There was a time when summer meant one thing—floating Bull Creek. Back in the 80s, before Branson became the entertainment capital it is today, we locals knew where the real magic was. Not in the bright lights or the bustling strip, but in the cool, clear waters of a little Ozarks creek that wound its way through the hills like a forgotten highway.
Bull Creek wasn’t just a river; it was our river. It was the kind of place you learned about through word of mouth, passed down like a family heirloom. There were no rental shops, no guided tours—just kids, tubes, and a ride to the put-in. Where exactly we started and ended? I couldn’t tell you. Those details got lost in the years, but I remember there was always a car waiting at the takeout, ready to haul us home, sunburned and grinning.
Floating, back then, wasn’t done in sleek kayaks or fancy rafts. No, we had inner tubes—big, black rubber donuts that smelled like summer and tractor tires. You didn’t so much sit in them as wedge yourself down, legs dangling over one side, arms draped across the other. If you were lucky, you’d snag one with a patch job, a rough square of rubber that always seemed to scratch your leg just enough to remind you it was there. The real pros—the ones who’d been floating since before they could swim—figured out how to balance just right, keeping their backsides from dragging in the water. The rest of us just accepted the occasional cold shock and let the current do what it would.
Bull Creek in the summer was a slow-moving dream. Five miles could take most of the day, especially when you stopped to explore the swimming holes along the way. The water was so clear you could count the rocks on the creek bed, and when it deepened, it turned a color I can only describe as bottled-up Ozarks—somewhere between emerald and sapphire, depending on how the sun hit it. Schools of minnows and sucker fish darted beneath us, slipping into the deep blue-green pockets whenever our shadows passed overhead. Every so often, a crawdad would make a break for it, its tail flipping madly as it disappeared into the rocks.
Lunch was always the same: a sandwich, an ice-cold Dr. Pepper (in a bottle), and a Ding Dong—the kind that, back then, tasted like actual chocolate and not whatever they pass off as Ding Dongs today. We’d find a gravel bar, pull our tubes onto the bank, and sit in a circle, letting the sun bake the river chill off our skin. Someone always had a pocketknife, whittling on a stick as we talked about nothing and everything. Those moments were as much a part of the float as the water itself.
For the most part, Bull Creek was a lazy river, a meandering stretch of deep pools and gentle currents. But every once in a while, you’d hear it—the unmistakable roar of approaching rapids. Now, “rapids” might be a generous term, but when you’re in a tube with no paddle, no way to steer, and no real plan beyond hang on and hope for the best, they sure felt like rapids. The water would pick up speed, churning over hidden rocks, spinning us in lazy circles before spitting us out the other side. If you were lucky, you’d stay upright. If you weren’t—well, you’d be coming up sputtering, trying to grab your tube before it floated off without you. And that was all part of the fun.
The creek carried us past towering dolomite bluffs, their sheer faces streaked with the dark veins of ancient water stains. Some had broken apart over the centuries, sending boulders the size of cars tumbling into the stream. Those rocks became tiny ecosystems of their own, sprouting ferns and wildflowers from cracks in the stone. We’d paddle over to them, pulling ourselves up like explorers claiming new territory, only to leap off the warm rock into the cold embrace of the current below.
The truth is, I don’t remember the last time I floated Bull Creek as a kid. There was no grand farewell, no moment when I knew it would be the last time. Life just moved on, as it tends to do. But even now, in my 50s, I can still feel it—the weightlessness of the tube beneath me, the cool water swirling around my fingertips, the distant call of a red-winged blackbird somewhere in the trees.
I’m sure Bull Creek has changed since those days. Maybe there are more people, more rules, more signs telling you where you can and can’t go. But in my mind, it’s just the same—a secret slice of the Ozarks, where time slows down and the water still runs clear.
And if you ever find yourself there, drifting along with the current, I hope you take a moment to close your eyes, feel the sun on your face, and remember what it’s like to be a kid with nothing ahead but the lazy stretch of a perfect summer day.