St Louis region – Page 9

Riverwoods Trail

The river side of the trail is open, at least a good part of the way. I don’t know when was the last time it was. The Missouri River hugs the banks and splashes over in random puddles. It brushes just beneath the edges of the bridge, completely drowning the banks of the summer fishing hole.

The nearly apocalyptic look of the tangled brush and tumbled limbs seems somehow appropriate on the first day of official 30 day lock-down of the county.

Scrambling up ledges and ducking under branches to skirt the puddles, we make it about half way around before it’s just too thick to go on.

I was really a little unsure about coming out today. They did say walking was fine, but did they mean only a neighborhood park?

Brand new signs, that both welcomed and warned, answered the question for the handful of carefully distant co-visitors we met.

Spring marches on, caring nothing for the fears and questions we hold.

It flows in with the river and the scent of fresh air and the promise of life renewed.

Hellebusch Park

Beautiful sunshine sparkling on the water. It’s still cold and I’m huddled into my coat, but green fields, robins, and tiny blooms promise it won’t be long now.

Cypress roots, creepy cool, mysteriously wander the edges of the pond.

Tiemeyer Park

It’s cold and overcast, with temperatures dropping as clouds settle in. At first it hardly seems different than the last time I was here in January.

But spring slips in, with a greening field, a puddled playground and the delicate blossoms of the red maple tree.

It’s really pretty pleasant within a few minutes. There are more people out than there were yesterday. Of course, it was pouring rain most of the time I was out yesterday.

A few dog walkers, a jogger, some park service employees. Everyone conscientiously social distancing, but friendly just the same.

Hickory Canyon

Along a twisty road a few tiny signs admit to the existence of the park we’re searching for. The GPS announces complicated coordinates and informs us we’ve arrived.

There’s no path, no parking lot, and no hint of welcome, so we slowly travel on.

Before long the road widens into a tiny single line of parking spaces on either side. Twin paths lead into the woods with a wooden sign at each to trace the way.

It’s peaceful and pleasant, and shockingly green in spite of the frozen creek and forest of bare branches. Everywhere are tiny start up pine trees glowing in the afternoon sun like the middle of July.

The trail winds down into a horseshoe canyon, heavily frosted with curtains of ice. A whisper of running water hints at the slow melt that occasionally sends a crashing sheet into small pools at the base of each cliff.

Rugged and twisted and carved by time and water and wind, the trails are nearly silent, free of the sounds of machines and even the call of birds today.

Groundhog’s Gift

Apparently, the groundhog predicted an early spring today. While I’ve never taken much stock in his thoughts, and the forecast for later this week suggests winter is tightly clinging to our part of the hemisphere, I’m delighted to accept the mid winter gift of sunshine and 60 degrees today.

Finding a park to enjoy it in was an incredibly popular challenge! After giving up on a few hopelessly crowded options, I wound up back down I-44 at Route 66. It was full of bikers and strolling families today, but the back trail was relatively quiet.

The thick sweater I wore, with the hope of not needing to drag along a coat, was almost too warm itself.

Brilliant sunshine, gentle winds, the splashing of the river, and the clatter of a woodpecker; a beautiful start to the wild ride that is February.

Mort Jacobs Park

Thirty one parks in thirty one days. I’m a little surprised I actually managed to pull it off. I thought I was going to have to start dividing some larger parks into multiple sections or extending my work day distance limits to get the rest in this week.

I’d never even heard of this one before, but it turned out to be only a couple of miles away. It’s set within a quiet neighborhood next to a school.

It was busy with squealing, giggling children on a modern new play structure, and several dog walkers.

One older gentleman seemed a little suspicious of me. He was friendly enough, but definitely wanted to know what I was doing there with a camera. He headed on around the trails with his dog after we talked a few minutes, but I noticed he didn’t leave until I did.

I wasn’t offended. It was nice really, to see that level of interest in looking out for the neighborhood. I’m always careful not to include any children in my pictures and to keep my distance, but he was going to make sure I did.

It’s really designed as a neighborhood park. There’s parking, but not a lot. Most of the paths lead directly off residential streets. An occasional car passes, slowly and carefully, but there’s no other traffic noise. It’s a peaceful, beautiful, wide open space to drift slowly into the weekend.

St Stanislaus Recreation Area

This is the conservation area Truman Park is supposed to connect to. I’m still not sure where it does exactly, but it looks like an amazing place to explore and find out. I just need a lot more daylight and a little less snow.

It was mostly spitting when I pulled into the tiny dirt parking area, but grew heavier pretty quickly. A short paved loop wound through the trees and along a wide creek low creek.

The entrance to the wooden plank bridge was thick with mud. At the other end, dirt paths extended in three directions. They weren’t marked, and the trail map I picked up at the entrance was quickly getting too damp to use in the increasingly heavy snow.

I just stayed there for awhile, in a little cove bound by the creek, the trees, and the ridge ahead of me. The splash of the water and the breeze through the trees, muffled the traffic on the nearby road.

I wandered a little farther down the clearest path, listening to the call of the birds and the ratchet of a woodpecker.

The mud thickened as the creek widened.

Water marks high on the brush and trees hinted at the power behind it’s gentle splash.

I head back in, checking to see that I still have that soggy map, to plan a real hike through here.

O’Connor Park

The route to O’Connor feels like a ghost town. It used to be a neighborhood park, in a neighborhood that was destroyed for an airport expansion. Metal barriers secure lanes to nowhere, overgrown with weeds and blocked by fallen trees.

A tiny blue sign reassuringly points to the one open road that leads to the still nicely maintained park.

There’s a tiny trail from the parking lot to the playground. It’s not really long enough to be much of a walk, but there are nice open fields to stroll. The ground is soft and knobby and not at all muddy. Brush and scrubby trees line the perimeter framing pretty overlooks.

It’s still a beautiful place for nature rambling or family gatherings.

A man and his dog, as I drive away, wander the fields as I did, enjoying the secluded open space.

Creve Coeur Lake

Creve Coeur is way more than after work stroll level, and will probably be the subject of future posts as well. For today, I wandered around the waterfall side of the path that circles the larger lake.

Although mostly frozen, there was a surprising amount of water still flowing and splashing over the stones of the waterfall.

The lake is grey and choppy. It seems high for this time of year. Gulls swoop and call over the open waters and a goose skims long and low just above the surface.

The shallow waters near the bridge are still and frozen on both sides of the trail.

I’m shocked by the number of people out of this icy day. Dog walkers and joggers, okay, but bicycles?

I love riding in this park, but the thought of the damp cold wind on their reddened faces doesn’t even sound fun today.

I’ll take my quiet walk for now, stopping for shot of an interesting tree or a soaring birds, rubbing my frozen fingers, and shrugging deeper into my puffy down coat.

Fort Belle Fontaine

Peek-a-boo sunshine, teasing like a giggling child, turns the prairie trail into silty mush. Birds call and rustle in the brush, but dart away before they can hardly be seen. A woodpecker taunts us from the top of a wooden electric pole, hiding within the wires and posts.

Beautiful WPA structures, including the stunning grand staircase, overlook the Missouri River. Ice still lingers on the shaded stone of the spiraled steps as I creep down each level. I think a few times, I should stop; just get some river pictures from where I am and move back into the sunshine.

I’m so glad when I reach the base, that I did it. The rush of the river and the call of the seagulls are practically all that breaks the stillness.

Even the voices of other hikers and the occasional drone of a far away airplane seem muted.

The gulls dart and swoop over the water, then dive to skim the surface. Two robins peck at a pile of damp leaves, so intent they barely seem to notice I’m there.

The trail whispers the stories of its decades of history, then pauses to allow me to sketch my own line.