Highway 77
The quiet resolve of the highways in the southern part of Missouri can be both a comforting drive through the wilderness, or a seemingly reclusive deathtrap. These trails of asphalt wind crests to the top of the largest hills in the Ozarks, and plunge through the deepest valleys created by the multitude of rivers that run through this county.
The natives here run these trails as if they were trying to get away from some great beast. All lot of people leave this string of small towns as if the forest around them will eat their entire existence alive. Ironically enough, these same people always desire to come back, the forests and the way of life beckoning of ways that once were. Its been a while since I've dared traveled by myself down this road. I am a quasi resident of this place, related by blood to the natives. My avoidance of summer traveling has gotten the best of me. But, after refusing year after year of family reunions, my conscious got the best of me, and here I was, ten hours later, crossing the McDonald county border and emerging myself in the miserable humid summer heat. I am bored and hot and getting tired of driving. There isn't much in the way of radio stations here, most signals blocked by the towering hills. After running through what avaliable radio stations there are(country, country, country) for the fifth time, I dig around for a mixed tape while waiting in the drive through of the local Dairy Queen.
Like others, I find myself returning and returning to the Ozarks. I am a quasi native, I guess. I have family here, my grandparents living on a small acreage in between the "towns" of Ginger Blue and Noel. Noel is the largest town, notorious for it's over the top Christmas celebrations. Every year they find the finest pine or cedar they can find, light it up, and then place it in the middle of the river, and usually within a week is swept away by the current. The resolve of the people is to do this aquatic sacrifice each December in hopes that one year, the will be able to light the tree on Christmas to see the lights reflect upon the Elk River.
Waiting in my car for the train to pass in the middle of Noel, they still have Christmas decorations adorning the four light poles. The bright gold tinsel bell glows against the blue sky as the August sun unmercifully bears down.
The only life in this county is the multitude of tourists that come to rape the countryside every summer. The Elk and the Little and Big Sugar rivers are littered with human beings, obnoxious people from Arkansas in small bikinis and Abercrombie and Fitch swim trunks. The tents arise in various places like mini villages. There are wild drunken parties in the middle of the night, canoe traffic jams on the rivers, and paddleboats of children underneath the bridges. To some, these tourists bring much needed income to the county. To others, these people are parasites that are draining the land with their filth. I for one do not understand the appeal of pitching a tent on rocks in the middle of the sweltering heat, duking it out with snakes and wasps, only to swim in algae infested water.
At least once (and usually more than once) during the summer, one of these tourists will die. Summer is the peak period for vacations, but also is the time where the forest takes over and the rivers run erratically. These waters are not clean, but are tainted with the summer blood of humans who took the river for granted.
The vacationers do not know this, but the locals do. And I do, to a certain degree. The last bridge to my grandparents is a low water bridge next to a camp site, littered with people. The bridge is barely wide enough for my Buick, and yet I get glares from teenagers from disturbing their vacation by driving my car on their impromtu diving board. My father has been known to take pleasure in these moments though, driving his Dodge truck on the edge, making sure that he forces each and everyone off of the bridge by virtue of his overly large side windows.
I don't have that luxury now, but I do turn my radio to full blast, filling the summer air with some Satan hailing', guitar blaring heavy metal. Immediately half the population of the bridge jumps into the water. That's a little lesson they don't teach you in the sticks, but rather in the city. It doesn't force all of the tourists off the bridge, but it make them think twice about getting in my way.
Its one more turn and one more bridge to reach my final destination. My grandparents house is made of rock, nestled in the valley between Mt. Shrina and the Elk river. The winding road travels underneath some Elm trees (which each year, my grandfather threatens to chop down) and past a row of cedar. The barn in multicolored with refused paint from the hardware store, topped with sheet metal that threatens to fall off and decapitate someone at any second.My grandfathers tool shop is near by, the back doors open, so I know that he is inside, either avoiding my grandmother or had just received a new scroll saw pattern.
This is the pattern of a world without the need for time. As I get out of my car, my grandfather emerges from the shop with his hands in his pockets and saw dust on his overalls.
"What took you so long?"
The natives here run these trails as if they were trying to get away from some great beast. All lot of people leave this string of small towns as if the forest around them will eat their entire existence alive. Ironically enough, these same people always desire to come back, the forests and the way of life beckoning of ways that once were. Its been a while since I've dared traveled by myself down this road. I am a quasi resident of this place, related by blood to the natives. My avoidance of summer traveling has gotten the best of me. But, after refusing year after year of family reunions, my conscious got the best of me, and here I was, ten hours later, crossing the McDonald county border and emerging myself in the miserable humid summer heat. I am bored and hot and getting tired of driving. There isn't much in the way of radio stations here, most signals blocked by the towering hills. After running through what avaliable radio stations there are(country, country, country) for the fifth time, I dig around for a mixed tape while waiting in the drive through of the local Dairy Queen.
Like others, I find myself returning and returning to the Ozarks. I am a quasi native, I guess. I have family here, my grandparents living on a small acreage in between the "towns" of Ginger Blue and Noel. Noel is the largest town, notorious for it's over the top Christmas celebrations. Every year they find the finest pine or cedar they can find, light it up, and then place it in the middle of the river, and usually within a week is swept away by the current. The resolve of the people is to do this aquatic sacrifice each December in hopes that one year, the will be able to light the tree on Christmas to see the lights reflect upon the Elk River.
Waiting in my car for the train to pass in the middle of Noel, they still have Christmas decorations adorning the four light poles. The bright gold tinsel bell glows against the blue sky as the August sun unmercifully bears down.
The only life in this county is the multitude of tourists that come to rape the countryside every summer. The Elk and the Little and Big Sugar rivers are littered with human beings, obnoxious people from Arkansas in small bikinis and Abercrombie and Fitch swim trunks. The tents arise in various places like mini villages. There are wild drunken parties in the middle of the night, canoe traffic jams on the rivers, and paddleboats of children underneath the bridges. To some, these tourists bring much needed income to the county. To others, these people are parasites that are draining the land with their filth. I for one do not understand the appeal of pitching a tent on rocks in the middle of the sweltering heat, duking it out with snakes and wasps, only to swim in algae infested water.
At least once (and usually more than once) during the summer, one of these tourists will die. Summer is the peak period for vacations, but also is the time where the forest takes over and the rivers run erratically. These waters are not clean, but are tainted with the summer blood of humans who took the river for granted.
The vacationers do not know this, but the locals do. And I do, to a certain degree. The last bridge to my grandparents is a low water bridge next to a camp site, littered with people. The bridge is barely wide enough for my Buick, and yet I get glares from teenagers from disturbing their vacation by driving my car on their impromtu diving board. My father has been known to take pleasure in these moments though, driving his Dodge truck on the edge, making sure that he forces each and everyone off of the bridge by virtue of his overly large side windows.
I don't have that luxury now, but I do turn my radio to full blast, filling the summer air with some Satan hailing', guitar blaring heavy metal. Immediately half the population of the bridge jumps into the water. That's a little lesson they don't teach you in the sticks, but rather in the city. It doesn't force all of the tourists off the bridge, but it make them think twice about getting in my way.
Its one more turn and one more bridge to reach my final destination. My grandparents house is made of rock, nestled in the valley between Mt. Shrina and the Elk river. The winding road travels underneath some Elm trees (which each year, my grandfather threatens to chop down) and past a row of cedar. The barn in multicolored with refused paint from the hardware store, topped with sheet metal that threatens to fall off and decapitate someone at any second.My grandfathers tool shop is near by, the back doors open, so I know that he is inside, either avoiding my grandmother or had just received a new scroll saw pattern.
This is the pattern of a world without the need for time. As I get out of my car, my grandfather emerges from the shop with his hands in his pockets and saw dust on his overalls.
"What took you so long?"
posted by Courtney at
8:19 AM
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