Our Place Near Quentin Mountain

Watching “Dearly Deer” graze on Ouachita land, where creeks hum and ranch tales echo.

Our Place Near Quentin Mountain

The day unfolds near Quentin Mountain. The clover shimmers damp beneath a fading sky. Red Creek hums softly, and Collins Creek responds across the other side. Their voices cradling the land where our picnic tables stand weathered and the grills rust in silence. A stone gathering area, cool as memory, holds whispers from a dude ranch's past, alive in the early 1900s with hoofbeats and laughter. Six deer glide across the field, white-tails grazing with delicate steps, hooves brushing the earth. One draws closer--Dearly Deer, named by my four-year-old granddaughter, her laughter piercing the dusk like a whippoorwill's call. We live here, rooted deep, the pond reflecting Ouachita's breath as pines stretch toward the ridge. I rest against the stone with hands as rough as hickory bark, watching Dearly Deer nibble clover. Her flanks tremble like a quiet prayer. She remains steady as my boots press the grass, unlike her kin who flee at a leaf's fall. Our herd of Deer roam at twilight, crepuscular, growing calm with patient presence--my way. My granddaughter skips near, her sandy blond hair bouncing, "She's my friend!" she declares, her voice as clear as Red Creek's ripple. I hush her gently, spotting a rusted spur by the pond, a relic of ranch hands who once laughed where we now sit. Collins Creek joins Red's rippling melody, creating a duet that's a joy to my ears, and the sky is glowing like smoldering hickory. We walk out into the clover and it's thick beneath our bare feet. Dearly Deer lingers, her gaze flickering briefly, wild yet near. "Magic, Grandfather," my granddaughter whispers, and I sense the land's pulse--tales of cowboys singing with these creeks linger in the air. A breeze stirs the leaves carrying a hint of laughter or the pines' sigh. We hear a hawks sharp cry above. She claps unafraid, Dearly Deer simply lifting her head but holding her ground. She's woven into this place like the stones shaped by time and fashioned into this beautiful park by the hands of men. Night falls, and the pond is rippling with the breeze showing the stars reflections as the herd heads to the pines. My granddaughter tugs me, "Will she return?" I nod, knowing the clover draws them all back over and over again. I show her the spur, telling her tales of horses and cowboys where the tables now stand. Their songs long faded and now blending with the creeks. The stones hold us firm, with the Red and Collins creeks framing our home's heart. Her eyes follow the deer's shadow, and I see this land--ranch of ours--steady as the pond's depths. I rise, tucking the spur into my pocket, her yawn glowing like fading embers. We walk away leaving Dearly Deer to her clover feast. We leave the stone to silence, and the creeks sing on. The past and present merge as one. My granddaughter's hum rises, small but certain, a lesson from the deer's quiet trust. The sky turns velvet over Quentin's ridge, with the pond cradling night. We are bound here, to creeks, deer, and stories. She will return, and I will wait, feeling the land's enduring rhythm.

Written By Noisy Wren, ’25