Black River Fishing and Feasting

As I stood knee-deep in the frigid waters of the Black River, the sudden tug on the line evoked surprise more than expectation. A snag, no doubt. Like Santiago, the jinxed fisherman in Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea, I had set out that morning hoping to succeed, yet braced for failure. I subscribed to the flawed notion that if you don't expect anything, you won't be disappointed.

It was my second trip to the Black, which starts in the Mount Baldy region of eastern Arizona near the town of Alpine and snakes westward for what Arizona outdoor writer Bob Hirsch called "One Hundred Sixty Miles of Lonely." Lonely it may be, desolate it is not, abounding with bears, mountain lions, elk, deer, wild turkeys, pronghorn antelopes and Rocky Mountain bighorn sheep. Its restless waters, which bisect the White Mountain Apache and San Carlos Apache reservations, teem with trout, bass and catfish.

Or so I thought. On my first trip to the Black-in the autumn-my companions and I accomplished the near impossible, landing one luckless trout in three days of fishing. Embarrassing, to say the least, given the river's reputation for larger-than-life catches. A cursory analysis of our failure suggested it was attributable to the weather... the time of year... the bait truculent fish. As it turned out, the real culprit was our ignorance of the river.

To remedy that, I invited veteran Black River anglers Woody Wilson and Merle Bird to join a second attempt in May. Woody set the conditions in an e-mail. "The deal is: I cook and everyone else pitches in to clean up." Now, as my line moved out and away, bending the rod (and dispelling the snag theory), it seemed a small price to pay. I set the hook with a jerk of the rod and reeled in a plump smallmouth bass. There would be fillets tonight.

I recalled that Woody liked to cook years ago, when we wrote for the same Phoenix newspaper. While other guys took their dates to restaurants, he often treated his to gourmet meals made from scratch. The West

Hike a Little, Fish a Lot and Eat Like Lucky Gourmets RIVER

[OPPOSITE PAGE] From its source in the Mount Baldy Wilderness, the Black River meanders through the White Mountain Apache and San Carlos Apache reservations. Clear and cold, the river shelters trout and smallmouth bass in its languid pools.

[TOP] If the river's remote and wild beauty isn't enough of a reward, a stringer of plump smallmouth bass will certainly add to any angler's appreciation.

[ABOVE] Campfire cookery fuels camaraderie and mouth-watering anticipation at day's end.

Virginia native came by it naturally, having been taught by his father, a talented camp chef. "If you can't eat well," his dad liked to say, "it's not worth going." So, when our restructuring town of Globe en route to the Black, we filled up a cart at the supermarket.

The ensuing 75 miles across the San Carlos Apache Reservation differed from the first trip. The windswept stretches of Antelope and Ash flats seemed browner this time, while the lonely corrals and water holes were nearly bereft of cattle. It was the drought. Even after ascending 3,000 feet onto the Natanes Plateau, the junipers and pines appeared sepia-tinged. An hour later, after rocking and groaning over rutted roads, the trees grew denser and the temperatures cooled. We were nearing the campsite.

Like most campsites in the region, this one offered no amenities-no water, hookups, grills or toilets. The mere presence of a dilapidated picnic table marked us as privileged characters, but not privileged enough to avoid packing out what we packed in, there being no garbage pickup along the Black.

Although we carried a cell phone for emergencies, the likelihood of patching it through in such a remote area was doubtful at best. Our chief advantage lay in having journeyed in four-wheel-drive vehicles, a necessary precaution in country where rain and snow can immobilize conventional transportation.

None of these "drawbacks" came to mind, however, as I peered over the edge of the canyon wall. There, hundreds of feet below, the Black wound tranquilly through an Eden of pine, sycamore and oak trees.

That night we ate steak, baked potatoes, broccoli and salad, then sat around the fire-pit, drinks in hand, swapping stories about former newspaper days. Photographer Don Stevenson had worked for a competing publication back then. Merle, an accounting firm partner, had provided financial services to the paper where Woody and I worked. Of course, the tales were funnier in retrospect than the situations that inspired them, given the passage of time. Even better, we looked good in the telling. Overhead, the ponderosa pines darkened as Emmylou Harris' voice wafted from a boom box. At 6,000 feet elevation, the campsite grew cold long before the stories.

The next morning, stiff and groggy from a night of sliding off my air mattress, I filled my metal canteen cup with hot coffee and promptly burned my lips. I resolved to get a Japanese folding mattress-the type used on futons-and donate the air mattress to a needy felon. After a hurried breakfast of sausage and scrambled eggs, we hoisted the food coolers into a tree to protect them from the bears that roam the countryside. Then Woody led the way down the steep canyon trail and across a parched meadow to the jumping-off point on the river.

felon. After a hurried breakfast of sausage and scrambled eggs, we hoisted the food coolers into a tree to protect them from the bears that roam the countryside. Then Woody led the way down the steep canyon trail and across a parched meadow to the jumping-off point on the river.

According to Merle, the Black was running about 60 percent of what it had been on his last visit. Nevertheless, it was running strong. "When you fish the Black," Woody said, "you have to get in it. You have to ford it and walk both banks looking for deep holes and rocks and riffles where bass might be." To that end, we carried sneakers and wading boots down to the river and put them on before starting out. We left our hiking boots by a log in order to have dry footwear for the climb back up the switchbacks.

With Woody setting a brisk pace, we trudged upstream along a shaded, often primitive trail. The trail crossed the river at several points, ratcheting up the exertion level. The challenge of keeping our balance amid slippery rocks and rushing water brought to mind the ill-fated trapeze artists, the Flying Wallendas. Once, we ran into a handful of cattle led by a large bull with a baleful stare, calling for a discreet detour. Our destination was a deep hole that Woody and Merle had fished on other occasions.

Farther upriver stood the Black River pumping station, where, on the first trip, our party had sighted an adolescent bear flipping rocks in search of crawfish. He could not have been more than 30 yards away but seemed oblivious to our presence. Later, we learned that he was an orphan - a very hungry one, obviously.

After hiking 2 miles or so, we stopped in the shallows to gather crawfish, a dietary staple of Black River smallmouth bass. Catching them makes good sport in itself. On the first trip to the Black, we had lured them out from under rocks with lunch meat tied to strings. Once they locked onto the meat, we lifted them into jars. Woody eschewed this dilettante's approach, preferring to turn a rock over slowly and, very deliberately, move his hand toward the immobile crawfish. At the precise moment, he grabbed it. This technique involved bending over for extended periods, which invited muscle fatigue. Tai Chi it was not. Even the slightest slip stirred up muddy clouds of water that obscured everything but the colorful language.

When we had filled two or three plastic sandwich bags with crawfish and water, it was time to fish. Woody and Merle drew strikes right away. They sensed from long experience where the bass lurked. Woody leaned forward, reading the situation

and listening-in a way, becoming part of the river.

Then, as though it were predestined, his line straightened, pulling the rod downward, and a bass broke the surface. After a while, I began to get strikes, too, although predestination had nothing to do with it. Call it luck. For the moment, at least, I felt a part of the brotherhood. I could hear fillets sizzling in the iron skillet.

As the afternoon wore on, we moved upriver a bit. But the golden time had passed, and the fish did not bite as often. Still, it was a pleasure just to feel the water coursing around my knees and to know that I had made the cut. Lunch, consisting of two tortillas folded around lunch meat and cheese, never tasted so good.

Later, Woody sat on a slanting river boulder and filleted the fish. At 3 o'clock, we headed back-night comes early in the canyon. "A friend and I were having so much fun once," Woody recalled, "that we didn't start back until 5 o'clock. It got dark on the trail, and we had to use a flashlight to get out."

The return trip reminded us that we had used a great deal of energy walking upriver. The 2.5 miles of primitive wilderness path, with overturned logs, vines that trip and whiplike branches, equaled at least 4 miles of cleared trail. Moreover, water supplies and concentration were running short, greatly increasing the "stumble factor." That said, nature had her compensations. We were pleasantly surprised, for example, by a javelina, a big gray fellow with a bushy tail who nonchalantly ambled past us and up the canyon wall.

Farther on, we spotted a wild turkey, then a couple of mallard ducks winging down-river. What was it like, I wondered, when famed Arizona mountain men Bill Williams and James Pattie trapped beavers along the Black in the early 19th century? A savage paradise, by most accounts, offering riches, unfettered freedom and death. Today, the mountain men set their traps only in history books while the beavers, reduced to a handful, furtively carry on in the upper reaches of the Black.

After getting back to the jumping-off point, we doffed our clothing and skinny-dipped in the river. It was the fitting end to a strenuous day and the payoff for having stuck with it. Then it was back up to camp and a dinner of bass fillets fried in bread crumbs and flour, with salad and corn on the cob.

Conversation around the firepit took a topical turn this time, ranging from Merle's new passion for fly-fishing to conjecture about why rattlers had not been spotted down by the river.

After a while, Don, who had to lug around 40 extra pounds of camera equipment, turned in, and I soon followed. As I drifted off to sleep, Merle and Woody were still talking by the fire.

We would fish again tomorrow at a serene, translucent stretch of river no more than a hundred yards downstream from our starting point. We would enjoy another evening at camp, highlighted by the fashionably late appearance of a skunk that quickened pulse rates as it wobbled amiably about, sniffing for goodies. But as far as I was concerned, anything after today would be an anticlimax. Today was redemption. Even a skunk could not spoil that. Al

LOCATION: Approximately 160 miles northwest of Phoenix on the San Carlos Apache Reservation.

GETTING THERE: From Phoenix, take U.S. Route 60 east to Globe, then U.S. Route 70 to Indian Route 8, a paved road just past the Peridot turnoff. Follow 8 north and west as it becomes Indian Route 1000, to Point of Pines, a cluster of cabins on the Natanes Plateau. From there, take graded Indian Route 2000 north or 1500 northwest to your chosen area, which can be reached by primitive side roads. TRAVEL ADVISORY: Use a high-clearance, preferably fourwheel-drive vehicle with a full tank of gas on entering the reservation. Avoid visiting the Black River during inclement weather. Purchase The Black River: A Fishing and Camping Guide or the Arizona Atlas & Gazetteer from a map store or sporting goods outlet. They contain topographical maps of the Black River region, including primitive roads and campsites that do not appear in other publications. FEES: Each person must purchase a daily reservation fishing permit. Fees may be paid at the San Carlos Apache Recreation and Wildlife Office in Peridot, located north of U.S. Route 70 on State Route 170. WEATHER: Optimum conditions extend from May to mid-October, with temperatures ranging from a high of 87 to a low of 38°. Winter brings rain and freezing weather, often turning roads into quagmires. WARNING: Keep an eye out for rattlesnakes and bears. Make sure food is kept out of reach and away from sleeping quarters. Carry plenty of water and stay on identifiable trails. If possible, take an extra vehicle battery. ADDITIONAL INFORMATION: San Carlos Apache Recreation and Wildlife office, (938) 475-2343.