By Rich Bitterman
What I love most about the Ozarks is the unexpected.
Not the thunderclap, but the whisper. Not the grand, but the quiet grand. You can walk the same stretch of woods a hundred times, and then, on the hundred-and-first, the light shifts. A shaft of morning sun cuts through the canopy and falls on one single fern, like God reached down and touched it with gold. For that one holy second, you feel chosen to see it.
And then it’s gone.
Fog here isn’t a slow crawl—it’s a curtain drop. One moment the trail is clear, and the next, the world folds inward. Hills disappear. The holler hushes. And all you’re left with is the sound of your own breath and the sense that you’ve stepped into something ancient. You don’t walk fast through fog in the Ozarks. You can’t. You drift. You wait. You listen. Then just as quickly, it lifts, like God opened His hand and let you go.
Evenings carry their own kind of revelation. Most folks look to the sky at sunset, chasing fire and flame across the clouds. But I watch the hills. Just before the sun dips, they start to hum in color—blues and grays and ochres, like old hymns sung in harmony. The ridges soften. The shadows stretch. And the whole land seems to exhale.
You don’t capture that with a camera. You carry it in your soul.
Sometimes it’s the voice of water that finds you first. You hear it before you see it—a low, steady rhythm, like a hymn sung through stone. Maybe it’s Hemmed-In Hollow, cascading down the cliffs like a benediction. Maybe it’s just the spring in Reeds Spring, laughing its way over limestone. Either way, it calls.
And when it calls, you go.
Pair it with an old Ozark mill, wheel turning slow and stubborn through the years, and you’ve got more than a postcard. You’ve got a prayer.
Even still water preaches. It reflects sky like Scripture—blue and broken with light. Sit with your feet in it on a hot day, and it’ll cool more than your skin. It settles your mind. It hushes your fears. A walk in the woods isn’t just a stroll—it’s soul work.
I love the way the shadows gather at the base of a bluff, wrapping the stone like a shawl. I never get tired of looking at rocks. Maybe it’s because God calls Himself one.
Rocks don’t shift. They don’t panic. They don’t wear out.
Water can strike them for centuries and they stay. Maybe smoothed, but not moved. That’s how I want to be.
Sometimes, out walking, I come across reminders that people lived and died long before I got here. A crumbled chimney. A rock wall swallowed by briars. One time, in a cedar grove, I found three stones standing upright, unmarked by name but marked by time. Each had a cedar tree beside it—tall, older than my grandfather’s memory. Someone had buried their loved ones there and planted a tree for each. Now, a century later, those trees still stand, their roots wrapped around the grief of a forgotten family.
Even in the silence, the land remembers.
Water over rock does something to a man. It makes him wonder what’s below—maybe a smallmouth hiding in shadow. Maybe nothing. Maybe a slick stone waiting for the foot that forgets to be careful. For the canoer, it’s either a glide or a tumble. For the old-timer on the bank, it’s just a joy to watch.
And then there’s that sound—the soft gurgle of water when you’re sitting on a rock, toes in the stream, the sun warm on your back. No sermon needed. That is the sermon.
If you’ve ever stood inside a hollow and heard a waterfall before you saw it, you know what it is to be drawn. Something in you leans forward. You need to see what makes that sound.
Rock. Wood. Water.
Three simple elements. But when God’s hand arranges them, they become something close to sacred.
When life gets too loud, or your prayers feel thin, or your soul feels like it’s limping—go walk somewhere in the Ozarks. The land will teach you. The water will settle you. And if you’re quiet long enough, I believe you’ll hear the footsteps of God just ahead, not rushing, not shouting.
Just walking slow—waiting for you to catch up.
To learn more about my Ozark writings click here.
Recommended Resource: If you’re studying the Psalms, you won’t want to miss my in-depth review of The Treasury of David by Charles Spurgeon. This timeless masterpiece unpacks the Psalms with rich theological insight, making it essential for devotion, sermon prep, or deep Bible study. Read the full review here.
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