The Boston Mountains: Lost in the Ozarks

The past whispers of secrets long kept, hushed murmurs that embrace me as I walk among the tumbled headstones in a long abandoned cemetery, place my hand on the trunk of a splendid maple that has shaded the ancient Ozark soil for a century or more, and turn my face to catch the kiss of afternoon sunlight that fires great oaks into a golden glow.

Imagine arriving in this rugged mountain wilderness by wagon train, on foot or horseback to find no voices of man, woman, or child; only the mournful calls of whippoorwill and solemn owls, the chatter of the crow and playful squirrel, the “scree” of soaring red hawks whose flight darts shadows across the land, or being alone with black bears, cougars, and wolves, asleep at night in the company of the nocturnal beasts of the forest and sky, the bats, the ‘possum and the odorous skunk.

The Cherokee, the Osage, the Quawpaws, all were banished to the Indian Nations to the West. Only a few of these natives linger, the pad of their moccasins unheard as they hunt the forests and valleys, seldom seen, as if they never existed.