Frank’s Hill is a short quarter-mile north off Highway 60 west of Muscoda. Frank, the namesake of Frank’s Hill, farms at the bottom of the hill in a region of river bluff, row crop and dairy farms to include an odd assortment of conical hills so neat in aspect as to require a geologist to rationally explain why the landscape is not bewitched.
Hills such as these devoted to a toboggan run able to singe the hair off adolescents who don’t routinely think they are breakable.
To think a local funeral home might perform a nice couplet of last rites from one of those hills. A pumpkin-size urn if tipped down a ramp till it reaches terminal velocity to launch itself into a dense stand of hickory or oak. Smashed immediately to smithereens that the wind soon distributes á la carte. Methinks a nice way to go.