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Feed32 Skidoo
The King's Trek to Pickle Springs and Beyond Takes Him to Success
Courtesy Ryan Calhoun
Double Arch at Pickle Springs in southeast Missouri
Taking a brief respite from a Mississippi River journey, our crew navigated our raft through a narrow inlet to port Ste. Genevieve. Appropriate, I thought, since this was the first highway into town, used by explorers and settlers and Lewis and Clark, and maybe even the Duke of Bilgewater and the lost Dauphin, the royal poseurs who tried to sucker Huck Finn.
Today, the port has fallen on hard times. A tough economy has left the gas dock abandoned, wracked by floods and neglect. Townsfolk would love to spiff up the port, but that takes money. Government agencies appear reluctant to help dredge the inlet to keep it from silting. And tourist traffic from the river probably won’t pay for the upkeep.
The walk from port Ste Genevieve into town is the better part of a mile, atop levees, mostly. And then you begin to see the town, older than Thomas Jefferson, and the houses. Some are older than our nation. Built by folks named Balduc, Bequette, and Beauvais, there’s no doubt about the town’s heritage. These Arcadian settlers are from the same French-Canadian stock that settled southern Louisiana, where their appellation shortened to Cajun.
Thirsty, I stopped into the historic Hotel Ste. Genevieve, and ended up dining on the restaurant’s signature dish: liver dumplings. The accent is on the dumplings, with the liver cooked to an almost purée soupy base. It’s an acquired taste for sure, but delightful. Thus fortified with enough iron to attract magnets, I set out to explore this, the oldest community in Missouri, founded in 1732. The oldest record at the historic Catholic church is a 1759 baptism of one of founder Felix Vallé’s slaves.
The houses are unique in two ways. First, three homes feature a rare French creole vernacular vertical log construction. And second, they’re still standing, despite threats from fire, flood, earthquake, time, and man.
The town is quiet, owing much of its walk back in time to isolation from the plastic modernity that proliferates along the Interstate, four miles up the hill.
Route 32 begins in Ste. Genevieve and drapes across Missouri like a necklace, dropping through the Ozarks to latch onto El Dorado Springs, a city named for gold, on the western side of the state. And some of my most memorable encounters have happened along the links in this chain.
A few years ago, driving along 32 after a tour of the flood devastation at Johnson’s Shut-Ins, I passed a small brown sign pointing to Pickle Springs.
The brown sign sucked me in. At first, my plan was simple: Drive into Pickle Springs parking lot, circle, and leave, satisfied to add Pickle Springs Natural Area to my “Yeah, I’ve been there” list. But I knew that was dishonest. I parked next to the only other vehicle in the lot. Stepping out of the security of my car, I walked a few yards toward the trail, bending an ear toward the woods, listening for the owners of the pickup parked next to my car. There was no sound.
At the head of the loop trail, their footprints turned left. I took the trail to the right, stopping after a few yards to peer into the wilderness; I kept walking. Within seconds, steep walls of a box canyon enveloped me. Sandstone boulders the age of Pluto towered over my head; spring water seeped beneath. One foot followed the other down the path, powered by this unfolding carnival for the eye. With perfect theatrical timing, Mother Nature arranged her priceless sculptures before me: Headwall Falls, Rockpile Canyon, Pickle Spring.
I wondered if John Muir or National Geographic ever visited this spot, with its collection of weather-beaten sandstone shapes, creations that Bryce Canyon in Utah would be proud to display: Dome Rock, Owl’s Den Bluff, Mossy Falls.
A part of me wants to keep these charms secret. They’re rewards for observant Missourians and visitors who’ve done their research. I shouted up to the contrails that crisscross the heavens, punctuated by gleaming silver dots that carry passengers to L.A. and New York. “You don’t know what you’re missing!”
“And the best is ahead of you!” The response startled me. Collecting myself, I greeted two backpackers as they approached. These were the guys from the pickup truck parked in the lot—father and son, by the looks of them. Never did I feel intimidated, despite the warnings of a few radical anti-trail folks who suggest that trails attract serial murderers. Rational people know that murderers hate to hike. The only serial this duo had in their sights involved other nearby geologic gems tucked into the St. Francois Mountains. We discussed those: Hawn State Park, Buford Mountain, Royal Gorge Natural Area, Iron Mountain Lake, Millstream Gardens, Bismarck Conservation Area.
We marveled at the stunning beauty of this place. They foreshadowed what would unfold on the rest of my two-mile trek along the Pickle Springs trail: Terrapin Rock, The Keyhole, Cauliflower Rocks.
Leaving this inspiration, I found there’s more than gold along Route 32. There’s zinc. And lead. Lots of it. This is the world’s largest lead belt, first mined by people like Moses Austin, the grandfather of Texas, who lies peacefully in his home town of Potosi, under a slab of concrete the size of a carport, to keep Texans from stealing his corpse.
It is my observation that the roads here are the smoothest and best-maintained in Missouri, these lead belt blacktop roads that carry heavy metal from miners’ row: Fletcher Mine, West Fork Mine, Brushy Creek Mine, Buck Mine, Casteel Mine. It’s big business, out of view from just about everybody. But locals know. Towns like Viburnum thrive and decline in step with the price of lead. I motored on to Salem, the region’s trade, population, and cultural center.
The famous philosopher Yogi Berra and I share at least one thing in common. We both married ladies from Salem. So we’ve both spent a fair amount of time there, on the golf course, lunching at Stephens, or dining at the Tower Inn. Never at the same time, of course. Truth is, I’ve never met Yogi. I just hear the stories.
Speaking of stories, the Tower Inn had ten of them. Built back in the ’60s, it was the tallest building between Springfield and Cape Girardeau that I know. But that’s all changed, since the owners lopped off the top six stories. The building had become too costly to heat and cool and needed major repairs, I hear. They plan to take two more floors off and turn it into a restaurant.
I spent a hundred nights playing music on the top floor of that building. I’ll miss the view. You could see halfway to the mining camps at Boss and Bunker and Bixby. Since Salem was upwind of the mines, you didn’t have to worry about snorting too much lead dust.
Back down on the ground, a county road snakes south, out of town. It’s the back road to Akers Ferry on the Current River, and it goes past the Dillards’ old homestead, I’m told. You may know the Dillards, whether you remember the name or not. They were the backwoods boys that showed up to play bluegrass music with jug-blowin’ Chester Darlin and his daughter, Charlene, on The Andy Griffith Show.
And never far from Charlene Darlin was a lovable ne’er do well named Ernest T. Bass, who would demonstrate his devotion to Charlene Darlin by launching love notes, strapped to rocks, through plate glass windows to land at her feet. Chester and the boys weren’t too keen on Ernest, on account of his terrorist ways. The boys just wanted to play bluegrass music. In real life, the Dillards from greater Salem are still some of the best pickers on the planet.
One day, I watched big black helicopters invade Salem. They swooped out of the sky and landed right on the parking lot in front of the Tower Inn. Rich guys in Brooks Brothers suits climbed out. Townsfolk soon learned that these wealthy copterites constituted the board of directors for a big lead mining company, then-owner of the lead and zinc mines around Boss and Bunker and Bixby. The directors were touring their domain, I guess.
Anyway, the helicopters left without firing a shot, and life pretty much never changed in Salem, except now the Tower Inn is six stories shorter. The town has lost some of its rugged innocence to modern conveniences like Casey’s, Burger King, and McDonalds, and years ago it closed the old landfill, with its telltale black column of smoke that betrayed smoldering tires. Now, thankfully, the air is fresh again in this, my favorite hideaway, a cross between God’s country and the wild west, on the leeward side of lead dust.
Pushing west on 32, I passed the old Rawlings plant in Licking. Folks in greater Licking used to gather at the Rawlings plant, where they sewed names like Musial and Boyer and Herzog on the backs of Cardinal jerseys. No more.
If Route 32 is Missouri’s gold-plated lead necklace, the pendant would hang at its southernmost point, and I aimed my car in that direction, crossing the Big Piney River, soaking up the beautiful scenery on the fringes of the Mark Twain Forest as I approached my destination.
The drive is thoroughly enjoyable, and I’d like to spend more time here. After all, it’s the road to Success.
Reader Comments:
I grew up in Success! Nice to read about the homeplace....Licking, big Piney and of course, Success!
I recently passed through Salem on route to the annual meeting of the Association of Missouri Geologists held this year in Farmington. I am saddened every time I see the current state of the Tower. I grew up in Salem and my father gave 23 years to Martin Hart, Sherman Odam and the Tower Inn - only to be let go with 3 days notice when they decided to close it. I am have many fond, but now bittersweet memories of this iconic building; a monolith in an otherwise ordinary small midwestern town. I encourage any who read this with pictures of the Tower and who wish to share them mail me at powell989@gmail or Facebook. I have posted there an old postcard from the 70's (I think) which has a picture of the Tower and a rooom or two. And I always heard that you could not get to Success without going through Licking.