By Silas Gray

sports@joplinglobe.com

I was at the fairgrounds in Mountain Home, Ark., and watching a fine show of exhibition fly casting when I saw my buddy Carl Daugherty excitedly approaching.

Carl, Harry Rogers and I had spent the last few days at the annual Federation of Fly Fishers Southern Council Conclave, and this was the final day. We’d wanted to wade fish for trout, but we had no hope of the gates at Bull Shoals Dam being shut off, so the White River was out of the question.

However, water flow through the dam on Norfolk Lake was being stopped for a few hours on a daily basis, and Harry had been dialing the official dam information number to check on current conditions as often as he could.

Carl told me that the dam authority was about to shut off the water, and he and Harry were headed that way after a stop off for tackle at the house that we’d rented. We would finally have our chance to wade fish for trout.

My tackle was in the truck, and the dam was 15 miles from the fairgrounds. I was at the river and pulling on my waders more quickly than I’d like to admit.

I had parked about two miles downstream from the dam at the handicapped access, far enough away that the water hadn’t dropped completely, and it was still on its way down.

I walked out onto the high wooden fishing deck and down the ramp that lead to the water’s edge. The water was still a bit too deep, so I carefully walked along the edge of the stream as I worked my way toward an island that I’d seen just a quarter-mile upstream.

The water had been down for three hours on the day before, while I was in an all-day training session. Harry had driven over and had done quite well. He’d said that he’d been fishing near an island that was just a short hike upstream from the access.

Not far downstream from the island, I encountered a promising shoal. It was a wide gathering of shallow rocks that spanned the entire width of the river.

The water was fairly clear, and five yards above the riffle I saw a wide table-top boulder buried in the stream bed. It came within two feet of the surface and sat right next to the run of deeper water that fed the riffle.

It looked like it would be a fine casting platform. The water was shallow enough by now that I was able to pick my way across and climb upon the boulder.

I now had a view of the entire run, and I could see the flashing sides of the trout as they fed. I cast out and watched as my white foam float moved swiftly through the run with its olive nymph fly suspended three feet below. It wasn’t long before I landed my first and second trout.

I had just hooked and missed my third fish when, from atop my rock, I saw Carl and Harry working their way upstream in my direction. Harry shouted a greeting when they were close enough, saying that he had hoped that was me and that he was glad I’d found his spot.