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The majority of the images in this piece are in color, which is not my usual preference. The images were shot for a friend (read more below). As always, no AI was used in the writing of this piece or the creation of the images.
Old Man Wayne and the Price of Progress: A Regional Profile
God spoke the word Ozarks, and a thousand rocks cried out, heaved as in labor pains, delivered these mountains feet first. The foothills slid from the earth’s womb, then the curved bodies, then the cliff faces that keep watch over the silver veins of the Buffalo River. This offspring of God’s speaking—it was rugged.
In the Spring, the Ozarks came into their beauty—the flowering redbud, the cruciform dogwood, the tiny flowers that dot the understory of the shaggy forest floor. This beauty gave way to a dogged summer, an oppressive heat that dried the creek beds and drove the whitetail to waning and desperate pools of shallow water populated by water spiders above, sunfish below. In the final throes of that summer’s death spiral, the cool rains came, a gift from the Great Plains. That gift was a relief, and in that relief, the maples and oaks settled in for their long winter nap. Every tree turned to flame, turned gold-leaf painting, and the great forest sighed to sleep. Winter came, the cold dark and that cold dark became an invitation to humans.
The people who settled the cold dark—first the natives, then the colonizers—learned the difficulty of the land. How could they carve out a living from frozen rock, from mud, from the tiny fields that connect one body of rock to the next? How could this land be cultivated, transformed, used as a palate for painting a life? It would take a people in the shape of the land—weathered.
Thousands of years passed. The land was claimed. Parceled. Passed from person to person until one such parcel came into the possession of Old Man Wayne (name changed).
Riding shotgun in a Tacoma, Mike Rusch gives me the tour of Benton County, home to the World’s Largest Retailer™. Mike shows me the gravel bike routes of Northwest Arkansas—his routes to be exact—and as we make our way down the Heritage Trail, we pass a small compound. Over the compound doors, there are two European mounts—deer skulls. Above the compound flies the battle flag of the Confederacy—the stars and bars.
As we make our way down this road, he shares the history. “Before it was a road,” he says, “it was a natural trail for Buffalo migration, a trail often flanked by Osage hunters. These were their lands for millennia before anyone flew the Confederate flag,” he says.
But it wasn’t just a migratory route. In 1835, the road was cut by settlers, and used as a stagecoach route for the Butterfield Overland Mail Company. Between 1837-1839, over 15,000 Cherokees were pushed down the road toward Oklahoma, making this old post road a part of the Trail of Tears. In 1862, a group of secessionists used this road as they marched toward Pea Ridge, preparing to meet the Union Army in bloody battle. Now the road is dotted with small homes and trailers, dilapidated barns, and broken-down church busses. The road is dotted with messages, too.
We pass over Sugar Creek before emptying into the valley. Portions of the land—the portions most suitable for mountain biking and gravel riding—have been purchased for preservation by the World’s Richest Family™, Mike says. Their thirst for land, though, has driven up prices, made holding farmland a sort of value trap. “At some point, the land becomes so valuable, the farmers can’t help but sell,” he says.
We continued down gravel, cross the highway where Methodist congregants will gather just an hour from now. Over that Methodist church flies another flag. This time, it’s Stars and Stripes.
As we reconnect with the trail, Mike shares how these roads have hosted some of the world’s best gravel riders, men and women from around the world who compete for titles in the Big Sugar Classic. Every year, rider after rider pushes past these hills, these fields, the old Ozark stone homes, the trailers, and the expanding subdivisions that now populate them. How often do those riders consider the history that whispers from these hills? More still, how often do they consider the people who populate them?
He is sharing all of this when I see a bent figure, bundled against the twenty-degree weather, holding a bucket. From a distance, we can see he’s scooping freed from the back of his truck.
“Let’s talk to him,” I say, and Mike pulls to the right side of the road. I get out.
Wayne, a near octagenarian had lived in this valley for more than a half-century, 56 years to be exact. He’s raised cattle, reared boys on it. The land is disappearing though, he says. Most of the old farms and homeplaces have been torn down, turned into subdivisions or golf courses. Wayne was one of the last holdouts, and I congratulate him for it. “It’s call grit,” he says.
When I ask how he feels about the development, Wayne is quick with the answer—not for the best. He tells me of his family, says one of his boys moved off this land, bought land out in the county and up in Missouri where the prices weren’t so high. He doesn’t say it precisely, but these are the economics: the influx of money, the increase in property taxes, and the encroaching subdivisions are crowding out the old Ozark farmers and their old Ozark ways.
“There’s good and bad to it.” This he says (or something similar to it) with a sort of wheeze and a cackle. He points over the hill toward Bentonville, tells me some of the best doctors in the world have come here, or at least that’s what he’s read in the papers. There’s a new medical school going in by the museum—Crystal Bridges—and as he says this, he shuffles gravel under his boots. A day’s coming when age will catch up with him, when he’ll need some fine medical care. And this land? It’s his insurance policy. When the time comes, he’ll be able to sell it to some developer for enough to cover the medical expenses, retire in relative comfort in some small row home, and maybe even leave a pretty penny to his kids and grandkids.
We both know the truth not spoken between us. In ten years, Wayne’s farm—a farm that’s been in his hands for decades—will be a memory. Trampolines will dot the backyards of a subdivision, or maybe morning joggers will run a paved walking path at a municipal park. Maybe golfers will celebrate a birdy on the tenth hole. Whatever happens, there’ll be no marker memorializing Wayne or the years he nurtured this bit of the Ozarks.
I thank Wayne for his time, tell him not to catch cold, and climb back into Mike’s truck.
“Who plays golf anymore?” I ask Mike.
He laughs. “Not me.”
There are some good people documenting this oft-forgotten and unsung swath of the American landscape, and I hope to be among those people. Why? Because change is worth recording, the price of progress is worth noting, and vanishing people are worth remembering.
Today, I’m inviting you to join me in subscribing to Mike’s podcast, The Underview. It’s a series of stories and interviews about the people of this region, all told from a gravel rider’s point of view. Through it, Mike shares of those who’ve come before and those who are here now. He makes a record of the injustices overlooked, the price of encroaching progress, and the ways economics and politics disrupt a way of life. I’ve heard these stories—both on his podcast and in my everyday life—and they’re not just about the Ozarks. They are universal.
Modernity is here, and it pushes out the past. The human efforts—farming, old-time religion, the craftsmanship associated with our region—are disappearing. It’s all being replaced by the subdivision, the golf course, Ikea (or some variation of it), the megachurch. Perhaps there are benefits to these things. Perhaps, though, as Wayne said, “It’s not for the best.” I suppose history will be the judge.
But since you’re reading here, since you paid good money (thank you!) for this post, I suppose I’d like to put it to you directly:
In a world of advancing progress and development, what human stories are we paving over?
More still, what are you doing to preserve those stories?
I’m still not sure what my role is in documenting this region. If it’s to simply capture a few images for friends like Mike who are doing the deeper work, I’ll be happy with it. But as I search for my part, I hope you’ll search for yours, too, particularly in your region of the world. Maybe you’ll share the stories of your region. Maybe you’ll photograph it. Maybe you’ll invest in the art of your region, purchase something from a local artisan, and ask them about their story. Maybe you’ll become a practical documentarian, taking up the old ways, putting down stakes and carving a living from the land. Maybe you’ll simply ask these questions each day:
What does it mean to be human in the face of advancing modernity?
What does it mean to be fully human in my place, my time, my space?
Why are those ways of human being—and the stories that go along with it—worth protecting?
My 2024 Project: A Visual Language
I’ve been working to create a visual language representing my region. If you’d like to participate in my quest for visual language, consider these ways:
1. Purchase The Observationalist
In the spring of 2023, I began exploring the concept of visual language by creating a book of photos, poems, and short essays entitled The Observationalist. All proceeds are reinvested in the equipment I need to pursue this idea. You can preview The Observationalist by following this link or clicking on the image below.
2. Donate Gear
I wrote this in my last post, and a few of you already responded. THANKS!
Maybe you have an old medium-format film camera you’d like to unload (and in all seriousness, let me know if you have one you’d be willing to sell). Maybe you’d like to throw a tip my way for the gear I need to further the visual language. Feel free to email me or use the Venmo link below.
If you don’t do anything…
Know this: I’m still very glad you’re following along on this ride. Without you, this work wouldn’t be possible. Thanks for reading.
The ways in which your words wind with descriptive richness is stunning. The personification of the Ozarks being birthed - a kiss of beauty.
As someone who graduated with a degree in history, this strikes me so. Time is the ever-changing consistency in our world-without it things would exist infinitely never having any significant meaning. How we hold and remember our past sets a mark for our future, and every generation will remember our past differently.
Before my grandfather died, I took all of his pictures from the time he was born to his modern day and took down his remembrance- his oral history. It was hard due to dementia that was slowly creeping in- facts were fuzzy at times but the stories and laughter and sorrow he shared I will never forget. I created a photo-personal-history book of sorts to capture what he shared about every picture and story. My kids read it now. I’ve done the same for my grandmother - it is at least something, and time will tell for us all.
Indeed, take the picture, and ask for the story.