I wrote this piece for the River Hills Traveler back in the 1983. It was a different time then in many ways. Jet boats were not popular everywhere, kayaks and rafts were almost unheard of as rental craft, and aluminum canoes were the usual way to get down the rivers. Not that they weren't crowded; weekends saw the aluminum hatch on the more popular rivers. But it was not long removed from the days of the old wooden johnboats and guided float trips. I have edited it and changed a few things from the original article, but it was a fun one to write. I hope you enjoy it!
How to Be a Real Riverman
Lately I've been hearing a lot about this new book called, "Real Men Don't Eat Quiche". I haven't read it yet, but I already know that it has some questionable propositions. Even though I don't know how to pronounce "quiche", I have eaten it and liked it. I assume the book is about how to be a real man. But it did give me an idea; I think what this corner of the world needs is a book--or maybe just an article because it isn't THAT important--on how to be a real riverman.
There was a time when about the only people that ventured onto our Ozark streams were veteran rivermen; the native hunters and fishermen and giggers and log rafters; the guides with their younger apprentices running the commissary boat and their rich clients from the city. Nowadays, the streams are full of novices. Inexperienced paddlers and families out for a weekend of casual fun mix with drunken 20-somethings and party animals. Those of us who have spent every hour we could on the river all our lives--and who would live on it if we could--tend to look with contempt upon the weekend splash and giggle and chug boat bangers. They may not care much for us, either, but surely it's just jealousy. They must think that people who look as grubby and smell as bad as we usually do after a week on the river shouldn't be enjoying ourselves that much. Surely, deep down, they aspire to be true rivermen.
It isn't easy to be a real riverman. It helps to be born within a mile or so of a good float stream so that you can get an early start on spending every hour you can, including many hours you shouldn't, on the river. It takes that kind of time and dedication. Perhaps you may not have that kind of time or opportunity; and incredible as it may seem, perhaps you might not even want to after seeing us after the aforementioned 5 days on the river. But if you don't want us true rivermen to snicker smugly when we see you wearing swimming trunks and so much sunscreen that you look like you fell into the lard rendering kettle, you might want to learn a bit about how to speak and act well enough to pass for one of us from across the river. And before you jump all over me, yes, women can qualify, but "riverwoman" or "rivergirl" just doesn't have the right ring to it, and don't expect me to call you a "riverperson".
If, like most of us these days, you use a canoe, you're at a disadvantage when it comes to being convincing as a riverman. The old timers never used anything but wooden johnboats. But since real johnboats are scarcer these days than mud flats on Current River, genuine rivermen have been forced into using other craft. Many opt for aluminum jonboats. (Note the different spelling--johnboats with an "h" describe only the old clunky, heavy as your mother-in-law's milk gravy but surprisingly graceful when drifting down the river wooden classics. The more sophisticated but more effete "jon" without the "h" serves when talking about the newer aluminum imitations.) And never mind what to call the lumbering behemoths with 100 horsepower jet engines that have started showing up. A motorhead who runs up and down the river 20 times a day like a brain-dead crawdad is so far from a riverman there is no hope.
Some rivermen have switched to canoes. Not rental canoes with their shiny aluminum skins and bows painted in distinctive colors so they can be sorted out by the dozen outfitters all picking up clients at the same take out on Saturday afternoon; a real riverman's canoe will usually be spray painted the ugliest set of camouflage colors he could find, with about half the paint chipped off.
Now if you have trouble keeping your canoe upright, you're just not going to pass as a real riverman...unless you have the presence of mind to clamber out of the water after a spectacular flip with a disgusted expression on your face, muttering that you "ain't got the hang o' handlin' them dang kay-noos yet. Wisht I still had my ol' johnboat."
As to your other gear, in recent years rivermen have begun to find out about stuff like lightweight paddles and quality camping gear, especially the stuff developed by those idiot backpackers whose warped minds think it makes sense to carry your camp on your back instead of in your boat. Real rivermen don't have to suffer; good gear makes anything more fun. But if you want to look the part, you should have at least one rough-looking handmade ash paddle weighing about 30 pounds with you at all times. You can keep it in the bottom of the canoe and only drag it out when you've set up camp with your buddies and want to show it off around the campfire. For real authenticity, you should probably keep a piece of moth-eaten threadbare canvas tarp and a blackened coffee pot that looks like World War II surplus.
True rivermen are never found in a watercraft on any river without their fishing tackle. That is one of the main things that distinguishes them from the the "tourist kay-nooers". They might be fishing for goggle-eye (which you should never call "rock bass" no matter what the book says, let alone one of those other goggle-eye names like shadow bass and Ozark bass). They might even be fishing for catfish if they are hungry enough. But mostly they'll be fishing for bass, which in reality means smallmouth; largemouth and spotted bass barely deserve the name so they should be called "linesides". A few real rivermen use a fly rod, but they are kinda like your rich cousin that everybody likes until they have to spend more than two days with him. Some fish with spinning tackle, they are contaminated with the city angler syndrome. Most use baitcasting tackle and "plugs", a catch-all name for any artificial lure other than flies. Short, nondescript rods and beat up reels are the norm. Push-button spincast reels are strictly forbidden; if you use one, it's a "Zebco no-brainer" no matter which brand it is, and you are only using it because you don't have the brains to master a baitcaster.
Real rivermen can always catch fish, except for the times when they forget themselves and brag that they can always catch enough fish to feed themselves. An example of this was the recent float my girlfriend Mary and I made with my brother Don and his girlfriend Connie, and I assured them that I'd never made this float without catching some good bass. Naturally, on this trip none of us caught anything over 10 inches. Of course, the water was too clear. That's another mark of a good riverman; the ability to make plausible excuses for bad days. Another of the best excuses, especially if it's a weekend as it was on the Meramec trip, concerns "them dang boat-bangin' pleasure kay-nooers scarin' all the fish".
It's always possible to catch green sunfish and longear sunfish on Ozark streams, but whenever a real riverman catches them he will invariably cuss those "black perch" and "sun perch"--though he may keep them if he's been bragging about his ability to catch bass (see the above). They must always be looked upon with disdain even if they save an otherwise fishless day.
Real rivermen don't spend the winter watching TV. They are out on the river, turning their feet to fudgecicles trying to catch a jack salmon. Some people say that a jack salmon (jack for short) is a walleye. That may be what you call those little fellers up in Minnesota or some other frozen northern place, but around here they are jack salmon, and you aren't a real riverman until you catch one over ten pounds. You can fish for them with plugs, but if you use minnows you're a walleye fisherman, probably from Wisconsin or even Kansas. Jack fishermen use "minners", and jack minners are big enough to furnish you a "minner dinner" if you've bragged that you can always catch jack (see above again).
Genuine rivermen never hesitate to run the worst rapids they encounter, though you don't call them rapids, you call them shoals or chutes or "god-awful waterfalls". However, having the skills to match your confidence isn't mandatory, so when you get into trouble in a hairy place, you bail out before you hit it and try to swim and wade dragging the canoe to get it away from the hazard. And you're always ready with a plausible excuse again, like "danged river's changed some since the last time I ran this spot". Another excuse, which I used to good advantage the only time I flipped a canoe, is "this boat handles different with a full load". A riverman's skill with a paddle is one of his prides in life. Any riverman can paddle from the same side all day long without switching, even though at times it would have been a good idea to switch. And a real riverman can paddle all day with one hand, because the other usually holds his fishing rod.
As you may have surmised if you've read this far, a real riverman uses the proper vocabulary. We've already touched upon the proper names of some fish, though we haven't mentioned "yaller suckers" (redhorse) or "hog-mollies" (hogsuckers). However, there are plenty more words and phrases you need to learn. No matter what kind of watercraft you use, you go on "float trips", not canoe trips or paddling trips. The start of a float is the "put-in". The finish spot is the "take-out". And try to learn the real names of accesses. One of the most used take-outs on upper Black River used to have a giant round yellow sign, with two black dot eyes and a curving smile line beneath them,q on the bank to show the novices where to take out, but under no circumstances should you call it the "smiley face place" like the non-rivermen do; it's the Coil Bluff take-out (even though it's a bit upstream from Coil Bluff).
Hollers come down to the river, not ravines or swales or even hollows. That sheer rock face is a bluff, not a cliff, and real rivermen know the names of bluffs even if they have to fake it. We've touched upon what to call riffles and rapids, but if you ever call it a "ripple", you instantly forfeit your riverman card. And if you call it a "scary place", there's no hope for you. Slow, deep sections should never be called pools; they are holes or eddies. A slough or backwater might be called a "slew", but just as acceptable is calling it a bay. A narrs or narrers is sometimes a narrow place on the river but more likely a thin spine of rock with a stream on both sides.
Real rivermen know the names of every river feature. If it's a hill, a mountain, a ridge, a creek, or a spring, it has a name. A typical riverman's trip description might go like this:
"Yup, I put in at Two Rivers. Got into a mess of goggle-eye and little bass there around Coot Chute. Caught a couple nice jack at the mouth of Goose Bay, an' a good bass in that hole where Blair Creek dumps in. Seen a 10-point buck at Boomin' Shoals Holler, and a flock o' turkey came offa Butt-in Rock and flew over me. Whole passel of pleasure kay-nooers around Blue Spring. Hung a big jack in the Ant Hole and lost her. Took out at Paint Rock Bluff, and that road in is a real bear after the last gulley washer."
More important than the rest, a real riverman truly cares about the rivers. He is vitally interested in maintaining fish and wildlife populations. He's not a game violator and he reports those who are when he sees them. Any potential danger to a stream is a personal threat. Dams are crimes against nature. Real estate developments should be wiped out by massive floods. Polluters should be hanged and litterers flogged. And people who don't care about wild rivers and use them only as amusement parks and bars and aquatic racetracks are considerably lower than tapeworms. When you feel that way, you are well on your way to becoming a real riverman.
















