sailed in the river. It hit a railroad bridge and went down in 1884.  It has been the subject of research and the target of treasure seekers. They say, of course, there is nothing left of value to find on the ship, and really we had no ambitions about the boat anyway, except that it would be something to see. And we thought perhaps near it, along the bank we might find some kind of souvenir, a treasure of our own. Value, after all is a relative term.
 
But first, we had to find the ship. We knew the Montana was in the Missouri near Bridgeton but where? Fortunately, I had a resource, a river boat captain I happened to go to high school with.  
So, I sent an e-mail his way, and he gave me the location, complete with driving directions.  We were off!

The thing is for us Southside people, North County is like going to the moon, and somehow we missed the sign for Missouri Bottom Road, but I do think we were near where we were supposed to be when we walked down to the river.

It seemed kind of a forgotten world as it almost always seems under river bridges.  There is
always lots of litter, bottles and cans, the remnants of very scary parties, ashes of campfires, dead fish, rubber gloves and graffiti of all kinds. I’m not a sissy, but it puts me a little on edge even in broad daylight. 

There was also a well-worn path right along the river bank. Why then, I thought, this is going to be a gimme.  But I was getting ahead of myself.  We started down the path.  It wasn’t supposed to be too far perhaps 700– 1000 feet from the bridge.  There were posts of an old pier in sight, but suddenly the scene turned sinister, and we were covered with
bugs – mayflies. Apparently, as we walked past the weeds, we disturbed them and sent swarms of them swirling all around us. At the time, I had no idea what they were and as we walked they just kept coming.  Faster and faster we walked and farther and farther from the clear piece of beach we came from. I thought it would never end.  I felt like Kathryn Hepburn on the African Queen!

And back in the here and now, there is something about weathered wood--sun bleached and water smoothed.  It’s beautiful and feels good in your hand, and then there was the sand, settled, it too smooth, undisturbed sliding into the muddy pool. In my mind, my feet were covered in it--wet, cool and close.  But I dared not disturb the dune. In some inexplicable way, it seemed both pristine and fetid.

Across the river, we could see St. Charles.  The ship could not be very far from here. The only problem was that the path had disappeared, and there was only a sliver of sand, a mountain of weeds, another swarm of mayflies and an argument.  My friend and I
could not agree whether we were in the right place. I was sure we were. I just thought we hadn’t quite walked far enough.  He was certain we weren’t, that somehow we had missed the boat…

I shot the wildflowers, chased a gray hairstreak, and found a spider about as big as my hand. We stared at each other, a standoff, and I blinked. I stood on the water’s edge and admired the great river, the beautiful Missouri on its last leg after traveling halfway across the country flowing to join the Mississippi and with time the Gulf and the great
Atlantic.

Fortunately, as we neared the pier, the sand expanded, and as we left them alone, they left us alone, but the whole thing made me shudder.
Despite the disturbance, it was interesting to see the ruins of an old landing for riverboats. Many of the giant posts still stood.  There was thick, heavy cable lying about and huge rusty bolts. And it made us wonder how long it had been there. I could imagine those early days, the ships passing each other on the river, the fishermen setting out in smaller boats, the people on shore who built and lived along that main thoroughfare and their mainstay.

I guess I was not motivated enough to push on having been swarmed and sure I would be snaked. But before we left, we spied a scattering of scrap
in the distance where a heron was feeding, and with my camera I zoomed in, and took a shot although in the bright sunlight the playback was worthless. So we turned back and I held my breath, back through the flies, not near as bad as the first time through. Thank goodness! We stopped under the bridge and poked around in the scattered leavings and I, as I often do, tried to find the beauty in it.  There is always beauty in it, if you look for it, wherever you are.

And so, if I didn’t find a shipwreck, I did find the wherewithal to venture into new territory. And when I got home, well, I’m still not sure, but when I uploaded the photos, I wondered-- 
were we just a couple hundred feet from the hull? Had I blinked again and missed the point? Perhaps, but ship or not, I had my day, an adventure (always) and Bill found a wheat penny.

Among the rolling hills of eastern Missouri, on the outskirts of a place called Catawissa, near the junction of two rural highways, and very little else, a less than solemn pilgrimage is made each year to a church whose doors closed nearly a century ago—St. Patrick's of Armagh the Old Rock Church.

The people come from near and far. They come in vans and cars. Their purpose is clear. They want chicken and beer. And they want something more, something more than the here and now, something like the heretofore and hereafter, a connection. For many who come to the Rock Church Picnic have a couple things in common-- once a great, great grandparent set sail from Ireland for America, and now that person's grave is in the Rock Church
cemetery.

  

Well, they showed him, and now forty years later,
organizers are not sure what they are going to do about the popular party. 

"We can't handle all these people," Murphy said.

They estimate about 4,500 people came to grounds of the Old Rock Church this year, (about twice the population of the town of Catawissa) They know they sold 2,300 fried chicken dinners. Broken down, that is 3,200 pounds of chicken, 150 gallons of green beans, 150 pounds of dry noodles, 600 pounds of potato salad, 450 pounds of coleslaw, 75 loaves of homemade bread and about 400 cakes.

"My wife baked 40 cakes," Murphy said. 

Fortunately, she had help, and one of the greatest
rewards of the now nearly 90 year old struggle is how the community has come
together.

"Thirty percent of our help isn't even Catholic,"
Murphy said.

For despite the devotion of the founders, time and circumstances caught up with the parish. You see, in addition to the church, there was to be a town,
a town that never came.The railroad went
through Catawissa; the church at that time was on the outskirts of that community. Many had to travel miles with a horse and buggy on a muddy, rutty road to attend St. Patrick's. Finally, as the 20th century rolled around, people wanted a parish closer to home. A church was built inside the town of Catawissa and services were conducted by the same priest at both churches. But with the town church growing and the rural church not, the priest closed St. Patrick's in 1924.

From then to now, the saving of St. Patrick's has
been a consistent theme and something of a roller coaster ride. When the building began to fall into disrepair in the 1930s, a picnic was planned to
raise funds to preserve the building and keep up the cemetery, and from 1939 to 1952 the picnic was a big deal.

"It was booming," said Murphy.

As time went on though, the picnics stopped. The
church slowly slid downhill, and sometime in the 1970s, it looked like the end. Then, the founding fathers kicked in. The families of all those buried in the cemetery were told the situation and came through for the Old Rock Church. A standing room only crowd stood their ground, and the priest relented, but Murphy says, "He wanted us to show him that we would work." A donation was made; the
picnics reinstated and they've been growing ever since.

There may even be some Germans in the group… And those who have ancestors in the churchyard and even some that don't, come from all over
the country, Florida, Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Indiana, New York, Illinois etc. 

"One family, the McKeevers belonged to this
church five generations back and all the kids were out here working," Murphy says.

Continuity -- family, the breath of life in a church almost abandoned. And lives are still touched by the church. Now and through all the years, although St. Patrick's has been closed, the doors open
for Mass three times a year. And, because of the churches unique circumstances, marriages are allowed there. About 15 couples begin their life together at St. Patrick's each year. And of course
wherever life takes them, many still join their ancestors in the graveyard on the hill in the end.
As for  the picnics, they will go on, says Murphy.

"Because, whether you come from St. Louis, New
York or California, you know we're going to be at the
picnic."