Perhaps unconsciously, your body feels the road, as it winds, rises, and falls around the hills on this edge of the Ozarks. Half-consciously, you notice the smattering of commerce that hugs the edges of the road. Billboards advertise things like caves, canoes, and hams. There are a couple of Wal-Marts on the road now, a couple of Taco Bells. But beyond the clamor of signs, the driveways leading to roadside houses, and the clusters of businesses here and there, the scenery is purely pastoral.
Fields stretch out to the horizon and over hilltops.
Yellow rolls of hay slump where they've been piled. On either side of the highway, wherever a strip of ground hasn't been mowed or hayed, wildflowers rise up in praise of the sun. You've just passed through Greenbrier and the valley forged by the Cadron River, when, lo and behold, the red thing appears out of nowhere ahead. It emerges over the horizon, spanning the highway ahead. It bears no relationship whatsoever to the surrounding countryside.