I’m drafting this on the plane headed back from my two-day fishing trip on the White River in Arkansas. This piece feels harder to write than my “hopes” article, maybe, because my hopes were fulfilled. Perhaps this blog, our collective obsession, is all based on hope: the hope that the next cast will produce a fish, that the next outing will hit double digits, or that we’ll be able to share these moments with family and friends.

Context

February is a cold time of year, but Cotter, Arkansas, was even colder this trip than in the past two years. Temperatures stayed in the 30s both days, with heavy overnight rain and light showers on the second day. You can see my original article on our White River trip here.

Day 1

My dad and I set out on a frigid morning with high water. Our guide, Paden, had fished with us in previous years, and it was great to see him again. There was a significant water release scheduled for a few hours in the morning, meaning the fish were going to be active. Hence, we headed straight to the dam—alongside about 50 other boats, and although spread out, you found yourself competing for runs with a few other boats. Paden was unfazed by the chaos, effortlessly placing us in ideal drift spots. I joked with him about his uncanny ability to parallel-park between boats that were drifting the same run.

You stop noticing the crowd when you realize you’re in prime water. We drifted egg patterns through various runs and had landed 25 fish by lunchtime.

The highlight of the day was a 27-inch brown trout. After pulling about 10 fish from a great run along the riverbank, I hooked into something different. My fish dashed upriver, pulling drag and even crossing lines with our buddy Jim in another boat from Cranor’s Lodge. We thought it was lost, but Jim miraculously freed his line, and we were back in the chase. As we motored up, we got hung up on something, prompting an “Oh no! That was a good fish!” from Paden. But as we moved past the snag, the line freed—and the fish was still on. A few minutes later, we landed a 26 – 27 inch brown trout estimated at at 6.5 lbs., my dad and I decided to round up for the record: 27 inches, 7 lbs.

The day only got better. By the time we wrapped up, we had landed 42 trout, averaging 18 inches, with a handful of small rainbows. Here is a picture of small tiger trout we caught.

Before finishing up, I spent 1.5 hours practicing with my new trout Spey rod. I managed to hook two fish but couldn’t land them—figuring out how to bring them to the net with a two-handed setup will take more practice. I closed the day with some nymphing, bringing five browns and rainbows (each around 10 inches) to the net. This was a fantastic day all around, and in some ways, it felt like the trip was complete before we even started the next day.

Day 2

Cold and rain made for a tough morning. With effectively no water being released, the fish weren’t nearly as active. We tried minnows and sculpin, ending up with modest numbers—about four trout each, all 16 inches or smaller. I should state, too, that I did not do well with the live bait. My dad was on the board quick, but it really took me a while to lock in that morning.

After lunch, Paden took us to a spot where he had recently seen some big fish. I spotted one almost immediately, and we started casting. The technique involved motoring about 15 yards above the fish, casting up at angle, and drifting back toward the fish, aiming for a natural dead drift as any fly fisherman would in a good run.

After a dozen unsuccessful drifts—seeing the fish feed but ignoring our minnows—we anchored and switched to a single egg with a lighter sinker. This was the tail end of the spawn, so the big fish was likely targeting eggs.

As we drifted again, Paden suddenly said, “Whoa, do you see the other one?” Sure enough, next to the brown trout I’d been targeting, an even larger shadow appeared, noting an incredible contrast between one light and one dark fish. Excitement surged.

For the next 20 minutes, we worked to place an egg perfectly in front of them. Drift after drift, motoring up, driving down, trying to achieve a good presentation. Finally, I saw the shadow open its mouth. Proudly, I set the hook before Paden had time to say, “Set it, set it!” The explosion in the water was epic. As the fish darted upriver, Paden shouted, “Look at that wake, man!” It was like Jaws was in front of us.

In preparation for potentially hooking one of these fish, Paden had loosened our drag, as we were using six-lb. test. So, keeping tension on the line required near-constant reeling. The fish first ran up river, requiring one type of reeling, but after a few minutes, turned and charged straight toward us. I ran down the boat length, furiously reeling to keep contact.

As we followed it downriver for a few minutes trying to keep the point at speed with the fish, Paden let go of the motor, grabbed the net, and readied himself at the back of the boat. The fish stayed deep, creating a slow motion chase with me furiously reeling to reduce the distance between us and the fish. Paden let this play out and was preparing to scoop the fish up off the river bottom with his eight-foot net.

Paden nearly fell off the boat twice, but finally, he made contact with the fish and was lifting toward the surface. An all too familiar sight unfolded of a fly fisherman unable to land the fish of lifetime in a tiny wading net; only this was an 8 foot net with a bucket fit for a musky. With the tail and body in the net, but now the head thrashing out of the water, but outside the net, I realized I had to make a choice.

I put my finger on the spinning rod’s line, took two steps back, and pulled back on the rod. The fish slid into the net.

Our shouts could have been heard in neighboring states. Other guides turned to see what we had landed—a 31-inch, 12.5-lb brown trout. Hugs, high-fives, sighs of relief. This was why people come to the White River.

Targeting that fish was, in many ways, more fun than the previous day’s 42-fish haul. The sight fishing, the hook set, the chase—it was exhilarating. So, we went back so my Dad could land the other one.

We motored up, drifted down. My dad took a dozen shots, then asked me to join in. Eventually, I hooked the lighter giant that I had initial spotted. I’ll spare the details, but I’ll admit that when we got it to the boat, it was foul-hooked near the tail. Paden swore he saw the eat, but we all know how that goes. Regardless, we had landed a 28-inch brown trout. I wished my dad had hooked it, but he was elated our boat got it.

Final Thoughts

Now, on my flight home, I’m writing to preserve the memory, share the story, and reflect on how catches like these change a fisherman. It will certainly shape my perspective for our next White River outing. But more than anything, it has me thinking about the hopes and feelings we chase.

Tight lines, everyone!