Hi, Everyone;

All of this discussion about Perry Martin and Rosedale Moonshine has reminded me of a story that I have never told--until today. It was a story of so many crazy things teenage boys should NOT do that the three of us involved just never talked about it after it was over. Now it can be told and I thought you would be interested.

Sometime around 1949 or so, Al Welshan, a farmer north of Rosedale, somehow came into possession of an army surplus boat. It wasn't large by today's standards but was bigger than anything we boys were familiar with. It was metal, and shaped like a large fishing boat. It had a big, big 4 cylinder outboard motor that would really push it along. That motor would lift that boat up to plane across the water faster than any other boat I was familiar with.

One of us three--Wally Welshan (Al Welshan's son), Ralph Conger, or I--came up with the idea that we three should go fishing for striped bass up the White River in Arkansas across on the other side of the Mississippi River from Rosedale. Mr. Welshan kept the boat at Terrene, a fishing village across on the river side of the levee from his home.

So we started from there (with no Arkansas fishing license), went across the Mississippi, vectoring toward the mouth of the White River. We then gradually went up the White, fishing at appropriate locations along the way. Big Island (of moonshine fame) formed the south bank of the White in that area. Originally Big Island was a peninsula but way back the Corp of Engineer cut a canal across between the White River and the Arkansas River where they come close together at the western end of Big Island to allow the White to flow more efficiently at that point into the bigger Arkansas. This canal made Big Island what it is today with the Arkansas to its south, the White to its north, the Mississippi to its east, and the relatively short canal to its west.

We had the White River to ourselves except for a middle aged couple we saw on a houseboat parked in the trees on the Big Island side of the river. I remember we wondered how in the world that man talked a woman into living way out there in the middle of nowhere--no electricity, no running water, mosquitoes, etc.

We kept going, bringing in only one striper. I caught it and it wasn't anything to brag about. I don't think we ever got to the west side of Big Island because I don't remember seeing the canal.

About mid afternoon we ran into trouble. Boat motors have what is called a shear pin that joins the propeller shaft to the main motor drive shaft. Its purpose is to break if the propeller is constrained to prevent damage to either the propeller or the main motor parts. I had never heard of such a thing as a shear pin but that day I learned about one the hard way. Ours broke. Wally hit some sand or something with the propeller. We soon realized we were way out in the middle of nowhere with no tools, not even a screwdriver, and a broken motor part. We did have a single paddle, so we gradually steered our way back down the White toward its junction with the Mississippi.

We eventually came to the houseboat mentioned above and paddled over to it. The man and woman came out to look us over. It soon became apparent that they were not going to help us, claiming to have no tools, which we knew was a lie. We also realized they were anxious for us to move on down the river away from them. It later crossed our minds that he was probably in the moonshine business on Big Island. He looked the part.

Soo-we floated on down the White, arriving about sundown at its junction with the Mississippi. There was no way we were going to try to paddle across the mighty Mississippi, so we pulled onto a sand bar on the north side of the junction. We then hunted up some local dry logs, and using some extra gas Wally had brought along, build the biggest fire we could muster. By then it was dark.

Shortly we heard a boat start up across the Mississippi--a mile wide at that point. A river fisherman who lived at Terrene saw our fire, knew what it meant and came across to help. We three boys figured the fisherman would take us in his boat across the river and leave the Welshan boat tied up till the next day. But evidently the fisherman knew the boat would be stolen before he could get back so he tied the Welshan boat to the side of his boat. I remember the fisherman's boat wasn't all that big and his motor was small. But he pointed his boat, with the Welshan boat, directly upstream, against the water flow with his motor 'in full bore' and gradually moved across the Mississippi with both boats, really unable to go upstream if he had wanted to. Once across in calmer water he was able to pull upstream to the Terrene dock. I remember being quite impressed with that fisherman's knowledge of the River and his expertise in handling the tricky currents.

Mr. Welshan was waiting for us at the dock. He handsomely rewarded the fisherman for his rescue and we all headed our separate ways.

I arrived home 8:30 or 9:00 for a supper Mother had waiting for me. Neither Mother nor Daddy asked where I had been. By then they evidently were used to me coming home at odd hours of the day or night.

I don't remember Wally, Ralph, or myself ever talking to anyone else about that fishing trip. It was something that we just kept to ourselves.

We did not set foot that day on Big Island. Now I wish we had stepped out on the embankment so that I could at least say I had been there.

Big Island was not quite as isolated and dangerous as the "Delta Magazine" article implied. I remember guys would go over there for planned deer hunts. Red Wherry who had the attractive home up near Concordia with the big pecan orchard in front---I remember there were often wild geese in that orchard. Anyway Red and a buddy joined in a Big Island deer hunt. One of them had a heart attack and died next to a deer stand tree. The other one later in the day came back by, found his friend dead and sat down and had a heart attack himself. I think the second one lived to tell the story.

Ralph Conger and I used to run across moonshine stills, belonging to local blacks, when we hunted quail around Malvina. We never felt threatened because we knew the blacks would not harm us and they knew we would not report them. Besides we were well armed with our hunting guns. Actually we never saw anyone at the sites because they were not distilling at the time. I remember one site in particular next to the Bogue north of Malvina. They had their mash fermenting in 55 gallon drums which was somewhat yucky. It smelled awful and there were fly maggots floating around at the top of the liquid. I guess all of that worked out in the distilling process. I remember one of the local blacks showing me some of the final product in a glass canning jar. It had no color, was quite clear.

Terrene--During my junior and senior years in high school, I drove a school bus. Part of my route was across the levee to Terrene to pick up some children of the families of the fishermen who lived there, and I had to turn the bus around at a point that was near the river. Mary and I have driven back out to Terrene in recent years. We have found that the point where I used to turn my bus around is now in the river.

At Terrene the river is in a big bend, and is gradually moving east despite the good work of the Corp of Engineers to shore it up.

Just some remembrances. Hope you enjoyed reading it.

Albert H. Spinks
September 5, 2007
Pictures added November 28, 2010