PELSOR -- Airzonia Adamas was her name.
She rests beneath a simple but elegant marker in the Sexton cemetery, deep in the Hurricane Creek Wilderness Area in southern Newton County.
Airzonia's name is scratched into a small concrete slab. Black and white tiles form mosaic flowers. At the bottom is a cluster of blown glass marbles. The childlike design and the marbles suggest Airzonia was a child when she died, but the marker is undated.
Hers is one of the fanciest in a field of mostly old markers that date to the late 1800s. Many mark the graves of toddlers and babies. Some are merely stones standing upright in the ground, their etchings made illegible by time.
I've visited Airzonia's grave occasionally since 1987, when my wife and I passed through the Hurricane Creek Wilderness during a year-long backpacking trek to Maine.
The pretext for last Sunday's visit was the annual Crutchfield Family Squirrel Hunt, which took place Oct. 5-8. I arrived late, as usual, with the same greeting I've used since I joined this tradition in 2005.
"Is this the Crutchfield Camp?" I asked as I pulled in behind Paul and Wayne Crutchfield's Ram pickups. I drove Ford pickups for 10 years, but I switched to Ram last month, to the Crutchfields' resounding approval.
Our sons used to hunt with us, but they grew up and moved on. Paul's daughter Sidney and my daughter Amy joined us for about seven years, but college life has replaced these dates on their calendars.
Wayne Crutchfield's nephews, Carter and Carson, ages 7 and 9, respectively, continued the cycle. It's been awhile since we've been exposed to so much concentrated energy, and as Wayne would say, "Them boys wore us plum out."
Also present were federal magistrate Joe Volpe of Little Rock and his son John Volpe, 14. We and the Crutchfields were doubly grateful for their arrival because John siphoned a lot of energy from the younger boys.
Acorns carpeted the forest floor, but with so much food available, squirrels were not concentrated anywhere that we sought them.
That Friday was a scouting expedition that took us to the Pedestal Rocks Scenic Area. It's an extraordinary collection of stone towers that stand apart from the bluff. Their wide bases taper to narrow stems that widen to flat tables at the top, giving them the appearance of pedestals.
That night, two young hikers from St. Petersburg, Fla., trudged up the road into the Fairview campground. Their names were Erin and Austin. They were in their early 20s, and they had been hiking the Ozark Highlands Trail for 11 days. Erin had found it online, and it was their first multiday hike.
"The distances are manageable, and the terrain isn't too harsh," Erin said.
Still, they had done no physical preparation, and they were exhausted. When we saw lithe Erin trudge up the hill, bowed under the weight of her pack, we were moved to invite them to supper.
They started at Lake Fort Smith and planned to hike all the way to Richland Creek, Austin said, but they didn't cover as many miles per day as they expected. They also had brought the wrong kind of fuel for their stove, so they hadn't had a decent meal in nearly two weeks.
They were cutting short the trip to make their flight back home from Bentonville on Monday.
"Bentonville is a long way from here," I said. "How you planning to get there?"
"We'll get an Uber, or maybe call a cab," Austin said.
Uber? Out here? Uhhh, no.
Miss Laura and I began our life together from this spot on this same weekend 30 years ago, and talking to this young couple was like looking back through time. I have walked in their shoes, and I felt strangely responsible for them.
They left early the next morning to see if they could call for a ride at Hankins Country Store. The store is defunct, and they had no cell service.
"I don't like the thought of them trying to hitchhike," I said. "I'll take them to Bentonville."
Nobody in the group thought that was out of line.
Paul Crutchfield, who was nursing a sinus infection and had little interest in hunting that day, volunteered to go with us. Of course the trip was much farther than the hikers expected, and they were profoundly grateful for the ride.
Sunday, finally, was ideal for hunting. It was clear and still, with a heavy dew on the ground to dampen footfalls.
We split up in the wilderness area and agreed to regroup at 10:30 a.m.
Wayne took Carter and Carson up a hillside, and Paul went alone in a different direction around the hill. The Volpes and I walked the old valley road that leads to a couple of private inholdings deep in the wilderness area. It crosses Hurricane Creek several times, and each crossing is wider and deeper than the last.
John Volpe's real passion is fishing, and the lack of squirrel activity seemed to focus his attention on the creek. He investigated several holes and pronounced them worthy of future exploration with a fishing rod.
Eventually we reached the crossroads. One fork leads to the inholdings. The other goes straight up the mountain to the cemetery. It was about time to head back to the truck, but we had just enough time to visit the cemetery.
It was shady and peaceful. The Volpes explored while I paid my respects to Airzonia Adamas. I stared at her marker, wondering what she looked like, how she spoke, how she spent her life. I often wonder if her name is misspelled, as are words on some of the other markers. "Borned," for example.
I was the last to leave the campground on that crisp, clear, resplendent autumn afternoon. Other than the camping loop that's been closed and gated for more than 20 years, it looks the same as it did in early October 1987.
We were young and green and brimming with hopeful dreams back then. We've raised seven children in that time, one of which is no longer with us. He was a part of the Crutchfield hunt as a boy. He was with me the last time I was here.
The breeze, the scent, the prismatic play of light through the pines in that part of the world this time of year, it all came back to me in waves.
It was a good place to be right then. I stayed the rest of the afternoon.
Sports on 10/15/2017