By David Keys and sent to Brittany Plouch, OS Outreach Chair
Buffalo River Memories:
My dad owned about 12 acres on the Buffalo River in northwest Arkansas south of Yellville and east of Highway 14. His place was in Jones Hole on Jones Bend. The 430-foot Toney Bluff overlooks Jones Bend and looks down on Jones Hole and my dad’s place. Without knowing where his place was you can spot it easily by looking for what looks like a Duck’s Head on the map. The Buffalo is about 150 miles long and the Duck’s Head is on the far eastern end of the river as it gets closer to joining the White River at Buffalo City, Arkansas. Jones Hole and dad’s place was slightly below the duck’s neck on the west side. He bought the land in 1970 and over the next couple years built a cabin of not much more than 500 square feet. There was no running water, electricity, or gas. Eventually, he dammed up a spring and ran a water line to the house so there was running water. He brought in a propane fuel tank to run a hot water heater and a propane refrigerator.
The only way to get to dad’s place was to either float down the river from Buffalo Point in a canoe, or drive the ridge road as far as it went northwest from Cozahome Arkansas. After the ridge road ended you had to go down a steep ravine on foot to get to the cabin. The grade was so steep that one day a road grader tipped over trying to smooth it out so dad’s jeep could get to the cabin more easily.
Even before the cabin was finished, we would visit and camp out near the river. It was a wild, beautiful place. Spring brought forth blooming dogwood and redbud trees. The river could flood easily with spring rains due to its narrow, deep watershed. In December 1982 there was a record flood that came right up to the bottom of the Highway 14 Bridge, some 53 feet above the river at its normal depth. During previous floods I can remember the river flooding and coming up to the floor joists of the cabin. It was scary and beautiful at the same time to see that much water moving so fast past the cabin.
Summers were hot and steamy. When it rained down on the river it looked like a gray curtain fell. The land turned dark green and the river level fell as summer wore on. Fall was beautiful, cool, and clear with frost forming on Queen Anne’s lace and spider webs. The river was at its lowest level now, you could walk across it in some places.
But it is winter on the river I remember most of all. Snow and ice would build up on Toney Bluff’s high, south-facing limestone. On clear, sunny days the limestone bluffs would heat up enough to melt the ice. Huge sheets of ice would plummet and crash loudly on the river bank some 400-feet below. It was an awesome, powerful sound. I can still hear it. Winter was also a fine time to canoe the river as no one else was on it even though at times you had to get out and push due to low water. The trees had dropped their leaves and you could see the lay of the land better than at any other time of the year. You felt like you were part of the river.
As years rolled by with the passing seasons, the Buffalo River became the Buffalo National River and the U.S. National Park Service bought much of the land in the river’s watershed. Eventually, my dad made a deal with the Park Service to sell his land and cabin. He bought the salvage rights for a nominal fee. In the spring of 1975, he and I tore down the cabin piece by piece, board by board, and hauled everything out in his Jeep Cherokee. The roof trusses were too big for us to handle so we had to contract a hauler to come in and get them. We transported everything to a new home site near Caney and about 5 miles due west as the crow flies from the old cabin site.
About ten years later dad and I took my six-year-old daughter, Cerise Ann, on a canoe trip down the river from Buffalo Point to the old cabin site. It was difficult going up the steep river bank and slogging through the dense vegetation overgrown with cane and willow. The only thing remaining was a cement front porch landing and part of the stone chimney. Every other trace of the homestead was gone and the land had reverted to a natural condition. My daughter did not like it very much, she said it was scary. Maybe she could sense the spirits of all the people who had lived there, I don’t know. To me it was more of a bittersweet moment, not scary, but definitely sad. We said our goodbyes to the old homestead, put back in the river and headed downstream a couple miles to our takeout point at Rush Creek landing.
That was the last time I was on the Buffalo River. It is still a wild, beautiful place. My dad passed away in 2007. I hope to return to the Buffalo River with my children and grandchildren some day and visit the old cabin site in the Duck’s Head in Jones Hole and listen to ice crash down from high on Toney Bluff in the winter.