COME WITH ME . . . .
Strolling Through Honey Hill Country with Willow Meadows
“Where the Hollers Meet the Sky”
Willow Meadows invites readers to experience Honey Hill Country one step at a time through its trails, towns, waterways, and hidden places. She believes the journey is often just as important as the destination and rarely passes a scenic overlook, garden gate, or interesting story without stopping to investigate.
Join her each month as she explores the landscapes, histories, people, and stories that make the region unique.
Would you like to come with me this morning?
There is a place I’d like to show you.
Not a town.
Not a shop.
Not even one of the beautiful gardens that seem to appear around every bend in Honey Hill Country this time of year.
We’ll visit all of those places together soon enough.
Today, however, I’d like to show you the country itself. The hills and hollers. The winding roads. The creeks and ridges. The places between the places.
It is a beautiful June morning as we begin. The sort of morning that arrives quietly and then somehow persuades you to stay outdoors far longer than you originally intended.
The sky above us is a clear, cheerful blue, scattered here and there with slow-moving white clouds casting moving shadows across the fields. A light breeze drifts across the meadow, carrying the scent of clover and freshly cut hay from a distant field. Can you smell it?
If you listen carefully, you can hear a rooster somewhere down the way, apparently convinced the entire countryside still requires waking. My guess is that is General Blackjack. He is the only rooster loud enough to awaken the whole countryside. We should probably leave him to his duties and get on our way.
Our trail begins just beyond that old split-rail fence over there.
Nothing too difficult today. A pleasant walk, though there are a few hills between here and where we’re going, a few rocks to scramble over, and a bit of a climb at the end. But nothing too challenging.
The path is narrow at first, and a bit dusty because it had not rained in a few days. Wildflowers crowd the edges, splashing the trail with yellow, purple, and white. Bumblebees move lazily among the blossoms while orange, lavender, and blue butterflies drift across the way as though they have nowhere particular to be and all day to get there, which seems a sensible way to spend a June morning.
A meadowlark’s “see-you-see-er-dee-er” call sends us on our way, cutting clearly across the open fields.
Ahead, the trail slips beneath a stand of white oak and hickory trees, and almost immediately the air changes.
Do you feel that?
Sunshine filters through the leaves overhead, but the shade carries a coolness that wasn’t present in the open field. The scent changes too. Earth. Moss. Damp leaves. Pine. Crushed bark. The pleasant smell of a woodland waking for the day.
I always enjoy this part of the walk. Every trail has a personality, you see. Some trails seem to hurry along. Some wander as if they are heading to nowhere in particular. But this one takes its time, lazily loops and contours with the land rather than cutting straight through it. A meandering, unhurried way that lingers in gentle places, winds aimlessly sometimes around ancient trees, and invites us to enjoy a slow, deliberate pace.
Oh! Watch your step here. A few roots have worked their way across the path over the years, and they have an unfortunate habit of reaching up to greet the unwary.
Just ahead, do you see that white mark painted on the side of the oak tree? That wasn’t there until last summer.
The trail forks beyond the bend. One branch continues along the ridge. The other wanders off through the woods toward an old hunting camp and eventually connects with the Clover Hill Stage Road several miles away.
More than a few travelers managed to take the wrong turn and become lost. Among them, I am somewhat embarrassed to admit, was myself a couple of years ago.
Little Red Bear finally grew tired of hearing stories about people finding themselves unexpectedly lost among the trees and having to help find them. Well, if you know Little Red Bear, he decided something ought to be done about it.
So he purchased a tin of white paint from his friend Archie Crowther’s store in Butterfield, climbed the ridge one afternoon, and marked the proper trail with these white, rectangular blazes.
I haven’t heard of anyone getting lost since. And that seems about right for Little Red Bear. He has always possessed a talent for solving problems in simple ways. And have you heard about his biscuits and Friday Night Fish Frys? We can talk about those another time. There is so much to see.
So then, let’s continue, shall we?
A few minutes farther along, the trail begins sloping gently downward before disappearing into a small hollow spot.
The sound reaches us before the water does. At first it is little more than a faint murmur somewhere ahead among the trees. Then a trickling. Then a soft, steady babble of water moving over stone.
This is Minnow Run. Small waterways in the these parts are frequently called a “branch” or a “run” rather than using the term “creek,” you see.
This is not a large one. Honey Hill Country possesses many creeks that seem perfectly content remaining small and minding their own business. Chinquapin Branch. Sping-Hollow Trickle. Possum-Fork Branch. Pennyroyal Creek. But see, that is a larger one, so is properly called a “creek.”
Minnow Run wanders beneath a canopy of sycamores here before crossing beneath the trail.
The footbridge ahead is little more than a few planks and a handrail, though safe enough for us to cross. Generations of boots have polished the boards smooth, so please watch your step here.
The mist from the water has a habit of settling on the wood during cool mornings, and more than one traveler has discovered that gravity remains every bit as reliable in Honey Hill Country as it is elsewhere when folks forget to watch their step.
Let’s pause for just a moment here. Minnow Run is worth listening to.
Does it seem to you that creek water seldom seems in a hurry to arrive somewhere? Winding through the landscape, rippling and spilling over pebbles with a lazy, unhurried grace, acting as if it has all the time in the world. And I suppose in a way it does. Maybe that is why I enjoy creeks so much. They remind me to slow down.
Sunlight filters through the sycamore leaves overhead, and we come to Osage Blue Lake. The dappled sunshine scatters bright patches of gold across the moving water. Look — over there — right there along the bank. Small minnows dart between the shadows while a dragonfly hovers like a needle of blue glass above the water.
Along the far bank, russet-brown cattails sway gently in the morning breeze.
Do you hear that?
That sharp, familiar call? That sharp, rattling “Konk-la-ree!” “Konk-la-ree!”
That is a red-winged blackbird.
There he is! See him? Just atop the cattails.
He seems quite proud of himself this morning. Look. When he calls, leaning forward like he does and flaring his tail. Arching his wings exposes his bright red-and-yellow shoulder patches. I doubt he is really displaying for us at this time, though. It is mating season, after all.
Beyond the cattails — look — a pair of rabbits sit quietly in a patch of clover.
See that one raising its head to inspect us.
The other appears less concerned, doesn’t it.
Always alert to danger, perhaps we have been judged harmless.
I hope so, don’t you?
A few moments later they bound away toward the woods, white tails flashing briefly before disappearing among the trees.
Let’s keep moving then. We’ll continue along this way. The climb begins again just beyond the bridge. Nothing too difficult. Just enough to remind us that ridges are generally found above hollers rather than beside them.
The trail narrows again here now, so please just follow me through here.
Moss covers fallen logs along the hillside, creating little islands of green among the brown leaves and weathered bark. Tiny mushrooms push through the forest floor in clusters no larger than teacups.
And do you see that, at the base of the oak tree right there? That is a Hen of the Woods, a prized mushroom for its rich, savory flavor. See how it grows in ruffled, greyish-brown clusters closely resembling the ruffled feathers of a nesting hen. And there are some Chanterelles. I always love seeing their yellow and deep orange colors, brightening the forest floor as they do.
I often wonder how many beautiful things go unnoticed simply because people are in too much of a hurry to see them.
Oh, and look there.
Do you see that opening through the trees?
Just for a moment.
Between those two oaks.
There.
That white shape in the distance.
That is the steeple of the little church outside Round Corners, the Little Cedar Chapel.
We’re still several miles away, but on clear mornings like this one the steeple catches the sunlight and can be seen from surprising distances.
If the breeze is right, you can sometimes hear the church bell from this ridge as well.
Not today, however. Today the birds appear determined to handle all announcements themselves. That “Churry-churry-churry” song of the Kentucky Warbler echoing thru the woods seems to be leading the way this morning.
But come along. We’re making good progress.
Jackson’s Ridge is still ahead of us, and there is so much more yet to see along the way.
Now the trail grows steeper here. Not dramatically so, but enough that conversation begins yielding ground to breathing. If you get winded just let me know and we can pause for a moment to catch our breath.
Fortunately, the way if well-shaded along this part of the trail.
As move along, notice that the hillside around us is dotted with spicebush and the rosy-pink flowers of wild azalea. Most have already finished blooming for the season, though a few late blossoms still cling to the branches here and there.
If you crush a spicebush leaf between your fingers, you’ll discover where it earned its name. The scent is sharp and pleasant, carrying hints of citrus and peppery spice. It always reminds me of lemons mixed with cloves and allspice.
I often think every plant ought to have the courtesy to introduce itself so clearly.
Let’s stop up here for a moment because there is something worth seeing from there.
See, just beyond those rocks up ahead the trees begin thinning.
Careful now.
These stones have been here considerably longer than we have and show little interest in moving aside for us this morning.
A few more steps . . . .
There.
Do you see the opening ahead? The wide open space with no trees?
That is what folks around here call a “bald.”
The name sounds somewhat unfortunate, but the place itself is quite lovely.
Unlike the surrounding forest, this section of ridge remains open to the sky. Wild grasses sway in the breeze while clusters of deerberry and blueberry bushes spread across the hillside. Many animals love to feed here in the early morning and late afternoon.
No one seems entirely certain why these openings exist. Some blame weather. Others point toward grazing animals long vanished from the region. Still others insist the earliest settlers maintained or cultivated these spots intentionally. Honey Hill Country has never lacked for theories to account for them.
Whatever the reason, I am glad they remain, because they offer one of the finest views along the trail.
Oh, you see, look there — along the far edge — near the woodline — do you see them? We are in luck this morning!
Three deer. A doe and two nearly grown fawns.
Oh, dear. They’ve already spotted us. Notice how they remain close to the trees. That way, should anything seem suspicious, they need only take a few leaps to disappear back into the woods for safety.
The fawns seem unconcerned, but the doe appears less certain about us, doesn’t she? A sensible arrangement, I think. One more nervous glance. One flick of a tail. And all three bound gracefully into the shadows. Gone almost before you realize they were there. Well, we got to see them for a moment anyway.
The breeze feels different up here, doesn’t it? Stronger. A bit cooler.
You can smell the sun-warmed grasses. Wild blueberries, a sweet, warm smell. The faint earthy scent of the woods behind us.
And if you listen carefully for a moment . . . .
Nothing. Silence. As all of nature has paused to take a breath.
For a moment, only the wind.
Some places seem to invite conversation. Others invite quiet. This is one of the quiet places. Let’s enjoy it for a few minutes before continuing on our way.
The ridge is still ahead.
And our best view is waiting there.
Ready now? We’ll proceed along this way here. See? The trail forks again here, but the white blaze on the hickory tree over there tells us to continue on to the right. So, to the right we go then.
The trail follows the ridgeline now, winding between stands of oak and hickory before emerging into occasional patches of sunlight.
Walking a ridge is different from walking a valley.
Down below, the hills tend to hide things. Up here, they reveal them. Every bend offers a glimpse of something new.
A distant pasture.
A farmhouse chimney.
A winding road disappearing into the trees.
The country begins unfolding around us one piece at a time.
Watch your step here. The path narrows where the hillside drops away to our left. Not dangerously so, but enough to warrant paying attention to where we step.
Just ahead, do you see that rocky outcropping there? The weathered ridge just up ahead, the grey rocks with the rusty, reddish-brown streaks breaking through the soil and vegetation? Let’s pause there a moment. And feel them. The rocks and stones are warm from the morning sun.
And look there! A black snake lies stretched across one of them, warming in the morning sun. But don’t be alarmed. He’s perfectly harmless. In fact, he appears considerably more interested in enjoying the sunshine than in troubling either of us. We refer to them as “Black Racers” around these parts because they are so fast, skimming across the surface of the grass at lightning speed. But they are not poisonous, so no need to worry.
Most creatures in Honey Hill Country are quite willing to leave people alone if given the same courtesy in return. Come along. We’ll simply leave him to his morning. I suspect Mr. Black Snake had his rock reserved long before we arrived.
Now, from here, if you look down through the trees, you can just make out a narrow wagon road below. Do you see it, just off to our right? It doesn’t appear particularly remarkable. Most old roads don’t. Yet roads often carry stories with them.
That road once served as part of an early route connecting several farms with Butterfield. Wagons loaded with produce, milk, lumber, and occasionally more passengers than common sense would recommend traveled around and over the hills regularly. The road remains. Most of the wagons making the trip no longer use this road after a shorter way around Steamboat Mountain was discovered.
I rather like that about old roads. They remember things.
Do you smell that?
Something sweet.
The breeze is carrying up the scent from a patch of wild honeysuckle growing somewhere below the ridge. Every June it does its best to perfume half the countryside. I have never found the exact patch responsible. Perhaps it prefers remaining anonymous.
Now, look up, far overhead. A red-tailed hawk circles over the holler against the blue sky. Not a wingbeat. Not a hurry in the world. Simply riding the warm air currents rising from the hills below. That is how the vultures soar far and wide in the same way, on the rising warm air currents through the day. Look at how his red tail stands out in the sunshine!
I sometimes envy hawks their perspective. Imagine seeing all of Honey Hill Country at once.
The farms.
The rivers.
The church steeples.
The roads.
The hidden hollers.
The little places most people pass without noticing.
Perhaps that’s why I enjoy these walks. For a short while, we get to borrow a little of that perspective ourselves.
Come along. The trail turns just ahead.
And I believe we’re nearing the place I wanted to show you.
A few more turns in the trail ahead of us, a few more careful steps over the stones along the path and we will soon be there.
Here, reach out and let me give you a hand to help you step up over these rocks. Isn’t it kind of nice how Mother Nature provided these large rocks in the hillside to serve as steps up this last steep incline?
There now. We are coming close, and the climb will ease from here.
Have you noticed the trees are beginning to thin a bit now? We have more sunlight spilling across the path ahead. See?
And the breeze has returned, even fresher now that we have nearly reached the top of the ridge.
Just a little ways more. A patch ahead of short grass and weathered stone, and look — we’re almost there.
And now we are suddenly out of the trees and the world has opened below us!
There are moments when a person reaches a place and immediately understands why others have been returning there for generations. This is one of those places. We have arrived at our destination — Inspiration Point atop Jackson’s Ridge.
Let’s sit and rest on these granite boulders here for a moment. This is what we have been hiking for. Look around and take it in.
Below us, Honey Hill Country stretches toward every horizon.
Ridges roll away in gentle waves.
Hollers fold themselves between the hills. You can see over there where the morning fog is still lifting from some of the hollers, appearing like suspended clouds between the hills and mountains.
To the east, creeks flash silver in the morning sunlight before disappearing beneath the trees.
Across the countryside, roads wander through the hollers, climbing one ridge and descending another as though they are making up their minds where to bend next as they go along.
Here and there, white farmhouses rest among fields and pastures. Young cornfields recently planted are a beautiful emerald green from our viewpoint now, while the winter wheat and oats are a shimmering, bright golden-yellow as they approach the mid-summer harvest soon.
I always enjoy seeing the thin ribbons of smoke rising from chimneys in the early morning as families fire up their cast iron stoves preparing breakfast and getting hot water ready for the day. We can occasionally catch a hint of woodsmoke on the breeze.
Look how a church steeple catches the sunlight in the distance to the west. I think that is the Pleasant Grove Community & Fellowship Church, if I am not mistaken.
And beyond it, another, on the distant hilltop over there. The Harmony Ridge Church.
And look! Another right below us catching the morning rays now. The Union Chapel of the Lower Upper Ridge.
And look at the small towns sitting comfortably among the hills.
Butterfield down below us, from where we began our hike this morning.
And over there, a little further away is Round Corners, the largest town in the area.
And off in the distance if you look, a smaller town, rather oddly but appropriately named perhaps — Far ‘Nuff.
And somewhat further away, we cannot quite view from this point, is Packet’s Landing, where steamboats of all sizes gliding along the Mississippi River stop to reprovision and allow passengers to go ashore and visit all the wondrous shoppes, restaurants, and other attractions there. Definitely a place we must visit together someday!
The towns are places where shopkeepers sweep sidewalks in the morning, children race home from school in the afternoon, and neighbors still stop to visit whenever they meet along the road.
Now listen. Can you hear it? Faint enough that one might wonder if it could almost be imagination — listen now — can you hear it? The distant whistle of a steam locomotive. A train traversing through the hollers below. I believe that is the Whispering Ridge & Iron Mountain Railway. Folks around here simply refer to it as “The Ridgerunner Line” even though the train never really runs along the ridges anywhere along its line. Sometimes nicknames make perfect sense. And sometimes they don’t, I suppose.
Everything feels very far away from this height up here on Jackson’s Ridge, doesn’t it?
And yet, curiously close.
That is one of the things I love most about Honey Hill Country.
How it can feel very large, and yet small and intimate at the same time. And how it never feels lonely.
There is always a light in a window somewhere.
A welcoming front porch down a winding road.
A garden in bloom behind a white picket fence.
Neighbors waving and calling out “Good morning!” as you pass.
Someone’s story is always waiting around the next bend.
Together, we have walked through only a small corner of it this morning.
There are enchanting waterfalls yet to visit.
Historic old mills.
Hidden springs.
River landings.
Country churches.
Majestic outlooks.
Hidden caves to explore.
Back roads to wander along.
Woodland paths yet to discover.
Legends, myths, histories, folklore, and more.
So many delightful shoppes and restaurants to linger in.
And more stories than any one person could possibly tell.
Those, however, are all visits and adventures for another day.
For now, I simply wanted you to see the countryside itself.
The hills.
The hollers.
The roads.
The places between the places.
Please, linger a moment and take in the landscape spread before us.
Because after our walk and climb . . . .
There it is —
Honey Hill Country.
Pen-and-ink illustrations have been created for this piece with the assistance of AI . . . lovingly prepared and styled for the world of Little Red Bear.
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