Читать книгу Coastal Missouri: Driving On the Edge of Wild - John Drake Robinson - Страница 9

Far back as I can remember, float trips on Ozark streams ended with me riding back home, asleep in the back seat.

Not this time.

After dinner at Jason’s pavilion, I set my sights on driving a hundred miles west, as the crow flies, to Branson. Only one problem: From these razorback ridges and deep ravines, there’s no direct path to Branson, or anywhere. On my highway map I found my current location, halfway between Salem and Eminence and a half inch to the west, at the confluence of several routes that begin and end with K. The map confirmed there was no straight line to Branson. If I wanted to stay on paved roads, the route would require backtracking on an alphabet soup of blacktops and highways, first going in the opposite direction, then south in a sweeping circle that finally turns west toward Branson. Hours of extra driving.

“What Would Magellan Do?” I mumbled to myself.

Magellan and I are kindred spirits. We both let Columbus go first, and do the dirty work, testing the edge of the world and battling sea serpents and scary stuff like that. Magellan and I both like to travel, except that I have better maps, and don’t have a penguin named after me, or the most treacherous strait on the face of the Earth, for that matter, and I wasn’t murdered on my journey, either. Not yet, anyway. Other than that, well, we both put a lot of miles behind us. Oh, and we both had a penchant for finding a new way from point A to point B. Seeing no direct route from here to Branson, I channeled the ghost of Magellan.

And I asked directions.

“Got a shortcut from here to Branson?” I asked Gene Maggard.

“Yep,” he said. His directions were sure as sundown, and not all that complicated, really. But the shortcut used every kind of back road I’d ever imagined. Blacktop. Gravel. Dirt. Low water ford over the river, and a right turn at a one-room schoolhouse.

That much would get me across the river and point me to Raymondville, and save at least an hour.

“But watch for deer,” Gene cautioned. “They’re thick, especially at dusk.”

The deer own this part of the Ozarks, with its dense forests draped over steep valleys. I thanked Gene and started my journey along the narrowest ridge used for a Missouri highway. The ridge’s name? Devil’s Backbone, of course.

It was nine p.m. With a quick check of the gas gauge and a kick of my tire with the slow leak, I took off toward the sun, which was burning the treetops along the horizon. First mile of blacktop, three deer darted across the road. A dozen deer later, deep into the woods, I adopted a tactic most similar to the Indiana bat. Every fifteen seconds, a beep from my car horn bounced off anything with ears. Hopefully, the deer would realize that a car was barreling through at speeds upwards of thirty mph.

Don’t know if my sonar worked. Didn’t see any more deer though. And none of the sparsely scattered neighbors called the sheriff about excess noise pollution. It was a beautiful drive to Branson, I know it was, even in the dark. Not so much because of the time I’d saved, but because I took a shortcut across Missouri’s wild belly.

* * *

Branson offered me a surprise this time.

Over my lifetime, I’ve stayed in some of the world’s legendary hotels. Monaco and the Riviera. The Ritz and the Carlton, the Waldorf and the Conrad Hilton. The Fairmont and the Deauville. The Adolphus. The Willard. The Peabody and the Palmer House. The Grand.

But on this night, Branson’s Chateau on the Lake offered the world’s greatest suite.

Maybe it was because I was really tired. I didn’t reach the Chateau until well after midnight. My first meeting on the Branson strip was at seven a.m. I had barely enough time to examine the exquisite furnishings, the leather chairs, iron and wood trim, the rich tile floors with thick throw rugs. A wet bar stayed dry for my too-brief overnight, as did the Jacuzzi. Too bad I was in my room for only four hours. By myself.

Early morning pushed me out of a barely warmed bed. I waved at the Jacuzzi and left for work. Some day Cheryl and I plan to return, and stay for more than a cup of coffee.

* * *

After a battery of meetings, Erifnus took me deep into the Ozarks.

When you slip away from Branson’s glitter and strip away the greasepaint, the land and the people shout their own rich culture, punctuated by city-limit signs showing names like Mincy and Pine Top, Gobbler’s Knob and Walnut Shade.

We drove south, exiting the state through Blue Eye, population 129, where if you study real hard you can get a sheepskin from Blue Eye High . . . not that I would trade my bloodshot eye education.