Valley full of memories flows out over the hilltops

A conversation with friends this week made me wonder: Have I told you everything I know about Killough Valley?

The farm where I "grew up" is on Killough Valley, which is a narrow valley in the Ozark hills over yonder. "Grew up" can mean a lot of things. I was born in St. Louis and lived there until I was 5, when I became a farm boy. "Killough" is spelled a lot of ways by a lot of people, but I have a handwritten letter from a woman in Virginia who grew up on the valley her ancestors settled way back when. They were the Killoughs, and she asked me to stop misspelling it as Kelo or some such. I have faithfully complied with her request, even though most locals still prefer Kelo. That's OK.

Our farm was 500 acres, of which about 100 acres were fields. The rest was heavily wooded, which meant there were endless opportunities for exploring the woods, usually following old logging roads created during the great clear-cutting era that stripped the Ozarks of native pine forests. These roads still find their way from the old gravel county road that goes up the valley all the way over the hills to the river, a popular float stream and fishing destination. The old roads don't go much of anywhere else.

On the far side of the valley, across from the old farmhouse that became my boyhood home, was the old toll road that once went from Ellington to Williamsville, I'm told. The lower portion of that road hasn't been open to motorized traffic for more than 60 years now, and in many places white oaks and sassafras have reclaimed the space. But the upper portion goes nearly to the head of the valley where it forks, one branch accessing a couple of farms and the other diving into the river valley where Pittman Spring dumps into the Black River. Never heard of Pittman Spring? Neither have very many other folks, but it's one of the Black River's many well-kept secrets. I could tell you about them, but they aren't part of Killough Valley, so back up the hill we go.

I strongly believe that when Gen. Sterling Price was leading his men in gray north out of Arkansas, in failed hopes of taking control of the vital railroad at Pilot Knob and on to secure St. Louis under the South's control, that at least some of the troops followed the old toll road, at least for a while. I base this on my own moment of "Aha!" history. A neighbor and I, when we were both in our teens, were exploring the woods above the barn set along the dry creek that drained Killough Valley after big thunderstorms. We came across something that you would think surely would have been spotted a long time before we got there. We found three Civil War-era rifles stacked in a tripod under a big tree. The guns had been there so long they were welded together by rust. The find was reported to our high school history teacher who knew someone who knew someone who was related to someone at some university's history department who would be interested in seeing these rifles. So the historian came to Killough Valley and, apparently, took the rifles with him. They were not there after his visit. Yes, I've often wondered where the rifles went. But more important are the questions raised by the guns' very existence. Were they abandoned by some of Price's men? Were they left by deserters finding their way home, valuable possessions they would have used for hunting if not chasing kinfolk all over the Ozarks during the war? Were the rifles left there by snipe-hunting hillbillies so wasted by moonshine they couldn't remember where they stacked them?

We'll never know. By the way, if you have those guns or know who does, let me know. I'd like to see them again.

Stories about Killough Valley? I don't think I have to worry about running out. Like fishing in a farm pond so thick with bluegill that you could catch them on a hook baited with a dog fennel blossom. Then you could use the small fish as bait for the giant snapping turtles who shared the pond.

Or what about the summertime sounds at dusk that seeped in the open screened windows as you stretched out on your bed as still as possible in the heat and humidity listening to whippoorwills and tree frogs and an occasional screech owl that reminded you how easy it would be to start a good story about lost maidens meeting their doom while vanishing into the dark woods never to be seen again? Not a trace.

Killough Valley in August. There may be other valleys across the Ozarks with tales to tell, but I didn't grow up there. It's the stories that you participated in that make the memories we share forever.

There will be more. I'm sure of it.

Joe Sullivan is the retired editor of the Southeast Missourian.