North Fork

An adventure can’t happen with out the funding, witch means work and unfortunately fun isn’t fun without the excruciating confines of work. Sometimes dreams have to be pushed aside to make a living. So were is the line, the line between work and being a backpacking bum. The lure of the trail the smoke permeated clothing and the solitude of being somewhere beautiful, alone with my mind. The trail draws my thoughts. And my thoughts wonder how can I make a living and still do the things I love.
The North Fork River flows pool after pool with fast moving shuts of white water, followed by up turning eddies, followed by wide stretches of slow moving water. I’ve thought about this trip for months, and though it’s not a backpacking trip it is an adventure. I’ve done research, read fishing reports, check water levels. Ask the question, where does a wild Missouri rainbow trout hide?
I’ve grown to appreciate a long drive even if it doesn’t pay off with a plump rainbow trout at the end of it. Jason and I had booked a canoe trip on a stretch of the North Fork River with a population of wild trout. From the western side of Missouri it was a six hour drive. This would ford at least two coffee stops. Quick Trip's coffee is often reliable, though I find the small hole-in-the-wall gas station to be much more colorful and often their coffee has that brewed at home taste. On occasion you save a pot from its demise snatching it just before its thrown away it can be a little thick but since I'm a coffee hound I choke it down anyway. We arrived late into the night at a steep and dusty red gravel road. At the bottom was the River of Life Farm, a canoe and fly fishing resort. It was early spring and there weren’t many other campers. We found a camp site that sat next to the river and set up our tents.
This was as exploratory trip, part canoe trip and part fly fishing trip but mostly a chance to get away. We woke that morning and met with the owners to arrange for our boat. We got on the river early and as soon as possible I started making casts to likely places that wild trout hide (where ever that is). I found my self doing more talking than fishing and before to long more drinking than talking. It had been a while since Jason and I had the chance to have a couple cold ones. The river was stunning it was wide and a dark tea color; so wide, that when the boat was riding the current on one side it would have been hard to cast to the other. We explored a cave that was just up the side of a bank, we made several other stops one to eat lunch but most just to relive our self’s. It was relaxing, and the weather was perfect it didn’t even bother me that I hadn’t caught a fish. Before I knew it we were being shuttled back to camp, where we made dinner over an open fire. The next morning I waded into the cold water wearing my waders. The vegetation was green and the air was moist, there was a slight fog just above the water, with out noticing it I had stepped though a patch of mint clover growing along the banks, the smell was invigorating.
I casted a woolly bugger under over hanging trees and cut banks, but the only action was a few missed subtle bits. there was the occasional bump and nudge but most likely it was just a weed or log on the nutritious bottom. I never did net a fish that weekend but to me the trip was a success, it was a beautiful place and I hope to go back soon.



I didn't catch one so I thought I would at least post a picture of one I had caught previously.

Camp Coffee

It was late morning and I hadn’t had my coffee yet, and a perfect place to set was just up the trail. The Buffalo is well known for its historical homesteads and this one sat on a small bluff that over looks the turquoise water of the Buffalo River. The homestead is halfway between Kyle’s Landing and Horseshoe Bend, one of my favorite places to camp on the ORT. There will be a barn, with dark stained wood slats; behind it, the bluff and a short grassy area that perches you directly over the river. Inside the barn, a fire ring, though I don’t think I will be staying overnight. The loft floor above is sagging and the names and dates of people that have visited are written on the wall with charcoal sticks. There’s a door in the back that faces the bluff, outside it’s a short walk to the cliff.
Now, the important part, coffee. I like a percolating coffee pot; mine’s black with speckles, over a small but hot fire I would have it hung with a couple of branches notched Ray Mears style. But lets get real, I’m not about to lug that soot covered pot with me on the trail even though I do have an aluminum pot that’s pretty light. Nor do I want to start a fire mid way through my hike. How I like to get that fresh ground coffee taste comes with a little prep work at home, very little. I take a coffee filter, put a table spoon of grounds in it, and tie a thin string around the top and throw it in a zip-lock bag. Through the door is a faint trail that will take me to my perfect spot. I’ll unroll my Therma-Rest mat, sit up my Banana Boat alcohol stove and boil a cup of water. Lying against my pack I sip a cup of joe and enjoy a peaceful day.

Klepzig Mill A Mid Summers Hike

I am inpatient, and on occasion put myself and others in situations; not bad situations I mean not really bad, but could have been avoided if only I slowed down a bit, took my time and thought things out. It was mid summer, and to say it was hot would be just stupid, it was summer. This was my first mistake.
We got started on the trail a little late and had to camp next to a small creek; we needed water and a clear place to set up a camp. The current river section of the Ozark trail is one of my favorite portions, not for its beautiful vistas on top of Ozark Mountains but for its unique shut-ins at Klepzig Mill, (Ill explain latter.) Most of the trail is heavily wooded and in the middle of summer heavily over grown. It was dark and the forest was even darker the clearing on a small rocky sand bar was lit by the moon and was an inviting place. We shoved small stones to one side to expose a sandy surface, digging out were our hips and shoulders would go we made our self’s ergonomic beds. There were four of us on this trip, and a couple of first timers, one was my son. Blake’s a fit little man broad shoulders and a strong chest, and he never seizes to impressed me, he never even complained, he was a trooper.
The next morning finding the trail proved to be difficult; before the others woke up I had scouted up and down the creek looking for the trail and where it picked back up. I retraced my steps, then turned 180 degrees and approached the creek again; still, the trail was no were to be found. Looking at the map the creek seemed to run along the side of the trail in a westerly direction and stayed nestled next to it for several miles. It was sticky; muggy even at eight o’clock in the morning so wading through the creek for a little while seemed like a good idea, my second mistake. After a hard day of hiking we arrived at a nice little campsite, small pine trees surrounding a few cut logs a fire ring built of rounded river stones and a brown aluminum folding chair, a nice touch I thought. We took our packs off and sat.
Tiny flesh colored bumps irritated the skin of my legs and ankles, Blake’s leg were also ravaged by bites. Bronson, my cousin seemed to have faired rather well. Jason the fourth person in are group, (a good friend of mine) was with furious anger clawing at his bites making groaning sounds tearing at his skin as if he was on some kind of acid trip gone bad. Jason’s legs were plagued with thousands of little bloody volcano’s of misery. He paused from the clawing and awkwardly look up to notice Blake and I staring in horror, he gazed at Blake then at me, growled and returned to his deformed limbs. “Poor Jason” I whispered, then lend into Blake and said “look away son, and act natural”.
Passed our camp the trail continued, this took you across Rocky Creek and through the shut-ins to Klipzig Mill. Large tan, chunks of granite with gray and pink ribbons that had pockets of tea colored water formed a playground of places to explore. One fall about five feet high had swift moving water; however the pockets were calm kiddy pools of fun. We lay in the cool water soaking are insect bites. Blake played in the pools for hours floating with a pair of goggle, inspecting the bottom for fish.
The hike back was uneventful though long and tough. We arrived at my car and jump in; our first stop, itch cream for our legs. I was hoping to show Jason how fun hiking could be, he has since never returned to the trail.

Snow Creek

Sorry about the shaky video work on this one, it was my first time on skis and I didn't think I be putting it on my blog. My sons grandma gave him and I passes to go skiing at snow creek, a ski resort in northern Missouri. We had a blast

The Bufflo River

This is a solo trip I took in late January to the Buffalo River in Arkansas.

Hemmed-in Hollows

Through a thicket of bamboo the trail opened to a large bluff. Bellow the tall sandstone lie a body of water that seemed to flow in from above the pool and then stop, the water then continued its flow beneath the dried river bed. Bronson and I had found an oasis. There were a couple of other campers up on top of the cliff. The lower ends of the cliffs were about fifteen feet tall they gently climbed in height, at the other, a modest sixty feet. From the top the views were beautifully, there were pillowing limestone chunks of rock that made for a great platform to jump from and to plunge into the deep turquoise green pool. At this time of year the water was to cold for swimming however, later we would see one of the other hikers take a dip.
Pumping water, purifying it from the pool, I look up at the valley in front of me, our camp fire amidst a soft blue smoke that the lowering sun illuminates. The evening draws near.
We set our tents up just in time; darkness falls quick deep below the mountain tops. Sitting around the campfire I pass a flask of whiskey to Bronson, he takes a sip and with a retch he scours “smooth”.
I unzip the tent and staggered out to a cloudy morning. It’s to much work to start a fire, despite the fact that I’m cold. Lighting my stove to boil some water seams so much easier, tearing open a package of oat meal I add it to my bright green bowl purchased at Wal-Mart. A teaspoon or two of instant coffee goes into my mug add some water and stir it with my Gerber pocket knife. Setting the knife next to the bowl and the mug frames a perfect picture; I reach for my camera.
Crack!! A loud ear piercing shock wave explodes.
Boom!! A low rumble follows.
“Bronson wake up” I say loudly.
Crack!! “Wake up I yell,” we need to get out of here. We began breaking down are tent and folding and rolling it as quickly as we could. Our packs were unorganized and over stuffed with gear improperly stowed in their dry sacks. We had quickly packed up but not fast enough, the storm let loose and began dumping sheets of wind driven rain, soaking as to the core. We scrambled to get are emergency rain gear on. We were covered in thin plastic shells that did little to protect us from the rain and didn’t really matter, we were all ready drenched. We threw are packs on and moved quickly for cover. We waited a few moments amongst a stand of trees making are self’s small, crouched down we realize how bad things really were. I tried not to let on how miserable this was about to get, I needed to keep Bronson’s spirits up. Crashes of lighting began to move away the rain however did not. The trail turned into a shoot, a miniature river carved into the side of the mountain and carving deeper with every passing minute. Water, small pebbles and sand rushed threw are shoes. This was our trail; it climbed over 1,100 feet in a very short distance. Either side of the trail was over grown with small trees, weeds and thick boot sucking mud; the rocky center of the path proved to be the least resistance, despite the torrent river of erosion that flowed amongst are feet.
Hazy skies and thick wooded hills made it hard to see ahead. Through the haze there emerged a dark softly rounded mountain top, “think god I told myself, the top”.
Bronson too saw this and ask.
“Is that it?” I hesitated. As I climbed closer I noticed another peak just past the first one.
“No” I carefully say.
“When? “ is all Bronson could muster out, but I knew what he was thinking, I was thinking it too.
“Soon” I say. Not having a clue makes me push harder up the mountain, though this is not the case with Bronson, he steadily falls behind. Over each false summit I turn to see his dark silhouette drop behind the horizon. I push forward, stopping on occasion, Bronson catches up, we wait for Bronson to gain his breath.
“Bryan when are we goanna get up this mountain”, Bronson gasps.
“I’m sorry” I confess.
“Blankin stupid mother blankin mountain, I blackin hate this stupid thing” he talks to him self. “I like to blank n put gosh dam dynamite under this son of a bitchin thing and blow it the blank to smithereens “I never heard Bronson swear so much, he was at his wits end, he was pissed. He went on for several minutes, catching his breath every so often, telling me what he would like to do to the mountain. My favorite being the one were a single bulldozer would come in and run the mountain to the ground, or how they ought to have a ski left to take worn out hikers to the top. Soon he’s too worn out to go on complaining and hiking at the same time; reason wins, talk won’t get him to the truck, so he continues walking.
Just then I saw a radio tower or maybe it was a satellite tower what ever it was they don’t put those things down low they put them on mountains, the top of mountains, “dam it” I said a loud, “ that’s were we better be.” I turned to Bronson, but by this time he had drop out of sight I waited. He was in shouting distance; I explained to him that I was going to march forward quickly because the end should be just around the corner, and with that, I arrived at my truck. I stopped at the back and took my pack off. Ripping the plastic rain poncho, I could feel the humidity escape, the rain had stopped. I took my jacket off, soaked, I took my shirt off also soaked, I took my wet shoes and threw them in the back of the truck with all the rest of it. Just then Bronson came up the trail, walked passed me and threw his pack in the back and stood by the passenger door, waiting for me to unlock it. I unlock the doors and with no preparation he stumbled in and sat down. I put my sandals on, stepped in and started the engine. Bronson sat hunched over panting, I handed him a bag of no bake cookies that my mom had made us to take on are hike; seeing how they literally weighted a pound ,we left them behind. He turned and looked up at me with his mouth half opened, panting and the glasses on his face completely fogged over he took them from my hand and devoured them. I laughed very hard and mustered out an “I’m sorry”, he looked at me with a grimaced expression and mumbled “umm.”