Old Days and Places: Musical Waters and a Country Rose

Based on an article originally written for Oklahoma Backcountry - January 1998

...The number of fish I caught that day has faded with time, but the experience of that first visit has remained forever etched into my outdoor history...

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On the crest of the bluff a grove of pine trees swayed in the rising air currents. With a gentle whisper their song filled the little valley and kept time with the musical waters of Flint Creek as it rolled and tumbled across the Northeastern Oklahoma landscape. Dogwoods and Redbuds accented the hills with their flash of color along with cottonwoods and other hardwood trees just now beginning to awaken from their winter long sleep. Song birds of just about every variety added their charm which was bolstered by the occasional bellowing of a dozen or so cattle as they grazed across rolling fields surrounding the creek.

Spring was certainly in the air presenting its calming antidote to the stresses and strains of working and living in the city. Just above the creek not far from the scenic country road stood the old farm house. It was a scene where country living displayed its best flavor and before long the blur of the previous few hectic months drifted away to silence. A most wonderful place was this peaceful little valley tucked into the secluded foothills of the Oklahoma Ozarks. This special day, back in 1978, was my first day to discover the values associated with the charms of Flint Creek.

Flint Creek begins as a trickle just across the Arkansas state line, then it flows generally to the west and south as it winds its way over river gravel, through pastures and valleys, around pine accented bluffs and hills, to eventually tumble into Oklahoma's Illinois River. Along its path can be discovered some of the most beautiful scenery and best creek fishing in the Sooner state.

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The first time it came into view I knew something unique existed here. My old friend Ralph for many years when a young lad would spend time with his parents camping along the banks of Flint Creek. In turn for many years he would bring his family to enjoy the wonders of this wonderful place. An hours drive or so east of Tulsa I turn onto a gravel road north of old highway 33, now 412, to travel maybe 4 or 5 miles negotiating several cutbacks and sharp turns to eventually turn into the long driveway just before crossing a low water bridge.

I stopped at the farmhouse and was greeted by a pack of 6 or 7 country dogs all wagging their tails as they barked their greeting. Scattered along an old rickety fence and growing beside the farm house were a series of country rose bushes just now beginning to emerge into their first spring bloom. I stood outside petting the dogs and felt as though I belonged here as the warm spring sunshine filled the valley. Within a moment or two the screen door screached open and slapped closed again behind as the owners of this piece of paradise stepped outside and began to walk over to where I was standing. Several of the dogs broke ranks from around me and surrounded them, wagging their tails with their enthusiastic greeting as they followed them down the walk way.

I introduced myself to the elderly couple, the Talberts, as a friend of Ralphs which generated a warm smile of acceptance from them. They were most enjoyable folks who had lived on this property for many, many years. After a few pleasantries were exchanged, old man Talbert granted me permission to cross his fields and camp along the creek down by the bluff.

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"Real purdy spot down there by the bluff, good fish'n too. Be careful with the campfire, been kind of dry," he said as he pointed in that direction. "Don't mind the cattle, they'll mosey by after a while to see who you are."

I shook his hand and drove to the gate where his wife lifted the securing chain from the bent nail holding it in place, then pushed it open where it creaked and groaned from lack of use. I followed a cow-track trail that wound just above the creek, bouncing and bumping on the uneven texture of the pasture, then I saw it, the perfect spot for a camp. I walked to the edge of the creek where a small riffle sang a cheerful song as it tumbled toward the bluff. I thought to myself, '...this is something I have needed for a long time...'

Before long my camp was set and I was eager to try some fishing. The creek was low and easy to wade but it was still quite cold. It almost didn't look deep enough to hold fish in places but a couple of quick casts with a yellow Roostertail spinner along a weathered blowdown produced my first Flint Creek smallmouth bass. He wasn't all that big, 11 maybe 12 inches or so, but was typical of their type with a scrappy nature. The number of fish I caught that day has faded with time, but the experience of that first visit has remained forever etched into my outdoor history.

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I spent the better part of the day meandering along the creek making a cast here and there exploring every deep hole and the eddy's below each riffle. It was all new to me and around each tight turn in the creek a new 'fishy spot' presented itself. The whole creek looked fishy.

The day passed much to quickly and as the light began to fade I returned to my campsite and stirred a fire into life. As night fell across the valley a chill fell with it, yet the skies opened their first Flint Creek performance for me with a splendid display of stars. Long into the evening I fed the fire mesmerized by its glow, warmed by it flames. Below where I camped the little creek provided an orchestrated symphony that played all through the evening and I slept to the soft music of the flowing waters.

By the next morning I was awakened by the bellowing song of cattle. I stumbled out of my tent and shivered in the chill of the morning air to witness a shallow haze drifting across the pasture highlighted by the first rays of a rising sun. I rekindled the fire and as I waited for that first cup of coffee, I could hear the fish jumping seemingly calling me into action. A short time later I braved the cold waters and waded over to the base of a blue hole that formed a pivot point at the base of a long bluff. I could not help but wonder who the first person was to stand where I then stood. Surely it was some ancient Native American who made this little valley home. I discovered later that arrowheads could be found in the plowed fields.

I found myself at times sitting calmly just listening to the creek telling its story. I managed to doze off in the warmth of a sunbeam as the verses from Flint Creek; The Story continued to play. Most all the day was spent resting and fishing along with some exploring. Later that evening I sat next to the campfire late into the evening gazing up at the sky which was again filled with stars with an encore performance. Another morning greeted me much the same way as the first one. I felt sad in a way knowing that my time here on this first and possibly most important visit, was soon to end. After a morning of fishing, I reluctantly secured the tent and the gear and chaotically tossed it into the back of my old vehicle. Before leaving I stood one final time next to the blue hole at the base of the bluff to listen to the music of the flowing waters and absorb the sweet smell of pine drifting from the bluff above.

Over the years I continued to off and on return to this little farm on the creek for some much required R&R. The old timer and his wife were always gracious and inviting. Some years later, when Kris and I first started to spend time together, I took her to Flint Creek for a day visit. It was then I suppose, when I first realized she was the one for me.

Circumstances eventually prevented me from returning for a few years but a time came when a longing inside of me boiled to the surface where I needed to seek the solitude of this little valley.

I stopped as I had always done at the old farmhouse. The dogs were gone. A new, much younger face greeted me as I walked toward the porch which now sagged almost to the ground. When I asked the young man about the Talberts he lowered his head and somberly said, "Seems they passed away about a year ago. Someone else owns the farm now, a doctor out of Siloam Springs. I'm only the caretaker and I've been told to no longer allow people to camp on the property. You can still fish it if you want to, but you'll have to park down by the bridge."

I thanked him and started to retrace the path down the long gravel and dirt driveway toward the crossing. Somehow it just wasn't the same. I cut my visit short that day, saddened by the passing of the original owners. Oddly enough I never took very many photographs of the area, just a few fleeting ones.

A void was created by the passing of the kindly old man and his gentle wife, yet they became a special part of a special setting fitting enough to inspire poets. I may never run across such people and places again, yet from the few outings I managed on Flint Creek, all I have to do is close my eyes to hear the musical waters of this little creek and for visions of its paradise to appear, visions as sweet and fragrant as a country rose, like those I saw on that last day still blooming along the old fence and next to the old house.

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Old Days and Places: LOST in the High Country

I, for many years dreamed about hiking in the Rocky Mountains when during 1995 - 1996 I spent the better part of a year working on a contract programming job in Denver Colorado. Even though I would be away from home for extended periods of time, the opportunity afforded me the ability to finally do some serious hiking. Most of my hikes were of the day hike variety, but I was able to make several overnight backpacking trips into several areas. The most notable were Homestead Meadows; a rustic location not far from Estes Park where old homestead cabins were still partially standing; and into Rawah Wilderness, a difficult and demanding hike into the high country of Northern Colorado. Rawah Wilderness provided the backdrop for a near disastrous hike where I was almost lost in the backcountry.

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LOST in the High Country

During the spring of 1996 during my time in Denver, I caught wind of a seminar being presented at one of the local branch libraries by one of the local hiking clubs. The subject was Hiking the Rawah Wilderness. Up until then I had managed a few short day hikes to some lovely but relatively easy locations, but I was itching to try something a bit more challenging. The seminar presented the perfect opportunity and location, and after speaking with some of the presenters I decided Rawah was to become my next big hiking adventure.

Rawah Wilderness is located in the north central part of Colorado and is characterized by numerous mountain lakes stocked with willing and hungry trout. A series of these lakes marked the end of the trail that wound its way upwards to around 11,000 feet. The lower camp lake sat just over 10,000 feet while the others were scattered higher up. I could not wait to give it a try, and it was this enthusiasm along with my inexperience of hiking in the mountains that nearly got me into trouble.

There were several trails that lead up to the lakes. One of the longer but less steep portion wound its way for a good number of miles mostly along the northern side of the climb. A shorter, but much steeper climb arched its way along the southern flanks of the climb.

For my first attempt to reach the lakes I decided to give the northern route a try in late May. As luck would have it I barely made it half way up the trail when I ran into a deep snow pack that completely obliterated the trail. There was no way I would ever be able to follow it with that kind of snow pack so I simply turned around and hiked out again. A few weeks later I gave it another try, this time about the third week in June. I managed to make it in to what I figured was maybe 3/4 of the way in when I ran into more snow pack. I was frustrated and tried to see if I could follow the trail on up. I managed to go maybe a quarter mile or so and realized I had no idea where the trail was so to keep from getting completely lost I simply turned around and followed my footprints back to where I could see the trail.

At that point I made a big mistake. While I was sitting down taking a short break I started looking at an inadequate topo map trying to figure out where I actually was along the trail. A few dozen yards off the trail was a steep mountain stream now filled with snow runoff. Coming out of the lakes area was an outlet stream that angled down the slope...actually there were several, so I figured this particular stream must connect up with the lakes and from where I thought I was on the map, in a straight line up hill the lakes were only about a mile or so from where I was. I figured I would just follow the stream to its source and I'd have to run into the lakes.

So that is what I started to do and began the slow and difficult climb up slope through deep snow roughly following the streams path. After what seemed like way more time than it should have taken to get there, I began to realize that my plan was flawed. This stream did not appear to lead to the lakes...in fact I had no idea really where it was leading me except deeper and deeper into a thickly wooded area. There were no lakes to be found. I stopped for a few minutes to get my bearings and decided to venture a little ways off from the stream hoping maybe I would be able to find some kind of landmark where I could tell where I was. At this point I was not really lost. All I had to do was to retrace my steps back down the slope which would lead me back to the original trail. However, events and circumstances were soon to turn for the worse.

I walked maybe 1/4 mile parallel to the slope and came to a steep snow packed escarpment that dropped off a good 20 maybe 25 feet almost straight down. I knew I would never be able to climb down it much less back up, so I stopped for a few moments and stood on the edge so I could survey what was below. Without warning, I suddenly found myself plummeting down the face of the escarpment. I must have been standing on loose rock or tree limb or something hidden by the snow that gave way under my weight. When it happened It happened so quickly I had no time to grab anything to keep from falling. Luckily several smaller saplings and several large rocks broke my fall as I bounced and slid down the face of the escarpment. Even so, I landed with a shocking thud at the base of the slope and my ankle buckled under me.

To say it hurt was an understatement. I really thought I had broken it, at the very least sprained and/or tore the ligaments. I sat there hurting for several minutes before trying to stand, but I was eventually able to get to my feet. The ankle was not broken, but it was strained and hurt something fierce and any walking required a noticable limp. My 35 - 40 pound backpack felt more like a hundred pounds.

By this time it was mid-afternoon. I was not in any kind of serious situation...yet. I still had my backpack with enough provisions to get me by for several days. The problem was as much as I tried I could not find a place where I could climb back up the escarpment to be able to retrace my steps down to the trail. I stopped, removed my pack, pulled out something to eat, and calmed down. While I was eating I looked at my topo map again and it seemed to me that if I were to follow the slope down hill, I would eventually have to run into the trail. It was a risky idea, because my ankle really hurt and if my logic proved faulty I could end up deep into the wilderness and have no idea where I was. Fact was, I had no other choice. I could not retrace my steps back because of the steepness of the escarpment prevented my being able to climb back up. The only thing I could do was to head down hill which is what I did.

I slipped and stumbled, zigged and zagged trying to maintain as straight a path as I could and after a while I was beginning to believe I had made another big mistake, but then all of sudden there it was...the trail. I was never so glad to see a piece of worn dirt trail as I was then.

I stopped again and rubbed my sore ankle which was starting to swell, so I tightened the laces of my boots and started back down the trail to where my vehicle was parked. Several hours later I removed the heavy pack and threw it inside my truck and crumpled into the seat. It had been a full and difficult day, but, my ordeal, except for the long drive back to Denver, was over.

Several weeks later, about mid July, my ankle had recovered enough to where I was willing to give it one more try. This time I took the steeper southerly route deducing correctly that it would be exposed to more of the sun and the snow pack would be gone. After an exhausting hike I managed to find the lower lake and spent a peaceful, except for the thunderstorm that rolled in around dusk, and rewarding afternoon and evening enjoying this marvelous part of the Rocky Mountains.

I learned a difficult lesson. I thought I knew more than I did about backpacking in this kind of mountain environment. Turned out I did not and I managed to make several really dumb mistakes which could have easily ended in disaster, but it did not, and in the end I became a much more experienced and certainly a more cautious hiker from that moment on.

Old Days and Places: To An Old Friend

Some years ago long before starting Beyond The Campfire and long before moving to Kentucky, I maintained a website called Oklahoma Backcountry. It was hosted on the old, no longer available AOL Hometown site and was listed as one of the top five personal websites on the Hometown location accumulating well over 100,000 hits. Some of the best Old Days and Places stories I ever created were posted on that website. I'd like to share one of my favorites and one of the most popular.

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To An Old Friend - (originally written August 2002)

Attempting to pass through the Chouteau Lock and Dam on the Vertegris River leg of McClellan/Kerr Arkansas River Navigation System was ordinarily routine, but securing the bow line to the floating bouy embedded into the walls of the lock was essential if the river tug and barge were to safely lock through. Even so, as hard as I tried my lassoing ability failed with each attempt. Our skipper, who was struggling to maintain position in the stiff Oklahoma wind, shouted at me several times from the bridge, "Get that line secured!"

Him shouting at me only served to rattle me even more which did not improved my lassoing ability but did add another chapter of color to my sailor language skills.

I happened to glance upward and noticed from the visitors overlook high above stood an older man watching the event unfold. He was obviously entertained by my feeble attempts to secure that line. Half aloud I grumbled some derogatory remark as I again failed to secure the line. Somewhere around the ninth or tenth try I fianlly connected with the loop and took three quick turns around the cleat on the bow of the barge. Holding the open end of the line taut, I raised my arm and fist shouting so the skipper could hear me, "Hooked up!"

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The powerful diesel engines reversed thrust and the line stretched and popped under the strain but held firm. Near the stern another crewman secured a second line with a single toss and we were ready to "lock" through.

I shot a defiant look toward the stranger standing above us and while holding my hand on my hip and a smirk on my face, not unlike someone who had just tripped and jumped to his feet, muttered to myself, '...I really do know how to do this...' Strangely enough, he seemed less amused and more releaved that nothing was damaged in the process. It was a chance encounter with someone I had never seen or met before. It turned out to be the start of a life event I never knew was coming.

It is odd how random chance meetings have a way of developing into more lasting and meaningful parts of your life. Although I did not know it at the time the strangers name was Ralph Baston, and little did I know at the time, but he and I would become life long hunting and fishing partners and more importantly, life long friends.

USCG Forsythia

The year was 1977.  I was close to 25 years old at the time serving out the last few months of my enlistment service in the United State Coast Guard on the river bouy tender Forsythia out of Sallisaw, Oklahoma. (Don't ask what a Okie was doing in the Coast Guard stationed in the landlocked state of Oklahoma. Just trust me on this one.) Those last few months saw me performing some of the dirtiest, nastiest, hottest, coldest, grubbiest work I've ever had the misfortune of doing, but I would not trade the experience for anything. The previous three years or so I was stationed out in Oregon performing search and rescue operations at the Umpqua River Lifeboat station. Truly a life adventure, but a career in the military was not in my future.

Ralph was probably in his mid-fifties at the time, with a rather stout and somewhat gruff appearance, but tender hearted and filled with character. He turned out to be the father of a young lady I was to start dating shortly after our chance encounter at the lock and dam...that is how we met. Turns out the relationship with the young lady faded after a year or so, but by then Ralph and I had hunted and fished together more than enough times to become quite comfortable with each other. Neither of us saw any reason for that to end so we continued to do so. By then my friend Rocky and Ralphs friend's Curt and Neuman along with my brother had formed a comradship which evolved into our own hunting and fishing fraternity. We formed a unique cross section of personalities which for the most part complimented our personal whims and provided enough contrast to create some truly memorable moments filled with laughter.

Ralph was one of those guys who possessed a subtle but strong sense of humor and whose patience was legendary. He couldn't hear a thing without his hearing aid, yet in spite of his infirmary, he accomplished many things in life. He was a great musician and appreciated all talents he discovered in others. Like many of his generation he rarely spoke of his service during World War II thinking of it simply as his duty and preferred instead to concentrate on other things like hunting and fishing or working in his yard.

Through Ralph I learned more about the ethics of sportsmanship and why being an outdoorsman required a deep commitment and understanding of a greater responsibility than most people realize. He truly was the anchor of our group in more ways than one. He wasn't in a hurry to do anything and time after time we would chomp at the bit waiting  for him to finish tying on a lure or pull his waders on, or light his pipe. Sometimes he seemed like a real anchor holding us back with his lack of hurriedness. But, when the opportunity presented itself, everyone of us would arm wrestle the others for that coveted position to sit in front of Ralph's canoe.

His old Grumman aluminum canoe was a classic and reflected much of his personality. It was beat up, banged up, and long ago lost it's new charm, yet it kept on going and doing things every bit as well as the newer canoes. When the rest of us were talking about the high-tech vessels that were just then becoming available and how nice it would be to own one or even better own one of those fancy new high powered bass boats, he would simply nod favorably, then go about his business catching fish in his old trusted Grumman.

Ralph was wealthy only in character and goodness of heart. He would bend over backwards to help out someone, but was wise enough to know when to back off and step away. I cannot count the number of times he would take his day off to help me repair my broken down vehicle. All you had to do was to ask and he'd be there, and yet, he rarely asked for the favor in return.

Our younger bodies had a difficult time keeping up with him. There was not much he could not do physically. He often joked about his 'wide bottom' but we all knew those strong shoulders and back could out perform all of us when push came to shove. Not until he reached his upper 70's did he start to slow down and we were able to catchup with his capabilities.

His way with words belied his vocabulary skills. "Blast", or "No Kidding", or "Come On", or "Boy, Boy" were repeated so often I find myself using them even today.

I'll never forget the day I caught two 4 to 5 pound bass out at Old Beggs Lake. It was the first year or so I knew Ralph. He was the first person I showed them to..."No kidding!...Boy Boy...." he repeated over and over as we gawked at them. The next Saturday we were all down there frothing the water eagerly anticipating producing a wall hanger with each cast. Fishing reports were an expected thing with Ralph. If he knew you went fishing and he didn't get to go he'd act all  indignant, then want to know how we did and what we caught them on..."No kidding," he would exclaim as he complimented you on fine day afield.

Whether it was wetting a line from a canoe, wading Flint Creek, floating Baron Fork, quail hunting inside some tangled draw, or standing waste deep in freezing water waiting for an elusive flight of ducks, Ralph always had a story to tell. Seems his story telling was the highlight of our outings and we all relished those moments when the sun climbed higher and hunting or fishing slowed down. Heaven forbid if he started a story and you were in a hurry. What would take an ordinary person two or three minutes to tell, he could drag it out for half an hour. Twenty minutes into the story, if you paused to check the time, he would wrinkle his brow and growl, "Waht cha looking at your watch for! You aint got nothing better to do," and he'd be right, often extending the length of the story making up for lost time in telling it. He was also one of the few people I know who could tell the same story a dozen times and it would still be funny.

Many of his stories and many of our outings took on the flavor of the outdoor adventures chronicled by Patrick McManus, a brilliant and hillarious writer of outdoor wit. I suppose it was because we could relate to many of his created adventures is why we enjoyed them so much. Some of our greatest laughs were spawned while discussing Patrick's most current book. We'd run into some real-life character who would remind us of one of the McManus clan. Characteres like Rancid Crabtree, or Retch Sweeney, and even Eddie Muldoon. Sitting around the campfire we would laugh so hard recalling those tales tears would roll across sunburned cheeks. Man., those were good times.

As Ralph grew older we became less adventuresome and more intune with the greater pleasures of simply getting away. A morning of fishing became less an attempt to catch fish and more of an attempt to unwind, shake off the grime and stains of modern society. I didn't realize this so much the first few years I knew Ralph, but he was already a master of applying that concept long before I knew him. Over the years some of his ways were subtly adopted by all of us. They were the kinds of lessons one learns from experience and observation. Ralph was able to demonstrate his laid back appraoch to life and because of his subtle mentoring, we all grew not only in outdoor wisdom, but learned a great deal about life in general.

Ralph eventually began to slow down as he grew older. There was a noticeable shaking of his hand and a tireness in his eyes. When we were informed by his wife Pink that he had been diagnosed with Multiple Myloma, a type of blood cancer, we felt time was finally catching up with him. His hunting and fishing days were limited after that, yet his humor never left him and as far as I could tell he never complained about his condition, just about the orderlies, doctors, and nurses. At times it looked like he would beat it and occasionally he found enough strength to make an outing even finding the ability to sit in front of Curts canoe on one of his last canoe fishing trips to Old Beggs Lake. Now that I think about it, Old Beggs was the first and last place place I ever fished with Ralph. Fitting it seems, for there I learned about the joys of fishing from a canoe and how simple pleasures is what fishing is all about. It was also where I first leaned what being an outdoorsman meant.

Rocky called me at work one day in the middle of the week and said I better get over to Tulsa and see Ralph because he had taken a turn for the worse. I would not be able to go until a day or two later, but by then it was too late. His youngest daughter, my exgirlfriend, called me at work. Through her shakey voice and somber tone I knew before she said anything a friend, a father figure, a mentor, had passed on. I did not get much work done that day.

Many kinds of people are met traveling along the paths of life. Few make an impression and even fewer change the lives they encounter. Ralph was one of those life changers. Oddly enough, he probably never took much notice of it. He was simply being himself. He never expected anything different from anyone else.

There is no way I can explore all of Ralph's life or even the twenty-five or so years I knew him. I'm not sure what my favorite moment was, there are so many memorable ones. For example the time Rocky pulled the canoe out from under him after he stood up in the back and subsequently caused him to perform a backflip off the stern landing with a giant splash. Or maybe the time he and I found an ailing Redtailed Hawk while we were quail hunting. He took it home to see if he could find someone to nurse it back to health, much to his oldest daughter chagrin...it kept staring at her. Or the time he met me up at Canton Lake for some late season goose hunting and we witnessed one of the most awesome displays of nature I've ever seen when thousands of ducks and geese took to flight across the backdrop of a spectacular sunrise. Or, I suppose it could be all those times when on every outing we stopped hunting or fishing and sat for a spell in a shade to listen to one his never ending supply of stories. We would talk about how we ought to go frog gigging, or, or make that dream trip up to the Boundary Waters Wilderness Area. We never made those trips.

I think my favorite times were after the sun had gone down and the campfire was casting a warm glow across our camp. It was then time-worn stories were shared again for the hundreth time and images of hilarious misadventures and triumphant moments were enhance by the warmth of the flames.

What ever mansion Ralph has earned up in Heaven, I can rest assured there is a campfire somewhere near by. I actually believe old Ralph has cornered the Good Lord up there offering him a warm cup of coffee along with whatever camp grub he may have simmering. I also see him asking, "Why did you put so many blow downs on the Baron Fork...speaking of blow downs, do you remember that time when..."

...Twenty minutes later into his story, the Good Lord will look at his watch, Ralph will wrinkle his brow and growl, "Waht cha looking at your watch for...you ain't got nothing better to do..."

...then in the end they will laugh so hard they will both wipe a tear from their cheek. Once they laughed themselves out, both will look down here and they will see his family and friends and remember all the good times of our lives. Another tear, one of happiness, will roll down his cheek to join the ones we have already shed, some in saddness knowing he is gone from us, but most in joy knowing he has a good friend up there who will forever share in and will never tire of listening to his stories.