Real place, fictional (mostly) story.

Encounter at Rotary Ann


Between Harrison and Dover on Highway 7 you don’t find much in the way of good stopping places. It’s a beautiful drive—miles and miles of curving roads through the wooded Ozark landscape, past sparkling mountain streams and the remains of old homesteads. In the fall the colors are often breathtaking. But you’d better start the journey with a full tank of gas and an empty bladder.

Many years ago the wives of northern Arkansas’ Rotary Club members decided that tourists and other travelers needed a rest stop somewhere in the midst of all that scenery. So they lobbied the state legislature into building an official rest area in a particularly scenic yet remote spot. People call the place “Rotary Ann”, after the Rotary wives who made it possible.

It’s a little odd to see a rest stop of the sort normally found along interstate expressways set beside a stretch of winding two-lane blacktop. There’s not a lot to it—a parking area, a small gabled building housing public restrooms, a sign with the name, several picnic shelters. And a short walk from the rest area there is a scenic overlook. From here you can look out on a sea of gently-rounded summits. It’s one of the best scenic views in the Ozarks.

I’ve found, in the few times I’ve stopped there to use the handy facilities, that you never can tell just who or what you’ll meet at Rotary Ann. The first time I stopped, on a chilly winter day, the only other people there were a couple of guys hauling shivering hogs in the back of a truck. Another time I was taking a photograph from the overlook when a fellow in a pickup truck pulled up beside me and casually asked me what state this was. As we were hours’ worth of driving away from any state line I decided he must be residing in a state of confusion.

The happiest I’ve ever been to see Rotary Ann was that evening last year when I bit off more than I could chew by taking a solo motorcycle tour through the Ozarks. The journey up to Harrison by way of Clinton and Yellville went well enough. So did the next day’s ride to beautiful Eureka Springs.

The next day I made another day trip to Branson, Missouri. While up there the bike’s engine burped on me and began intermittently trying to cut out. It took me another few hours to find a mechanic and get the problem—a bit of trash in the carburetor, it turned out—taken care of. By the time I passed back through Harrison the afternoon was far spent and the skies had grown overcast.

I should have stayed another night in Harrison. But no, I figured I would have just enough time to make it through Dover to Russellville before it got too dark to ride. I did not count on the possibility that the weather would deteriorate. By the time I got past Jasper the skies had grown noticeably darker. I stubbornly kept going, past the little communities of Crossroad and Deer—and right into the heart of the loneliest stretch of Highway 7.

The steep, curvy asphalt ribbon would have been fun to ride in broad daylight. But daylight was fading, the clouds getting thicker still, and the air ominously cooler. I can take riding in the mountains, or in the dark, or in the rain. The thought that I might soon be riding in all three at once had me scared.

So yes, I was happy as I could be when I saw the sign indicating that Rotary Ann was just ahead. I pulled in, killed the engine, set the bike on the kickstand, and made straight for the facilities. A few minutes later, feeling better, I took the short walk to the scenic overlook to stretch my stiff legs.

The few yards of walking and a couple of minutes of looking out over the silent landscape had a fine calming effect. The clouds were still dark. I could still feel rain in the air. Somehow, though, I felt, if not at ease, like I could at least make it.

When I turned to walk back to my bike I saw a car and trailer pulled up beside the restrooms. Mainly I saw the back end of the trailer. It was one of the old ham-in-a-can type that you sometimes still see. From the angle I was looking I could not get a good view of the towing vehicle. The sky was dark, and so was the car. I got the impression that it was a rather old sedan. An older couple, I supposed, still touring in a rig they’d owned for no telling how many years. I wondered how they had pulled in past the overlook without my hearing. I must have been deeply engrossed in the view and in my own thoughts when they arrived.

I walked over to my bike and geared up—jacket, goggles, helmet, gloves. I pushed the starter switch and was horrified when the engine turned over a couple of times without starting. Then I thought to turn off the kill switch. Usually I flipped it back right after killing the engine at a stop. I HAD been in a state of nerves when I had pulled up!

Once I had the engine started and the bike pulled around ready to roll I saw that the car and trailer were pulling onto the road right in front of me. An elderly driver pulling a trailer is about the slowest thing you can possibly get behind on a mountain road. There would be no place to pass between here and Dover. So much for my hopes of riding fast enough to beat the rain!

Within a couple of miles I realized that I wouldn’t have made it anyway when the weather broke and the rain began pouring down. My jacket kept my upper half dry enough. With no rain pants on my lower half was soon soaked. I barely felt it at the time. It took all my concentration to keep the bike on the road. My headlight showed me just enough of my surroundings to get by on. And up ahead I saw the taillights of that little ham-in-a-can trailer as it rounded the turns.

I no longer worried about the rig moving too slowly. In fact, it seemed to me like it was going too fast for these wet conditions. I was starting to fall behind.

Then I saw the taillights jerking wildly back and forth. The car and trailer were losing control…skidding…going off the road to the left…. I caught a flash of something crashing down a steep slope and into the trees as I passed by.

I’m still not sure how I managed to come to a safe stop myself on that dark, rainy, curvy road. Once I had fought down my near-panic I realized that the occupants of that car and trailer would probably need help. I worked the bike around and rode back in low gear, looking out to my right for glimpse of the accident scene. I poked all the way back to Rotary Ann. And saw no sign of wreckage.

I rested for a while at Rotary Ann. When a northbound pickup pulled over for a pit stop I asked the driver whether he had seen any sign of an accident a couple miles back down the road. He had no idea what I was talking about. I could tell he thought that this wet, wild-haired, agitated biker he had met looked dangerously crazy. Probably the only time this skinny little biker has ever scared anybody.

After the rain slowed to a drizzle I headed south again. It was the coldest, wettest, most miserable ride I’d ever taken. I couldn’t even take a break at the Chigger Hollow Trading Post north of Dover because they were closed for the evening. The best I could say about it was that I did, eventually, make it safely to Russellville and a welcome stop for the night.

The next time I travel through the Ozarks on Highway 7 I plan to stop by Chigger Hollow early enough in the day for them still to be open and ask whether anybody there knows anything about a tragic car and trailer wreck between there and Rotary Ann. Surely there’s a story behind what I saw. If only I could find somebody who knows it. I think I’d feel better knowing.

I do know this—you never can tell just who or what you’ll meet at Rotary Ann.