What a View

       It’s a drive I have made every summer of my life, through the intersection of Kansas, Oklahoma, Missouri, and down into northern Arkansas. Four out of the five hours is nothing more than flat plains and the occasional hill, but the last hour is beautiful. Just before the Missouri-Arkansas border, highway 71 enters the Ozark Mountains. The highway is framed on either side by large walls of stone swirled with creme and rose, peppered with remnant holes of the dynamite used to create the pass. It winds through the little town of Bella Vista before entering Rogers, Arkansas.

After exiting onto Highway 62, Tyson headquarters and the regional airport are comforting signs that thirty minutes separate me from Beaver Lake. A fighter-jet and combat-helicopter are mounted at the entrance of the airport, posed mid-battle as if they were reliving their finest moments. A couple miles later, one stoplight sits between my car and twenty miles of my favorite stretch of road anywhere. The undulated road is hugged on each side by huge trees, green and powerful, so dense that fifteen feet deep is all that a passerby is allowed to see. Each rise in the road offers a glimpse of the vast forest with no inclination of what lies ahead.

After passing the Buss Stop in Garfield, I turn the music up (Country, obviously) and roll the windows down to get the first whiff of crisp, clean air. A couple miles later, a sharp right turn, quick incline and break in the trees gives the first glimpse of the lake I have so longed to return to. Perched high above the water, the road clings to the side of the mountain with precarious turns that I take too fast, a familiar habit I picked up from riding with my Dad along that road so many times. The final turn down to the house greets me with the steepest, tightest s-shaped turn, lined with a stone wall about three feet high. This is the only stretch of road I slow considerably because, on the other side of the wall, is the view I have waited five hours to see. The trees frame my view as if taking a picture that only few will ever see. The horizon rises from the water, past the rocky shoreline, up the dark green trees and meets the light blue sky. The water lies a few hundred feet below, crystal clear and sparkling from the sun. Boats and Jet-Skis glide smoothly, effortlessly across the water probably on their way to no where in particular, the perfect destination. What a view...