Coastal Missouri: Driving On the Edge of Wild. John Drake Robinson

hull, and brought it up here. Riding the Toad Suck Ferry on the Peel Ferry route isn’t as romantic as climbing on the back of the ferry in the actual town of Toad Suck. But that’s no concern of mine.

      And Erifnus enjoyed the float. Deep in the lake, beneath her wheels, giant trophies eyed the bottom of the Toad Suck barge as we crossed the water. Well, they’re not trophies yet. They’re the great-great-granddaughters of the trophies, the Missouri state record walleye, brown trout, yellow perch, striped bass, and largemouth bass. The latter record has stood since JFK’s first hundred days.

      The ferry dumped Erifnus onto Route 125, and we began probably the most beautiful drive in the Ozarks. I don’t know. It was dark. So we headed up to Springfield, and I checked in to the Clarion Hotel.

      At sunrise, we’d tackle the heart of hillbilly holler.

      * * *

      Next day, I stuffed Erifnus with her favorite brand of corn liquor and plunged south from Route 66, where the road less traveled becomes Route 125, winding past Sparta and Chadwick. Like the perfect anthem, the scenery reached a crescendo along the twisting trail through the Mark Twain National Forest in Taney County, south of Camp Ridge, and Cobb Ridge.

      Route DD watches Brushy Creek sweep past, on its way to fortify Beaver Creek, and for miles the vista south overlooks the ridges and ravines around Hercules Glade, some of the best ridge-running mountain scenery in Missouri’s Ozarks. Wonderful motorcycle roads. Great backpacking too. So I left Erifnus as the lone vehicle in a parking lot at a trail head, and marched downhill into the unknown. The path quickly became man’s only footprint in this vast wilderness, at once an intrusion into nature, and a lifeline back to civilization. The trail unfolded over miles, and the absence of manmade sounds refreshed my ear’s ability to pick out the warbler and the chickadee, to discern the crow from the red-tailed hawk, and listen for the rustle and the rattle. Good shape and good shoes helped this foot soldier. Without water, I limited my march to a few ridges and ravines, enough to remind me that rugged terrain is harder on the knees going downhill than up.

      The moments just before arriving back to the parking lot are always tense. Will Erifnus still be there, undisturbed? She was. And like lunch meat, she was ready. We drove on together, as God intended, man and car, pioneer and petrol.

      * * *

      Adventure takes on new intensity when you and your car are both granddaddies, and the end of the world is nigh. Along the side of the road, we spied a beautiful little sports car for sale, a Fiat Spyder, vintage 1976, Car and Driver car of the year. My Pontiac scoffed, and why not? Her odometer showed six digits and no breakdowns. This little Fiat by the roadside—like its twin sister sitting broke down in my garage at home—might’ve been in the shop dozens of times over that timespan.

      We kept driving, and wound up dead-ended in a holler fat with water, where Beaver Creek feeds Lake Taneycomo. Retreating north, following the whitewater froth of Beaver Creek beside us, we veered off Highway 76 onto Route AA. The road unfolded through thick woods and nothing else, until the blacktop ended. At this point, as with so many other crossroads on my journey, the proverbial fork in the road was gravel . . . and uncharted, at least for me.

      According to my map, the next blacktop sat only a few miles from this spot. But which gravel road would lead me there? My state highway map offered no clue, other than the tantalizing image of two blacktops just millimeters from connecting. In a nod to ancient mariners who relied on a fallible technique called dead reckoning, I took the fork to the right, which forked again, and again. Erifnus descended deeper into the forest, along rocky roads, through ruts and ravines and low-water fords and mud and panthers and black bears and homesteads that might be friendly or might not, if I broke down and had to walk up a path to knock on a door.

      Deeper into the woods we drove. Erifnus’ motor groaned, and her tires ached, as signs of civilization dwindled to a single power line fastened to poles older than Dick Clark, more crooked than Bernie Madoff. Using the sun for direction, I angled eastward, looking for pavement. But ahead, gravel, gravel everywhere, surrounded by heavy forest. Finally my blood pressure and my car’s radiator relaxed as the gravel path crested a hill and T-boned onto asphalt pavement.

      Seeing no roadsign to tell me our position, we turned south, assuming we might make it back to Highway 125. Four miles down the road, a sign told me we were traveling on Route H, far west of our intended destination. It didn’t matter. On a hard surface, Erifnus and I breathed a sigh of relief, after spending too much petrol and daylight spreading gravel around the Ozarks backwoods.