Ozark Moonshine

“Da da da, da da, da da, da dum,” Casey sang, roughly approximating the guitar/banjo melody of the famous theme song from the movie “Deliverance.”

“Dum dum dum, dum dum, dum dum, dum dum,” Dwight echoed, and soon all at the table were laughing, including me, the brunt of the joke.

“You know, Chuck, Arkansas is as bad as Tennessee or anywhere else in Appalachia,” cautioned Len. “They got lotta men there who like other men.”

“Better take your gun on this trip,” suggested Casey.

“Yeah, ‘cause you can be sure they’ll all have their guns with them!” laughed Dwight.

I had started this thread of conversation a few minutes earlier, responding to the innocuous question, ‘What are you doing over spring break in two weeks?” I had simply related that I was going to do a solo backpack on the Ozark Highlands Trail in northern Arkansas, and suddenly I was being lectured on imagined stranger-danger encounters in hillbilly country, and this conversation continued nearly every day as our vacation approached. I laughed good-naturedly each time the banter began, but I didn’t realize how deeply the repartee had influenced my subconscious until the third day of the trip.

On Saturday, March 22, 1997, I left at 5 am. The prospect of backpacking after a long winter made the ten-hour drive go quickly. I checked into a Best Western Inn in Branson, Missouri, at 3 pm and immediately went for an hour walk down the main drag, reveling in the warm 65 degree afternoon while stretching my legs from the long car drive and scouting out what shows were available that evening.

Branson is famous for its dozens of theatres offering fine family entertainment at moderate prices. Over the years I’ve seen The Oak Ridge Boys, The Osmond Brothers, Glen Campbell, Andy Williams, and the fantastic violinist, Shoji Tabuchi and his electrifying daughter, Christina. March is still pre-season, so not all venues were open yet, but there was still a good selection of performances and plenty of seats were available for all shows. I decided to see the Jim Stafford Show, remembering him from his time on the old Smothers Brothers television show, and I got a ticket for that night’s performance – third row center.

The next day I drove south into Arkansas, parked at Don Hankins’ house, and paid him $40 to shuttle me to Ozone Campground where I began the backpack on the Ozark Highlands Trail, a 165-mile route through the magnificent Ozark National Forest. I was only hiking 30 or so of those miles as I worked my way back to my van, and that first day I covered a bit over 12 miles, quite a bit considering the long winter of reduced exercising. Lunch was at the picturesque slot rock area along Lick Creek, and that entire day I encountered only two people, equestrians out for a ride along a creek.

Solo backpacking is far different from backpacking with others. For many people, solitude is the most unappealing aspect and they have no desire to go days without companionship. I love going with others and most of my 60+ backpacks have been with friends or groups, but solo hiking also has advantages and going alone is better than not going at all if no one else is available for a trip. The opportunity to dwell in your own mind uninterrupted for long periods of time is not a bad thing, and great thoughts are more probable when so engrossed in thought. I always carry two books with me and find plenty of time to relax and read, and poetry often oozes out of my mind while I’m out in nature for days at a time. I’ve always subscribed to the words of my sixth grade teacher, Mr. Ernest Palincsar, who wrote in my elementary school autograph book: “Cultivate your mind so that when you’re alone, you’ll be in good company.”

A drawback to solo backpacking is not having someone with whom to share the scenic beauty, though taking photographs like this of Cedar Creek...



... and vista-inspired poetry help alleviate this shortcoming. A larger problem is having no one to assist should you encounter trouble, so constant caution and vigilance to danger are paramount when alone. Having to carry all the gear yourself is another downside, as is having to get your pack on and off unassisted, so both of these temper how much and what gear you take. Two or more minds are often preferable when confusions arise regarding route finding and map interpretation, but on the flip side, being able to determine your own timetable and hiking at your own pace are advantages of soloing. A final drawback is not having anyone to share daily camp chores, but of course there are fewer dishes to wash and less food to prepare when alone.

I crossed Cedar Creek at 4:30 and chose a spot to set up camp since the guidebook showed the trail about to join an old logging road just up the hill. I much preferred spending the night close to the water source and while I was still deep in the woods, not alongside an old road. The strenuous hiking had killed my appetite, so I skipped supper and rested in the tent, reading a novel. I left the door unzipped, head sticking out into the warm air, and every so often I stopped reading and just stared at the beauty of the forest. Since spring was just beginning and leaves were scarce, sight lines through the trees were astounding and the barren brown topography beautiful in its own way.




After darkness hit, I continued reading with my flashlight. Then the bulb died. A spare bulb is stored in the base of the Mini-Maglight, but the bulbs are not the screw-in type, having two long, slender wires that have to be carefully inserted into two small holes. I knew I would probably break off one or both of the wires if I tried to do it in the dark and I didn’t want to go out to get my matches from my backpack leaning against a nearby tree. Since I was feeling tired, I decided to just let myself doze off, so around 7 pm, I zipped the screen door shut to keep critters out, left the outer door open since it was still warm, and fell into a deep slumber.




Hours later I awoke, startled by something up the hill, and discovered a powerful spotlight glaring down on me from the hilltop, illuminating the tent and me and partially blinding me from its incredible brightness. With sleepy, unfocused eyes, and a half-dozing, cloudy mind, I felt apprehension as I observed vague figures moving down the forested hillside toward me. The fine meshing of the mosquito net screen door obscured clear vision, but I recalled the map showing the old jeep road atop the hill’s ridgeline and realized the approaching strangers must have parked along the road and no doubt had made whatever sound had awakened me so suddenly. I recalled the jibes from the guys at work about the Deliverance people who populated this backward region and fear regarding their motives washed through me. Why would these half dozen or more locals spotlight my tent and rush down toward me? Perhaps I had inadvertently stumbled upon a backwoods moonshine operation or a marijuana farm or a crack factory? Maybe they were after my gear and money? Or maybe Casey and the guys were right and this was a sexual attack?

I quickly went through my daypack and found my Charter Arms Bulldog Pug .44 special, a five-shot revolver, and reassured myself that it was loaded. For safety reasons, I always carry it with an empty cylinder as the next to fire, so I only had four bullets for six or more attackers. Not good. Where are the spare shells? Oh yeah, at the bottom of my pack, outside ten feet away leaning against a tree. Also not good. And no flashlight to use, either. Oops! Situation not looking good at all!

I stared at the descending strangers, trying to wish them away and also make out their faces, movements, and intentions. Maybe the spotlight wasn’t really shining on me but on some animal beyond me, or maybe it’s just randomly pointing down the hill to allow them to hike down safely for whatever innocent purpose they were pursuing.

But this seemed mere wishful thinking. The searchlight was too powerful, too blinding, and too purposefully directed at me, and they were heading directly at me. Why are they not talking, calling out to one another or to me? Well, obviously they think I’m sleeping. After all, there are no lights coming from my tent or my camp. So what are my options? Limited at best. Virtually non-existent. I couldn’t run in the pitch darkness. I could fight, but I was outnumbered and out gunned, and I’m not much of a fighter anyway. I could try hiding, but the spotlight was all seeing. What should I do? I felt paralyzed from sleepiness, fear, confusion, and indecision. I just kept staring at the approaching men and praying this was all just a bad dream, but it was far too real to be a dream.

Though it seemed much longer, only minutes had passed since I’d been suddenly awakened. I concentrated on the spotlight now, studying it, for something seemed to have changed. What was different? The shape of the light beam was rounder now, and even brighter still, and larger, and even seemed to be a bit higher above the hillside’s crest. Of course -- they were carrying the light down the hill with them! And they were nearly here!

Then all at once, clarity replaced the fog of sleep and my eyes focused more clearly, and I sheepishly laughed aloud at myself as I reveled at the biggest, brightest, closest view I’d ever had of a full blazing moon now clearing the crest of the hill in its full majesty and making the entire hollow in which I was camped as bright as if in daylight, and for the first time in minutes, my heart and respirations returned to normal and I was overcome simultaneously by two intense feelings – relief and foolishness – as I realized the spotlight was the moon and the attacking strangers were merely tree and bush branches shimmering in the light breeze.



February 25, 2005