The Eleven Point River was running full and fast. From Greer Access, floating downriver through Stair Step Hole, whistling past Graveyard Hollow, I crossed Mary Decker Shoal, passed Hurricane Creek, the Turner Mill wheel and Stinking Pond, rounded Horseshoe Bend, happy to reach Bliss Spring.

Just beyond Whitten Access I found a suitable spot to beach, hiked into the Irish Wilderness and set up camp beyond White’s Creek Cave.

Because the wilderness deserves a “leave no trace” campsite, I packed light: a tent, sleeping bag, water, and a small amount of food, easily consumed to keep from arousing any bears. Oh, and whiskey. This is, after all, the Irish Wilderness. I sat alone by the campfire and thought about the strange evolution of this area: wilderness, then settled and clear cut and stripped, then abandoned and back to wilderness. A few tiny hamlets remain. One is a two-building town named Wilderness. It’s a half-day hike from there to Handy, Missouri, where the nation’s smallest post office (6’x 9’) kept in touch with civilization until it disappeared.

Darkness fell and a full moon rose. It was a winter night, and my campfire bolstered me against the cold, but also against the coyotes who circled at a distance, in a pack whose chorus sounded like a hundred dogs. In reality, the pack probably numbered a half dozen. Their night howls came first from the south, an hour later from the east. As the full moon reached its midnight zenith, they howled from the north. I couldn’t help feeling like a can of Alpo, opened and heated.

But I was prepared, with my most important defensive weapon: a good campfire.

–augmented from Coastal Missouri