In the Hills

In my last post ages ago, I wrote about my last day in the woods of Appalachia. Since moving to Iowa, I have been in the woods one or two times. This is the least amount of time I have spent in woods since I can remember and I miss them. But, this is mostly my fault. There are woods here, even hills. I know. Everyone hears Iowa and thinks flat land, horizons, and corn fields. I did too. But, I know from moving many times to many states that what you hear about a place is mostly all untrue.

When I made my first big move, from Illinois to Arkansas, I was 18, I heard all the jokes about Arkansas out there—about people with no teeth, with heavy dialects, who were hillbillies etc. I had of course been to Arkansas previous to moving to it and I did not see these kinds of people. In fact, they seemed like Illinois people only friendly.

They said hello to me as I walked all over the campus of the University of Arkansas in Fayetteville. And they did not know me. They made eye contact too. It was different, but I liked it. And they had good teeth, clear speech, and if they were hillbilly, I had a good feeling about them. They were cool. You could eat vegetarian anywhere, and they sold incense and coffee everywhere. They were hippies. One walk down Dickson street past the restaurants, bars and the best used bookstore ever and I was sold. I was moving to that school. And I did.


And I never did find those stereotypical hillbillies everyone in IL said I would find. I saw the caricatures all over for sale to tourists in Ozark stores. But, never in the woods, even the back of beyond woods. Sure, sometimes the Locals were unique, but they were better than the Missouri hikers who tramped down the trails loudly and announced their presence in the Ozarks woods a bit too grandly for my tastes. Maybe they thought if everyone knew they were there, so would the bears, cougars and bobcats. Maybe the Locals wanted to see the bears, cougars and bobcats. I think I am somewhere in between. The Locals did have guns, not sure about the Missourians, and I knew I did not. I just relied on the animals not wanting me to see them and followed the ranger’s advice about what to do if I met up with one. Besides pee in my pants.


My parents had moved to a small retirement town near Eureka Springs, AR and I adopted Eureka as home. There is something about the narrow streets, the winding hills, the trees, the rocks and the art galleries that feels like home to me. The Ozarks, and a bit further south and east, the Boston Mountains called to me to walk in them—to explore them. And I love waking up in them: clear blue skies, green trees, rocks that seep water, clouds in the hills above rivers in the morning.


Fayetteville was a retreat for me. High school pretty much sucked and college in Arkansas was turning out to be what I had wanted and never received in high school. I lived in Gibson Hall, a small female only dorm, right in the middle of campus on the hill. It was across from the English department, so perfect for me. I made great friends there that I still love today. Later, I moved to an apartment across from campus. I remember one day that sums up my feelings for this time in my life well.


Our apartment was near a green line bus stop that went right to the union and meant a short walk past Gibson to Kimple Hall, the English building. I took it everyday to get to my classes, but one day sticks out most in my mind. It was my birthday, my senior year, and a Tuesday, which meant I was going to my Shakespeare class. I crossed the street to the bus stop and got on the bus. Two of my friends were also on the bus that morning, a pleasant surprise. I was standing because the green line was popular. The bus climbed the hill and I looked out the window towards the football stadium. Everything felt perfect.


I was excited about going to my class. I had the best teacher who read Shakespeare like it should be read: sexy. His voice lulled me as he read. He wore bowties, had a shiny head, and was one of the smartest scholars I have met in my life. He knew Shakespeare and he gently demanded we do too. I liked that about him. His tests were not easy, but they were so good. I learned so much from him and I saw how much he loved what he studied. It was inspiring and wonderful, so I looked forward to that class every Tues and Thurs. It was also the only class I had that day, so the heavy Riverside edition in my bag was not a drag to carry.


As we climbed that hill, I knew this was a moment I would never forget: standing in the bus, holding the rail above me, my bag gently knocking against my leg, the book in the bag a hard lump against my leg as it gently swung with the movement of the bus shifting as it climbed the hill, the clear blue sky, the stadium glinting in the sun, my two friends standing next to me on a packed bus, the excitement of going to a class I loved. I knew it was a moment that would last only a short time, but I was in it and I realized I was happy. Content. I could ride that bus up that hill forever. But, I also knew it would not go up that hill forever. So, I took a deep breath and was there, hoping I could come back again and again to that moment after it was gone.


I was not in the woods, but I was happy. And I knew I would be in them again and would be in them in a way that would allow me to return to them again and again when I needed to but could not get away to them.