Apr. 20th, 2011 10:25 pm
Ozark Diary: Day One
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muckefuckWe got a later start than we wanted because Mom needed my sister to do some shopping and the only time they could fit it in was mid-afternoon. The time wasn't wasted--Dad and I spent it mostly out in the sunshine watching OGI pretend to be driving Dad's truck. A Chinese girl road by on her bike as her father weeded a lawn two doors up. By the time we hit the road, the bad weather predicted was moving in. Dad wasn't concerned: he figured the front would blow through pretty quickly and then all we'd have to face was a little drizzle.
Having learned his lesson from our last trip together, he had a sheaf of printed maps for me. He even offered a choice of routes. I spent far too much time on I-70 in my youth and remembered it as a built-up yawn, so I plumped for the southern route. Besides, that gave us a chance to stop in at Powder Valley so I could buy my father the Missouri Conservation Department titles I'd promised to get him for Christmas. We hadn't even reached the Meremac before I began to see the large stands of flowering dogwoods I'd been yearning for all this time. With almost perfect timing, we made it to Powder Valley right as the thunderstorms hit and with plenty of time to browse the bookstore before they closed. They'd added more exhibits even since my father's last visit, so we took a whirlwind tour before heading out again.
At this point, the road leaves the hills (and the dramatic highway cuts they necessitate) for a bit and follows the course of the river for a while. There are at least two dozen parks and conservation areas scattered about, several of them running right up to the highway, so even though you drive past Six Flags there's still plenty of pretty scenery.
Around the time we hit St James, we were peckish enough to begin looking for places to eat. My eyes were caught by a billboard announcing "COOKIN FROM STRATCH: Try our pan-fried chicken!" But we didn't see another sign for it before Rolla, so we turned off there to look for something to eat and ended up having a pretty terrible meal at Lee's Chicken because there was no parking at the local steakhouse and the Knights of Columbus fish fry across the street held no allure for me, since the conviction that catfish should not be eaten by humans is one of the few points of commonality between me and Orthodox Jewry when it comes to proscribed foods. Naturally, we were no sooner back on the road when I spotted Cooking From Scratch at the next exit.
We had a choice of turn-offs, too, but we'd missed the first one, so we headed on to Waynesville only to find the exit closed. Fortunately, there were detour signs so we managed to make it off in time and find the state route we needed with a minimum of casting about. But the overcast skies meant that night was coming on earlier than we'd hoped and we resigned ourselves to making it to the campsite in the dark. Our cabin was in Lake of the Ozarks State Park, which is the largest in the entire Missouri system. We discovered what this meant when, half an hour after driving through the entrance, we still hadn't reached the campsite. It would've helped immensely if someone had told me its proper name was "The Outpost" but we managed to make only one catastrophic wrong turn. The drive was atmospheric, ghostly clouds of mist rising above the road only to vanish as we drove through them. From time to time, we would pass an area of standing water and hear the croaking of bullfrogs.
By the time we reached the end of the road, it was after 8 o'clock. The drizzle had gotten heavier, and as Dad worked at lighting a fire with only kindling and no paper, I loaded up the gear into a cart provided to negotiate the last forty yards or so to the cabin door. One thing that was not among it was bath towels, and driving into town to buy more at this point was not in the cards. But Dad soon had a roaring fire going and eventually we had water hot enough to steep tea in. Dad had brought a battery-powered radio and he switched it on, inviting me to find a music station. "Probably won't find anything but country around here." Actually I found anything but--the station that came in best was blasting Zeppelin. Eventually, I found a surprisingly listenable indie station which I assumed was broadcasting from Rolla but turned out to be in KC.
We were both tired and knew we'd want an early start the next day, but neither of us wanted to be the first to put and end to the conversation and discover if the foam mattresses in the loft were able to offer a decent night's sleep. It must've been eleven or so when we finally turned in.
Having learned his lesson from our last trip together, he had a sheaf of printed maps for me. He even offered a choice of routes. I spent far too much time on I-70 in my youth and remembered it as a built-up yawn, so I plumped for the southern route. Besides, that gave us a chance to stop in at Powder Valley so I could buy my father the Missouri Conservation Department titles I'd promised to get him for Christmas. We hadn't even reached the Meremac before I began to see the large stands of flowering dogwoods I'd been yearning for all this time. With almost perfect timing, we made it to Powder Valley right as the thunderstorms hit and with plenty of time to browse the bookstore before they closed. They'd added more exhibits even since my father's last visit, so we took a whirlwind tour before heading out again.
At this point, the road leaves the hills (and the dramatic highway cuts they necessitate) for a bit and follows the course of the river for a while. There are at least two dozen parks and conservation areas scattered about, several of them running right up to the highway, so even though you drive past Six Flags there's still plenty of pretty scenery.
Around the time we hit St James, we were peckish enough to begin looking for places to eat. My eyes were caught by a billboard announcing "COOKIN FROM STRATCH: Try our pan-fried chicken!" But we didn't see another sign for it before Rolla, so we turned off there to look for something to eat and ended up having a pretty terrible meal at Lee's Chicken because there was no parking at the local steakhouse and the Knights of Columbus fish fry across the street held no allure for me, since the conviction that catfish should not be eaten by humans is one of the few points of commonality between me and Orthodox Jewry when it comes to proscribed foods. Naturally, we were no sooner back on the road when I spotted Cooking From Scratch at the next exit.
We had a choice of turn-offs, too, but we'd missed the first one, so we headed on to Waynesville only to find the exit closed. Fortunately, there were detour signs so we managed to make it off in time and find the state route we needed with a minimum of casting about. But the overcast skies meant that night was coming on earlier than we'd hoped and we resigned ourselves to making it to the campsite in the dark. Our cabin was in Lake of the Ozarks State Park, which is the largest in the entire Missouri system. We discovered what this meant when, half an hour after driving through the entrance, we still hadn't reached the campsite. It would've helped immensely if someone had told me its proper name was "The Outpost" but we managed to make only one catastrophic wrong turn. The drive was atmospheric, ghostly clouds of mist rising above the road only to vanish as we drove through them. From time to time, we would pass an area of standing water and hear the croaking of bullfrogs.
By the time we reached the end of the road, it was after 8 o'clock. The drizzle had gotten heavier, and as Dad worked at lighting a fire with only kindling and no paper, I loaded up the gear into a cart provided to negotiate the last forty yards or so to the cabin door. One thing that was not among it was bath towels, and driving into town to buy more at this point was not in the cards. But Dad soon had a roaring fire going and eventually we had water hot enough to steep tea in. Dad had brought a battery-powered radio and he switched it on, inviting me to find a music station. "Probably won't find anything but country around here." Actually I found anything but--the station that came in best was blasting Zeppelin. Eventually, I found a surprisingly listenable indie station which I assumed was broadcasting from Rolla but turned out to be in KC.
We were both tired and knew we'd want an early start the next day, but neither of us wanted to be the first to put and end to the conversation and discover if the foam mattresses in the loft were able to offer a decent night's sleep. It must've been eleven or so when we finally turned in.