Ozark Country

by Ozark Country (retail) (epub)

  The location of this hidden wealth is, of course, a matter of conjecture. The legend is common to all parts of the Southwest, but the details have variations of local color. In Arkansas, the lodestar may shift from the Mulberry River Cliffs in the Ozarks to the peaks and canyons of the Ouachitas. Two or three counties have been named as likely locations of the treasure.

  The story has its original setting in Mexico in the days following the Cortez conquest of the Aztecs. The mines were fabulously rich and many ships, laden with gold and silver, sailed for the Spanish homeland. On one occasion, pirates tried to thwart this shipment. Hard pressed, the sailors turned their galleons into the Mississippi River and took shelter in protective coves of the Big Waters. While in hiding, they contacted Indians who excited them with rumors of rich mines in the region farther north. The lure was irresistible and they disbanded their ships, loaded their cargoes on rafts, and poled up the Mississippi and Arkansas Rivers.

  The legend states that they found crude mines worked by Indians near the mouth of the Mulberry River, but these supplied scant gold. The Spaniards prospected for several months in the surrounding country, but found nothing of value. Harassed by the redmen, they buried the treasure they had brought from Mexico in the deep shaft of a mine, sealed it securely, and departed, expecting to return and recover it at some later time. The territory was taken over by France soon afterwards and eventually became the property of the United States by the purchase of 1803. The Spanish adventurers never returned for their treasure and the story ends with the usual legendary speculations.

  An interesting story of the Ouachita Mountains is that of the Giant of the Hills. This wild man, seven feet tall, was reported seen many times in the backhills of Saline County during the years following the Civil War. He was of the white race, wore no clothing, and his body was covered with long, thick hair. He made his home in caves, for the most part, but at times was seen in the canebrakes along the Saline River.

  While he had never been known to harm anyone, the giant was greatly feared and shunned by all the settlers for miles around. He had never been heard to utter a sound and that enhanced the mystery. Eventually it was decided that he should be captured and a party was organized for the hunt. A daring young man led the group with a pack of deerhounds. The wild man was tracked to a cave and lassoed with a rope. When the lariat noose fell over his shoulders he emitted a strange sound like that of a trapped animal. He was taken to Benton and lodged in jail—a small building made of logs. He immediately tore from his body the clothing provided by his captors and escaped from the flimsy jail, only to be recaptured, this time in the canebrakes.

  Just what became of the wild man no one seems to know. Old-timers say he disappeared and was never seen in the country again. The following story ties in nicely as a sequel to this.

  Soon after the giant escaped, the young man who had led the first hunt rushed into the cabin home of his parents, grabbed his gun and called to his mother, “Ma, don’t look for me till you see me comin’; it may be a day, it may be a year.” He had found giant footprints and wanted to get started while the trail was hot.

  These tracks were fourteen inches long and four feet apart. The place was Saline County, not far from the county seat of Benton. According to the story, the young man followed the tracks successfully across southern Arkansas and into Texas. Along the way he came upon nine other men who had discovered the big tracks and were following them. In this company, he traveled across the Lone Star State, subsisting almost entirely upon raw meat killed along the way.

  It was almost a year before the Arkansan returned home with the disappointing news that not one of the trailing party had caught a glimpse of the giant who made the tracks, although they did find several persons who claimed they had seen him, always traveling in the darkness of night.

  The climax of tall tales in the Ozarks is found in the romantic legend of Grand Gulf. This story is seasoned with some archaeological approval but it is my opinion that actual proof is as far away as the millennium. It is interesting folklore, but not to be taken too seriously. I summarize the tale as reported in the Thayer (Missouri) News eight or nine years ago.

  Grand Gulf begins with a canyon a few miles north of the Missouri–Arkansas line in Oregon County, Missouri, which carries a fair-sized stream of water. The stream disappears into a subterranean cavern. A few miles below in Arkansas is the famous Mammoth Spring which is a small river rising from the bowels of the earth. It is an established fact that the gulf and the spring are connected. Tests have been made by emptying sacks of oats into the stream in the canyon and observing the grains emerge in the spring. A lost river, born in Missouri, reborn in Arkansas.

  The fantastic part of this narrative is the legend associated with Grand Gulf. Someone at some time conceived the idea that Job and his herdsmen pitched their tents and fattened their herds in the vicinity of the lost river. This was the land of Uz spoken of in the Old Testament. Job’s eldest son lived near him and had his habitation destroyed by the first tornado mentioned in the Bible (Job 1:19).

  Years after Job recovered from his boils, the land of Uz gained a remarkable civilization. They had fields and livestock and were not nomadic like the American Indians. The legend asserts that they traveled by boat up and down the stream in Grand Gulf which connected two important villages. (The legend doesn’t explain how they emerged at the spring end of the route.)

  After a long time, the inhabitants of pastoral Uz were attacked by powerful bands of savages from the far north. It was a massacre, with village after village being destroyed. Several people escaped immediate death by taking refuge in Grand Gulf, but the savages discovered their hiding place and rolled stones into the outlet at the spring, flooding the great cavern. Only a few escaped this horrible catastrophe. It is claimed that ancient hieroglyphics have been found, carved in copper and stone, telling the story of this great conflict.

  About thirty years ago two Missourians tried to explore the underground river in Grand Gulf, but failed. They traveled by boat down the long canyon to the mouth of the cavern where the river sinks. They made their way underground for some distance, but turned back when passage became impossible. They found an old landing place in perfect condition and brought back an earthen jar estimated to be three thousand years old. The site of what is thought to be an ancient village has been found not far from Grand Gulf. These recent discoveries will probably spur the archaeologists on to greater action, but I cannot accept this land of Uz business.

  CHAPTER XV

  Men of the Mountains

  Backhill Hermit

  The hermit was sitting by an open fire in the yawning mouth of a cave on White River. I had left the Freeman place near the ferry at dawn to do some fishing in the vicinity of White Rock Bluff. The stream was ideal for floating and my boat drifted several miles in the clear water as I tempted the sporting bass with the lure of live minnows. But luck seemed to be against me. No strikes rewarded my efforts. I was about ready to turn my boat and start poling upstream when the sight of the old man, and the picturesque setting of the cave, caused me to rest my paddle. The scene impressed me as a picture from the gallery of “life’s other side.” The high bluff on the eastern side of the stream screened the sun from view. Mauve shadows lay in the transparent waves of the churning water. Near the foot of the cliff, about forty feet above the waterline, the opening of the cavern gaped wide. The hermit was cooking breakfast over a wood fire. He sat on a rock, pipe in his mouth, gun across his knees, as he watched the flames eat into the dry wood.

  It was early October, the time of the “moon of painted leaves,” and the oaks, elms, and maples were dressed like Joseph of old, in a coat of many colors. Except for the roar of the tumbling water and the occasional bark of a squirrel in the woods across the stream, all was quiet. For several minutes I sat glued to the boat, transfixed by the charm of the scene before me. When the old man saw me, he motioned greeting and I joined him on the spacious porch of his curious home.
I had read much of hermits of old, but this was my first contact with a man who had joined forces with nature in the solitude of the Ozark hills.

  The hermit, whom I came to know as Joe Miller, had a typical Anglo-Saxon appearance. He did not present an uncouth mien such as one might expect from this way of life. His beard was trimmed and the gray locks of his long hair curled gracefully over his jacket collar. He wore a broad-brimmed hat which he seldom removed from his head during waking hours. His clothing was conventional cloth from the country store—blue denim overalls, cotton shirt, and woolen jacket. His shoes were rough brogans, hand-sewed and pegged for rough usage.

  The old man had lived many years on White River, moving up and down the stream as prompted by the supply of game and fish. He hunted, trapped, fished, and gathered roots and herbs. Except for occasional trips to the country store or the county seat, he seldom left his wilderness home. The wooded hills supplied squirrel, quail, turkey, and an occasional deer, and he could fish without going more than ten steps from his cave. Wild fruits grew in abundance along the stream and nut-bearing trees were everywhere. If he needed sweetening, he could course a bee, chop the tree, and collect the honey. With such inviting natural surroundings, the hermit had little need for the pension check sent to him by the government as a reward for his services during the Civil War.

  Joe Miller had one discrepancy which excited my interest. He had a dread of snakes. He explained that this fear was caused by being bitten by a rattler in his youth. Snakes seldom enter the damp caves of the Ozarks, but the hermit took no chances. He had constructed a snake-proof “bedroom” which was a marvel of ingenuity. He had secured an old metal water tank at a nearby mill, cut out the ends, and hinged them to open and close at will. With the help of neighboring woodsmen he had suspended it with chains from the limb of a large oak tree near the entrance of the cavern. He had feathered his nest with straw and sacks and old quilts and had comfortable sleeping quarters even in winter. The tank swung ten feet above the ground and was accessible by means of a rope ladder which he drew up after him. The contraption was partially sheltered from wind and rain by the overhanging cliff.

  In viewing the hermit’s domicile, I noticed a number of bottles and fruit jars anchored with rocks and pegs around the entrance of the cave. Miller explained that snakes will not crawl in the vicinity of glass and that these objects were used as a precaution to keep the reptiles away. I have never investigated this theory, but assume the old man knew what he was doing.

  A small spring gushed from the rocks at the entrance to the cave. This gave him a plentiful supply of water for drinking, cooking, and laundry. An aperture just inside the cavern served as a supply room for clothing, toilet articles, cooking utensils, and firewood. There was neither rent nor taxes to disturb the hermit in his independent way of life.

  I visited Joe Miller many times during the months that followed. He was a congenial companion, had a keen mind, and possessed a wide knowledge of nature lore. Here are a few nuggets from the hermit’s cave of knowledge. Some of them are scientifically correct; others are not. It is not my business to draw the line between fact and fallacy. I report as Joe told them to me:

  Dragonflies sting.

  Moles are blind.

  Frogs drink through their skins.

  Ants smell with their feet.

  Snakes hear through the tongue.

  Horsehairs left in water will turn into hair snakes.

  Warts are caused by handling toads.

  The tarantula’s bite is fatal to man.

  No snake dies until the sun goes down.

  Dogs’ tails and walnut trees draw lightning.

  Thunder sours milk and kills the chickens in setting eggs.

  The age of a rattlesnake is determined by the number of rattles in its tail.

  Water may be found by witching with a green stick.

  The black widow spider is more deadly than the rattlesnake.

  Teeth should never be pulled in the afternoon or when the zodiac sign is about the head. To do so may cause profuse bleeding.

  The best whetstone rock is always found on the north side of a mountain at an angle of forty-five degrees.

  A live snake placed in a barrel of cider will keep it sweet.

  Pigs castrated when the zodiac sign is in the heart will die.

  Transplanted trees should always be set out in the same relative positions as when dug from the ground.

  The seventh son of a seventh son is endowed with miraculous powers.

  The growth of vegetables is affected by the moon.

  The joint snake breaks in pieces and goes back together again.

  Snakes will not enter a garden where gourds grow.

  Hens will not lay in a field where there are potatoes.

  Smoking a pipe will keep off epileptic fits.

  If you look straight into a fire that is being kindled, it will not burn brightly.

  Telling a lie may cause a blister on the tongue.

  Horses have an instinctive fear of ghosts.

  To sleep in the moonlight may cause insanity.

  Scrambled owl’s eggs cure drunkenness.

  A cow that loses her cud should be given a rag to replace it.

  There is danger of baldness if the hair is cut in the dark of the moon.

  To cure chicken pox, lay down in the chicken house door and permit a black hen to fly over you.

  To take out fire from a burn, repeat to yourself: “Two little angels came from heaven. One brought fire and the other frost. Go out fire and come in frost.” Blow on the burn as you say the last word of these lines. Keep repeating until you are sure the fire is drawn out.

  Hideaway Bent

  No one will accept the theory that man is the victim of modern life. Man is captain of his own soul and, in a great measure, the maker of his own destiny. He towers over circumstances, and though crushed to earth will rise again. Man is a fighter. True he has destroyed his fellowmen, for he has often had to fight or perish, but as long as he fights for constructive things—he is a noble fighter. But when he tramps under his feet justice and mercy, and employs brute force, these things are not the measure of a man.

  Man is a thinker. But the fact alone that man is a thinking animal does not make him great. What is the measure of a man? The true worth of a man is unselfishness; the way he lives his life among his fellowmen, judged by the standards of loyalty, honesty, and decency.

  The man whose memory we honor today lived the simple life he loved among the hills. He led no great armies to victory. He was no great captain of industry. He did not write his name across the stars, but he wrote it in the hearts of his fellow man with his simple life in the hills. He preferred this life. He was born in Maine and educated at Bowdoin College, a personal friend of Longfellow and Hawthorne, with an active mind and a keen intellect, yet he loved the simple life. The actualness of reality. These are the things that make a man.

  These lines I have taken from an address delivered by Dewey J. Short, member of Congress from Missouri, at the grave of Levi Morrill (“Uncle Ike” of The Shepherd of the Hills) in Evergreen Cemetery at Notch, Missouri, October 20, 1929.

  I once had an idea that I might pass a very pleasant life, providing I could wean myself from the comforts of civilization, by living in a cozy rock shelter on James River which I had found while exploring the backhills. The shelter is on a hillside overlooking a spacious valley and the river runs close by. In the distance extends a range of hills as far as the eye can see. It is a solitary place, far from the haunts of man, and one might sing and laugh or weep and moan, according to mood and conscience, without being criticized or disturbed. I sat in this snug shelter and watched a harvest moon rise over the hills and put the stars to flight. The thought came to me that I might attain qualities and even possessions denied me in the world of trade if I made the hills my permanent home and courted nature instead of books. A few years behind my whiskers in this shelter on the hillside might help me regain the spirit I
had lost while mingling with men.

  I had about decided to check out of civilization and migrate to the rock shelter in the Ozarks when the United States entered the first World War. This made an abrupt change in my plans. I joined the National Guard at Kansas City and was soon inducted into the regular army. The rock shelter and the forty acres of land I had bought on White River earlier in the year, were left to look out for themselves.

  Two years later I returned from France and reentered the hills. Hideaway Lodge was built in a grove of cedars on a hill by the river. For three years I lived as a thoroughgoing individualist. During the summer season I cooked over an open fire and washed the utensils in a spring near the cabin door. I occasionally slipped out of my solitude to clerk in the country store or substitute for the teacher in the district school. But most of my time was spent in the woods. Like Thoreau, I preferred to sit on a pumpkin and have it all to myself rather than be crowded on a velvet cushion. On the average, I worked one day and rested six, which was good for both body and soul. But such an experience was too good to last. Three years later I tied a knot in the latchstring at Hideaway Lodge and took a job teaching school at Kingston, Arkansas.1

  There are thousands of men and women with hideaway tendencies who have found the Ozarks a pleasant refuge. Many of them are people with creative bent who enjoy the nourishment of solitude. Some come to regain health of mind and body and get a new look at life. Fountains of health in the form of bubbling springs continue to entice pilgrims from far and near as they did the pioneer who left his name with McFadden’s Three Sisters Springs in the Ouachita Mountains. Harold Bell Wright turned to the hills for health and inspiration and found a pot of gold. His novels of the Ozarks have been read by millions of people. It has been more than thirty years since Wright pitched his tent by Old Matt’s cabin above Mutton Hollow, but he still holds the record as the best press agent the Ozarks have ever had.