The surface of the North Fork River was calm as I pushed the canoe off the gravel bar and into the shallow water at the Hammond's Mill river access.

The power of the moving water wasn't apparent until a few yards downstream, where the river is funneled into a narrow curved channel. The canoe shot forward before I could get balanced and pick up my paddle. Then I could understand how the river was able to turn the massive mill stones of the old grist mill that once stood near this spot.

As the stream veered to the right, I innocently expected to see the canoe turn with it. But the bow stubbornly pointed toward the left bank, and I started drifting sideways. A stroke of the paddle on the left side slowly swung the canoe around. But it also moved me faster toward the bank!

Before I could complete the turn, the bow crunched into a mass of roots on the bank. The current suddenly jerked the other end around. The rushing water hit the canoe broadside. Cold water came pouring over the other side as it tipped.

Shifting weight, I quickly righted the canoe. Too late. I was sitting in six inches of water, with the life cushion and waterproof containers floating around my knees.

It was an overcast day with rain threatening, so l felt lucky there was no one else around to witness this debacle as I dumped the water out of the canoe, rearranged my gear and made a fresh start.

A friend told me later that exactly the same mishap occurs to countless other canoeists who put in at Hammond's Mill for the first time. We both laughed when he pointed out that my dunking had taken place near the community's traditional "baptising hole." [sic]

This was the awkward beginning of a one-day solo float trip on a short stretch of the North Fork River in Ozark County, Missouri, in the spring of 1981.

The purpose was to gather material first-hand for a feature on Ozarks rivers, which seemed like a pleasant enough assignment. (Every stream has its unique features, of course. At the same time, the North Fork provides a sample of the richness and variety that can be found in hundreds of miles of clean, floatable waters all over the region.)

Yet there was a special inspiration behind this writing project, beyond the "playground" aspects of the Ozarks that are plugged in many publications. There was a desire to portray the float trip as something more than a cheap vacation. Many of the people we see racing along the surface seem to be missing a lot of what the river has to offer.

There are other dimensions of the river that are often overlooked, which can enhance the floating experience. Yes, there are some excellent published canoe guides, but even they deal mostly with the fishing and floating characteristics of the water. It’s also important to learn about the plants, wildlife and historical sites that will be seen along the way. Only then does it seem worthwhile to allow the current to carry the canoe at a quiet, leisurely pace. The river is seen as something very much alive. There is a subtle pleasure in becoming part of it, respecting it and letting it tell its own story.

A detailed topographical map also shows that the river and its immediate shoreline cannot be separated from the hollows, ridges and caves at every turn. They are interesting not only for their geological kinship to the river but for the pioneer families they are named for -- names like Collins, Gunter, Kelly, Hodgson and Guthrie. The dramatic stories told by their descendants added a lot of meaning to this float trip. By the time it was over, the North Fork had become more than a winding ribbon of water. It was a living tapestry, in which man and nature, space and time, were interwoven.

Photo by Clay Anderson
Hammond Mill, shortly before
it was torn down in the late 1930's.

Hammond's Mill river access, where many canoeists put in, preserves only the name of the water-powered grist mill that once turned locally grown wheat, corn and oats into meal and flour.

Use of the site for water power dates back to 1856, when a man named James built a log mill on a bluff on the west bank of the river. James was hanged nearby by bushwhackers at the close of the Civil War, and for many years a marker told where his grave could be found.

The property was acquired after the war by a man named Poole, who replaced the log mill with a frame structure. This mill burned in 1876, but was replaced the following year. Ox teams were used to haul stones and timbers for a dam, to provide a better head of water for the undershot wheel.

In 1902 a man named McCabe established a post office and general store near the mill.

This mill continued to operate until it was washed away by a flood in 1904. Jim Duffy, the owner at the time, sold the property to Tom Hammond, who had another mill built on higher ground in 1907.

After Hammond's mill ceased operation in the early 1930s, the milling equipment was removed, including the huge stone buhrs said to have been imported from France. The three-story structure quickly deteriorated and was demolished a few years later by developers who had a plan (which they later dropped) to build a dam on that part of the river.

Old mills like this, whether preserved or long decayed, remain as symbols of the Ozarks pioneer heritage. But they were more than pieces of machinery. They were the hub of the economies of the first wilderness settlements. Much is owed to the skillful mill wrights and enterprising millers who made this possible.

A new bridge a few hundred yards upstream from the national forest public campgrounds near Hammond's Mill whisks motorists high over the water today. Old timers tell what it was like when the only roads along the river were rutted wagon tracks, and bridges and ferries were unheard of, when long, hard journeys were involved in getting to the half dozen mills that operated at one time or another along the North Fork.

Beyond the rushing waters below Hammond's Mill, the river returns briefly to a wide, calm expanse of water, with rugged limestone bluffs towering above. Some rock formations project over the water. Every ledge is crowded with mosses, broadleaf plants and colorful wildflowers. Spring water trickles from fractures in the rocks.

Many eons have passed since these limestone deposits were formed in the bed of an ocean, heaved up, then imperceptibly worn away to form the walls we see today. Untold generations of living creatures have found shelter in their crumbly niches.

As I drifted with the current, I found that the air above the water also flows along with the river, with noticeable pools and eddies that are shaped and channeled by the surrounding terrain. Several times I drifted into fragrant pockets of air that flowed out of lush groves of oak, dogwood and sycamore trees along the banks. Near waterfalls, the air picked up the pungent smell of aquatic vegetation. Nearby bottom lands added the flavor of newly mowed hay.

I had almost passed Blue Springs before I saw what it was. By now I had learned the trick of turning the canoe without taking up the whole river (paddling backwards on one side), so I worked my way back against the swift current for a closer look.

The spring obviously gets its name from the bluish haze of the frigid water as it wells up from the sides of a picturesque circular cove. The cold water and the shade from tall trees on the surrounding ledges gave the air a noticeable chill.

Several stretches of deep, smooth water gave a good view of the many species of fish found in the river. Suckers took little note of the canoe as they probed over snail-covered rocks on the bottom. Striped bass darted away when pursued closer to the bank. Nervous schools of perch scattered and regrouped. Fish of all sizes broke the water to feed on hovering insects.

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