Lee Creek emerging from Devils Den State Park
Trains, Planes and Autumn Appeal
Ever marvel at how flying connects things? From the air a person can
see Friley Creek flowing into the Little Mulberry, which flows into the big Mulberry, followed by the Arkansas River, the Mississippi, and finally the Gulf—where perhaps Kevin Bacon is vacationing. Strap on a pair of flying goggles and distances between places become small. Even familiar stomping grounds aren't safe from altitude's effects. In short, the world changes when we fly over it.
One of my most eye-opening experiences took place during a fiery autumn in the Ozarks. I took off from the Mulberry River and flew to Clear Creek to meet Dr. J.P. Bell, a friend and fellow aviator. J.P. is a respected Fort Smith physician and a first-class photographer with a passion for trains and aircraft. He grew up along the banks of Clear Creek.
The plan was to fly together in my trike, which J.P. is fond of for photography reasons, and follow old railroad tracks near the hamlet of Rudy, Arkansas. Our goal was to get shots of a passenger train making its autumn trip along Clear Creek. We also hoped to study J.P.'s creek-side hayfield as a possible landing strip for future adventures.
Bluff overlooking Clear Creek
As I made my way toward the watershed a realization took hold: Clear Creek was like a long-forgotten friend. When I was a kid my family visited this stream at Lancaster Landing to cool off during summer months. Traveling regularly to escape the swelter of Fort Smith, the drive involved beating down a dirt road while descending to the creek. But once the dust settled there was no better place to hike, swim, fish, catch crawdads, acquire poison ivy, become tangled in spider webs and, most memorably, encounter snakes.
Incidentally, running from snakes seems to be instinctive among children and most adults in this part of the world. I propose an International Symbol for Snakes be developed to advise visitors. Following better-known international symbols, it would feature a person running with arms flailing overhead. (This works equally to advise for bees and spiders.) Anyway, as I flew along Clear Creek many fond memories came back.
Trestle and swimming hole at Lancaster Landing
J.P. was waiting on the edge of the meadow as I set up my landing approach at Rudy. Morning fog had delayed departure from the Mulberry, so now we were short on time. The train we were hoping to locate must have been between the Winslow tunnel and Mountainburg by the time my wheels touched the grass. Camera in hand, J.P. strapped into the backseat and hollered, “Let’s go!” Moments later we were off into autumn blue.
From Rudy we headed north along old Frisco tracks following the creek. Although miles from the swimming hole mentioned earlier, Rudy was another place of forgotten significance along this valley. My grandfather used to take me to the old gymnasium next to the town's dilapidated schoolhouse. J.P. and I flew directly over the wood-floored structure where I learned to ride a bicycle. It was the spot where Grandpa attempted to teach free-throws and bows and arrows to a hopeless grandson, trying to pass along what he had done with success during his Razorback years. It was the site of my first dirt bike crash and my first adolescent crush—a freckled girl across the lane. I couldn’t believe how different this landmark seemed from the air.
J.P. and I arrived over his hayfield a few minutes into the flight. We made passes in several directions, but decided a bit of tree trimming would be necessary to create a safe landing spot. Meanwhile, a lady living nearby came out in her flower-print dress and waved. We waved back and J.P. snapped a few shots with oaks ablaze in her yard. As we continued up the creek we passed several railroad trestles and sandstone bluffs. I had last seen these decades ago from a canoe.
Making our way upriver we encountered folks enjoying the creek at a wide gravel bar. It was too cold for swimming (and snakes), but they appeared to be fishing and generally having a good time. The people waved and J.P. snapped a few photos before we continued to the new interstate bridge. This high-flying structure was built recently and certainly has changed the landscape. Cars and 18-wheelers sped furiously across the span, while a hundred feet below it trickled Clear Creek. We made a few passes around the bridge with J.P.’s shutter clicking away.
New development over the creek
Secret Site hang gliding area
A few miles more and we spied another forgotten spot. On a northwest-facing slope overlooking Clear Creek sits Secret Site, one of Arkansas’s hang gliding destinations. This is where many of us took our first mountain flights after training on the bunny hill. Fledgling hang glider pilots often train by ground skimming grassy knolls, usually situated in cow pastures in the middle of nowhere. The moments aloft offer tastes of bigger flights to come. However, they also offer tastes of the slightly misnamed “landing” zones. Secret Site is the perfect place for new pilots to gain altitude and break free from the cows.
During my Fayetteville college days, Secret Site provided hours of distraction. The jumping-off spot is carved 400 feet up the mountainside, offering spectacular thermal riding and ridge soaring for any bird or human. Here I enjoyed uncountable flights with long-haired hang gliding buddies and once circled tip-to-tip with a bald eagle. One talented friend pulled off a flight all the way to Mt. Magazine—Arkansas's high point, a distance of over 50 miles.
As J.P. and I admired the landscape where wings were earned, suddenly—without warning—there it was. The passenger train raced out of the trees into the autumn sun. It headed directly beneath us as we bumbled over Secret Site’s landing zone. J.P. yelped and pawed for his camera as I swung parallel to the train. What followed may be the most exhilarating moments of my flying career.
J.P. Bell Photo
Imagine you’re on a passenger train traveling 40 miles per hour through leafy Ozark forests and wavy meadows. Suddenly a flying contraption swoops alongside and two odd-looking fellows smile and wave. One of them has a camera. Now picture the scene from another perspective: You’re flying along minding your business when out of nowhere a train full of leaf-lookers appears. Inside you see people rushing to your side of the train. They wave enthusiastically, pulling out cameras. Time slows for an instant.
Racing alongside the train, J.P. hollered photographic requests over the hum of the propeller. We swooped along the meadows hopping trees and fences and keeping a safe distance from the train. At times J.P. asked to run ahead and cut back to get a shot of the entourage over a high trestle. It was challenging getting into position at just the right moment, but J.P. seemed happy.
“Got it! Let’s run ahead,” he hollered. I hit the throttle and sped ahead of the train.
“Drop in here!” Click. Click.
J.P. Bell Photo
J.P. Bell Photo
We were having a blast and so were the leaf-lookers on the train. For a few minutes the flying machine was perfectly in its element. Gaining altitude over Clear Creek’s trestles and charging over its fields, it felt like we were filming a wild-west train robbery for Hollywood. J.P. and I followed the rumbling procession six miles to the outskirts of Van Buren before waving goodbye and returning to our landing spot at Rudy.
Back on the ground spirits were high, so J.P. and I hopped in his truck and drove across the tracks to Rudy’s mini Main Street for an Andy Griffith-sized celebration. We patronized the general store, which hadn’t changed since I was a kid, and topped our victory with sodas and sandwiches. J.P. had pressing afternoon business, so we agreed to fly another day and he dropped me off at my waiting trike.
Arkansas & Missouri Railroad
Hustle and bustle at Rudy, Arkansas, population: 77
Still hungry for airtime and lunch—the sandwich didn’t quite do the trick—an idea came to mind. I called Mom and she offered to drive over from Fort Smith to meet at Rudy in an hour. This allowed time for a quick side-trip to Lee Creek, another spectacular valley a few miles away. I couldn't resist seeing another Ozark stream in full glory.
Mom and I enjoyed afternoon pancakes and bacon at a 24-hour diner near Rudy. Huddled at the table and squinting into the camera’s viewfinder, we looked at pictures from the day and discussed forgotten landmarks. She was enchanted with the still-fresh aerial photos of Lee Creek flowing from Devil’s Den State Park—a place she had spent time as a kid and, decades later, as a mom. Connections were made for us both, providing topics for great conversation.
Flying home from Clear Creek at sunset, I chose a path over the Ozark Highlands. Somewhere between Mountainburg and Mt. Gaylor, I was caught off guard by colors surrounding Lake Fort Smith. A fiery White Rock Mountain passed to the south, while a dozen familiar streams poured toward the Gulf from their high points. It was one of the most meaningful journeys I've had the good fortune to make.
Homebound over Lake Fort Smith
Mulberry arrival
J.P. Bell Photography
thanx, great stuff.