November 17, 2005

Today I travel through the southern edge of the Ozark Mountains, just north of the Arkansas River valley. While not big mountains like the Rockies or Appalachians, mountains just the same. Elevations run from 1,600 to 2,100 feet with steep, oak-hickory forested slopes. Stream crossings, switch-backs, and saddle gaps are numerous as are the areas where man has cut the oaks and hickories and replaced them with fast growing, extremely marketable loblolly pines (pinus taeda). Due to the varying terrain, I seldom encounter a stretch of road that offers more than 200 yards of sight line. The views across the valley from the ridge I drive along to the next one or two ridges are awe-inspiring. In many places the trees on either side of the road grow to touch one another’s branches over the center of the road. It’s like driving through the technicolor dreamcoat.

The color of the fall foliage is much more spectacular than expected. There must have been just enough rain at critical times to aid the color change process. It’s been real dry here and nobody believed we’d have the near the color we have in a good year. Bright yellows, deep dark reds, a few glowing oranges and various shades of brown are magnified by the sharply contrasting vivid green of the pines. As much as people dislike the pines, they really add to the fall color.

Sign of deer hunters abound. Men and women with blaze orange vests and hats, bundled up against the cold. Pick-up trucks with ATV ramps parked off the side of the roads. Small camps and some pretty elaborate camps set up in little pull-offs nestled in the forest. Most of this is part of the Ozark National Forest and is therefore public land. A few deer are spotted in openings off to the side of the road or running across it up ahead. It’s no wonder so many deer are hit by vehicles every year.

I pass by little homes scattered along the road. I always wonder what the people who live in these houses do for a living so far from “civilization”. All but a few are well kept. Most have an assortment of children’s’ toys in their yards: big-wheels, wagons, maybe one of those portable basketball goals, and trampolines. Old dogs and young dogs all eye me suspiciously as I drive by. Most have garden patches waiting for the tiller next spring. I see a few chickens foraging in the yards. Some have the ubiquitous dilapidated car or truck peaking out of the weeds at the edge of their yards; some have several. I also pass houses that haven’t been lived in for years. Their roofs collapsing, windows broken, and yards choked with weeds. Concentrations of these little houses have names like Fern, or Piney, or Batson. You won’t find these places on any but the most detailed of maps.

There are no Seven-Elevens here. No Sonic drive-ins or McDonalds. No traffic lights and rarely a stop sign. Very little traffic. If I’m lucky I see some of my favorite signs: “One Lane Bridge”, “Pavement Ends”, “Crooked And Steep Next ## Miles – Drive With Care”, “Forest Road ###”. No “One Way” signs out here, no speed limit signs either. The closer I get to “civilization”, “Stop” signs become more common.

This is a good place to be.