COW FORD

A lively rippling of the water ahead signaled I was approaching the lower edge of one of the many limestone ledges that make up the riverbed as it stair-steps its way down to Lake Norfork near the Arkansas line. This section, below a tributary called Crooked Branch, has been known from pioneering days as Cow Ford, one of the dozen or so spots along the river that were used for low-water crossings.

One of the area residents I met later was Walter Collins, 91, who was born a mile or so from Cow Ford. Collins Ridge was named for his grandfather, Ephram Collins, who homesteaded there before the Civil War.

In those days, Ephram supported his family largely through hunting. He often told his children and grandchildren about the time he heard the terrifying squall of a panther, or mountain lion, behind him as he was tracking game across the river. Cocking his muzzleloader, he kept walking as fast as he could until he decided the panther wasn't stalking after all. Later he found the carcass of a farmer's hog that had been tied to a tree and died from the heat. He saw that something had been feeding on it, and he   figured that's what saved him.

Another time, Grandpa Collins and another farmer had to go to Hammond's Mill with a load of corn. After struggling through Cow Ford with the heavily loaded wagon, they found the bank was too steep for the yoke of the oxen to pull the rig up out of the water. Collins jumped out of the wagon into the water. The load was still too heavy. "Throw one of those sacks of shell corn over my shoulders. I can carry it," he told his companion. This lightened the wagon just enough for the oxen to finish the pull.

Since trips like these were major undertakings, the two men stayed all night at the mill so they could return home with their flour and meal the next day.

Just beyond Cow Ford, the river divides, forming one of the many small islands encountered on the trip. It was hard to tell which channel was the deeper, so I landed on the island to get a closer look and talked for a while with four canoeing couples who had stopped there to fish.

The channel I finally chose turned out to be deep enough, but several submerged rocks gave the canoe a jolt as it went over them. It helps to have another person along to keep a lookout for such hazards.

The canoe was propelled into another narrow channel that careened sharply to the right as it collided with the water coming from the other side of the island. The canoe was tossed about by the turbulence, but I sailed through with regained confidence.

Then an earlier pattern was repeated -- a long stretch of calm, deep water bordered by ancient bluffs. I drew up to a gravel bar to relax and enjoy the view. No luck. The trashy remains of an abandoned camp site just couldn't be ignored. Beer cans, aluminum foil, food wrappers and cigarette packages had been dropped and forgotten. Ashes in the fireplace were still warm. As I put the trash in a sack in the bow of the canoe, I wondered if I would meet the thoughtless perpetrators of this mess downstream. Why did they bother to even come here if the beauty of the river didn't mean anything to them?

The people I had passed earlier caught up with me. It had started to rain, and they all took out ponchos and continued fishing.

Another group of floaters downstream had found shelter on a gravel bar beneath an overhanging bluff, and, having no rain gear, I decided to join them. Everyone pooled scraps of dry paper and managed to start a small, smokey fire with dead twigs and drift wood.
 

THE OLD SWIMMING HOLE

After the rain let up, I was able to set out again. A few more turns led to a deep pool surrounded by flat rocks. I recognized this as the old swimming hole Walter Collins had talked about. It had been a popular gathering place for generations.

To appreciate this requires picturing a time, many years ago, when it was rare to see anyone floating the river. Groups of boys who sneaked away from hot chores for cool swims wore only their "birthday suits" as they dove from rocks and frolicked in the water.

On Sunday afternoons, larger groups from Dora, Pottersville and even West Plains would descend on the swimming hole in wagons and Model Ts for big picnics. It was not unusual to see two or three hundred people there on occasion. Horses and dogs would mingle with the swimmers, and some folks would even drive their cars out into the water for an "automatic car wash."

People seldom go there anymore, and the old road leading to the swimming hole is grown over with trees now, Collins said.

Below the swimming hole is another crossing known as Gunter's Ford, named for Sherman Gunter, a pioneer farmer whose land bordered the west side of the river. Merchants from Dora and other communities west of the river used this crossing to haul lumber to West Plains and to bring back sale goods. Roads from other fords downstream joined this one on the east side of the river and continued on through Pottersville.

Years ago, anyone who wanted to cross the river, to fish or to water his stock had free access to the riverbanks. Also, the land that was not under cultivation was considered open range, populated by roaming herds of cattle and half wild hogs. Numerous "squatters" eked out livings in isolated hollows.

To keep the woods open, farmers would burn them over every spring. These practices, combined with unrestricted hunting, decimated the wildlife population by the early part of this century.

Two huge springs originate from what was the Gunter farm and contribute their flow to the river below Gunter Ford. Everyone called them Double Springs then. A water-powered grist mill once turned at the mouth of one of the springs. It was owned by Alva Hodgson, who had previously built the Hodgson Mill on Bryant Creek, which, among others, is still in operation today.

A big flood in 1915 washed the mill away, and all that remains today are the concrete footings. People still tell about the pumpkins and mill parts they found strewn about the bottoms after the flood waters subsided.

The Gunters, who later ran a steam powered sawmill in one of the hollows, had to move their equipment to higher ground during one flood. They tried to save one big saw log by chaining it to a stump. When they came back later, the log, chain and stump had all vanished.

Double Springs also used to be the scene of big Fourth of July picnics that drew people for miles around, according to Birda Gunter, now of West Plains, who was married to the late Clarence Gunter, one of Sherman's sons.
 

RAINBOW SPRINGS

In the late 1920s, Birch Mahaffey of St. Louis bought the Gunter property, fenced it, and started to develop the springs into a commercial fishing resort. That was when it became Rainbow Springs. For easier access from West Plains,   Mahaffey had a wooden bridge built across the river at Gunter Ford.

Natives who had witnessed floods on the North Fork raised their eyebrows when they saw this "cornstalk bridge," with its numerous pilings inviting the accumulation of floating debris. When someone asked young Clarence Gunter how long he thought the new bridge would last, he pointed to a nail high on the trunk of a tree and said, "I've seen the water get that high." It was eight feet above the bridge.

A heavy rain came the day after the bridge was finished, old timers recall. In the flood that followed, the bridge was swept away like a toy.

The loss nipped Mahaffey's commercial venture in the bud. But his descendants have continued to use Rainbow Springs as a private weekend resort. Full-time caretakers (including Clarence and Birda Gunter from 1942 to 1971) have farmed the land and made sure that hunters and river users observe the many "No Trespassing" signs.

One by one, other farms along the river were fenced and restricted to private use. A limited number of public access points and public campgrounds are located on stretches of the Mark, Twain National Forest that border the river, however.

I found that most of the landowners, while concerned about the increased volume of river traffic, are tolerant and even friendly toward canoeists as long as they limit their stops to the gravel bars and take their trash with them.

Turtles sunning themselves on a half submerged limb slid into the water as I approached, before I could identify them. There was a similar problem with a large blue-gray water bird that kept moving downriver ahead of the canoe. There were few suitable stopping places for getting closer looks at flowers. The easiest study was made of a kind of water lilly with yellow blossoms found in several shallow backwaters. Large vultures also formed unmistakable silhouettes in the tops of several dead trees.

One thing was certain, most of the plants and wildlife close to the river are very different from those found in the uplands of this same general area. This was part of a unique, delicately balanced ecosystem.

A few hundred yards past Rainbow Springs, where the combined waters rush over a boulder-strewn bottom, the canoe ran into a shoal of water, the roughest encountered so far. But there appeared to be no danger for anyone who is alert and holding the canoe on a steady course.