The Infamous Canoe trip of 1978.

The plan was simple and bore out of a sense of adventure. My grandfather had grown up in the Letona / Sidon communities in central Arkansas back in the 1915-1930's period. He told me many stories of he and his buddy Cleston Hughes running all over the country as young boys. He said everyone burned off their pastures each year to the creeks. There were no ticks, chiggers, or even snakes, except a few around the creek. This dominant creek in the area is named "Big Creek", presumably in relation to the other very small run off streams. Big Creek eventually ends up in the Little Red River but the actual means eludes me even today. There is a well known landmark called "Slick Rock Ford". A pretty self explanatory name, it was deemed the focal point for the beginning of our adventure. We were told the creek meandered through the hilly country running by another well known landmark and swimming locale "Bluff Hole". Arkansas landmarks sport relatively uncomplicated names that seem to be more than adequate.

Grandpa had glowing tales of he and Cleston hunting squirrel, rabbit, and birds along the creeks. I've never eaten a Robin or Meadow Lark but he said they were pretty sweet owing to the diet of mostly bugs and worms. Every once in a while a Opossum or Raccoon was a welcome addition to the larder. I asked what choice of weapons they used. To my surprise he said they mostly just threw rocks! Sometimes they would make "bean flips" or homemade sling shots using the red natural rubber from discarded model A Ford inner-tubes. He said they were fantastic, accurate, and formidable weapons! There was also a story of a cave where the entrance was a bit narrow but it quickly opened up into a good size room. Wonderful stories of a 1920's simple country boy youth.

We parked one pickup truck at Bluff Hole and drove about 15 miles by gravel road to Slick Rock Ford. I had borrowed my Uncle's 17' fiberglass canoe that stuck out a good ways out the back of the long wheelbase F100, adorned with a red shop towel tied to the end, for DOT compliance I figured. We had an ice chest with sandwich provisions and drinks. Also each of us had a shotgun and one box of shells. I remember one friend had a Remington 1100 12 gauge, another an Ithaca 37 16 gauge. and I used a handy Ithaca M66 single shot .410. The creek was wide and inviting as we unloaded the canoe and positioned the life vests as seat cushions. We were off, for about 200 yards. The creek disappeared! The bed and rocks were evident but the water was gone! We had to get out of the canoe and carry the entire load over the rocks and snags. It also became evident that the shotguns were very useful. Upon "finding: the creek once again after a section of dry bed we again floated along. Each time we encountered a snag of driftwood, as the canoe headed toward the morass it was noted that typically others also occupied the snags. Snakes were everywhere. There was a reluctant agreement to rotate the "point man" position in the front of the canoe that encountered and snags and snakes first. This helped rest nerves and fostered a empathetic mood since you knew it would soon be your turn. We shot many, snakes. As country boys we knew the difference between common water snakes and the prevalent pit vipers, Water Moccasins and Copperheads. We only shot pit vipers and ammunition stores rapidly diminished. We agreed to limit shooting to unusually large specimens in the way of our progress, carrying the canoe over snags, or areas where the 50 ft. wide waterway vanished under a dry rocky bed. This was considerable work and not fast going. We did manage to have fun and there were some amazingly beautiful wide deep sections. Yet not much farther along the creek would again dwindle to about nothing or simply the high water rock bed. We ate most of our provisions and while we had a little bit of fishing gear we had scarce time to try it out. Nightfall comes rapidly in the hills and it became clear we would not make our destination in the light. While we had some fleeting light left we came across a narrow section where it was obvious that a local farmer used this as a crossing point for his tractors. Tracks led to a field. The discussion was brief and serious. My view was I'd rather take my chances following the tractor path to civilization, and hopefully a house with a phone we could use, as to wearing a snake necklace in the dark. I was down to about four .410 rounds from a full box, snakes were in the trees, in the water, on the bank, and multiples in each woody snag we drug the canoe and equipment across. We left the canoe in the brush, grabbed the fishing poles, ice chest, and shotguns. We had traveled through one large field when we saw the lights of a tractor in the next field. We flagged the surprised farmer down and explained our situation. It was the actual Cleston Hughes himself! We unloaded our shotguns and handed them into the tractor cab first, then he agreed to take us to our truck at Bluff Hole. It was not very far at all by his field trails. But we still would have had a ways to go along the dark snake infested creek. We had only a couple Bic pocket lighters for light, somehow even the minimally effective flashlights of the day had escaped our kit. A few days later we recovered the canoe with no losses. The guys sometimes speak of the trip but not without recounting the dragging, snakes, and our savior on the tractor. The canoe adventure of 1978 continues in legend.

All my stories are real life experiences, I'm not creative enough to make up things. This is an actual photo of "Bluff Hole" in Letona, AR. A frequented swimming hole since sometime before the civil war. I have heard that Indians used to frequent the area. That boy at the top is gonna jump!