100 Miles in the Ozarks
A travel journal of our experience backpacking the Boston Mountains segment of the Ozark Highlands Trail (OHT) in Arkansas.
It was Christmas, but the airport was not holy. As midnight approached, crowds jostled through security only to discover every restaurant closed on the other side. We were among the lucky ones who ransacked a closing corner shop for dinner: two hard-boiled eggs and a charcuterie platter for Natalie, black cherry yogurt and edamame-flavored corn chips for myself.
The red eye into Chicago went by relatively quickly, thanks to an endless series of naps in an endless variety of uncomfortable positions. We landed at 0558.
Couple hours at ORD, couple servings of oatmeal, and we boarded the 50-person plane to XNA, or Bentonville, our hub to Fayetteville and the trail. We landed at 1006.
Six and a half hours later, we arrived at our cabin at Lake Fort Smith State Park. The cooking gas acquired, the caffeine withdrawal avoided, the last-minute supplies gathered, and the first meal of the day devoured — the day’s chores done. Did we really need a big swanky cabin, adding 0.75 miles to the trail? Maybe not. But we reveled in it.
DAY 1
We woke up just after 0600, as planned, and were on our way with first light. We signed into the trail’s first guestbook at 0717, our start time for the trail proper. At mile marker 1, I turned to Natalie and said, “Now we just gotta do that 140-something more times. Not bad, right?” To me, that made the mileage seem easier. She didn’t agree.
At mile 3, we made our first wet crossing. The OHT goes straight across dozens of creeks. Depending on the time of year and how much rain has fallen, these creek crossings may be “dry” (meaning you can usually find a way across without touching the water) or “wet.” This isn’t black and white. Sometimes you may think you can make a dry crossing by hopping across stones, but then you slip and submerge your whole boot. Dry no more.
The mile 3 crossing was guaranteed to be wet because it’s Frog Bayou, a wide marshy outlet. We’d opted not to take water shoes or sandals (reducing our pack weight), and had instead decided to follow our trail guide’s recommendation to remove shoes and cross the creeks in wool socks. The idea is that you can avoid the pain of stepping on sharp rocks, have a little extra traction, and even wash your smelly socks while you’re at it. At first, it felt nice and refreshing stepping through the stream… and then my toes went numb. But all that mattered was that we’d crossed safely, put our shoes back on, and were back on our way.
We passed through all kinds of country this first day, and a few other hikers. Right after Frog Bayou, a father and two young sons. Along Jack’s Creek, two young men, one on the ground tending to his knee. Up the hill from Hurricane Creek (another wet crossing), a father with his daughter waiting for his son to pick them up and take them back to White Rock, while another son hiked to meet them. And closer to White Rock, sundown approaching, a young man pitching his tent on the side of the trail.
Why did we decide to walk an insane 17 miles on our first day of hiking? We’d made the decision at Hurricane Creek (mile 10.0). A big rain was coming the next day, so we thought it would be smart to get further on the first day, walk a bit more on the second, and then wait out the storm.
The romantic (and numerologist) in me couldn’t help appreciating that we’d be walking 17 miles, as that’s also the number of miles we walked on our first day walking across America. Plus, Natalie and I got married in 2017. But not all the numbers jibed. When we walked out of New York, we had zero weight on our backs. When we left home for the Ozarks, Natalie’s pack weighed about 22 pounds, mine about 28. In other words, the last few miles of our first day were painful, and the sight of White Rock Mountain was a blessing.
As we first started walking up the spur to White Rock, it looked like we were approaching a legendary castle on the hill. Like the one the Bride climbs in Kill Bill to meet her master. As we clambered up the last few steps to the summit, we could see why the place had been nicknamed “white rock.” The thing resembled the Acropolis in Athens.
Once on top, we followed the road past three cabins, a day use area, and a caretaker’s house. The couple caretaking were very warm and welcoming, he from Sacramento, she from Germany, and their house was stocked with backpackers’ dreams: candy, ramen, the works. I didn’t want to leave — putting my backpack on was excruciating. But we went, found campsite #4, ate our beans and rice, and passed out.
DAY 2
Conscious, half conscious, awake, but dreaming. The ledges on the side of white rock. So steep and slippery. How could we not fall to our deaths? We would. We hadn’t. We slept, we slept in, consciously, half consciously.
When we finally decided to get up, fog had enveloped White Rock. It was approaching 0730. “If we could leave by 8,” I said, “we’d be very much on track to beat the big rain. But we also don’t need to rush.” No problem there: Our first morning of packing everything up — including breakfast and coffee and a tour of the vault toilet — ended up taking us to 0900.
In deep fog, we descended White Rock. As we descended, the fog cleared. I stayed back to remove my raincoat. Natalie went on and crossed paths with a buck. Gunshots rang in the distance.
A couple miles further, we reached Salt Fork Creek. It was awkward, but I managed to crawl across a row of large wet stones to reach the other side. Natalie didn’t like that, so she decided to take off her shoes and cross wet. “You’re not gonna tie your shoes around your neck?” “I’m gonna throw them to the other side.” “Okay.” She threw the first boot but missed the dry shore by a few feet. Her face turned to panic. “Oh no!! Get it!!” I put my phone on the ground then clambered down and extracted the boot, which had been lazily floating near the surface. “Is it soaked?!” “It’s… wet.” She made it across okay though. And at least it wasn’t raining yet.
Two miles up a hill, past Potato Knob Road, and then back down toward Spirits Creek, we passed a self-described “chunky” man resting before tackling the steep hill we’d just descended. “Chunky” as he was, he was proud to say he was going to complete the OHT in three sections.
For an hour, the rain had come and gone with variable but gradually increasing frequency and intensity. As we reached level ground at Spirits Creek, the rain subsided. Excitedly, I tried to quickly set up the tent, but the rain soon came again, harder than ever. Natalie and I hid ourselves under the rain fly, a simple shelter. Eventually we set up the tent with the rain still falling, each of us squatting under one side of the fly. Still later, the rain stopped long enough for us to make our curry dinner. We ate, and then the rain returned.
The rain fell and fell and fell.
DAY 3
The rain ended.
We woke up, packed up as slowly as yesterday, and were on our way. The trail followed Spirits Creek for awhile, climbing up and down small banks. Everything soaked from the rain, it was no surprise when Natalie slipped on a rock and landed on her ass in front of a lovely waterfall. When she didn’t immediately get back up, I asked, “Are you okay?” “Sometimes it’s nice to stay down after you fall.”
Soon after, we crossed Spirits Creek wet, and then climbed the next hillside. This brought us to the longest flat stretch of the trail, following an old railway corridor. Normally flat would be nice… except after an inch of rain. We trudged through giant puddles, sloshed through mud.
Perhaps the slow muddy walk is the reason why, once we reached a long, dry, downhill stretch in the woods, I got carried away and hiked briskly ahead, not waiting for Natalie as I would normally do. When I approached a big downhill hike to the next creek, I finally decided to wait for her. But she didn’t come. So I waited a few more minutes. She didn’t come. So I yelled. She didn’t answer. So I started walking back on the trail, calling out to her loudly. She didn’t answer. The sane part of my mind tried to reassure myself that everything was fine, but my imagination went wild assuming the worst. She lost the trail. She twisted her ankle. A mountain lion dragged her off. I would walk the trail for 100 paces, and then yell out “NATALIE!!!” Nothing, so I would try it again. And again. And again. Finally, she replied: “Coming!” She wasn’t actually as chipper as she’d sounded. She was mad at herself for losing the trail and mad at me for losing her. But we were together. The real challenge was just ahead.
Fane Creek was monstrous with rainwater. Though not actually as turbulent, it reminded me of the Colorado River. But we had to cross it if we wanted to continue. I waded in to test one section, but my staff’s measurement quickly showed it to be waist deep. No good. They say just six inches of flowing water can knock a person off their feet. This was more like 24 inches.
In studying the map, we realized the trail was making us cross Fane after it joined with a large tributary. But if we went upstream, we could cross the original Fane, and then cross the tributary on a forest road and bridge. So we went upstream. In one section, nearly knee deep in rushing water, I somehow inched myself to the other side. Natalie went even further upstream and found calmer, shallower waters. But still she looked worried, so I crossed back to carry her pack over.
On the other side, an armadillo minding its business.
We climbed miles and miles up Whiting Mountain, and reached the summit by sunset. The question: Camp there or push on in the waning light? We pushed on, hungry for a home. Anxious to find a suitable campsite, I pushed too hard, slipped, and fell on my left hip — hard. And my staff was reduced to a wand. I threw it aside. Not ten paces later, a new walking stick. The trail provides, as they say.
Less than half a mile away, big rigs roared on a small highway. But we still didn’t know where to go. All day, I’d been aiming for a rock shelter just off the trail. Apparently the structure, built into the cliffside, had been used by generations of logging families. It still stood, but the walls had begun to separate from the roof. I didn’t want to camp inside, but my instinct told me that if you could build a house there, then you could probably place a tent there too. I was right.
In the rush to see if we could make it a home, however, I’d slipped on a big wet rock. On a thin trail. On a steep cliffside. But I’d hugged the rock to stay safe. Then I took a moment to remember my friend’s grandma’s saying: “The hurrier I go, the behinder I get.” We were safe and sound, camped on a thin stretch of bluff looking east, but my dream self, cursed with confusion, overwhelmed by the day’s dealings, weaved me a half-conscious, half-restful web of eroticism, authoritarian tow trucks at the prom, and surfing.
DAY 4
We woke up just before sunrise (0630) for the first time since the lavish cabin at Lake Fort Smith. But we still took two hours to get ready. No matter. I was happy to savor the sunrise.
Down the hill, across the highway, and back on the trail, we were joined by a friendly man and woman who helped manage the trail. We shared in conversation as we leap-frogged each other up to Hare Mountain. Near the summit, we passed a trio of ladies day-hiking with their three dogs. “Gotta get back to see the game,” said one. I had already forgotten about things that the rest of the world cared about, like football games.
Soon, we reached the top of Hare Mountain: At 2,382 feet, it’s the highest point of the OHT today. (White Rock is close, at 2,309 feet.) While sitting at the summit, I nearly choked on my tuna lunch. Too greedy for the protein, too impatient to take a slug of water. I made it out okay.
Down the mountain we went, through pine groves, through dead woods, around hairpin, hair-thin bends, around waterfalls, down, down, down, until we finally made Herrods Creek. Really it was a marsh that required several clever crossings, but we made it across dry.
We’d found a nice campsite at Herrods but decided to push on four more miles to Indian Creek, which we made by sunset. But there was nowhere to camp. Crushed. I’d been hoping to find a nice site right next to the creek then cross wet in the morning (required). But it was too sloped. Too overgrown. Only a couple barely passable sites. Check the other side? After debating with Natalie for maybe five minutes, I heard my friend’s advice to himself while playing Puerto Rico: “May as well do something.”
I took off my shoes and socks, sloshed across, and explored up the trail in my wet socks. Boom: perfect campsite just a few paces over, complete with big fire pit, reclining stone seats, and level ground everywhere. I returned to Natalie and we basked in the good news.
As the last light of day faded, the crescent moon glistened in the southwest. Our first time noticing it, and we weren’t the only ones: In the distance, a coyote or wolf or maybe just someone’s dog let out a long, dramatic howl.
DAY 5
In the morning, we hiked through the Marinoni Scenic Area, one of the most beautiful sections of the trail. You could almost see the eons beating by, with megalithic blocks of mossy stone tumbling in slow motion down into the deep ravine. In geologic time, shelves crumbled, water trickled, poured, crashed through the seams and streams. Photos could do no justice.
After the divine walk, we made it to Lick Branch — sometimes a wet crossing, sometimes dry. For me, the long-legged risk taker, I made it dry (praise) by stepping from stone to stone. Natalie did it wet. But we were getting stronger and doing good time. Plus, the sun was shining so we’d have dry socks tomorrow. The simple things.
From Little Mulberry Creek we climbed and climbed and climbed until reaching the ridge top. The trail treated us to epic views of the valley, made us envious of the cozy cabins below. As the sun set, we continued our long, tiring search for somewhere to sleep. There? That looks okay. Keep going? Maybe we’ll find somewhere better. How about this? Maybe something more established. That could work — let’s go back if there’s nothing ahead. No, let’s not go back — this progress is good. We’ll find something. We’ll find something. We’ll find something. Okay, seriously, next one, let’s take it. And so we did. And it was good.
DAY 6
The first day of the year. Natalie’s birthday. We were up with the sunrise and heard dogs barking, then gunshots. Our only fireworks.
Aside from those gunshots, the only human encounters of the day were to be: a guy driving by on a forest road at the Arbaugh Trailhead, a ladder and platform strapped to a tree (“For birdwatching?” “Or hunting”), and a pretzel and cheez-it at the site where we’d stop for the day.
As the gunshots and barking receded behind us and the sun rose higher, we hiked around several gorgeous creeks and waterfalls. That was the first half — easy and chill. The second half — multiple wet creek crossings.
We knew the Lewis Prong Creek involved at least three crossings, and the first was the furthest downstream. At the first crossing, the water was flowing powerfully but over a huge wash, so after a long search I found a spot a little bit upstream where we could climb onto a short bank hanging over the rushing current. Only a little dangerous. On we walked for a mile or so to the second crossing: nowhere dry unless we wanted to search forever. Thankfully, it was calmer here so we found an easy place to cross. On we walked for probably less than a mile to a stream we hopped over, then to a creek where we had to move a few stones to make it over dry (leave no trace be damned), clambered through a thorny brambles, and then to meet a creek with a smooth rock slab bottom — a decidedly wet crossing. Only a little dangerous. Not long after, we reached the third Lewis Prong crossing, but left the crossing for the morning.
DAY 7
The day before, my right ear had been clicking a little. Didn’t feel quite right. Uncomfortable. This morning, it turned into a painful earache. The whole right side of my face hurt and my hearing was going. Thankfully, my birthday gift to Natalie (hand warmers) helped. Still, my tossing, turning, and whining got us moving at 0500 and on the trail by 0700. That is, 0730 after we sloshed through the final Lewis Prong crossing.
We only had about 10 miles to go but it all started out uphill. Once we made it over Moonhull Mountain, we thought we’d have a relaxing descent, but then an angry white dog found us and barked madly while keeping its distance. I gripped my staff.
At the bottom, we crossed a small creek, went up a short and steep hill, and then descended to a bench above Boomer Branch. The trail was lovely and deep with green, but the rocky terrain made difficult walking. Finally, we went down and crossed the creek — Natalie dry and me too mostly, except for a brief accidental dunking of my right boot.
The pattern was set: On the other side of the creek, we hiked up again, way up, around a long and cold ridge top, then back down, way down to Mulberry River. The one where our trail guide describes how his friend had died trying to cross it after a week of heavy rain , and where he asks readers to take a moment of silence but doesn’t say whether or not it’s possible to do safely. It turned out not to be a big deal for us. A perfectly safe wet crossing.
Finally, we only had a mile and a half to Ozone Campground, but it was the longest and steepest one yet. Tough day. Natalie looked weary as hell. I was just excited to get a burger the next day, but Natalie kept tempering my hopes because we didn’t know if the damn place even existed anymore. Exhausted and starving, we considered hitchhiking from the highway for dinner (I even checked the rideshare apps) but we ultimately decided to be patient and make ourselves at home in the abandoned campground at site #5. We slurped down noodles and an entire block of tofu, washed our hands with hot water, and got in bed.
DAY 8
Exactly one week after our first day on the trail, I woke up cheerful as heck. I was proud to have made it to Ozone — half of the days and more than half of the mileage done. Plus my ear didn’t hurt anymore. And I’d read a bunch of Annie Dillard.
We got up at sunrise, packed fairly quickly, munched down a hot quinoa breakfast, and hiked back to the highway. Turned out our trail guide’s “two miles to town” was actually more like three, so we either had to walk for an hour or hitchhike. Anytime a pickup drove by, we stuck out our thumb. After about a half mile of trying, a beat-up truck full of supplies pulled over. It was a middle-aged guy named Jim with his mild-mannered hunting dog Anne on the way to work. “She’s the boss,” he said.
Like us, he was headed to the post office, where we ended up staying for nearly two hours to let our phones charge. Working the office was Tracy, a wonderful woman who gave us our resupply box — and so much more. She was the one to offer the phone charge, then offered us extra trail mix snacks (when she found out our Amazon order of Clif bars hadn’t arrived), then gifted us a bunch of M&Ms, then gifted us a pepper spray can to keep dogs and whatever else at bay, and just the whole time was jolly as heaven with free and easy conversation. Not just with us and not just about her son and his church youth group or the U.S. government bombing Iran, but with every person that walked in the door — the local bootlegger (“who’d already been to the pen once”), the old lady paying her water bill late, the rusty lanky man picking up a money order, and on and on. Some of these customers would say nothing to us, some would say “Hi,” and still others would say “Hi, how are ya?” One man asked us where we were from. “San Francisco.” “Hrm. Nice place to leave.”
Once the clock struck 11, it was burger time. We were pleased to learn from Tracy that, yes, the Ozone Burger Barn was still in operation, and that, yes, it would be open when we got there. We were lucky: they’re only open on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays, and it happened to be a Friday. We strolled over, ordered a couple double bacon cheeseburgers with fries and coke and hot cocoa to warm us up. My god, what glory. I needed those glorious, greasy calories.
After the epic burger brunch, we hitched a ride back to the trail with a couple in a station wagon. They were about our age, very friendly and curious, and happy to lend a hand. Good vibrations. And then we were back on the trail, but only for about five miles. We found an ideal site between a stream and Owens Creek at mile 89.6. Ahead of us, only six days and about 53 miles of walking. Bless.
DAY 9
Long sleep, strange dreams: I walked across an unfamiliar Bay Bridge with Natalie and Taja, but as a train approached, the platform flooded, and, in the mayhem, the kelpie fell into the bay. Somehow, she climbed a ladder back up.
No more dreams, no more sleep. It was a cold morning, maybe just below freezing. Natalie commented that I packed speedily, and I did: No reason to linger in the cold. Minutes after having coffee, eating oatmeal, and setting out, we had to remove our socks and shoes and cross Owens Creek wet. Then it was up the hill, walking our only furnace.
The same, the same, but not all the same. Over the past day, I’d noticed that Natalie had been weary, perhaps even irritable, not in the mood for jokes. At midday, just before we’d planned to stop for lunch at a creek, she fell. She hadn’t really tripped or stumbled; she just fell. Scary, I thought, but it happens. I remembered that we’d both fallen a week earlier. It wasn’t good, but it was good that it had been happening less.
But an hour later Natalie fell again. Then I was worried.
So much of the trail involved hiking up and down rough terrain and around steep ravines — a fall in the wrong place could result in serious injury or even death. Easily. I told her all this, and told her that she needed to feel not just confident but strong if we were to continue. Without strength, every step of the trail would be a risk. And across 40 miles, that’s a lot of risk. Echoing my parents, I told her there was no shame in quitting. We answer to no one but ourselves and, to make it positive, I pointed out that we’d be passing the 100-mile mark that day. No small feat.
As we approached another highway and our resting place for the night, Haw Creek Campground, we passed a couple men hiking in the direction we’d come from. Just out for a casual hike, they weren’t carrying backpacks or even water. “Are there any other more waterfalls that way?” they asked. Hundreds, I wanted to say, if you want to walk 100 miles.
The last miles were some of the most treacherous of the entire hike, as the trail narrowed and narrowed alongside the edge of a steep ravine. Natalie had taken painkillers for her knee, but I still looked back every so often to make sure she was taking it safe and slow. She was doing fine, but she told me that she was ready to get off the trail. I agreed it was the right thing to do. But first we had to figure out how to get to the nearest town.
We reached the highway, crossed it, and discovered that Haw Creek Campground was “closed” for the winter. A large barricade was locked in place, ensuring that no cars could enter the site. We went around the barricade, and walked the half mile to camp. My phone hadn’t received any signal, even near the highway. So we still needed to figure out our plan.
The barricade apparently hadn’t done its job because a large white vehicle sat inside the campground. Out of curiosity, I walked over to greet the humans — two women, about our age, swirling around their campsite. They looked joyful as heck, warmed by a campfire and carrying tripods and other photography gear around. It turned out they were there to test a couple long-exposure shots of Haw Creek Falls:
https://www.instagram.com/p/B69cgVoAcF_/
https://www.instagram.com/p/B68LgdlBJyD/
Their names were Brennen and Beth, and they were our trail angels. When we asked if they could give us a ride to the nearest town where we could rent a car, they said absolutely. They had been at exactly the right place and right time to rescue us from the trail, and I was so grateful.
As they finished their photo shoot, Natalie and I ate our last trail dinner and then got in our sleeping bags under the stars. We spoke calmly and warmly, enjoying the last few moments before returning to civilization.
And so began the second half of the trip, in which we luxuriated in Marriotts and Hiltons, cruised over 1,000 miles in a rented Chevy Malibu, explored Russellville, Hot Springs, Jasper, Eureka Springs, Bentonville, and Fayetteville, ate too much Mexican food and burgers and dessert, watched Little Women in the theatre, chatted about alligators and ex-husbands with taxi drivers, indulged in an old-fashioned hot springs bath like the baseball players and gangsters of yore, won $25 playing darts in Madam Maxine’s old apartment, bought a jar of honey harvested by our kooky B&B host, hiked the epic Buffalo River, spied a couple female elk, stayed at the haunted Crescent Hotel through a spooky midnight thunderstorm, enjoyed a humble yet fine dining experience (pasta primavera for me, pork chops for her), swapped stories with locals at the hotel bar, read No Country for Old Men in a day, watched way too much TV (Kids Baking Championship, Family Guy, The Simpsons, The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, Family Feud, Jeopardy), read the Confessions of Saint Augustine of Hippo, explored the spectrum of American art and architecture (from a Frank Lloyd Wright house to an immersive light installation to a Colin Kaepernick jersey to George W. Bush’s portraits of war veterans to a nondenominational chapel in the woods), survived a tornado warning, drove in sleet, got lost in a great bookstore, and through it all made many bad jokes and laughed and laughed and laughed...
