Nestled in the quiet hills of southern Missouri, where the rivers wind through the landscape like veins of history, there is a place that has always held a special place in my heart. For years, even while living in Kansas City, Joy and I did our best to bring our kids here, to the Ozarks—our sanctuary.
It was always about more than just hiking, boating, and canoeing; it was about giving our children something deeper, a connection to the land and to each other that transcended the distractions of the city.
In October of 2010, we set out for a Halloween canoe and camping trip on the Eleven Point River. If you’ve never been to this stretch of water, it’s worth the journey. Especially in the fall, when the trees seem to burn with the colors of autumn, and the river sparkles as if kissed by the sun itself.
That day, it felt like the world had pulled back just for us—like the river was our private path, and we had it all to ourselves.
Along with us was our future son-in-law, Taylor, and Sydney’s friend, Kailey. For them, the Ozarks were a new world—a place to explore. But for Joy and me, this river, these woods, this silence—this was home.
The Eleven Point River is one of the purest in the Ozarks, its waters running deep and fast, carrying with it not just the story of the land but the memories of countless generations. It’s a place where the past feels as present as the rushing water. There’s a magic here—one that can only be felt by those who take the time to listen.
Our plan was simple: two days of floating, with an overnight stop on the banks of the Mysterious Irish Forest of the Ozarks, an area steeped in legend. The stories of the Irish Wilderness—the tales of the lost settlement and the priest who sought to build a community there—have always fascinated me. The area’s quiet presence holds a weight that can’t quite be described. There is something about this place that calls to the soul, and I wanted my children to experience that.
After meeting with the outfitter at Richard’s Canoe Rental—fitting, I thought, since my name is Richard—we loaded up the canoes. I asked about any possible dangers along the way. The outfitter mentioned Halls Bay Chute, a rapid that could catch us off guard.
He reassured me we’d hear it long before we reached it, so I filed it away in my mind. But even as he spoke, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this river than just the physical journey.
We set off, the water carrying us through the Ozarks with the ease of a long-forgotten memory. As we paddled, I told the kids stories about the river—about the rusted remains of a paddle wheel we’d pass later, remnants of an old mill swept away in a flood. The stories felt more real as the river carried us deeper into the wilderness, into the place where history and nature converge.
By evening, we reached our camp along the riverbank, a spot where the trees seemed to stretch up to the heavens, their leaves turning with the seasons. The air was cool, crisp with the bite of fall.
We set up our camp, started the fire, and I told the kids about Rev. John Hogan, the Catholic priest from Ireland who came to this very land in 1859, seeking to create a haven for Irish immigrants. His community would disappear soon after, lost to the violence of the Civil War, leaving only the forest and the memory of his dream. And still, the Irish Wilderness endures, a quiet reminder of what was and what could have been.
That night, as the moonlight filtered through the trees, the forest seemed to come alive with its own stories. The kind of stories that are born in the stillness, in the shadows. The kind that make the hair on the back of your neck stand up. The kids huddled close around the fire, their faces flickering in the light.
But it wasn’t just the eerie atmosphere that made that night memorable. It was the biting cold that crept in unexpectedly. We had come prepared for autumn camping, but winter arrived early.
Joy and I stayed warm in our tent, huddled by the propane heater, while the kids shivered in their tents, trying to stay warm. In the morning, when they unzipped our tent and were hit with the warmth, my daughter laughed and said, “It feels like a sauna in here!”
And despite the cold, the laughter, the memories, and the quiet of the wilderness wrapped around us, it felt like we were all part of something much larger than ourselves.
Morning came too quickly, and as always, packing up camp seemed to drag on. The kids, tired from the cold and the late night, were less than eager to get on the water, but the river was waiting.
As we set off, the water’s gentle current soothed us into a peaceful rhythm. The kids, full of energy, paddled ahead, leaving Joy and me behind, watching them with pride. The river in the fall has a way of making time slow down, and for a moment, everything felt just right.
But then, I heard it—“Halls.” The sound of the rapids was deafening as we approached. The kids made it down without issue, but I had let my guard down. I thought we could handle it without the kind of caution it required.
We were too far left.
The eddy caught us, and before I could react, the canoe flipped, dumping Joy and me into the forty-degree water. The world turned cold and chaotic as everything we had packed—a canoe full of gear, clothes, tents—began to float downstream. I could see Joy bobbing in the water, trying to get a grip, and in that moment, it felt like the river was swallowing us whole.
It seemed like an eternity before we found slack water and made our way to shore, where the kids had already started gathering our floating belongings. We laughed despite the situation, stripping off our soaked clothes behind some bushes to avoid hypothermia. I remember the absurdity of it all—cold, wet, and yet somehow, in that moment, we were all bound together by the same adventure.
The river, with all its challenges and surprises, had shown us once again that no matter how prepared you think you are, it’s the unexpected that makes the memories. And those memories, the ones born of laughter, cold water, and the bonds of family, are the ones that last.
We may not get to see our grown children as much as we’d like these days, but I hope they hold on to those moments, to the beauty of the Ozarks, to the stories that will stay with us long after the river’s current has faded.
In the end, it’s not about the rapids or the cold or even the adventures we had. It’s about the time we shared—the moments we carved out from the noise of the world to be together, to laugh together, and to remember what truly matters. And that’s the story I carry with me now, every time I think back to that Halloween trip on the Eleven Point River.
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