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I become uncomfortable even at the thought of traveling south. I don't know the exact reason why, but when people speak differently and I begin to hear words like fixin', y'all and fillin' station creep into the local lexicon, I start to squirm inside. I have to believe in the simple fact that there are Northern People and Southern People. I'm definitely a Northern Person, and I consider anybody with an area code south of Ames, Iowa, a Southern Person.

That being said, I returned home October 5 from a 1,700 mile round trip adventure to Mountain Home, Arkansas, where I took (and passed), I'm quite pleased and proud to say - the Federation of Fly Fishers certified casting instructor exams.

And what an adventure it was. I saw the Ozarks, fished the famed White River for trout, and now I know from first-hand observation what a holler looks like. Are you aware that there's a place in the Ozarks called Goober Holler? I can't make this stuff up, folks.

I knew my Yankee-ness was frightfully apparent down there, but never more so than when I stepped into a fillin' station located on Highway 5 in Baxter County, Arkansas. I had a reservation to tent camp at a White River resort so I was perusing the canned goods section of the store when the guy behind the counter said something. I assumed he was talking to me, as I was the only one in the store, but I held out hope he was talking into one of those ear-mounted gizmos.

The guy said, "YatdaBowShowordaRiiShow." Holy Deliverance, was he talking to me? His tone didn't rise at the end of that long, unintelligible word, so I wasn't sure if it was a statement or a question. The guy was smoking a pipe and wasn't even looking at me. Judging by the direction he was facing, it appeared he was talking to a display of Black Cat firecrackers along the back wall of the store. One thing I discovered on my trip was that folks down in Missouri and Arkansas do love their fireworks. At just about every exit along Interstate 35 south of Iowa you'll see these humongous stores called PyroWorld. A bit disconcerting, but hey, it's the south. Evidently they like to blow up stuff.

Anyway, back to the fillin' station. I didn't respond to the guy because I didn't know what the heck he said to me, if he was talking to me at all. So he said it again, only this time louder. He even italicized what he was saying, if that's possible. "YATDABOWSHOWORDARIISHOW?"

Aha, it was a question. I still couldn't make it out, so I broke down and told him I was from Minnesota and I didn't understand...Ozark.

He finally turned to me and gave me a look like I was something unpleasant and squishy he had just stepped in. "Are...you...at...the... Bull...Shoals...or...the...Rim...Shoals? He slowed down his speech and separated each carefully enunciated word with a longer-than-necessary pause so I'd understand. Based on the way I was dressed, he assumed I was fishing and wanted to know if I was staying near one of the premier fishing areas on the White River. It took awhile, but we got through it. He silently rung up my can of beans and vegetable oil and went back to his pipe. Hey ya'll, welcome to Arkansas! Have a super day and drive safe, ya hear?!

On a more serious note, the trip was definitely bittersweet. I went down there for one reason only, and that was to take my CCI exams. Of the 12 or so instructor candidates who made the trek to Mountain Home, the number that passed the exams was definitely less than half. The friend I'd been practicing with for the past few months leading up to the exams did not pass. One guy I know was taking his exams for the third or fourth time and success once again eluded him. They certainly don't give away these certificates, so I feel most fortunate to have passed. A lot of it is simply how you perform for the evaluators, when how you perform matters most.

I was exhausted after the exams concluded. I broke down my campsite the following morning and began the 800-mile journey home. I stopped one last time for gas at a truck stop off I-35 just inside the Minnesota border. The older lady behind the counter, after ringing up my fuel and extra large coffee, asked, "So, ya heading north then?" I smiled. I understand Minnesotan and she spoke it beautifully. The lilted words were light and buoyant in the air and they revealed her Scandinavian heritage. It was music to my ears. "You betcha," I replied, happy to be home.

If you have comments for Dan or story ideas contact him at e-mail [email protected].

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