Man on the Mountain

Song story & origins

Introduction

We’re going all the way back to my first album, Ozzie’s Guitar (2000), to a song based on a family story: “Man on the Mountain.”

Where the song came from

When I wrote “Man on the Mountain,” we had just moved out into the country—up on a mountain—and I’d gotten a Roland digital recorder and some brand-new microphones. That’s when I decided I was going to get serious about recording and producing albums. Ozzie’s Guitar formed around a kind of grandfather theme, which fit the stories I grew up with—grandfathers, fathers, great-grandfathers, all those family threads.

The particular story here is about my great-grandfather Lee, who lived in a log cabin in the Ozarks of northern Arkansas. As a kid, I visited him—mesmerized by this old mountain man living alone. Later I asked why he lived by himself, and my mom (our family historian) told me the story.

Lee was married to Rose. Their first child was my grandfather, Loy Stockburger (who lived to nearly 102). When Rose later became pregnant again, she fell ill with tuberculosis. Doctors even sent them briefly to Colorado—higher altitude supposedly better—but they came back. Rose was quarantined; the family couldn’t see her. Their baby boy died, and Lee had to break the news to Rose. She never recovered and eventually passed away. My grandfather was then raised by his father, Lee, and uncles near the family cabin. It’s a hard story—loss stacked on loss—and that’s the man I imagined on the mountain.

What the song is saying

I’m an introvert. I thrive on quiet and time alone, and I love my small, close circle—my wife, kids, parents, a few dear friends. I don’t do wide circles well; I do deep ones. The man on the mountain in this song is someone I understand: the pull toward solitude after grief; the way isolation can feel like protection.

But there’s a price to being separate. Part of this song is me checking myself: Am I getting out? Am I opening myself up enough to other people? That’s where the refrain lands: “Way up there upon the mountain / the air is thin as it can be…” He wants to be close to Heaven—but he feels like a man in Hell. The line keeps the paradox: the mountain promises closeness to something holy, yet grief can make even holy places lonely.

The verse “Life on the mountain… it’s not so romantic as they say” pushes back on the myth of rugged isolation. Whether banished or self-exiled, if your only companions are the ghosts of yesterday, you’re living with heartbreak as your nearest neighbor.

Recording & arrangement (2000)

Musically, this is a simple finger-picking piece that became a template for me. I’d been working out a syncopated, three-finger-and-thumb pattern—a rhythmic feel I use a lot now. On the recording there are the haunting vocal harmonies sung by my wife, Sheryl—absolutely lovely—and that female voice in the background was intentional. It made me think of Lee’s relationship with Rose: that on the mountain he might still hear her voice sometimes and resist leaving for fear of losing even that echo.

For the instrumental break, I chose a solo voice that stayed in that haunted space—supporting the story rather than showboating—so the mood never breaks away from the mountain’s thin air.

Why it stays with me

“Man on the Mountain” marries a family history with a temperament I recognize in myself: the instinct to retreat when wounded. The song doesn’t celebrate withdrawal; it tells the truth about it, and leaves the chorus to hold the ache. That’s why it’s stayed important to me all these years.

I closed the original session reflecting on the album’s future: I expected I might remaster Ozzie’s Guitar for its 20th anniversary (2020). Whether or not it arrives exactly on anniversaries, this song keeps pulling me back—still thin air, still a voice, still a man on the mountain.

Source: New Music Memoir (1).docx