With two weeks of the project now in the books, we have a long weekend to ourselves. Today we drove to nearby Dogwood Canyon Nature Park, recommended by a couple of staff members here.
The drive was short, just a few miles. Upon turning into the drive we encountered a sign: Busses, RVs, Trucks - Don’t even think about driving down this road. They also had a phone number at the bottom of the sign.
None of the research we had done had mentioned this. And they really didn’t have a place to get out of the way. I did manage to pull onto the lawn and I tried the number. Voice mail. Tried a few times. Voice mail. I left a message but there was no return phone call. Finally, Deb got out and walked down the road to the ticket booth and told someone we were waiting for an answer. That got someone out who escorted me down the exit road into the parking lot. Apparently, the entrance road has a hairpin turn where large vehicles can get stuck and larger vehicles get escorted the wrong way down the exit road.
Total time lost, about 45 minutes.
Dogwood Canyon is another venture by Johnny Morris, the founder of Bass Pro Shops. 10,000 acres along three miles of a canyon, with a paved path along the entire three miles. He really has done a nice job making this a tourist destination with a conservation theme. Waterfalls, a treehouse, caves, springs, and (of course) places to fish for trout; the three miles wind past all these things, making for a nice (if not long) walk or a pleasant bike ride. It really is well done and a worthwhile destination, the drought dried up most of the trout pools and the National Riverway we were at a few weeks ago was much wilder and we could actually put a kayak in the river.
The best way to do this is on a bicycle and we did just that, joining the throngs of walkers and other bicycles along the way. It is certainly a popular place, despite its rather remote location. I’m sure it pulls a lot of the more adventurous people from Branson, about a half-hour’s drive away, and other areas even more far flung.
We biked the entire three miles, stopping at each marked attraction (except the 260-year-old Sycamore tree, which we found out later was just a stump. I have a massive Sycamore tree in my front yard, so I know what they look like).
The last waterfall and the end of the road even had a little treat for those that made it that far: Yellow trout. I’ve never seen these before so I stuck my phone in the water and took a picture of one.
Leaving here, we had some day left so we drove to the Big Indian public use area, probably one of the closest public areas. Everything is far away here, especially over the roller-coaster roads and when driving an RV. Arriving we found a boat ramp and a couple boat slip buildings in the process of being torn down. We had a snack and watched the deconstruction for a while and then headed back.
On the way back, Deb spotted a small sign along the road advertising eggs. I dutifully pulled into the driveway, which was large gravel and pitched downward at an alarming angle. A closed gate stopped our progress and it had a sign instructing us to honk. We slid to a stop before hitting the gate. Someone was already coming out so we didn’t have to honk. There were two homes here and this place seemed to be quintessential Ozark, even Hillbilly-ish. Small, simple homes with unpainted porches, surrounded by more vehicles than would be expected, probably some of them not running. Beyond that, the steep rugged beauty of the Ozarks. The guy I talked to approached me suspiciously and I half expected him to brandish a shotgun. I’m sure we were a bit of a spectacle, a motorhome crunching to a stop on his driveway (Don’t get many of them things in these parts). When I asked about the eggs, he thought he had a dozen and instructed his son to go fetch them. The boy disappeared into the dilapidated barn and emerged a few minutes later with an egg carton. I handed him the three bucks. I carried the bulging carton back to the RV. Inside were some of the largest eggs I have seen in a long time.
Deb was convinced we weren’t going to make it out of the driveway but we managed to escape the golf-ball sized rocks we were parked on and were soon back at the ranch.
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