MissouriLife Articles

Carefree Comfort

Mon, 14 Jul 2008 15:39:44 GMT

Tucked in and around Branson with the King

By John Robinson

“Historic?” The chamber of commerce lady didn’t buy my logic.

I persisted. “If I were a vehicle, I’d have a historic tag. And Rock Lane Lodge was already historic when our family stayed there thirty years ago.”

She motioned down the narrow peninsula called Indian Point. “It’s near the end of the road, and now they call it Rock Lane Resort.”

Rock Lane Lodge holds special memories for my family. Our daughters grew up drinking out of big plastic cups with Rock Lane Lodge logos emblazoned on the sides, functional mementos of a fun family vacation. But alas, things change. The logos wore off the cups, victims of abusive dishwashers. The rock cabins are gone. The lodge still stands, though with all the changes, it bears scant resemblance to my memory. The resort features modern condos, swimming pools, and plenty of activities. I could see that the old “historic” lodge of my memories was gone.

Not to worry. I soon discovered that the path winding around Table Rock Lake reveals some real romantic hideaways.

I backtracked up the peninsula and crept past the parking lots for Silver Dollar City, the Ozarks theme park that sits atop Marvel Cave.

Intersecting with Route 13 at Branson West, I turned south on that twisty two-lane road. Detouring down DD, I passed Sho-Me Baseball Camp, where our oldest grandson Dylan—my retirement package—first learned the pitching form that will make him the next Walter Johnson. Along the way, I saw the physical embodiment of the phrase, “a man’s home is his castle.” In this case, the man’s castle is his private home, complete with turrets.

Not far from there, Skyview Lodge sits high upon a bluff looking down on the lake on either side. Skyview is a wonderful log structure that didn’t make it as a hotel and switched to condo life. At the end of the road, I discovered a quaint fishing village. Maybe it’s not quaint like a European postcard, but it’s quaint by Ozark standards. The cottages were tidy and clean.

Rejoining Route 13, I headed south and stumbled upon one of the truly great sculptures in Missouri. Forget that it’s an icon for a real estate company; this twenty-foot bronze balloon is a grabber.

I turned down Route RB. Most state road names have no real significance. They’re just numbers or letters. Not so with roads named RA or RB. RA denotes a public recreation area somewhere along the road, usually at the end. RB means much the same, (in my mind RB stands for recreation/boating access ... and I can’t find a road that defies this). Sure enough, the end of this road delivered a Corps of Engineers waterfront park.

Once again I retreated from the water’s edge and headed back to Route 13, where I spied a handsome little log cabin doing business as Jill’s Ozark Bar-B-Que. My stomach said, “Yes,” so I took it in with me and sat down in one of the world’s coziest little two-top booths, a chess-match-sized wooden table framed by two wooden one-seat benches. Jill’s specialty is baby back ribs, but I had a pork sandwich. I couldn’t decide which of a dozen different sauces to try. They had Jill’s Pig Out Hot Sauce. And Liquid Stupid. I shunned Liquid Stupid ... I don’t need help. As I left, I noticed Jill’s stand-alone outdoor, screened-in pig-out station to keep people from harming the bugs.

Rolling south, I entered the realm of the Lampe Litter Lifters. I know this because that’s what the Adopt-A-Highway sign said. Ha-Bob’s One Stop hails at the corner of Routes 13 and H, which leads to Bread Tray Mountain and the lake.

In my online research to find Table Rock’s most romantic spot, White River Lodge jumped out and kissed me. Lovingly built by Bill and Becky Babler, the lodge is a picture postcard of alpine purity, situated on the lake just north of Blue Eye. The lodge is hewn from huge pine logs. Such log structures became a theme in my travels that day. The great room has a large stone fireplace. Handcrafted log beds fit the homey ambience in rooms named Couple’s Cove and Foggy River Room. From the lodge’s ample back balconies, the lake view inspires the windows to your soul.

My car roller-coastered back to 13, and we rounded the horn at the southern end of Table Rock, on the approach to Big Cedar Lodge. In all of Missouri, there may be a handful of spots that can lure super-wealthy world travelers. This is one of them.

Big Cedar is legendary. And I can understand why. The property is charmingly woodsy, but it’s the staff that makes the difference. They attend to your every whim. Cookies delivered to your cabin. Firewood at your door every morning. Stuff like that. Cheryl and I stayed there years ago, and I remember the cabins bordered on rustic opulence, if there is such a thing. Big fireplaces. Showers with multiple nozzles resembling a balneal firing squad. Truthfully, Big Cedar is grand, but I’d be content with Medium Cedar or Moderate Cedar. Cheryl loved it.

I left the luxury of Big Cedar and reentered reality, driving along the southwest fringe of Greater Branson. It’s still amazing to me that you can be so close to glitter city and yet be enveloped in the woods. I passed Table Rock State Park and crossed the dam, with Chateau on the Lake framed in my windshield.

I must confess—I’ve stayed in some fine hotels over the years: The Waldorf-Astoria. The Conrad Hilton. The Fairmont. The Adolphus. The Grand. Four Seasons. The Fontainebleau. But the Chateau offered the finest suite I’ve ever occupied. Too bad I was there for only about five and a half hours—by myself. I’d driven late one night from an Ozark trout stream to reach the Chateau. I checked in well after midnight. My first meeting in Branson was at 7 am. But I had enough time to examine the exquisite furnishings, the leather chairs with iron and wood, the rich tile floors with thick throw rugs. A wet bar. A Jacuzzi I never used. A bed I barely warmed. Someday Cheryl and I plan to return and stay for more than a cup of coffee.

Next day, Thousand Hills waited. As Branson diversifies with a new convention center and a new airport in the works, folks are warming to the fact that Greater Branson is fast becoming a preferred golf destination in Missouri. And Thousand Hills plays a vital part. Tucked down in the crack of Branson, the course winds along a creek, manicured to rugged perfection.

I knew about Thousand Hills golf. I didn’t know about Thousand Hills cabins. How would I? The Cabins at Grand Mountain are hiding in the woods, right in the middle of Branson! Seriously. You could hit the outlet mall with a nine iron shot, and shoppers wouldn’t know where it came from. The cabins’ exteriors are pleasing enough, standing on steep hillsides amid the forest. Inside, they’re downright stunning. Last time I saw pine logs that big, I was in Utah’s Wasatch Mountains at the fabled Huntsman home. Because the cabins are individually owned, they’re decorated to the nines with beautiful appointments, tastefully done. It’s romantic and insulated from the neon noise.

This time around, I saw a different side of Branson. Driving downtown to view The Landing, I noticed the vibrancy that eight million visitors afford a small town. A thousand shoppers caromed between Dick’s 5 and 10 and Chick’s Barber Shop. Rocky’s Italian Restaurant, an original stand-alone, non-chain restaurant, seems to be doing a solid business.

Time for lunch. I’d sampled much of the Mexican cuisine around town, and it was good. But I’d never stopped at Casa Fuentes near the intersection of Routes 65 and 76. Strange for me, since I gravitate to Mexican restaurants that look like houses. It’s a sure sign that the food will be phenomenal. I wasn’t disappointed. From the beginning of the experience, I loved it—the thin, crisp, homemade white corn chips and a salsa with character. They even put romaine lettuce in their tacos. Nice touch.

I’m beginning to learn how to traverse Branson. They say if you live there, you’ll soon learn the network of back roads. A few months later, you’ll learn the third layer: the real network with the best shortcuts, many of them legal. Old bank robbers in the thirties called such shortcuts “the cat roads.”

And if I ever need to hide, I’ve picked out wonderful spots: secluded along the southern edge of Table Rock and tucked in the middle of Branson.

August 2008

Bounding Around The Burgs

Wed, 04 Jun 2008 19:12:44 GMT

By John Robinson

Like a Silent Conductor, the big, green highway sign along
interstate 70 announced we were approaching aullville. “no services,” the
same sign warned. that message spurred my recollection of a comment
years ago from an aullville resident, who was upset because the sign discouraged
traffic to his town. i asked him if greater aullville offered any services
for interstate travelers.

“Well, not at the exit,” he said.
aullville itself sits two miles off the interstate. assuming the collective
temperament of interstate traffic trends toward immediate fulfillment, if
not gratification, it’s hard to argue that the “no services” sign is misleading.
With no such warning, impatient drivers would reach the top of the exit
ramp and face an uncertain choice between aull or nothing.

My car wasn’t due to lash up to a parking meter in Warrensburg for two
hours, so we coasted up the aullville exit ramp. at the top, i surveyed land
around the interchange that wasn’t so desolate as it was pastoral—rather
refreshing, this panoramic view
from the crown of a hill along
this crowded highway. We turned
north on route T and drove a couple
miles. Just short of the banks of
Devil’s creek, a tributary of the Black
river, we rolled through aullville.
indeed, if tiny aullville, population
seventy-two, doesn’t provide
for most of the basic needs of an
agrarian community and its visitors,
neighboring Higginsville can.

We motored four miles farther
away from the interstate, north
to Higginsville. along the way,
we passed the republican cemetery—no sign of a Democrat cemetery ...
yet. We passed a flagpole flying a more historically correct version of the
Missouri confederate battle flag—not the ubiquitous southern cross. the
flag reminded me that Higginsville is home to the confederate Memorial
state Historic site.

Minutes later, i was strolling through the old cemetery on this historic
site, the grounds of the old confederate soldiers Home of Missouri (civil War
series, February 2007). the home provided refuge to more than sixteen hundred
veterans and their families, beginning in 1891, for nearly sixty years.
the home is gone, but several structures remain, including a chapel.

Walking down the rows of tombstones, i spied the marker. His name
startled me at first, though i knew his remains are interred on these grounds.
Well, at least part of William clarke Quantrill is buried here: five bones and a hank of hair. Other parts of him lie in a Dover, Ohio, cemetery, near his
boyhood home. Author Edward E. Leslie recounts the journeys of Quantrill’s
skull and bones and separates fact from fiction in the 1998 biography The
Devil Knows How to Ride, an exhaustive examination of this infamous character.
Despite Quantrill’s mother’s wish to bring his body back to Dover, only
part of his corpse made that journey. Grisly capitalists intervened to pilfer
body parts from Quantrill’s remains, and the skull and several bones ended
up in Lawrence, Kansas, in the possession of the University of Kansas. They
stayed there, in and out of museum displays, until Jefferson Citian Robert
Hawkins, a member of the Sons of the Confederacy, negotiated to have him
interred in Dover (skull) and Higginsville (bones).

I’m not the first person to retreat from Quantrill, but my reason was
trivial. Hunger held my attention. Angling east to Route 23, I dropped into
Concordia, where a burnt-ends sandwich at Biffle’s Smoke House Barbeque
thoroughly satisfied me. Please understand that while discussions about religion
and politics can become heated, arguments about barbeque often result
in chokeholds. So I will reserve my comments about Biffles’s world ranking
for my book on Missouri’s best barbeque, to be released after my death and
the safe relocation of my relatives.

Leaving Biffle’s Smoke House and traveling south on Route 23, my car
made no complaint as it absorbed the faint wood-smoke smell from my
clothing. We crossed Highway 50, eschewing the most direct route west
to Warrensburg, and continued south past Whiteman Air Force Base,
where glider pilots practiced during World War II. We turned west on
Route DD, which dissects Knob Noster State Park. Knob Noster, the town,
became a familiar name to faithful listeners to St. Louis’s KMOX radio in
the 1970s. Announcers loved reading weather reports from Knob Noster,
just to say the name. Well, Knob
Noster may never eclipse St. Louis
in size, but it helps play an equal
role, arguably, with St. Louis in our
national defense.

When viewed in the air, the B-2
Bomber resembles an attempt to
wrap a flight of geese in black plastic.
The first time I saw this flying
wedge—I didn’t hear it until
it passed—we were biking the
Katy Trail east of Clinton. The jet
appeared from nowhere and flew
directly over us. It made several
wide circles over the next hour,
each time flying precisely over our
heads. Since then, I’ve often wondered
if the bombardier was lining
us up in the cross hairs, just to
practice. If so, I guess I played a
small role in national security. But
I’ll never know.

Even without a bombardier’s
view, I knew Montserrat Vineyards and Bristle Ridge Winery were nearby,
and I vowed to return when time would allow. But the clock required that I
lock my sights on the ’Burg, as college students began calling Warrensburg
at some point after a blacksmith named Warren settled in the area back in
1833. Students may not know, or care, that the town has many textures.

The ’Burg claims at least two world-famous former residents, forever captured
in song, verse, and bronze. In fact, their statues have become my favorites
in the world, one because of its style, both because of their significance.

The first statue is a favorite of Baskin and Queenie, my Yorkshire Terriers.
Together they weigh only a fraction of the statue’s subject, but they share
that canine trait the statue celebrates. They’re convinced that every time
I walk out our front door, I’m headed to sniff out Old Drum, the central
character in the story about man’s best friend.

Old Drum unwittingly strayed into controversy, which evolved into a court case, Burden v. Hornsby. It wasn’t poetry. Hornsby shot the beast of
Burden, aka Old Drum, for trespassing. When Burden and his attorney
entered the courtroom to sue Hornsby for the loss of his dog, most everybody
thought the shooter should pay. They didn’t realize they were about to
witness history. The lawsuit, which wound through the courts and ended up
before the Missouri Supreme Court, asked fifty dollars in damages. Burden
received an award ten times that amount.

More lasting is the attorney’s speech, or at least part of it, which produced
the most famous line in the history of inter-species friendship. Nobody kept
records of the first half of George Graham Vest’s argument, but the second
half contains this phrase: “The one absolutely unselfish friend that a man
can have in this selfish world, the one that never deserts him and the one
that never proves ungrateful or treacherous, is his dog.”

Since 1958, the statue honoring man’s best friend has stood guard on
the grounds of the Johnson County Courthouse, on the Warrensburg town
square. Nice dog. Handsome courthouse grounds. Nice town square, too—
well-preserved, a menagerie of shops, restaurants, and saloons.

From the courthouse, I walked downhill toward the
Amtrak station, to view my other favorite statue.

I was mortified to discover the statue missing.
For years it stood in plain view of passengers aboard
Amtrak as the train idled at the Warrensburg depot. It’s
a likeness of Willie, who sits on a bench at a piano on
a downtown sidewalk. Well, he doesn’t quite sit. From
this most animated statue, Willie’s arms are not merely
extended, they’re launched forward, fingers splayed like
ten cobras striking in precision. He’s leaning back, to
offer a better glimpse from the train when it stops. Or
at least, he was.

Even before Warrensburg became a college town,
young John William “Blind” Boone was sharpening the genius that would
jump from his fingertips, transforming a piano into a worldwide messenger
of inspiration. Concerned about the fate of this most animated of all statues,
I inquired at the nearby Tee Haus, on the town square.

“Not to worry,” Tee Haus proprietor Sandy Irle says. The statue was hit by
a car. After repairs, it went to a new spot, in the park that bears Blind Boone’s
name. She sent me west down Pine Street to see the park. Overgrown and
overlooked for years, the park shows new life.

And across the street, the old Howard School—one of the first segregated
schools in Missouri—stands defiant against time, even though its classrooms
have been dormant for many years. After decades of neglect, loving hands
are preparing the school to tell its story of educating thousands of young
African-American children.

These icons—the school, Blind Boone, Old Drum—form a metaphor.
This territory can tell about a turbulent past. Bushwhackers. Dog slayers.
Segregation. Through it all, those venerable ideals of opportunity, perseverance,
and loyalty—nurtured here in Warrensburg—have survived. Blind
Boone would be proud. Students are enlightened. Dog lovers are inspired.

Someday, I’ll tell Baskin and Queenie that Warrensburg has a pair of petfriendly
motels. Oh, and there’s one in Knob Noster, too. Hear that, KMOX?

December 2007

The Lodges of the Meremac

Tue, 03 Jun 2008 18:37:09 GMT

By John Robinson

I SETTLED in my lawn chair for the show.
Silhouetted by a spectacular sunset over a picture-
postcard valley, five musicians launched
into vocal harmonies punctuated by fine fiddlin’
and pickin’. Their stage was a concrete
poolside tarmac. The crowd sat in lawn chairs
and on blankets in this natural amphitheater,
a gentle slope softened by thick bluegrass.

Traditional bluegrass fans have little tolerance
for a band that strays so easily into
Buddy Holly anthems. But the crowd loved
the Stringtown String Band in this intimate
venue where folks mingle with bands like
The Amazing Rhythm Aces and Asleep at the
Wheel. The lineup this fall is no less impressive
with legends Poco, Arlo Guthrie, The Guess
Who, and Ozark Mountain Daredevils.

Where is this place? It’s near nirvana. And like
nirvana, you take a winding road to get there.

It was late Saturday afternoon. I’d just
departed from a delightful walk through
Dillard Mill, a relic fixed firmly against a
hairpin turn in the Huzzah River, a vigorous
Ozark stream often overlooked until it meanders
nearer the Meramec. Taking the back
roads, I crossed the Huzzah thrice more before
descending into Steelville.

As the self-proclaimed Floating Capital of
Missouri, the town caters to lovers of the
great outdoors. Before there was a Luckytown,
Steelville won the lottery. Well, to be precise,
the town is the beneficiary of a lottery winner.
In 1990, telephone regulators held a lottery
to determine which phone companies would
provide rural service to the burgeoning cellular
phone demand. Among the winners was tiny
Steelville Telephone Exchange. The company
parlayed that windfall into great service, not
only to telephone customers but to the community
and its schools.

Just up the hill from Steelville, overlooking
the Meramec River valley, sits Wildwood
Springs Lodge. For eight decades, the lodge has
clung to its lofty perch. And like many of the musical acts performing poolside or in the
cozy lobby, the lodge is a survivor. Like most
eighty-five-year-olds, the lodge has endured
peaks and valleys.

Today the lodge thrives. Owner Robert
Bell brings in the talent, including the
bands, the hotel staff, and the cuisine. He’s
revived a long history of great music and great
times at the lodge.

Like a proud grandparent, the lodge displays
its photos, visuals of pleasures and performances
past. Here, a young St. Louis musician,
Gordon Jenkins, honed his chops. Jenkins later
became a famous producer for Decca Records.
Listen to Frank Sinatra and Nat King Cole, and
you’ll witness Gordon Jenkins’s handiwork.

Bill Freeman can tell you about that. A
retired state trooper, Bill is affable, polite,
and knowledgeable. And he keeps the hotel’s
systems running. Bill’s also a walking history
book, readily telling stories about the river,
the region, and the lodge.

The lobby’s charm overflows, especially
when a crowd gathers around Michael Martin
Murphy or America playing unplugged before
a roaring fire in the fireplace during the
Living Room Concerts.

The long dining hall could be a movie set.
Its hardwood floors, linen tablecloths, and gorgeous
floor-to-ceiling French windows serve
up splendid scenery. The guest rooms’ comfortably
Spartan appointments offer a subtle
hint that rooms are for sleeping. Daytime calls
for vigorous action in the great outdoors.

Like Wildwood Lodge, the story of recreation
on the Meramec River has its own peaks
and valleys. In the late 1890s, St. Louisans
would hop the Frisco Railroad for a short
ride to the Highlands resort and recreation
complex, just west of Kirkwood. Anticipating
the arrival of thousands of visitors to the 1904
Louisiana Exposition, the St. Louis World’s
Fair, developers built the Highlands, offering
enough activities to ensure fatigue: swimming,
boating, dancing, and tennis. Alas,
the Meramec Highlands suffered fatigue and
disappeared before World War I. City folk then
traveled further upriver to find Meramec hot
spots around Valley Park and Fenton.

About the same time, St. Louisans discovered
the lodges in the Steelville area, along
the Meramec. They’d take the Frisco to Cuba,
Missouri, where shuttles would deliver them a
few more miles to the river resorts.

Most of those lodges have vanished, victims
of time, the Great Depression, increased traveler
mobility, and new levees. Along the river, concrete
steps remain as memorials leading from
the water, up the bank, and into the woods.

But a few resorts still stand with Wildwood
against the ravages of time and the trend
toward corporate conformity. Cobblestone
Lodge is an octogenarian, too, and offers an
all-inclusive vacation that includes sumptuous
meals in a classic dining hall and floating the
Meramec, to boot!

Float like I did from Ozark Outdoors
Riverfront Lodge, which offers everything from cabins to the Grand Suite. It’s a great
place to launch an expedition to check the
health of the stream. Look closely into the
water to examine some of nearly four dozen
species of mussels, including the Washboard,
the Pocketbook, the Pimpleback, and the
Spectacle Case. Don’t be fooled by their seeming
inactivity. Some of these living water
filters are better bass fishers than anybody
pictured on a cereal box cover. The mussel
lures a bass to snap at a fleshy appendage that
looks like a minnow. The bass gets injected
with a mouthful of baby mussels, who attach
to its gills and take a ride for a few days as the
mussels grow stronger. Don’t worry, the bass
survives to face more challenges.

More challenging is the search for an Eastern
Hellbender, a salamander whose numbers are
declining. That’s a concern to herpetologists,
who wonder why this species is disappearing.

With a name that recalls another disappearance
from the Meramec basin, Indian Springs
Lodge offers individual cabins that honor great
Native American leaders including Black Eagle,
Red Cloud, and Crazy Horse.

Historic Bird’s Nest Lodge trumpets new
log cabins with all the amenities. On the
Huzzah, Eagle Hurst Ranch names its
thirty or so cottages for permanent residents:
trees like the dogwood, redbud, and
hickory. The Huzzah Valley Resort features
the Huzzah Hilton, Big Bear Bunkhouse, and
a pair of original farmhouses. Situated near the
Huzzah and next to Courtois Creek, Bass River
Resort offers a multitude of cozy cabins, log
cabins, A-frames, and hideaways.

The river and the resort business both
endure ebbs and flows. But two events nearly
changed the face of the region forever. Three
decades ago, the specter of a dam loomed
in the Meramec valley. Actually, the idea of
damming the Meramec goes back to 1830
when the Iron Works at present day Maramec
Spring Park near St. James promoted a dam to
improve navigation for moving iron ore.

The most recent plan would have impounded
forty-two miles of the Meramec River, nine
miles of the Courtois, and twelve miles of the
Huzzah. A group of concerned Missourians
realized that many Meramec treasures,
including Onondaga Cave, would be lost.
Several groups, including the Meramec Basin
Association, united to defeat the dam.

The second threat occurred almost twentyfive
years ago in Times Beach, a resort community
where Route 66 crosses the Meramec
River. To control dust, a contractor sprayed
oil contaminated with deadly dioxin through
the streets. The federal government made
history by forcing an evacuation and buying
out the entire town. After many years
and an expensive contamination cleanup, the
state established Route 66 State Park on the
property. The welcome center sits in a venerable
old roadhouse called Steiny’s Inn, next to
the historic Meramec River Bridge. Ask folks
who’ve lived nearby for more than a generation,
and everyone has a story about Steiny’s.
It’s a survivor.

Yep, the Meramec has endured both natural
and man-made disasters. But today, thanks to
healthy stewardship, the river has a fighting
chance at survival. And the historic lodges of
the Meramec offer their silent approval.

Traveling in Bingham’s Footsteps

Mon, 28 Jan 2008 16:50:42 GMT

The King of the Road traces the trail of Missouri's fighting artist

By John Robinson

The fire consumed almost everything, including Henry Clay, Andrew Jackson, and the Father of our Country.
     Jefferson City was basking in an unusually warm 76-degree temperature on February 5, 1911, when an evening thunderstorm churned across town, sending lightning bolts into the capitol dome, the city’s centerpiece. Fire spread quickly, granting occupants only a few moments to grab treasures and escape the conflagration.
George Caleb Bingham’s portrait of Thomas Jefferson survived the firestorm that consumed Missouri’s capitol building. His portraits of Clay, Jackson, and George Washington perished. That may reflect the love for Jefferson in his namesake city. Or maybe it was the only painting Senator Michael Casey could reach on his way out the door.
      Regardless, the story of the rescue of that Jefferson portrait kindled my interest in tracing Bingham’s steps, leading me on a lengthy journey with surprises around every corner.
      It’s hard to keep up with George Caleb Bingham, even though I have a car and much better highways. You could start in a dozen cities to trace the trails of Bingham. My journey began in Columbia, where Bingham’s good friend Richard Henry Jesse named George the University of Missouri’s first art professor. Fitting, then, that on this campus, The State Historical Society of Missouri houses an extensive Bingham collection, with thirty-three paintings, including the surviving Thomas Jefferson, and one of two versions of his most lasting political statement, Order No. 11, depicting a Union move to banish Missourians from their homes in western Missouri during the Civil War.
      From Columbia, I drove west, into the land where Bingham formed his first impressions. Unlike young George, who ferried across the Missouri River from his home at Franklin to a bustling Boonville, I drove across a modern span, complete with a walking and biking lane. The bridge may be modern, but downtown Boonville broadcasts its past like a living history channel. Here, Bingham got his start as a cabinetmaker, evolved into sign painting, then started painting portraits.
      Retracing one of Bingham’s early trips to St. Louis, I was surprised to learn George would thumb a ride. Either unwilling or unable to pay for a stagecoach, he hitchhiked toward St. Louis along a trail that eventually would become Highway 40. He never made it to St. Louis, laid low somewhere along the way by a severe case of measles. For weeks, he barely survived in a rural shack, fed by a good Samaritan farmer. Measles made his hair fall out, and he wore a rug the rest of his life. When his fever subsided, he limped back to recuperate in Franklin.
      I turned around, too, stopping in historic Rocheport. I heard there was a big party there, when the Tyler party Whigs convened their state political convention in June 1840. According to Bingham biographer Lew Larkin, Rocheport was the spot where “A tall, Ichabod-like, thirty-one-year-old named Abraham Lincoln gave a stirring speech that shaped Bingham’s political focus.” Bingham sketched many characters in the crowd, in various stages of speechifying and drunkenness over many days. He would use many of these characters in later genre paintings on politics.
      There are at least three ways to access Rocheport: by river, by auto, or by cycle on the Katy Trail. Trail traffic has helped launch a resurgence at Rocheport, anchored by the School House Bed & Breakfast for the sleeper set and the Rocheport General Store for revelers. The general store purveys fun and food and some of the best blues on the river.
     Back in Boonville, it’s a short drive—even shorter by river—to Arrow Rock, Bingham’s home after the 1829 flood washed Franklin away. From atop his house in Arrow Rock, Bingham could look across the river to the Boone brothers’ burgeoning salt business. The name of that business became the appellation for the whole region: Boonslick. Prevailing winds from the other direction may soon carry the unwelcome scent of manure from a barn containing thousands of hogs crammed together ham to ham. Folks in Arrow Rock—seventy-nine strong—are adamant that this tiny town, often called the “Williamsburg of the Midwest,” be spared the indignity of becoming known for stench.
      The Arrow Rock Cemetery is where George Bingham buried his first wife and then his mother. A little further down Route TT, just around the corner from the beautifully restored Prairie Park plantation house (call 660-837-3231 for a tour), the Sappington Cemetery is the eternal resting ground for several of Bingham’s contemporaries. Buried there is physician John Sappington, a rare “outside-the-box” thinker who popularized quinine as a treatment for malaria. Nearby are the graves of his daughters and two sons-in-law, who became governors: the rotund Meredith Miles Marmaduke, who married one Sappington daughter; and wily Claiborne Fox Jackson, who married the other three. After Jackson outlived the first two and married the third, Sappington advised Jackson, “I’m all out of daughters.” Bingham didn’t care much for the Sappingtons, Marmadukes, and Jacksons, all political nemeses. Their faces appear in some of his political paintings, usually in unflattering poses.
     Well then, like Bingham, I hit the road again. The route Bingham took to St. Louis—the Boonslick Road—loosely follows through Columbia and Fulton, angles up to Jonesburg, and sits under Routes M and N through Warren County to Cottleville and St. Charles. In 1850, a unique road-building phenomenon swept Missouri. With names like the Hannibal, Ralls County, Paris Plank Road Company, and the Columbia and Missouri River Plank Road Company, roadbeds made of hewn timbers and secured together like long, bumpy, cellulose carpets began to sprawl over the mud and brush of the trail. The Western Plank Road from St. Charles to Cottleville began to warp and rot soon after it was laid. Recently, St. Charles built a short replica of that plank road. The history of Boone County includes the clattering sound, heard miles away, of Union troops marching up the Providence Plank Road that connected Columbia to the Missouri River. All told, forty-nine companies combined to build seventeen wooden toll roads during the 1850s.
      As I neared St. Louis, the pavement was rough. I shrugged it off. Riding rubber tires on rough asphalt is a cakewalk compared to iron wheels on wood planks. Once at the Gateway City, I steered straight for the St. Louis Art Museum. You should too. Until March 9, you can see one of Bingham’s most vibrant paintings in an exhibit entitled George Caleb Bingham: The Making of The County Election. The exhibit features nearly thirty drawings, prints, engraving plates, and a centerpiece painting, which depicts a lively voting day scene believed to be on the courthouse steps at Boonville or Marshall.
      Unless you delve deeper into Bingham’s history, you wouldn’t suspect he had occasion to dip down into Doniphan, way down in Ripley County. Even today, it’s a day’s journey to get there from just about anywhere in the Boonslick. But in 1875, Bingham had been appointed Missouri’s Adjutant General by Governor Hardin. No idle general, Bingham ordered the Ripley County sheriff to quell Ku Klux Klan activities in the area. The sheriff balked, and Bingham swept down to Doniphan, staying several weeks until he oversaw the dispersal of the Klan. That’s not an easy task in rugged terrain where, with few exceptions, the back roads are the only roads.
      Residents love Ripley’s remoteness. Especially the deer. Traveling along Route M, my car missed a twelve-point buck by the hair on his bobtail when he jumped across the road. I hit the brakes and skidded. He dug as fast as he could go and polished my bumper. We both lived to remember the experience. Down the road, Route N thumbs its nose at wilderness with the loneliest four-way stop in Missouri. There, the highway bends sharply where two gravel roads intersect. Indeed, the road couldn’t have changed much since Bingham’s visit. It’s still in the middle of nowhere, but from four directions, cars must stop.
      Anyway, the Ripley County sheriff probably knew he could count on Bingham to eradicate the bad guys. Just the year before, General Bingham traveled to Stone County to take on the Sons of Honor, a bunch of unbridled vigilantes. He brought those bald-knob terrorists to justice, with the help of death and taxes. One key ringleader, Jasper McKinney, died suddenly. And Bingham threatened to restore order by bringing in the state militia at taxpayer expense. Scared by higher taxes, the group disbanded.
      Stone County’s history—and its roads—take travelers back in time. Route 413 undulates through ruggedness, along Railey Creek between Galena and Elsey. Ancient guardrails use wood from trees planted by Bingham, I suspect. A heavy wire threads through rounded wooden posts, squatty and silver. The guardrails guide the old roads through knobby beauty, cliffs, and precipices, punctuated by intriguing names like Secret Valley, Hooten Town, and my favorite school, Blue Eye High.
Following Bingham’s footsteps back through Jefferson City, I took the old Boonville Road, Bingham’s best route from the capitol back to his Boonslick home. It’s a delightful drive that sidles up to the Missouri River at Sandy Hook and Marion.
      On the day before he succumbed to pneumonia, Bingham traveled from Arrow Rock back to Kansas City, where he had lived much of his life. He took the old Santa Fe Trail. Today that route goes through Marshall, to Grand Pass and Lexington, through the thematic villages of Napoleon, Waterloo, and Wellington. He passed for the last time through the territory of nemesis George Graham Vest, the author of “man’s best friend.” Even though they both loved dogs, Bingham disliked Vest for political reasons.
      Dogs? Bingham put a dog in every genre painting but one, The Jolly Flatboatmen. Asked why there’s no dog in that painting, Bingham replied, “He’s in the hold.”
      Clever guy, that General Bingham. And whew, did he get around.

February 2008

The Lodges of the Meramec

Wed, 03 Oct 2007 18:38:28 GMT

Historic retreats still beckon today with food, fun, and floating

By John Robinson

I settled in my lawn chair for the show. Silhouetted by a spectacular sunset over a picture-postcard valley, five musicians launched into vocal harmonies punctuated by fine fiddlin’ and pickin’. Their stage was a concrete poolside tarmac. The crowd sat in lawn chairs and on blankets in this natural amphitheater, a gentle slope softened by thick bluegrass.

Traditional bluegrass fans have little tolerance for a band that strays so easily into Buddy Holly anthems. But the crowd loved the Stringtown String Band in this intimate venue where folks mingle with bands like The Amazing Rhythm Aces and Asleep at the Wheel. The lineup this fall is no less impressive with legends Poco, Arlo Guthrie, The Guess Who, and Ozark Mountain Daredevils.

Where is this place? It’s near nirvana. And like nirvana, you take a winding road to get there.

It was late Saturday afternoon. I’d just departed from a delightful walk through Dillard Mill, a relic fixed firmly against a hairpin turn in the Huzzah River, a vigorous Ozark stream often overlooked until it meanders nearer the Meramec. Taking the back roads, I crossed the Huzzah thrice more before descending into Steelville.

As the self-proclaimed Floating Capital of Missouri, the town caters to lovers of the great outdoors. Before there was a Luckytown, Steelville won the lottery. Well, to be precise, the town is the beneficiary of a lottery winner. In 1990, telephone regulators held a lottery to determine which phone companies would provide rural service to the burgeoning cellular phone demand. Among the winners was tiny Steelville Telephone Exchange. The company parlayed that windfall into great service, not only to telephone customers but to the community and its schools.

Just up the hill from Steelville, overlooking the Meramec River valley, sits Wildwood Springs Lodge. For eight decades, the lodge has clung to its lofty perch. And like many of the musical acts performing poolside or in the cozy lobby, the lodge is a survivor. Like most eighty-five-year-olds, the lodge has endured peaks and valleys.

Today the lodge thrives. Owner Robert Bell brings in the talent, including the bands, the hotel staff, and the cuisine. He’s revived a long history of great music and great times at the lodge.

Like a proud grandparent, the lodge displays its photos, visuals of pleasures and performances past. Here, a young St. Louis musician, Gordon Jenkins, honed his chops. Jenkins later became a famous producer for Decca Records. Listen to Frank Sinatra and Nat King Cole, and you’ll witness Gordon Jenkins’s handiwork.

Bill Freeman can tell you about that. A retired state trooper, Bill is affable, polite, and knowledgeable. And he keeps the hotel’s systems running. Bill’s also a walking history book, readily telling stories about the river, the region, and the lodge.

The lobby’s charm overflows, especially when a crowd gathers around Michael Martin Murphy or America playing unplugged before a roaring fire in the fireplace during the Living Room Concerts.

The long dining hall could be a movie set. Its hardwood floors, linen tablecloths, and gorgeous floor-to-ceiling French windows serve up splendid scenery. The guest rooms’ comfortably Spartan appointments offer a subtle hint that rooms are for sleeping. Daytime calls for vigorous action in the great outdoors.

Like Wildwood Lodge, the story of recreation on the Meramec River has its own peaks and valleys. In the late 1890s, St. Louisans would hop the Frisco Railroad for a short ride to the Highlands resort and recreation complex, just west of Kirkwood. Anticipating the arrival of thousands of visitors to the 1904 Louisiana Exposition, the St. Louis World’s Fair, developers built the Highlands, offering enough activities to ensure fatigue: swimming, boating, dancing, and tennis. Alas, the Meramec Highlands suffered fatigue and disappeared before World War I. City folk then traveled further upriver to find Meramec hot spots around Valley Park and Fenton.

About the same time, St. Louisans discovered the lodges in the Steelville area, along the Meramec. They’d take the Frisco to Cuba, Missouri, where shuttles would deliver them a few more miles to the river resorts.

Most of those lodges have vanished, victims of time, the Great Depression, increased traveler mobility, and new levees. Along the river, concrete steps remain as memorials leading from the water, up the bank, and into the woods.

But a few resorts still stand with Wildwood against the ravages of time and the trend toward corporate conformity. Cobblestone Lodge is an octogenarian, too, and offers an all-inclusive vacation that includes sumptuous meals in a classic dining hall and floating the Meramec, to boot!

Float like I did from Ozark Outdoors Riverfront Lodge, which offers everything from cabins to the Grand Suite. It’s a great place to launch an expedition to check the health of the stream. Look closely into the water to examine some of nearly four dozen species of mussels, including the Washboard, the Pocketbook, the Pimpleback, and the Spectacle Case. Don’t be fooled by their seeming inactivity. Some of these living water filters are better bass fishers than anybody pictured on a cereal box cover. The mussel lures a bass to snap at a fleshy appendage that looks like a minnow. The bass gets injected with a mouthful of baby mussels, who attach to its gills and take a ride for a few days as the mussels grow stronger. Don’t worry, the bass survives to face more challenges.

More challenging is the search for an Eastern Hellbender, a salamander whose numbers are declining. That’s a concern to herpetologists, who wonder why this species is disappearing.

With a name that recalls another disappearance from the Meramec basin, Indian Springs Lodge offers individual cabins that honor great Native American leaders including Black Eagle, Red Cloud, and Crazy Horse.

Historic Bird’s Nest Lodge trumpets new log cabins with all the amenities. On the Huzzah, Eagle Hurst Ranch names its thirty or so cottages for permanent residents:
trees like the dogwood, redbud, and hickory. The Huzzah Valley Resort features the Huzzah Hilton, Big Bear Bunkhouse, and a pair of original farmhouses. Situated near the Huzzah and next to Courtois Creek, Bass River Resort offers a multitude of cozy cabins, log
cabins, A-frames, and hideaways.

The river and the resort business both endure ebbs and flows. But two events nearly changed the face of the region forever. Three decades ago, the specter of a dam loomed in the Meramec valley. Actually, the idea of damming the Meramec goes back to 1830 when the Iron Works at present day Maramec Spring Park near St. James promoted a dam to improve navigation for moving iron ore.

The most recent plan would have impounded forty-two miles of the Meramec River, nine miles of the Courtois, and twelve miles of the Huzzah. A group of concerned Missourians realized that many Meramec treasures, including Onondaga Cave, would be lost. Several groups, including the Meramec Basin Association, united to defeat the dam.

The second threat occurred almost twenty-five years ago in Times Beach, a resort community where Route 66 crosses the Meramec River. To control dust, a contractor sprayed oil contaminated with deadly dioxin through the streets. The federal government made history by forcing an evacuation and buying out the entire town. After many years and an expensive contamination cleanup, the state established Route 66 State Park on the property. The welcome center sits in a venerable old roadhouse called Steiny’s Inn, next to the historic Meramec River Bridge. Ask folks who’ve lived nearby for more than a generation, and everyone has a story about Steiny’s. It’s a survivor.

Yep, the Meramec has endured both natural and man-made disasters. But today, thanks to healthy stewardship, the river has a fighting chance at survival. And the historic lodges of the Meramec offer their silent approval.

October 2007

The Real Ozarks

Fri, 15 Jun 2007 20:04:47 GMT

*By John Robinson* Similarly crooked, the streams and the highways intersect in random fashion. These two conduits, one natural, the other paved, greet each other awkwardly, then meander off in separate directions. This scenic braid sets the table for a visit back in time. The roads reveal historic gathering spots that give us a peek at our past. Those gathering spots are the gristmills that flourish in the folds of Ozark County. The gristmills borrow liberally from nature. They perch upon the stream bank and transform the power of the streams by adapting the art of nature's most relentless hydraulic engineer, the beaver. The dams and the millraces focus the water's gravity upon that most impressive human invention, the wheel. The mill wheel turns the shaft that turns the belts that turn the gears that turn the millstone that grinds the grain to grist. But you know that. The mills reflect a social power, too, at once disconnected yet dependent upon the stream. Knowing the agony associated with mortars and pestles, generations of Ozark families gladly traveled miles over crooked roads to pay millers to grind their grain. And while they waited, they checked their mail, exchanged gossip, and commiserated about taxes. And they shopped for necessities and niceties and anything else that struck their fancy at these outposts of civilization. Even today, the mills that survive in Ozark County are still on the edges of civilization. So next time you tire of super-center sameness, hop in our time capsule and drive to what locals call The Real Ozarks. There is no easy access to the area, by superhighway standards. That's the charm. Visitors follow the ridges and ravines, much like local ancestors. From the north, many people enter Ozark County on State Route 5, and from the east and west, U.S. Highway 160. To sample the real Ozarks, set aside your state highway map, and scratch deeper into the county to find the Glade Top Trail. Built by the Civilian Conservation Corps in the 1930s, this unpaved route is a National Forest Service Scenic Byway, one of three such delights in Missouri's Mark Twain National Forest. Unpaved? You shudder. Not to worry. The forest service describes the route along this watershed divide as a two-lane, all-weather gravel road. The twenty-three miles of spectacular views inspire Ava's Lions Club to host the annual Flaming Fall Review in October. Its seasonal counterpart, the Spring Flowering Tour, approaches the Glade Top Trail from Theodosia. If you prefer to stick to asphalt, remember that the first paved roads in Ozark County appeared long after city dwellers first strapped into American roller coasters. No matter. Ozark roads offer more thrills. So does the scenery, where few billboards blister the beauty of nature. Your payback for the trek into this remote region comes in the currency of four mills, no more than a two-song drive from one to the next. Chances are, you've already seen Hodgson Mill. You may not have visited the site where the mill traddles Hodgson Spring, sixteenth largest in the state. More likely, you've seen the mill's likeness on your grocery store's flour shelf, on packaging that bears the Hodgson name. The old mill doesn't produce flour anymore. In 1976, that duty migrated to a modern plant ten miles down the road in the county seat of Gainesville. Don't fret. Modern doesn't mean the flour has changed. It's still stone- ground, and they take away nothing, add nothing. The company proclaims "Alva Hodgson would be proud." Proud, indeed. For its 119th birthday, his namesake mill received a face lift - really, a foundation lift - completed in 2001 with the help of Amish carpenters from nearby Seymour, who bolstered the sagging structure with giant timbers cut from the hearts of Douglas firs. Now, Lord willin' and Bryant Creek don't rise, the mill will stand another 120 years. Alva Hodgson, Missouri's preeminent millwright of the nineteenth century, left his fingerprints all over the region. As the crow flies, his 1900 creation, Dawt Mill, sits about four miles from Hodgson. Your drive, thrice the distance, packs more fun than mere flight. Although Dawt is Hodgson Mill's younger sister, her weather-beaten countenance reflects a century of tempest. The unpainted look adds to her charm and offers an authentic glimpse into the past. Well, it's nearly authentic. An artificial mill wheel adorns one side of the mill, away from any water. It was added to pacify visitors who insist on seeing a wheel, even though this mill's power emanates from a turbine beneath the millrace. Despite this useless appendage, the stately old mill towers above the North Fork, one of the Ozarks' premier floating rivers. The mill dam that spans the river helps categorize two types of canoeists who attempt to paddle over it: fools and survivors. Even expert canoeists prefer to portage around the dam, knowing the structural limitations of a canoe. The mill still grinds flour using buhrstones, and the property offers creature comforts nearby, including a lodge and a deli. Unique accommodations await throughout the county, but there's one item you must bring. Search your father's closet for that old pair of Big Smith overalls. Your dad's duds might like to return to a likely source of its stitching, Hodgson or its neighbor, Zanoni Mill. For a time, the mills served in the Big Smith production family, using water power to generate electricity to operate sewing machines. Zanoni, about four miles downhill from Hodgson, sits on Pine Creek and features Ozark County's only example of the rare overshot water-wheel mill. It was built in 1940, on the site of a mill that operated as far back as the Civil War. When the mill was in service, a wooden flume captured water from the Zanoni Spring and channeled it down the hill, pouring it on top of the water wheel, hence the term overshot. Nowadays, the mill's services take the form of weddings and special occasions. Head north a dozen miles to the original Ozark County seat of Rockbridge. There, on the bank of Spring Creek, the Rockbridge Mill stands resplendent in its red coat of paint. The grounds now encompass a resort, featuring a general store that rose from the ashes of the original store on the site, at the time considered the finest general store in the region. Today, the general store features fine dining, and locals and visitors flock to the restaurant seven days a week. For the last fifty years, a private trout hatchery has spawned interest from a culinary angle. While you're there, help preserve an icon of American mill culture: Buy your stamps at the Rockbridge Post Office -- they're good throughout the USA. Unlikely as it seems, there are two flat spots in Ozark County. One is the water surface on Bull Shoals Lake. Well, it's not perfectly flat -- the water is often agitated by the great-great-granddaughters of the Missouri state record walleye, brown trout, yellow perch, striped bass, and largemouth bass. The latter record has stood since John F. Kennedy's first hundred days. The other flat spot? Norfork Lake, every bit as remote as Bull Shoals, and the fishing is just as good. Best I can tell from a review of the Ozark County map, local residents have named sixteen springs, a dozen ridges, twelve knobs, eight hollows, eight caves, five balds, five mountains, two bends, and one sink. There are more than that, of course. After all, a map can hold only so much information. But who's counting? The only thing you need to count on is a great time, on a roll in the Real Ozarks.