Rich Mountain, Arkansas, Sun. 14th Mar. 2010

A fine Sunday morning, the chill of winter still in the air, my first opportunity to explore a little of Arkansas, "The Natural State." Driving north from Texarkana on Hwy71, crossing a long straight reach of the Red River. Looking down river to the east from the bridge I wondered if anything much has changed from when the first hardy European settlers pushed southwest to the new lands opening up in Texas and Oklahoma, certainly there is little evidence of mans encroachment along this reach . It must have been daunting for those wanting to cross this significant river and continue their quest for a new life in the West, a small number of ferries offering the only means of safe passage.

With it's head-waters in the Texas Panhandle, the two east flowing forks of the Red join to form the Oklahoma-Texas border and a short section of the Arkansas-Texas border. At Fulton, AR, it tracks south, is joined by the Sulphur, and makes its way to the Mississippi and Atchafalaya rivers in southern Louisiana. I cross the Red each day travelling to and from work near McNab, AR, it is wide, swift flowing with a colour true to its name. I have begun taking a series of photographs of the Red from a bridge on Hwy67. At two weekly intervals I'm hoping to capture the changing moods and colours of the river and its surrounds. At this time of year everything looks "dead", trees in waiting for the warm days of spring to sprout forth new foliage. It is sure to be an interesting exercise even if my photographic skills fail to adequately capture the unfolding seasons.

Wilton, McNab, Fulton are like so many small rural towns, in an apparent economic struggle to stay afloat, and southwestern Arkansas certainly has its share. Boarded up shops and businesses, victims perhaps of poor management or more likely the Walmarts, the Home Depots of this world. Houses in ruins that were once the homes to proud families. What happened? What went wrong? Where did these people go? Someone should find them and learn their stories. Others living in run down houses and trailers that hardly seem strong enough to withstand the next windy day, probably without the means or the inclination to do much about it. These communities sadden me, simply holding on, they seem to be without a future, depressed in almost every sense of the word. Yet they all have a history, someone at sometime deemed it necessary to establish a settlement at that location, the reasons had to have been sound. Today, it seems, those reasons no longer exist.

The flat country gave way to rolling farmland as I drove north, cattle and horses grazing in fields lush and green from recent rains. I never tire of looking out over farmland, seeing what generations of hard work and sacrifice have achieved. The old barns and farm houses, some well cared for, others not so much, but each adding character to the countryside. I noticed several long sheds at different times, it wasn't until I passed a Dyson processing plant that I realised that chicken farming was an important industry in this area.

Hwy 71 leaves its northerly track and heads west for a short time to DeQueen. The town was founded along the Kansas City to Port Arthur, TX, railway line. Jan DeGreoijen, a wealthy European coffee broker, was one of financiers who kept the project alive when the 1893 economic depression put a severe squeeze on capital supply in America. The town was named DeGreoijen in his honour, but was changed to DeQueen, locals finding the original too hard to pronounce. DeQueen itself is fairly non-descript, just another country town serving the needs of the surrounding region, what it does have though is a newspaper, The DeQueen Bee, going strong since 1897. I just had to buy a copy, in fact I bought three copies, two of which will end up in Australia, where I'm sure they'll bring a smile.

The road out of DeQueen heads north, the country flattening out for a while. Just on the outskirts of the town I came across an old house surrounded by a high wire mesh fence, its front yard filled with tables of bright coloured stones. This I had to see, my first thought was of getting Gayle a birthstone. But, wouldn't you know it, hers is emerald and this was no jewelry store, just an old man selling bits and pieces of just about everything and certainly nothing of any great value.

Being spring, the trees were starting to gain their new foliage and along with it plenty of blossom. I occasionally saw mauve, but mostly white, beautiful along the roadsides shinning in the midday sun. In a week or two all the colour will be gone for another season, to be replaced by the multiple shades of green. What the trees were I have no idea, but they were a spectacle. This was, I think, the first real blossoms I'd seen since leaving New Zealand.

I arrived in Mena - pronounced Meena - another railway town, just on midday feeling like a meal. Gayle had suggested I try some Arkansas BBQ which she felt sure would be different from the Texas variety. To be honest i'm not a big fan, I find BBQ a little smoky for my liking but I agreed to keep an eye out for some. I'd spotted one back off the road, several vehicles parked outside on my way north to Mena but didn't think anything of it until I arrived in town and found very little to choose from apart from the standard chain restaurants. I turned around and went looking for the BBQ establishment, however after about 5 0r 6 miles I decided it can wait for another time.

Back in town, right on the main street was the Sunrise Cafe doing a brisk trade. A full house says it all for small town restaurants, the food and service have to be good if they are to stay in business in what is a very competitive industry. The Sunrise has been in business since the 1920's, a feat for any company especially so for a cafe. My meal did nothing to dent their reputation, nor the young ladies who served me, bright, cheerful, chatting to everyone, friend or stranger, making all feel we were a little special. One told me she had an "internet friend" in NZ who keen for her to go visit him. When I asked where abouts he lived she said he hadn't told her yet.

With some friendly and helpful directions I was on my way to my intended destination. Mena sits at the foot of Rich Mountain, part of the Ouachita Mountain Range. While it is no Southern Alps or Rockies, this range is none the less very scenic, the hills and valleys running parallel with each other as if carved out by some great excavator. The views from the lookouts in the Queen Wilhelmena State Park along the ridge road of Rich Mountain were spectactular. As a testimony to the strong winds that blow up there, white oaks have bent their limbs in submission to this wild location.

In full foliage the seemingly endless forests stretching off to the horizon must be glorious, no sign for miles of any human habitation. My friend Charlie Wade, native to SW Arkansas, assured me there were "mountain people" down there among the trees with no electricity or running water, quite willing and able to defend their land from unwanted visitors. Stories abound, he told me, of gunfights, people going missing, of moonshine and dope. Not a good place to find yourself lost or stranded. Whether or not Charlie was pulling my leg it was obvious just how easy it would be for someone to wander off and not be seen again, this is beautiful and rugged region.