I was standing at the edge of the rushing stream and holding my kayak.

It wasn’t far to the other side, 12 feet at the most, where a scraggly brush pile lay snagged in a willow bush. Hanging by its reel from one of the lower branches was my fly rod with its tip bouncing and swaying in the swift water just inches below.

Just about two months earlier, Harry Rogers and I had both received e-mail from our buddy Carl Daugherty. He and his co-worker at Empire District Electric Company, Earl Lipscomb, were putting together a fishing trip to Jack’s Fork River. Carl was excited about finally getting to fish with Earl, who’s quite an expert on that river. Harry and I signed up immediately.

The Jack’s Fork River is near Mountain View, Mo., and is part of the National Parks Service’s Ozark National Scenic Riverways. It’s nearly 45 miles long, and I’d heard that the fishing is excellent.

We held a planning meeting over lunch at Woody’s on north Main Street in Joplin. Although I arrived ahead of Carl and Harry, I recognized Earl right away. He was wearing an Empire District shirt and sitting at a big corner table with stacks of maps and pages of handwritten notes all around him.

Earl spoke with authority as we poured over the maps during the meeting. As we travelled the thin blue line of the river along each map, he answered every question and only occasionally did he have to check his notes. Carl was right, we liked him immediately.

The trip was planned. Carl, Harry and I were to leave on Monday and meet up with Earl at the river access at Rymer’s Landing, near Mountain View later in the afternoon. We’d camp there for the night. The next morning we would shuttle the boats upstream to the Missouri highway 17 bridge and float back to our base camp at Rymer’s.

Over the past few months, Carl had been assembling a special camp trailer using various parts from several other trailers. The cabin section was taken from a rusted wreck that he and Harry rescued from a farmer’s field. He named the assemblage “Tag” and this was its maiden trip.

It was just before noon when Carl backed Tag up my driveway and we began loading. Carl comes prepared and both the Navigator and the trailer were already pretty well packed. I pared down my gear as best I could and then slid my kayak onto the trailer’s custom rack. After a stop at the service station for air, we were on our way to Carthage to pick up Mr. Rogers.

The trailer did fine below 50 miles per hour. Beyond that, it began a gentle swaying motion that grew more violent as we accelerated. At 60, the side-to-side motion was joined by a sort of gallop where one tire would remain on the pavement while the other rose into the air. The horrified looks on the faces of passing motorists caused us to slow down and enjoy our leisurely drive.

Once in Carthage, we partially unloaded the trailer and repacked, moving more of the heavy equipment to the front. Tag behaved itself, and Harry, Carl and I were on our way to the river.

Earl had gone on ahead to check river access points. He intermittently called to give us progress reports as a cell signal was available.

The narrow paved county road gave way to a dirt lane as we followed Earl’s detailed directions. A hand-painted sign nailed to a tree finally appeared that read “River Access.” Another sign, on the same tree, warned about “No Stopping” and another stated “Beware of Dog.” As if on cue, a large rough-looking dog leapt from the bed of an old truck sitting on blocks near the porch of a farmhouse and began barking and chasing our vehicle. The owner didn’t need that sign. We never once considered stopping.

Finally, we rounded a bend and came to a parking lot and a large wooden sign announcing “Ozark National Scenic Riverways — Rymer’s Access,” and there was Earl standing beside his truck with two canoes on the rack.

We followed Earl for a quarter-mile down the lane and found a near-perfect stream-side campsite all ready for us to reserve. Just across the river was a broad tall bluff which completed the picture nicely.

We carried chairs, rods and a cooler down to the shore to relax and catch a few sunfish before starting dinner.

After eating, we sat around the campfire talking until we finally had to call it a night.

The next morning, after a fine breakfast, we secured the camp, loaded Harry and Carl’s canoe, my kayak and Earl’s solo canoe aboard Earl’s truck and caravaned toward our launch point at the highway 17 bridge.

The first riffle was wide and slow and we went through easily. I moved ahead past a set of rapids, leaving the first holes for the others to fish.

I caught a nice sized goggle-eye from that first stop before I noticed that the water was running faster and the river had narrowed. I strapped my rod into its holder alongside the kayak and turned the boat in order to face the upcoming shoot of water. Near the center was a small submerged island, narrowing the passage even further. On the side I would have to pass, I could see a willow bush. A snarl of brush had gotten caught up in the bush and was reaching out over the water.

I passed a little closer than I’d planned, and my reel got snagged by one of the branches and was pulled free from its holder. I landed and slid the kayak up onto shore just a few yards further downstream and walked back for a look.

Amazingly, from across the stream I could see the rod, still hanging from one of the branches. I crossed the river at a more shallow point, made my way over and retrieved the rod. It was unbroken.

A disaster had been averted! Why float for days down a beautiful and famous smallmouth river like the Jack’s Fork with no fishing rod?

The adventure continues next week.