Horseshoe Canyon Ranch

We reached Horseshoe Canyon Ranch well after dark. A campfire was blazing. Other guests were excitedly roasting various goodies. Our host welcomed us in, and even passed out mattresses to put sleeping bags on.

Camp was right beside one boulder so huge I thought it was a mountain until daylight hit it. Fireflies flickered like traffic lights all around us. Dana cooked a sausage on the grill. I put potatoes on the coals. Laughter boiled up around us as the others told wonderful stories. Frogs barked from the creek, so close I thought they were prairie dogs. Off in the darkened brush an owl challenged the night. I leaned back and kicked my feet up to the fire. I felt right at home.

"Where are all the men when you need one?" Dana asked as she started work on her tent.

I hunted for a rugged outdoors man who knew how to put one up. With my brawn and his brain the tent went up like magic. We only broke one pole. Tape fixed it right up

The next morning I woke up at three and rolled out of bed. My ears reached for the sounds of night. The horses were talking together on a hill far away. When I walked up on them, one was a paint. The white was like liquid cream, drenched in the fuzzy moonbeams. Unafraid but resentful of my presence, the horses quit talking and disappeared.

I turned in the opposite direction and walked for hours, remembering, remembering all the nights I had stalked the shadows abroad as a child. Frogs barked from the creeks I passed. There were a thousand more stars here than when I was a kid. The grass glowed in the moonlight. The pulse of air was clean and wet.

I walked back through the centuries, back to a time so long ago the Man in the Moon was just a little boy. Sleeping birds whimpered as I came too close. The stars at last dimmed. A breeze kicked up, always a sure indicator that the sun soon riseth. The centuries dropped away as my appetite stirred and I turned my eyes toward a civilized breakfast.

The embers of the oak log were like magnets as I drew nearer. I got out the bacon and set it to sizzling. It was five, maybe even five thirty by then, and nobody else was up. I wondered if maybe I should ring the dinner bell, or blow the horn, or something. "Surely they can't be meaning to miss the best part of the day!"

Then I became engrossed in watching the dew run off the windshields in absolute torrents. Hunger turned my eyes back to the fire. The bacon, the bacon, it cooked so slowly. As my mouth watered, I realized that half the joy of eating out in the wilds is watching for the food to get done.

Finally John Davis (another guest) rolled out of his slumber bag about six. When he asked, I told him where I had seen the horses. He suggested going to find them and we left the bacon to sizzle alone. I hoped the smell would wake the others up before the whole day disappeared.

The horses had moved since I saw them. As morning light fully broke, the air became tight and sharp. We were awed by the canyons, streams, creeks, and kine. Like a movie set for the Cisco Kid, awesome rocks too huge to even be called boulders fascinated us. This was a terrain sculptured by the hand of God, but tempered by the devilish winds of cold winter.

The horses had disappeared. John went in search of them. I decided to save my bacon at all costs, and hurried back to the fire.

Jerry Johnson came down from the hill to see if we had slept okay. I've run with a lot of real cowboys in my life, from Slick Gatlin to Murray Johnson and my brothers the Navajo. Jerry Johnson looks more like a cowboy than any of them. His body is lean and tough. His black eyes sparkled with wit and abrupt bursts of humor.

The kids liked him immediately. Within minutes of meeting Jerry their walk mimicked his, and they followed in his tracks as closely as they dared.

He helped us destroy all trace of bacon then we got into his Toyota pickup to go hunt for the horses. Two of the boys were allowed to go with us. Up scary hills and down clinging trails, we searched.

One patch of words at a time, Jerry revealed the history of this natural horseshoe canyon, beginning all the way back to when people were starving there. "The area hasn't changed much since the Villines and Kilgore families homesteaded here in the 17th century."

Jerry pointed out Indian caves, and one witness tree that we passed, saying there were others. The improvements he would make later came tumbling out too: more water, a roping arena, cabins, a petting zoo, and more wranglers as the business grew. Occasionally Jerry would get out to send a shrill whistle piercing into some forgotten ravine, or rattle on the bait bucket.

The boys looked dubiously on at these antics. Their eyes searched the horizon, then came back to the empty bucket. Faith lost the battle; they got back into the truck, disillusioned. "We ain't ever gonna find them horses."

We drove on, and tried again from another likely site. The only response was a faint hail from John Davis from a green hill far away. His windmill arms semaphored that the horses were indeed "over that away!"

Jerry jumped the truck in that direction and we tried the bait bucket again. This time the horses heard it. One of them ambled slowly in our direction. He was thirty yards ahead before another decided to follow suit. Finally a herd of ten fine animals was coming close. John Davis took his belt off and looped it around one horse's neck. Jerry took out a halter he'd made for this horse, then that one until we had lead ropes on four horses. I felt like a wild Indian again as we led the horses back, on foot. The ladies in camp gave us such a rousing cheer that my chest nearly busted.

Jerry Johnson, his son Barry, and Barry's wife Amy, saddled the horses for us and a first-rider tour group was assembled. My horse fitted me, which is unusual. Racial memories stirred; the smell of horse sweat lifted me higher than light bread in the oven. Man and horse belong together. I look forward to the day when we colonize the stars and horses become daily necessities again.

Barry adjusted the stirrups like a pro. Amy kept an eye on everything and flashed charming smiles to soothe all the savage beasts that didn't get to ride out on the first go round.

Beauty sprang at us from every side. Whether you prefer meadows, or thick hardwood trees, your eyes will be constantly dancing as you ride. We crossed cricks, streams, and went down into steep canyons. Jerry pointed out the landmarks, and points of particular beauty. Barry and Amy reminded one and all how to ride each time the terrain changed. Amy had a sweeter smile than any of them and obviously knew as much about the country as her husband and father-in-law. Seeing my interest in eastern foliage she named the bushes and the trees as we passed. I was particularly interested in the persimmon trees and she passed on two of the fruit that weren't quite tart and told me how good they would all taste, soon.

In the lead, Jerry still looked every inch the cowboy. He and Bill Hardison would be bosom buddies if they ever meet. Both men can tell off a whole day of ranch work for a crew of ten with just a friendly nod of the head.

Cliffs everywhere you look, invite the camera enthusiast to bring out the extra rolls. We saw some goats on the cliffs in one spot. "The grass is deep," said Jerry, "and was going to waste, so we brought in some feeder calves." 

Our hooves clanged on the rocks, which are everywhere. Berries sparkled on vines all over the place, muscadine vines trailed from the trees. I saw enough peppermint to serve an army of redcoats for two days in a row. It is hard to believe anyone ever starved here -- but history says different.

After the ride we lounged around in the shade. I pretended it was back in the old days when I was supposed to be watching the cows, and drifted right off to sleep. Dana woke me up to go tadpoling with her and Derek. Derek is eight and thinks tadpoling is fun. While they frolicked in the shimmering sun I watched from the shadows of a tall oak, and studied the list of things to do from the ranch.

Bobbing for catfish or casting for trout was high on the list. The thought of canoeing past the tall bluffs of the mighty Buffalo River got my adrenalin perking too. Dana said she would sign us up for the canoes. I noticed that Jerry also offers trips to Silver Dollar City, in Branson to balance out the fun people can have. 

"You know what I like best about this place?" I asked Dana.

Her hands stopped moving. She glanced at me and raised one eyebrow, knowing that I was about to deliver a profound statement.

"I can lay around doing Nothing," I told her. "And that is exactly what I'm going to do for the rest of the day."

"Find us another jar," she replied. "This one is full."

Please Note:  This experience happened in 1996.  Today there are cabins, pools, hot tubs, play areas, and enough modern conveniences that Coca Cola made it a top prize in their big contest.  Click HERE to catch a glimmer of what Horse Shoe Canyon Ranch looks like now.

D I R E C T I O N S

I came to Horseshoe Canyon Ranch from Russellville (On I-40) over State Highway 7. This has been acclaimed as one of the most scenic route in the United States. Apparently that honor was bestowed a few years ago as the trees are all grown up now and you can't actually see much of the scenery along the route for those trees.

To see the breathtaking expanse of Buffalo River Valley, for example, you have to actually stop in most places and walk out to a promontory. Of course, when the trees are changing colors, they become the scenery, and this may be the reason for acclamation. Personally, I prefer the scenery on State Highway 23 anytime of the year.

From Russellville on I-40 I took exit 81 north on Highway 7 to Jasper. Jasper is just about 66 miles north of Russellville, (or about 25 miles south of Harrison Arkansas if you are coming down from Branson Missouri)

From Jasper go WEST on Highway 74 for 7.4 miles. (The only sign up there at present was on the mail box) Box 70 says: "Horseshoe Canyon Ranch", and it is easy to miss so check your odometer before you leave Jasper. Turn left on the gravel road right across from the mail box. This road is real gravel, and it is rough. That means, GO SLOW even if you have a Jeep.

After ½ a mile you will come to the gate. Here there is a big sign, up over the road. Close the gate behind you and travel on. After crossing two small creeks you will end up lost in the middle of nowhere; this is the ranch.

The Johnsons at Horseshoe Canyon Ranch can be reached toll free by phone at 1-800-480-9635. Campers, hikers, backpackers, birding enthusiasts, and camera buffs are welcome.