The Ozark Adventure Part One, A Dead End Road Turns Bad, We Hear Banjo Music, and the Woods Might Be Full of Serial Killers!

We were facing a narrow track, filled with boulders, each rising eight to ten inches above the road bed, the trees hemming us in on both sides, and the banjo music was getting louder.

I'd had to leave my Montero Sport, AKA Steem Rider, parked at home, due to low passenger capacity, otherwise, bring it on! We stopped to take a better look at the obstacle course ahead.

My wife’s Mitsubishi Outlander is an SUV in name only and we were about to find out whether it could make it back out of here, or whether we could make a six mile hike, back the way we came, with three small kids, before dark. I knew I should have paid attention to the dead-end sign, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

In a big happy family like ours, roadtrips are something to be celebrated, not dreaded. Other than the occasional territorial squabble between rival tribes forced to share the same seat, with whatever they’ve chosen to bring into the car, rather than stow up top in the carrier, our trips are fun. We sing, we stop often, we take side roads and always pull out for scenic bypasses. In short, we travel as much for the journey as the destination.

This trip was special. My oldest son, Asher, 20 last February, was leaving home. Well, technically, he’d lived on campus at the age of seventeen, but that had been twenty minutes from home, with long family weekends at Nana’s, birthdays and holidays we had him with us. Since he’s been a recluse since the age of eight, unless compelled to leave his digital world, it wasn’t much different than having him home. So, we were journeying into the wilderness for one last big family trip before he headed out to live his own adventure.

He’s recently found success on Youtube, in the gaming niche and he’s making a nice living. The combination of money enough to save and travel, and the siren song of Los Angeles California, proved too potent a spell, so after a short visit there earlier this summer, after our Chicago adventure, if you’re keeping track, he decided to head to Malibu for a year, and check things out.

Originally, the trip was to be a camping trip, but, after a visit to the sporting goods store and some quick calculations, I realized I could rent an airconditioned cabin, cheaper than I could buy camping gear, which might get used a lot, but would probably get sold in a garage sale, like the last tent, after a couple of trips and a five-year sabbatical from camping. Bonus, I would also get to stay married, which I might not, if the Pretty Princess was subjected to 90 degree nights in a bug infested tent.

So, since dad was to be the one paying for this adventure (THANKS STEEMIT!) I got online and found a nice spot, put in my card number and awaited a confirmation, which never came. One cool thing about having a big family, is the fact that you can actually rent VRBOs and other vacation rentals, cheaper than enough hotel rooms, so we stay in cool places and get a bargain to do it.

I’d wanted to do the booking a week or so earlier, but with my dad’s memorial, and my wife’s travel schedule, we’d booked two days before our arrival. When I hadn’t heard anything the day before we were set to leave, I called to straighten it out.

“We don’t have a reservation with that number,” said the less than friendly voice on the other end.
I reread the email and gave it again, they found it, but informed me I had received an email right away, saying my card was declined, insufficient funds. I checked, I hadn’t received it and there was more than twice the amount required in the account, I verified.

I checked my account again, to discover that although they claimed insufficient funds, they’d already taken the rental money! So, I asked to escalate to a supervisor and was put on hold for another twenty minutes, with the window for finding a spot closing by the second.

“We can’t book that, because you requested it within seventy-two hours and we didn’t take your money.”
“Funny, my account is down by the amount of the rental, and your company’s name is on the debit. Fix it.”

They called the owner, who emailed to ask if we still wanted to come, but by now, my wife had an alternative lined up, and I was convinced that HomeAway was in league with the devil, never to be trusted again, although, she swears they’re great and is using them for a business retreat again next year.

Thank God for Paypal, who was on the spot, restoring my funds and dealing with the mess, so that I could rent not one, but two cabins, on Locke Mountain, near Mountainburg Arkansas, in the Ozark National Forest. With the crisis averted, we finished our packing and climbed into bed to prepare for an early morning exit.

We’d planned to have Asher meet us and head out at dawn, since he could only give one night, he insisted, due to work he had to finish before leaving for L. A. By the time we actually left, the sun was well above the horizon, and Asher would be joining us later, as the game he’s been covering in his videos had updated, and he needed to get something uploaded before he left.

My oldest daughter, arrived with her husband, and Bart, my own mastiff’s half English mastiff son, at about sixty pounds already after less than a year of growing. I wasn’t happy about it, but I was told to not make waves, Elizabeth was upset enough with her brother leaving and kicking Bart out would make matters worse. Then she made an announcement.

“I’m going to the feed store to get wormer,” she said.
“Um, not in a rented cabin I’m paying for, you’re not, “ I said, before I could stop myself, catching a glare from the Pretty Princess.

Since the fact I’d be paying for whatever damages Bart’s bowls wreaked on the cabins, was apparently irrelevant, if I wanted to sleep in the same bed as my lovely wife, I said nothing more, imagining the worst, as we hit the road.

If you’ve never been, the Ozarks in summer, look like a tropical rain forest. Greenery sprouts from every crevice, and seventy-foot hardwoods, draped in vines, crowd up the road’s edge, as it winds its way along, giving you an average speed of about 40 MPH, if you’re lucky, and don’t end up past a “pavement ends” sign, bumping along down a gravel road, glad there’s been no heavy rain recently.

Deer, rabbits, squirrels, possums and even a baby raccoon all poked out of the forest to watch us on our way.
Google maps was true to its word and delivered us within distance of the “Past the church, down a dip, right at the white building onto a gravel road, where you’ll see our sign,” directions our hosts had emailed. We arrived just after noon, the summer sun dancing down through the leaves, dappling the road ahead, the dust creating near solid pillars out of the shafts of warm sunshine.

We pulled up to “our house” as the owner described it, to check in, a low, cabin, stone along the bottom with well-seasoned, dark wood siding above, moss covering every available surface. Not to say the place was scary, but it walked a fine line between “charming” and “slasher movie set”. Off to one side, an old barn, filled with the hulks of once active machinery was inhabited by a large, bearded man, with one strap of his overalls hanging down to his well-worn boots, and no shirt. He didn’t smile.

“Did you see that?” my wife hissed between her teeth, I nodded and smiled, glad my sixteen year old son was in the car with the younger kids. We walked up to the house and knocked, someone waved us inside.

The honey colored paneling was bright with years of regular cleaning, and a thick, woodsy smell filled the room.

“We just had the fireplace cleaned,” the tiny, colorless woman explained, her unsteady male companion stood awkwardly on the other side of a kitchen table, watching us.

“It smells great,” my wife insisted, and it did, if you like wood fires.

Two long rifles, well worn with use, hung over the open doorway to a bedroom, where a tall, antique bed, that looked like it held a feather mattress stood in the shadows.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” I smile at the old man.

“Well, it’s purty nice, but I been most of, almost all of my life I guess, I spent right around here on this mountain,” he said, without a hint of a smile behind his wire rimmed glasses. He still had all his teeth, but otherwise looked every inch the mountain folk archetype you’d expect.

The woman smiled, nervously, took my card into an open office and brought back the printed receipt, giving us instructions about the cabin. The old man just stood, shifting from one foot to the other, unsteadily, his work calloused hands, resting on the butcher block counter top.

The kitchen was stuffed with utensils, from ancient canning tubs to a modern bread maker, they were perched on shelves, stored above the cabinet tops, and hung from pegs, the open cabinets filled with neatly stacked, vintage table wear, as hints of the wonderful things this kitchen had brought to life hung in the air.

We thanked our hosts and climbed into our car, as they came to the screen door, silently watching us back out. Over my shoulder, I glimpsed the younger man in the barn, standing stock still, watching us as we departed. Unbidden, the hair on the back of my neck stood up.

“Seriously, this place is like something out of a horror movie,” My sixteen year old son, Gideon is the first to voice the observation. It was true. Maybe we just watch too many.

“Well, as long as there’s not a laundry shack…” my eighteen-year-old daughter chimed in, as we turned onto the road leading to the cabins, and rolled past a tiny shack, with a miniature string of dresses hanging in the window, LAUNDRY, the lettering on the dress fronts read.

“Well, if this is a horror and not a comedy,” I said, “That’s where it all starts.”

Everyone in the car burst into laughter. We found our two cabins, one with room for the nine kids, including one son-in-law, the other, with a king sized bed, recliner for two and a tiny kitchen, perfect for me and my wife. They were small, but cozy and decorated in that vintage style you expect in an American vacation rental, half retired utensils, half vintage advertising art, 100% Americana everywhere you looked.

The kids selected beds and we fired up the grill to make hotdogs for lunch. After a relaxing nap in the air-conditioned cabin, it was time to plan some afternoon recreation and Asher had arrived on the scene. We chose Devil’s Den, a state park about 45 minutes away, where my oldest and her husband had gone for their honeymoon a few weeks before and set out.

Now, here’s where it gets interesting. My wife recently invested a ton of money in new phones for both of us, on a “buy one, get one free” deal, and the Galaxy s8s we received are indeed, awesome. But, the T-Mobile service she selected, is not so much. They have more holes in their network than swiss cheese, consequently, we were at the mercy of my eighteen year old’s Iphone on the ATT network, to get navigation.

“Turn here,” she called out, at a road labeled as “Warloop Road”. So, I dutifully swung my wife’s Mitsubishi Outlander, that I’ve dubbed the “Love Machine” for the large Pure Romance logo in the shape of a heart on its side. Sorry, my Steem Rider (name is a work in progress) had to stay home on this expedition, in favor of more seating and a little more luxury for the pretty princess I’m married to.

About fifty yards in, we passed a large yellow “Dead End” sign, (cue banjo music) and it all went downhill from there. Stay tuned for part two, to get the full details, hear how we explored an abandoned house, and my wife ended up running from a serial killer in flip flops!