It felt like I had been here before. And though I had, in fact, been through this part of backwoods Kentucky on several occasions before today, it was not simple déjà vu that I was experiencing..
No, there was something more, something deeper, that was resonating within me this time.
I know this place.
Perhaps it was the seemingly endless tapestry of old tales told over lemonade in the heat of a warm summer afternoon across the table from my grandfather. Or maybe it was the stories spun by my grandmother at the foot of a warm and cozy wood-burning stove in the cool light of dusk on a wintery day. As I wind through the bends of ever increasingly narrow byways I become aware of the history of this place. It is nearly palpable. I can feel the past settling over me like the dense fog of a spring morning.
Part of who I am is bound up within the hollows of this place. The mountains hold memories of ancestors long gone and towering trees bend leisurely over bends and bluffs standing watch over a place that time has long forgotten.
Time has forgotten this place, choosing instead to march on in areas far away and much more important. One quickly gets the impression that time actually stands still within these woods, the surrounding mountains standing guard against the intrusion of modernity.
Pigpen Hollow gives way to Cow Creek and leads to an area long ago known simply as Ricetown. Past Buck Hollow Road and Lower Wolf Creek lies Grassy Branch – Horn Hill Road. Most of these paths have no markers and those that do are typically weathered beyond recognition. There seems to be little rush, or need, to replace them. One does not pass through here. One does not accidentally end up here. These parts are ?destination only,? and even then, one must exert great effort to navigate through this maze of roads and find their destination.
Yet people live, survive, and even thrive here.
Like echoes of their forefathers, the current residents are not far removed from those that originally settled this wilderness. In fact, most of the area?s inhabitants are direct descendants of the original homesteaders in this part of the country.
Time has long passed them by though.
And yet, there is a haunting innocence here. A deafening silence hangs over these valleys bringing a solemnity that I have never experienced in such great measure anywhere else in my travels.
If one listens closely enough, they might here the sounds of days long gone… yet not far removed…
—————————————-
Written as part of my family’s Christmas gift this year about a journey to Owsley County, Kentucky, where my grandparents and ancestors were both born and raised. The journey took place Thursday, December 8, 2005.