Stories of the Ozarks

My Daddy hung out in these Ozarks hills long before I was born...  It took awhile for the locals to warm up to him; if you can call it that. 

You see, in the 1950's, there were enough moonshine stills in these hills that any outsider was considered a possible ATF (Alcohol, Tobacco & Firearms) agent sent straight from the gov't.  There wasn't much room for "outsiders".

Still, my Daddy loved this area so much that after a time of gettin' to know the locals through fishin' the White River, occasionally they would let him into their "inner circles"...  well, a little bit, anyway.  Here's one of my Daddy's recollections from around 1950...  Hope you enjoy it.

 

One Way To Buy An Arkansas Fox Hound

By Bob Watts

Say "fox hunting" to most people and they immediately think of a passel of beagles who look like they had the same mommy and daddy, a bunch of people on horses who apparently ordered their red and white riding apparel from the same catalogue, at least one guy making as much noise as he can blowing on a brass horn, and a dead fox.

And let’s don’t forget the brave young man wiping fox blood on his face. Apparently, killing a fox has something to do with him becoming a man. Really don’t understand this since he didn’t kill anything.  The fox was being chased by two or three dozen dogs barking as loud as they could, a dozen or so people riding gigantic horses, hollering and screaming as loud as they could, and let’s don’t forget the guy with the bugle who was blowing it as hard as he could.  If the fox died at all, it was probably from a heart attack.

Now, have I ever been fox hunting with some of the locals? Nope. Guess one reason is that some of the locals didn’t trust me from the day I arrived until the day I left. Another reason is that I had no dogs to contribute to the hunt or moonshine whiskey in case anyone got a little thirsty. Guess I could have offered to bring some Coke or 7-UP but never got the opportunity...

On the other hand, did I talk with some of the locals about what went on at the fox hunts around there. Yep. Here’s what they told me to the best of my recollection. Keep in mind that was over 50 years ago. Anyhow, a few of the good old boys and their dogs would apparently get together about dark, somewhere out in the boonies. A campfire was built, and the dogs were turned loose. And then the good old boys, with their guns, would follow the dogs right?

WRONG!

They would stay right by the camp fire and start listening. That’s right, listening. Seems like each dog had somewhat of a distinctive bark (they called it a voice) and the owners, at least in some cases, could recognize the bark of each of their dogs. They could also tell if a particular dog lost the scent, or picked up the scent, was just plain lost, or whatever.

A little betting sometimes took place like, “I’ll bet you a quarter that one of my dogs picks up the scent before one of yours”. That’s right. The hunt is not a hunt at all. It’s just a bunch of good old boys sitting around a campfire, listening to their dogs, some drinking a little moonshine whiskey, and visiting. Some might call it gossiping but probably not a good idea down there especially if some fox hunters were within earshot.  

So what ended the “hunt”? Not sure. Maybe the dogs got so far away they couldn’t be heard. Or perhaps they ran out of things to talk about which is relatively easy for men to do. Then there is the possibility that one or more of them figured they’d had enough moonshine for one nite.

So they would put out the camp fire, jump in their pickups, and go home. Wait a minute. Wait just a goldern minute. Go home? How about the dogs? You know, they’re probably all wore out from all that running and barking. Surely they would like to get back home for some fresh water, food, and a little shut eye. And isn’t there a dead fox around somewhere that needs picking up?

Well, first of all, there’s rarely a dead fox. While these dogs are pretty good when it comes to chasing foxes and barking incessantly, they never seem to get around to the killing part. The reason is that the foxes down around Cotter almost always outrun the dogs. Was told it has something to do with the rocky terrain which favors the fox.

As to the dogs getting back home that nite, forget it. When they get on the trail of a fox, they usually find some stamina they forgot they had, so they just keep on running and barking far past the bedtime of their owners. Next thing you know, tomorrow arrives and it’s now time to go round up the dogs. Now it’s true that I’ve never been fox hunting. But I have been dog hunting which is what you do the day after you go fox hunting. So here’s the way it went the one time I was invited to go. My host was a local named Cowboy.

We drove out to about where the fox hunt occurred the previous nite. Then Cowboy pulled out a horn which I guess was made from a horn which used to belong to a steer or some other kind of critter. He blew it several times and then we started waiting. Sure enough, in a few minutes, one of his hounds showed up. Good grief! It was panting heavily and limping on all fours. Looked just awful.

Cowboy gave it some water, then blew his horn again, and we waited another ten or fifteen minutes. No second dog. So off we went, drove about a mile and stopped again. On the way, Cowboy explained that the rocky terrain tore up the paws of the dogs bad enough that they had to be treated with some kind of homemade salve. It was something like two or three weeks before they were well enough to go running and barking again.
  
The next two stops were totally unproductive. Now it was about noon and suddenly we were on an old country road that looked like it hadn’t seen a motorized vehicle in quite some time. After a while, we came across a log cabin like farm house that looked as if it came right out of “Shepherd Of The Hills”. For those of you too young to have seen this great movie, it was about hill people and how they lived about a hundred years go.

Holy smoke! First off, didn’t see an outhouse. Surely they don’t -- well, perhaps it’s out of sight behind the house. Something else I didn’t see was a power line or a propane tank or a telephone line. So how did they keep warm in the winter, cool in the summer, do laundry, wash and dry the dishes, provide power to the ice box and deep freeze, watch TV, and visit with the neighbors? Guess they just did the best they could.

There was an old lady sitting in a rocker on the porch.

“Morning Mrs. (can’t remember her name)”

“Morning Cowboy.”

“Don’t suppose you’ve seen any of my dogs?”

“Yep. Got one tied up down at the barn.  Henry’s down there now.” (assumed Henry was her husband)

“Well, I sure do thank ya.”

She raised her arm in recognition but didn’t say another word.

So it was down to the barn where Henry was fixin’ something. A few brief words were exchanged and then Henry said something like “Care for a little sip?” Cowboy replied in the affirmative and Henry disappeared into another part of the barn.

Came right back carrying a plastic Clorox bottle. Oh no. Were they going to poison me? Turns out they weren’t. The bottle was full of what was apparently genuine moonshine whiskey probably made by Henry.

Guess the purpose of using the plainly marked Clorox bottle was to keep casual observers from discovering the contents. Sure hoped they’d washed that bottle out real good before filling it back up.

So the three of us squatted down and started passing the bottle. Now I had never learned to squat but figured I’d better learn real quick. By the way, that moonshine was delicious.  

 

Now let’s talk a little bit about Cowboy’s dog whose name was Max. As we approached the barn, Max stuck his head out of the entrance to see who was coming. When he saw Cowboy, did he come running and wagging his tail? Nope. He just squatted down as if he had done a bad thing and was hoping his punishment wouldn’t be too severe.

Fortunately, Cowboy was not the punishing type. He just walked over to Max, patted him a couple of times on the head, then lifted up one of his paws and examined it. Looked just fine. Hmmm.

Now only Max knew exactly what happened last nite. But Cowboy and I now had a pretty good idea...

Believe it went something like this:

“Good grief. I’ve only been hunting two or three hours and already my paws are sore. After all the hunting I’ve done over the years, the pads on the bottom of my feet are starting to look like big blogs of scar tissue. And did I mention that my throat is starting to get sore from all that barking?  Now it’s getting cold, and starting to rain - not exactly good for my joints. Hey, give me a break. I’m no spring chicken anymore.

Hello, what’s this? Looks like a barn ahead. A good place to get out of the rain and take a short nap - you know, ten minutes or so. Heck, they’ll never miss me. And I am a little thirsty so I’ll get a drink out of that water trough. ------------- Holy smoke! You’d think they would clean this thing out once in a while. Well, no use making a federal case out of it. It’s starting to rain a little heavier now, so I’ll wait a little and then go outside and find me a fresh puddle.

Wow, does this hay feel good. Well, maybe 20 minutes. Heck, I deserve it. Zzzzzzzzzzzz. Oh no! Not now. Sounds like a couple of my buddies have picked up a new scent. They’re barking their fool heads off. Suppose I oughta go help ‘em. But they are probably a mile away. Could be they would have lost the scent by the time I got there.

And besides, the fox could double back and head this way. If that happened, I would be in a perfect place to ambush the little devil. Yeah, the smart thing to do is to stay right here where it is nice zzzzzzz and warm zzzzzzzzzzz and dry. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.  Guess my 20 minutes is about up. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz To hell with the foxes! zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Next thing I knew, we were headed home. As we drove along, I began to realize that this day turned out to be a once in a lifetime experience, at least for me. It was like being in a new world, a place that very few people know anything about. Reading about it or perhaps seeing something similar on TV or on a movie screen would have been one thing, but to be an actual part of it for a few hours was something so special that it was far beyond my ability to put into words. So I won’t try.

Now if you can’t understand how this experience could be that special to anybody, make sure to tell your doctor next time you get a chance. Your condition may still be treatable.

OK, started out to tell you one way to buy an Arkansas fox hound, so let’s get at it. Was having my usual breakfast at the Waverly Restaurant in Cotter, Arkansas and visiting with the owner Jim who was behind the counter. Suddenly there’s this guy standing next to me.

“I‘m looking for a man they call Cowboy.” Actually, Cowboy was sitting two stools over. Jim didn’t say anything but nodded ever so slightly toward Cowboy. He apparently wasn’t sure that Cowboy wanted to be identified to a stranger.

“Are you Cowboy?"

Cowboy continued to look straight ahead and slowly replied:

“That depends on who’s askin'”.

At this point, you need to know that, back then, there were still some illegal stills operating not all that far from Cotter, so some of the locals figured that a stranger just might be from the Alcohol, Tobacco, & Firearms Dep’t. 
 
“Well, I’m Billie Ray Morton from Mountain Home."

“Oh yes, I’ve been expecting you. Have a nephew who works at the same feed mill you do and he told me you have a real good male hound dog you need to get rid of. So if he’s so good, why do you want to get rid of him?

The ice was now broken. Billie Ray said that he had just accepted a new job in a city about a hundred miles away. He would be living with his brother and there was no place to keep the dog. Well, the two men started talking about the various characteristics of the dog including the type of “voice” he had. Gosh, didn’t know dogs had a voice. I thought they just barked. Then it was on to age, stamina, how fast its paws healed up after a hunt, the breed (can’t remember) and on and on. The price of the dog was $40. There was no bargaining.

Cowboy asked if Billie Ray if could deliver the dog. The answer was yes if he could deliver the dog in two days about noon. Cowboy said ok and told the stranger how to get to his house. He also told him that he could be still out on the river fishing and if that was the case, asked him to just drop the dog off there. Said he had two hounds in a pen off one side of the house and when the new dog saw ‘em, he would stay right there until Cowboy got home. They both agreed that this would work. At this point, Cowboy gave Billy Ray $40, they shook hands, and that was it.

I had just witnessed an almost unbelievable business transaction. I saw a man buy a dog he had never seen from a man he had never seen. There was no mention of a bill of sale. Nobody seemed at all concerned that the dog might run off after he was delivered or be stolen. And Cowboy was apparently not at all concerned that Billy Ray might run off with both the dog and the $40.

So first chance I got, discussed all this with my friend Jim, the café owner. He had an amazingly simple answer to all my questions. It went something like this.

“Bob, I’ve lived here most of my life and witnessed all kinds of small business transactions where there is no paperwork. What holds these contracts together is the good word of the participants. Down here, a man’s word is one of his most valuable possessions.  When a person starts getting the reputation that his word cannot be trusted, living somewhere else seems to become a lot more attractive. ” I wasn’t sure what he meant but decided not to ask.

Now relax, I’m not about to give my readers a small lecture about the world becoming a better place if people would put more value on other people always being able to trust their word. I told the dog purchase story because I thought it was interesting. What makes it even more interesting is because it is true to the best of my recollection.  Hope you enjoyed it!

I would love to find out more about the OZARKS. 

My Greatgrandmother came to the Ozarks in the mid 1800s on the trail of tears with her family.  She settled in Cabin Creek Area.  She was Cherokee/Chickasaw.  She met my Greatgrandfather a fur trapper who came to America as a 12 year old child from Amsterdam, Holland.  He fell in love with my Great grandmother and traded furs for her.  They lived in Cabin Creek in a log cabin in the Ozark mountains.  My great grandmother died 9 days after giving birth to my grandmother in 1910.  My grandmother was taken by her father to her native natural family who tried to raise her.  A white family came through in a wagon and homesteded a piece of land to farm nearby.  They heard of a half indian baby and came and took the baby to raise her.  She went to an indian boarding school in Cabin Creek, Ark.  I dont know the name, but would like to find out.  She got married at 15 or 16 to my Grandfather part of the Bullock/Benefiel Family and settled in the Ozarks on land that they farmed.  My grandfather had grapes, apples, chickens, goats, and all kinds of vegetables.  He also moonshined whiskey.  Alot of stories my grandmother told me about the Ozarks and the spooky ghosts she heard and her experiences.   She was a great story teller who will be greatly missed.  Myrtle died in 2006.    My family from my grandfather's side still lives in Lamare and the Ozarks.  Someday I want to visit there.  Thanks KR

I was working on a boat motor very quietly in the winter on Blackburns 170 ft. long dock.  There was no one around and it was very quiet.  I noticed a flock of black ducks around the dock but did not pay much attention to them.  After awhile I heard a swoosh  and then a lot of excitement.  I kept working on the motor an the same thing was repeated.  Again an again.  I looked up and saw a single black duck fly away and was impaled by a very large Bald Eagle.  It was the only one who decided to take flight.  It was fatal.  The rest of them knew enough to just paddle as fast as they could and head for Blackburns.  About a half an hour later the process started all over again.  I do not know if it was the same eagle since they are several winter right across the lake from Blackburns.  It was pretty cool.  I respected the brains of the ducks and at the same time knew the eagle would find one duck that would take flight.  It helped me to think that it was not very good to panic if you are a black duck.  I have also seen several osprey near Blackburns Resort Dock.  They are always in a tree eating a fish.  I guess that is why they are called fisher birds.  Steve

 

Gazing out my office window, I feel as though I'm immersed in my own butterfly kingdom. With the onslaught of June sun, our butterfly bushes are now as tall as the lower edge of our windows. Like the hypnotic trance one encounters when staring at a fish aquarium, I'm mesmerized by this view of a variety of Ozark butterflies to delight the eyes. Smaller varieties, like the Zebras with their turquoise colors banded by black stripes, frolic and drink from blooms next to my little corner of the universe. They're often accompanied by hummingbirds who flee from our sugar water feeders to seek a more natural taste. When these creatures leave, the larger swallowtails arrive at the table including the Tiger, Spicebush and the Giant Black Swallowtail. They drift and cavort in the glimmering buds until I'm almost lulled to sleep, so peaceful is their rise and fall ... like a baby's sigh during nap time. And once again, I'm reminded of the simpler pleasures in life and the glory of living in the Ozarks ... where time waits for the rustle butterfly wings and sunshine brings them back to me at dawn.

Blessings,

Writer Gal

Visit my new blog at: http://www.flyfishing4faith.com

 

 We drifted below our boat ramp in late evening enjoying the cool breeze across the water. Although our purpose was fly fishing, the trip became a wildlife tour as we spied our old friends, the Canadian Geese, both Mr. and Ms. with their new flock The goslings seemed undaunted by the sound of our boat motor and waddled along the river's edge searching for food under the vigilant gazes of Ma and Pa. Fly fishing soon forgotten, we focused our attention on their fluffy yellow feathers and their sweet innocence, as the fog coiled and whipped around us until they were lost from sight. There is more to this waterway than fishing. Sometimes blessings come in the smaller details and the gift of new life on the river.

My Dad wrote some notes about his life - most all of it spent near Flippin, AR in the Ozarks.  Thought I would put a few of his stories, in his words on this web site.  As told by Ike Linck (1919-2006):

 Dogs

 We always kept some dogs around the house.  Some I can remember their names, and so forth, and what they were good for.  We had one called Dash.  I think he was a Shepherd-Collie mix.  At that time we raised our own chickens.  The roosters ran outside with the hens, so the eggs were usually fertile.  Our breed of chickens was a dual-purpose chicken, called Rhode Island Red.  I know this has nothing to do with dogs in general, but Dash was a chicken protector.

 When the chicks were hatched, usually in the spring, they ran outside and were a favorite food of the hawks.  Ole Dash, for a reason I'll try to explain, would run around under the sailing hawk and bark.  I suppose it was because people sometimes ran around yelling and clapping their hands to scare the hawks away.  Anyway, he probably saved a lot of little chicks for us.  Eagles weren't saints either.  They have been known to raid even grown chickens.

 

Often when we sit on our campground and watch the river go by, I hear noises that sound like a huge boulder heaved into the water by a giant hand. My husband informs me that these noises are created by beavers slapping the water with their tails. However, I've always been a skeptic until a trip upriver last week. We decided to take our version of an afternoon drive. We launched the boat at our campground boat ramp and motored leisurely upriver to Crooked Creek. We didn't include any fishing gear. We just wanted to relax and let the river work its magic of soothing peacefulness After entering the mouth of the creek, we startled a beaver who quickly dove underwater and left us; or so we thought. Being more savvy about such critters than I am, Mike said, “keep watching, he'll come back.” Within a few moments, his prediction came true. Bucky Beaver surfaced again and slapped his tail in annoyance. And true to what had been reported, his shenanigans did indeed sound like a rock had fallen into the water. On the way back to our resort, a Canadian goose flew above us and stayed with us all the way as if leading us home. Briefly I wondered if he were a part of the couple who'd visited our campground several weeks ago (see Goose Gossip on the Angels Retreat blog) You never know who or what you'll encounter on our part of the White River; but you can be sure to see what you least expect.

When Dad died, we found that during his final few months, he had written some notes about his life - most all of it spent near Flippin, AR in the Ozarks.  Thought I would put a few of his stories, in his words on this web site.  As told by Ike Linck (1919-2006):

One noted experience I had there (telling of time in the C.C.C. camp), were some guys decided to float the Buffalo from State Park to Rush Creek.  They asked me to glo along.  I explained that I had no equipment.  So one young man said he would loan me his if I would learn to cast left handed.  I did, and now 66 years later, I still do.  I think I made the trip to Buffalo City or Shipp's Ferry every year but two that I was overseas (WWII) since then.  Most of the time I have made the trip with family.  My wife, Velma, has had the job of taking us to Rush to put in, and finding our take out point, sometimes with ver poor equipment to use for hauling.

One of our trips we sank the boat on the first shoal below Rush Creek, which happens to be the Clabber Creek Shoals.  One brother was gathering and the rest of us were fishing.  When the river is low there are only three big waves, but the river was a little high and there were five large waves.  We went down from overlaps from the waves, not because we hit something.  The motor was a 5-hp Sea King by Montgomery Ward and the tank was built in.  The tank had a big dent which remained in it the rest of the motor's life, which was six years.  We carried our extra gas in a 5 gallon galvanized can.  

We lost most of our food, and most of the sinking lures, but the gas can stayed closed and upright.  I think we lost most of my brother's wife's silverware, but no ones'  rod and reel.  Everyone was fishing.  We lost 20 cans of beer.  We all had one can.

At the time, the Buffalo was not a national river so it had a few houses on it.  The only house for the next 20 miles was Cedar Creek Joe's at the mouth of Cear Creek about 2.5 miles down river.  There were 4 of us in the boat, and when we pooled our money, we came up with $2.40.  Joe let us have a 5" square of salt "bacon", 6 eggs, and 2 cans of canned tame rabbit.  We caught enough fish to have eats.  One brother had come up from the sunken boat with the coffee pot.  The coffee was in a vacuum packed tin can and had floated.  Our Ivory soap had floated.  So, we had a good trip and didn't starve.  It was overnight.  This happened sometime during the "40's" and we still made the trip several times a year for the next 50 or 60 years.

It was fun.

Picture of Ike Linck "floating the Buffalo" taken 2004.