The natural steps

2001

I have had, like many others, a love/hate relationship with my hometown. There are a lot of things about the town and surrounding area to either love or to hate. While the negative aspects of life in Branson are very real, there is a lot to be said of what is good about the town, what makes the experience unique to the people who visit, and special for those who live there. The natural steps are special.

The Ozark Mountains are the oldest mountain range in North America. Random House Webster’s Dictionary says, “A group of low mountains in S. Missouri, N. Arkansas, and NE Oklahoma. Also called Ozarks.” Yup. There ya have it. If’n ya don’t look too hard.

Late October 1991

The natural steps are less than a mile off Highway 76. Traveling west, one would turn left at Fall Creek Road, drive less than 200 yards, and turn left again onto a set of ruts leading up and over a hill. A four-wheel drive vehicle can go the entire distance, whereas a car can travel maybe a quarter mile further before the ruts become impassible. Then those in said cars must get out and walk, which is actually for the best, anyway.

We park and walk. The grass was still green considering the lateness of season. It contrasted with the red, gold, brown, and orange leaves barely hanging on the trees or falling about us. The ruts we follow are a bit steeper, and the path always reminds me of an enchanted forest, alive and brimming with life, its ancient voice low and comforting. The ruts ultimately lead to a clearing, and to the right, a rock cabin and a wood shed sit, jus’ lookin’, off’n the distance.

We walk to the door and knock loudly. No response. We knock again. We wait. The old man, Lyle, shuffles to the door.

“Mr. Owen?” I say. “We were wonderin’ if it’d be alright if we walked down yer steps.” He said that’d be fine, as long as we clean up after ourselves. His eyes are sharp and blue. He smiled, turned, and shuffled back into the afternoon darkness of his cabin.

We walk towards the bluff. The panorama widens as we approach. Isolated rocks jut from the earth, the grass around the cabin is less green, more flaxen, and the leaves are turning as far as the eye can see. The bluff drops sharply, but it is not extremely steep, and can be traversed. Lake Taneycomo winds through the county, sweeping by the bluff, dominant in the panorama. Its river like form winds gracefully out of view in either direction, as boats float slowly by.

Four men, including Mr. Owen built the steps in the early 1930’s. The steps themselves conform to the rocky, tree-covered, and somewhat treacherous terrain leading down the hill, utilizing natural straightaway paths connecting one flight to the next. Because they were built before construction of the Table Rock Dam, the steps stop about three-quarters of the way down, as that was original water line for the White River was much higher.

Now, when I say “hill,” I’m not talking about a bunch of little wuss hills. I’m referring to big, steep hills, the remnants of big old mountains. The Ozarks ruled before the Rockies were even born. But now, they have eroded away to their present foundations, the hills and hollers forming the foundations for little towns dotting the region.

We walked down the steps, traveled paths to their end, indirectly climbed the inclines (if they were too steep to ascend directly), and came upon a dried up waterfall. An empty pond sat 50 to 75 below us. Vertigo tingled in my knees and in the back of my head as I peered over the edge. I tried to imagine what this scene was like in the rainy spring months. Water sheeting downward, impacting, exploding, frothing, re-grouping, and continuing its path.

Sensing our presence, the animals remained quiet. Footfalls and dead breaking branches were the only sounds, other than our intermittent conversation. My friend was leaving for Tennessee soon, and I was leaving for London. Since we still didn’t, at this time, know our individual attempts into the outer world would fail, and that we would see each other within a few months, our remaining time then was very significant. We talked and walked, with long periods of silence between expressed thoughts. My friend thinks a lot, also, so we wondered, out loud and to ourselves, about what our future might hold. No matter what happened, though, to the end of what horizon we chose, these hills, these formidable old mountains, would remain here, waiting for our return.

The hills become a part of you when you live in Branson or the Ozarks. Straight road is uncommon, if not a rarity. Driving in the Ozarks, one learns to roll and adjust to the constantly changing terrain. An analogy to Life’s road is illustrated very well along an Ozark road. It can be curvy and sudden, slow or too fast, steep or impassable, deadly and stunningly beautiful all at the same time. You could drive off the most beautiful cliff you ever did see. But hey; then you’re dead.

The hills demand you pay attention. But the trade off is well worth it. The experience is exhilarating, but you must pay attention. The thrill of it all, driving those winding, hilly roads, is, or can be, like life itself.

Branson is home. Always will be. And every time I return, even 10 years later, I feel as if the hills are happy that one of their own has returned, if only for a little while. They continue to wait as I continue my travels. My people also wait for me. I’m so thankful they do.