign. I was just about to start down towards Rusty, where he was already waist-deep and casting for all he was worth when I spotted them. TROUT! At first I saw a handful. Then a dozen, then more, and then I was digging at my chest pack, pulling out 7x tippet, tying on a fly, looping my strike indicator, and all of this with trembling hands.

The fish lay in the current from pipes that carried water from the hatchery, feeding on leftovers from their old home. They were ten, and twelve, and fourteen, and sixteen inches long, and they cruised around my ankles like tame koi in a pond.

“Close your mouth,” I told myself, “Breathe deep, don’t shake, be precise, look at the bugs, look at the water, don’t chase the fish....“ Then I spent the better part of the next hour flipping a line out fifteen or twenty feet, and watching in awe as two or three or five fish would race toward my nymph to take a look. The big ones would cruise towards it, look, and dive back down, never changing speed.

It was a fascinating study. Then I tied on a big ol’ wooly bugger and lobbed it out about 50 feet, into the current. A feat, mind you, I can only pull off with a 6 wt rod, pretty stiff action, a heavy fly, and the wind in my favor. Stripping as fast as I could, I’d watch trout after trout chase the fly back to within 12 feet of me before I’d stop stripping, which shut down the chase instantly. Seemed like every time I looked up, Rusty had another nice fish on, and then he motioned for me to come down to the pool he was fishing. He gave me his solid spot on a sandbar, showed me what he was having success with, fly-wise, and went further upstream.

The Little Red is one big, wide river below Greer’s Ferry Dam. I’d venture to say that where I stood, you’d have had to cast 200 feet to reach the far bank. No problem for me, I managed to not spook fish any further than 40 feet away for the most part.

I hooked a nice 12-inch fish in a few minutes, and missed a bunch more. Caught a nice crappie on a dry in the shallows. Watched more fish. This was like watching a nature show, on the habits of Rainbow and Brown trout, except I was in it, conducting the studies. Finally, a storm that had been looming in the hills broke open, and we took our graphite lightening rods and headed back.

From the car, we called “Arky Dan”. He told us to meet him in the morning, and he’d REALLY put us on fish. We put in a short night’s rest, and met him early.

“Arky Dan” has that look of a smart, seasoned sportsman who keeps his cool. Reminded me a little of Kris Kristofferson. Kind of grizzled, kind of tough, but all the graciousness, generosity, and charm I’ve come to anticipate when meeting new fly fishing friends. He’d brought a couple of nice rods we could use if we wanted, and I decided to take up his offer of using my choice between a Sage or Winston rod. Mind you, I did put “Little Blue” (see “Ever Have One Of Those Rods?“) in the boat, because, after all, this was an adventure, and Blue IS my adventure rod.

Dan’s boat, his “Jet Sled”, is a 15 or so foot Jon boat, outfitted with a 30 hp motor for getting there fast, and a silent trolling motor that runs via a foot control for when he gets there. We covered a lot of water in a half hour’s time, passing riverfront homes, boat houses, and one gentleman who shared his small boat with a happy, tail-wagging, fish-pointing collie. As we passed, the man hooked a fish, which produced gleeful barking and fish-watching from the dog. It was a wonderful moment.

A few minutes later, Dan stopped, handed me a delicious 4 wt Winston rod, outfitted with an Orvis Battenkill large arbor reel, and said “Let’s fish.“

He told us to set our indicators at about four feet, and just let the drift do the rest. That rod was like a dream to cast. A few casts later, my indicator did a hard dive, and when I was done stripping and reeling, a fifteen-inch Cutthroat was in my hands, having her picture taken. We moved to deeper water, setting indicators at 6 and 7 feet. Harder to detect strikes at that depth, but we watched Dan pull up big, fat, fighting trout time after time. I started setting my hook every time the indicator even slowed down, and began to catch more fish than ever.

He showed me how to tie a nymph on with a loop, giving it more action in the water. Later, he swapped rods with me, giving me a Sage SP that cast like silk.

Poor “Little Blue” didn’t even get cast that day. We visited with other guides and when Dan told them we were friends of the Admiral’s, one got to laughing, and wondered why we’d want anyone to know. The Admiral’s reputation had preceded us.

Shortly after noon, the fish “shut off”. Rusty had an appointment back in Nashville, and Dan had family coming to visit. It was getting hot, and for once in my life, I’d fished enough for a day. This I shared with Rusty, who felt my forehead in disbelief. The Jet Sled flew us back to the ramp, and we heard more about the hatchery and stocking system used to keep the quality of the Little Red as it is.

This stranger had taken us in because we were friends of the Three Amigos, and because, I think, it is the nature of people like “Arky Dan” Hudgins to share the years of knowledge he has earned, and the beautiful river he calls home.

“Come back soon as you can,” he said as we parted, “come and stay longer, and we’ll fish more water.“

Let’s see....the Brown trout spawning run is in October....wonder how much time off I can take by then?

Juni ReadHead Fisher