Castlewood State Park, which runs along
both sides of the Meramec River, was once part of a large resort area. During the first half of the last century St. Louisans, by the thousands, would arrive
by train for weekends of summer and to escape the city heat. There were hotels, cabins, dance clubs and a community of people that played in and along the river. The establishments included the Castlewood Hotel which later gave the park its name. From its perch on the bluff a grand staircase was built spilling down through the trees to the river. The staircase is all that remains of those
days except for the trees, the hills and the river below.

Again, I felt blessed, this time to have made it to the top, to be experiencing the autumn of the year in the autumn of my years, looking out over it in context of where we had come from and not lost in the trees but above them, able to see the lay of the land from a greater vantage point and so able and determined to appreciate it, and for all it’s worth. It made me happy to come so far. And I felt that the climb, the work, was all a part of what made the view so beautiful.

But still before me was the descent and then another mile or so to the end. The trip down appeared ominous, but I knew it wasn’t as scary as it looked.  The
steps down compared to the trail up, were easy, and I was not so focused on getting somewhere, but content to enjoy the journey. The world around was colorful; the light through the leaves made the whole woods glow. It looked to me, like an enchanted forest, or perhaps I was simply enchanted by it.

And across the path, stretched out towards the light and water like any self-respecting sycamore, was Hannah’s “favorite” tree. And now we came to the point where youth and age part, for while I was content to contemplate the size and beauty of it, Hannah had to climb it.  I went with her vicariously. I think, we get pretty good at that, as we get older.

Or perhaps she inspired me because shortly thereafter I stepped up into the crook of a nearby tree, so Hannah could take my picture.

She was rather slow on the draw, however, and before she could take it, I fell out of tree. I guess it is a good thing I was only 3 feet off the ground at the time. Fortunately, I didn’t break a hip or anything… And I am yet young enough that for pride’s sake I stepped back up
there, or perhaps for adventure’s sake, to have the gall.
I guess adventure is a relative thing, especially in the autumn of my years.

And winter awaits.
 

And so we set off on the River Scene Trail. 
Hannah is young, and I feel privileged to tag along, even more blessed that I can keep up with her, well, almost. The trail was steep right from the start, but we made steady progress. 
The River Scene Trail is about a mile and a half to the overlook at the top.  All along the way there are outcroppings of rock and views of the glorious vista, each with a more spectacular scene than the one before. The chameleon river below changed from blue to green with each turn and shimmered where sun and water collided in the swift current. The Crescent Hills in the distance covered in the colors of autumn made russet and green waves forever, and the railroad tracks running alongside the river sent the sound of trains up the bluffs from time to time, an echo of the past. It was magnificent.

On route, to the river, we passed that grand staircase.  It was concrete with wide, long steps,
and I tried to imagine all those summer guests coming and going, living and laughing and gone. And so were we from the heights from which we came and now walking the soft muddy path in the lowlands along the river.

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."