Winter Wonderland
November 2014
by John Robinson
A dozen winters ago, when my job involved promoting Missouri travel, I found myself in the cold canyons of Manhattan, in an office, face-to-face with the editor of a major publication that shall remain nameless, except to say that it’s national in scope and geographic in nature. The editor was cordial, but all business.
“Why would I want to visit Missouri?” he spat. “My readers want wilderness. And adventure.”
“Precisely,” I answered. He looked surprised. I told him about the Irish Wilderness, which covers as much area as Manhattan, but only one-millionth the population.
He was intrigued by such a remote setting smack dab in the middle of America.
Truth is, winter hiking and camping along Missouri’s wild outback yields prized benefits. Less traffic. No need for bug spray. Best of all, from the ridges and peaks of pristine places like Pickle Springs, Hercules Glade or the Ozark Trail, you’re treated to unobstructed views of unspoiled vistas.
Plan carefully for your winter wonderland. Take time for thoughtful preparation. Pack the right gear. Most important, keep a sharp eye on the weather and have a sensible exit strategy.
Not long ago, my friend Russell and his sons joined me for a winter hike and camp deep in the Irish Wilderness. Because the wilderness deserves a “leave no trace” campsite, we packed light: dry backpacks with warm clothing, tents, sleeping bags, water, and a small amount of food.
We built our campfire and drifted into talk about the strange evolution of this area. Two centuries ago, the wilderness was settled, then clear cut and stripped. At some point, the area was abandoned and quickly reverted back to wilderness. Only a few tiny hamlets remain.
As darkness fell, and a full moon rose over the December crisp, the campfire bolstered us against the cold and against the coyotes that circled at a distance, in a pack whose chorus sounded like a hundred dogs. In reality, the pack probably numbered a half dozen. Their night howls came first from the south, an hour later from the east. As the full moon reached its midnight zenith, they howled from the north. I couldn’t help feeling like a can of Alpo, opened and heated.
But we were prepared, with our most important defense: a good campfire. Growing up as boy scouts, Russell and I had “Be Prepared” tattooed to the insides of our eyeballs. Figuratively.
We swapped stories about winter camping.
One of my favorites: Winter was nigh, and I had Wappapello State Park to myself. The park already had cut its seasonal employees, and only a caretaker couple and I shared opposite ends of the 1,800 acres of land surrounded on three sides by water. Darkness happened fast, and I’d built a good fire, mankind’s most enduring device for self reflection.
Deep into the night, as I watched the constellations slowly circle the North Star, a winter chill was creeping through layers of clothing. I crawled inside my tent and zipped the flap shut, slipped inside my sleeping bag, and drifted off to...wait a minute. What was that?
Footsteps in the leaves. It was unmistakable. Something was walking toward my tent. I hoped it wasn’t human. Maybe it was a deer. Or a bear. Mountain lion? I hear they’re making a comeback in these hills.
My curiosity grew with each approaching footstep. The intruder passed between my campfire and me, casting a Poe-like shadow on the wall of my tent. The monster ambled off down the narrow peninsula. I knew it would have to come back, since there was only one way out. In the meantime, I jumped out of my sleeping bag and threw every stick of wood within reach onto the fire.
Sure enough, after a few minutes I heard the rustle of leaves getting louder as the animal approached my tent. I shone my flashlight, and saw the reflection in its eyes. It was low slung, and as it neared me I saw two white stripes down its furry black back.
“You little twerp,” I scolded the skunk, not too dramatically. She was unfazed and kept doing what she was conditioned to do around hundreds of campers who carelessly discard trash—scavenge for food scraps. I had none and told her so. She didn’t take my word for it, but once she was satisfied that I was telling the truth, she ambled off.
I crawled back into my bag and slept like a baby, snoring sweet fresh air.
Read more of John Robinson’s travel stories at JohnDrakeRobinson.com. His books, Coastal Missouri and A Road Trip Into America’s Hidden Heart are available at independent bookstores and online booksellers everywhere.
“Why would I want to visit Missouri?” he spat. “My readers want wilderness. And adventure.”
“Precisely,” I answered. He looked surprised. I told him about the Irish Wilderness, which covers as much area as Manhattan, but only one-millionth the population.
He was intrigued by such a remote setting smack dab in the middle of America.
Truth is, winter hiking and camping along Missouri’s wild outback yields prized benefits. Less traffic. No need for bug spray. Best of all, from the ridges and peaks of pristine places like Pickle Springs, Hercules Glade or the Ozark Trail, you’re treated to unobstructed views of unspoiled vistas.
Plan carefully for your winter wonderland. Take time for thoughtful preparation. Pack the right gear. Most important, keep a sharp eye on the weather and have a sensible exit strategy.
Not long ago, my friend Russell and his sons joined me for a winter hike and camp deep in the Irish Wilderness. Because the wilderness deserves a “leave no trace” campsite, we packed light: dry backpacks with warm clothing, tents, sleeping bags, water, and a small amount of food.
We built our campfire and drifted into talk about the strange evolution of this area. Two centuries ago, the wilderness was settled, then clear cut and stripped. At some point, the area was abandoned and quickly reverted back to wilderness. Only a few tiny hamlets remain.
As darkness fell, and a full moon rose over the December crisp, the campfire bolstered us against the cold and against the coyotes that circled at a distance, in a pack whose chorus sounded like a hundred dogs. In reality, the pack probably numbered a half dozen. Their night howls came first from the south, an hour later from the east. As the full moon reached its midnight zenith, they howled from the north. I couldn’t help feeling like a can of Alpo, opened and heated.
But we were prepared, with our most important defense: a good campfire. Growing up as boy scouts, Russell and I had “Be Prepared” tattooed to the insides of our eyeballs. Figuratively.
We swapped stories about winter camping.
One of my favorites: Winter was nigh, and I had Wappapello State Park to myself. The park already had cut its seasonal employees, and only a caretaker couple and I shared opposite ends of the 1,800 acres of land surrounded on three sides by water. Darkness happened fast, and I’d built a good fire, mankind’s most enduring device for self reflection.
Deep into the night, as I watched the constellations slowly circle the North Star, a winter chill was creeping through layers of clothing. I crawled inside my tent and zipped the flap shut, slipped inside my sleeping bag, and drifted off to...wait a minute. What was that?
Footsteps in the leaves. It was unmistakable. Something was walking toward my tent. I hoped it wasn’t human. Maybe it was a deer. Or a bear. Mountain lion? I hear they’re making a comeback in these hills.
My curiosity grew with each approaching footstep. The intruder passed between my campfire and me, casting a Poe-like shadow on the wall of my tent. The monster ambled off down the narrow peninsula. I knew it would have to come back, since there was only one way out. In the meantime, I jumped out of my sleeping bag and threw every stick of wood within reach onto the fire.
Sure enough, after a few minutes I heard the rustle of leaves getting louder as the animal approached my tent. I shone my flashlight, and saw the reflection in its eyes. It was low slung, and as it neared me I saw two white stripes down its furry black back.
“You little twerp,” I scolded the skunk, not too dramatically. She was unfazed and kept doing what she was conditioned to do around hundreds of campers who carelessly discard trash—scavenge for food scraps. I had none and told her so. She didn’t take my word for it, but once she was satisfied that I was telling the truth, she ambled off.
I crawled back into my bag and slept like a baby, snoring sweet fresh air.
Read more of John Robinson’s travel stories at JohnDrakeRobinson.com. His books, Coastal Missouri and A Road Trip Into America’s Hidden Heart are available at independent bookstores and online booksellers everywhere.