Essentially the Only One

The Mississippi River is the borderline between the states of Illinois and Missouri and has been so since Missouri's origin as the Missouri Territory in 1812. For the most part this remains true for the entire length of the river along the border, but very rarely nature has played a trick on the geographers and moved the river after the lines were drawn on the maps.

Kaskaskia, Illinois, is one of these curious anomalies. In 1884, a great flood created a new river channel, converting what had been land contiguous with the western region of Illinois into an island. In due course, the Mississippi decided that it preferred this new eastern channel and the old western course of the great river dwindled into a small channel, effectively binding Kaskasia to the land of the State of Missouri.

This was an unfortunate fate for Kaskasia, for from 1809 to 1818, this town was the capital of the Illinois Territory and from 1818 to 1820, capital of the newly formed State of Illinois. Defiantly, it maintained its allegiance to Illinois, making it, and the surrounding farmland, a curious little incursion into Missouri.

Today it is practically a ghost town, a handful of houses surrounding a beautiful church. Only the street names, now long straight roads running through the corn and soybean fields, give a clue as to the former importance of this town. Isolation, repeated flood damage, and the relocation of the capital of Illinois, first to Vandalia and then in 1839 to Springfield doomed the town to decline.

According to the 2000 census, there are only nine people living today in Kaskaskia. I saw one, an aged farmer, sitting on his front yard eying me with an steady indifference that seemed to define my impression of this town. There was no tourist industry here, despite the clear historical importance of the town. Instead, the land was ruled by the wide corn fields enclosed by a high levee, growing tall and vibrant on the fertile, flood-enriched, land.

With agriculture as the only viable means of making a living, everything except faith had departed. Somehow, I felt this was enough. Did this town need to be resurrected with tacky souvenir and antique shops and coffee houses catering to the city folk out for a weekend? People much like me, in truth. There are enough of those. Despite its decline - or perhaps because of it - I came away from Kaskaskia with sense of rich, real life.

A swing railway bridge at Sabula, Iowa. Taken at the beginning of this month's vacation.

I dithered a while hoping it would open, but there was little river traffic, so I left it. The holiday came and went, but on the final day of our journey, just outside of Louisiana, Missouri, I came across this opened bridge of the same design. Not the best view, but there was a satisfying symmetry nonetheless.

A hot day - 86° F (30° C) - but not as hot as it is going to get in Missouri over the summer. So my wife and I went for a longish hike through part of Cuivre River State Park this afternoon.

As before, deep green foliage and dappled sun and shadow marked this walk up and down the forest valleys. The path was muddy and the creeks flowed freely. The rain of the past few days had left its imprint.

No mark greater, though, than this rapidly flowing spring.

A torrent of muddy water, surging out the ground with the force of an opened fire hydrant, yet in this case simply bursting from a hole in the hillside. It formed an instant small river. We sat and listened to it gurgle - not least because the air was cool here, chilled by the underground water.

After a three mile round-trip, we returned to the car. I was exhausted and hot, but it had been well worth the effort.

Maybe it's just the end of a long winter, or perhaps the change in jobs, or, indeed, these troubled economic times, but I've been feeling unsettled recently.

This feeling manifests itself in a general sense of unease, a nagging lack of confidence, and a heaviness of spirit. Knowing this, I have scheduled a short vacation for the beginning of April that will help recharge my batteries. Meanwhile, everything gets done, and perfectly satisfactorily too, but I need more fun and less toil.

These thoughts were going through my mind when I accidently came across this photograph. Turned face-up in a box in the basement, it's a very old picture of what I suspect is a long gone cafe/bar that I used to frequent when I lived in Columbia, Missouri.

It's an apt photograph to find while I am in this particular frame of mind, because my prevailing mood during my time in Columbia way back in 1982 was of dislocation.

I had only recently moved from England to America, and this town was the first place my wife of those years and I had rented together. So there was the strangeness of early first marriage, the strangeness of a new town in a new country and the strangeness of my first serious job, working in the Biochemisty Dept. at the University of Missouri for a cranky but ultimately likeable researcher.

None of these pursuits felt quite right. Not helping at all was the fact that I was attempting to ground myself after a severe bout of depression, and, at that time, getting no further treatment. That was a mistake in itself, but I had convinced myself that I had beaten the illness. Only later did the deeper and wiser realisation seep in that it was not beatable, just manageable.

The one thing about my stay in Columbia that sustained me through all this was my friendship with a group of neighbors, notably Pam from the adjacent apartment to us. She lived there with her mother and worked at a local pre-school. She, and her work and other friends, provided the fun and escape that kept me going. One of the places we would meet was this unassuming little bolthole, The Yellow Submarine.

A wild bunch were Pam and her friends and a lot of beer flowed. I think my state of weekend - and other days - drunkenness in their company ironically kept me from diving back into the slough that I only recently escaped. Not a recommended treatment strategy, to be sure, but it worked well enough. Not, I suspect, for the long run, but I only lived in Columbia for about a year and a half. I was 24.

I can picture long neck Bud bottles, Pam, Evanelle and others whose names are long forgotten, chattering and gossiping in this little place. It's a warm memory.

(It is indeed no more, as this post relates)

(Part I here.)
The path down from Double Arch Rock took me past the Terrapin Rock, the name for a large worn rock with a spar to the fore that resembles a turtle's head protruding from its shell.

If you look hard enough, that is!

The continuing gentle downward slope took me to the first sign of water in the area on this dry day, Pickle Creek.

According to the Missouri Dept. of Conservation booklet, this shallow stream contains a amphipod that is known only in this stretch of water and isn't even named yet. A relic of the ice age, able to survive thanks to the acidic conditions and microclimate of Pickle Creek.

I peered into the water but didn't see anything. Not having microscope eyes counted against me, alas.

Now the trail took an upward swing, moving through the white and black oaks and shortleaf pine.

It lead across Bone Creek and wound further up, following the line of this creek.After crossing three wooden bridges in total, the path turned to the right and led into Spirit Canyon.

On the far side, the rocks piled higher and higher to form Owl's Den Bluff. I moved further into the canyon and found a very handy bench to sit and rest upon.

Not the first there that day was I, judging by a pack of Pall Mall menthol cigarettes and lighter lying on the seat.The sun was now quite low in the sky, and much of Spirit Canyon was in shade.

The rock wall was decorated with lichens and mosses but I'll have to come back later in the year to catch the rare ferns that sprout from this cliff.

A steep climb took me up onto the only really clear overlook in the entire area, Dome Rock.Here the contrast between the gray bark and green pines was clearest. In just a few weeks, the whole scene will turn to green.

Not yet though. This is my favorite part of the Pickle Spring reserve, with lovely flat rocks to sit and walk upon, the few evergreens and that overlook.

I was lucky to arrive just as the sun went behind some diffuse cloud. Otherwise it would have been bright in my lens. As it was, there was just enough pale light to give a little shadow. I would have stayed a lot longer, but time was pressing.

The trail led down again, steeply here, allowing me to look back up at the Dome Rock bluffs where I had just been sitting.

Then down to Pickle Spring itself, the origin of the name of the natural area and notable for being a rare permanent-flow spring in a sandstone background. Named for William Pickles, the owner of the land from 1848 until his (rumored) demise by a band of Civil War renegades in the 1860s.Permanent but modest.

Still, any water flow is of great benefit to the local flora and fauna and without it we would not have that unique amphipod.


On now to Rockpile Canyon, looking more the result of quarry explosion than any natural process. A recent fall, dating back to 1959, contributing to its freshly minted appearance.


At this point, I was nearly at the end of the trail. All that remained was to climb out of Rockpile Canyon, up another steep path and then onto a high, flatter, area.

Here I found Piney Glade, large bedrock sandstone with a only a few grasses such as the well-named poverty grass and lichens to decorate the wide gray surfaces.

On now to where the trail circuit rejoined its origin, and then the short walk back to the car park.

By now my backpack felt heavy, and I was ready for a cool bottle of water. Unfortunately, the only one I had had been nicely warmed in the car but it was still very refreshing.

A very pleasantly spent afternoon indeed.

Just a little note for any St. Louis readers looking for a roofing company. Do not use Don Berry Roofing. Absconding with a down payment after beginning and not finishing a gutter repair is not on, Don. I have reported your company to the Missouri Better Business Bureau who also seem to have had trouble tracking you down.

Sigh.

A familiar name? Nonetheless, two hundred years ago, Humboldt was world famous - second, it is claimed, only to Napoleon Bonaparte.

Famous enough for St. Louis benefactor Henry Shaw to commission this imposing statue for Tower Grove Park. This bronze statue, made by Baron Ferdinand von Mueller of Munich, Germany, was unveiled on November 24, 1878.

Imposing, and rather grand, I think.

My wife and I went for an early evening walk in the Weldon Springs Conservation Area following a trail through the woods.

Masses of mushrooms of all kinds, some of which I may post here when I've identified them, but the highlight of the walk is a view of the Missouri River from very high on the bluffs. A bit too high and sheer for me; I felt a bit queasy as I took this overview. Worth it though.

The water is very high. You can see Howell Island on the far side, the river flows behind it and out of view.

My family went for an early evening hike around Engelmann Woods Natural Area today.

This is an area of dense and hilly woods on the Missouri River bluffs not too far from Eureka, Missouri. A strenuous up-and-down walk, I must say. Towards the end, I was despairing of getting any good photographs, but fortunately there was an access road to some hillside houses right by the woods. A drive down that took me to the sunset you see here.

While I was taking this shot, I heard a rustling by my feet and looked down to see this.This grumpy looking toad looked as if he could do with this meal, but he didn't dare move while I was there. Once I set off, I heard him jump away behind me.

One of Missouri's older houses, the Inn St. Gemme Beauvais in St. Genevieve, burned last week. Fortunately, the damage, although extremely severe, did not bring down the masonry.


I took these photographs on Saturday, two days after the fire. It was sad to see. I had stayed in this inn some years back, and it was richly furnished with fine antiques. All were lost.


Looking in at the side of the building, I could see sky through the charred roofing.

The fire fighters' hoses had left icicles hanging from the ironwork. They would have looked a lot more attractive against an unspoiled background.

I looked into a window - was this the room where we stayed all those years ago? I couldn't remember.

I stopped by the St. Genevieve Winery later. The woman who sold me my wine did not know how the fire had started, but the old wood within burned quickly.

The inn records were lost in the flames; as I stood by the building taking photographs, a couple drove up. They had a booking for that evening. No one had been able to inform them directly of the fire. They sat in their SUV looking forlornly at the building for a few minutes before making some hopeful cellphone calls for alternative accommodation. I hope they were successful.

The owners, I was told, plan to repair and rebuild. That was good to hear. As bad as it was, it could have been worse. No one was hurt.