With resolve unshaken by our incident at the river, Zen Master and I wanted to do some old fashioned rural exploration before the snows melted completely. We decided to stick close to home this time and check out a large abandoned farm I’d been eying nearby.

We were hesitant to be seen entering the property directly, for fear of the locals, and opted instead to park at a nearby cemetery, walking the old railroad tracks until we could find an entry point over the old barbed-wire fence that was sheltered from view.

Along the way we noticed a frozen pond. Deciding to push our luck one more time we made a detour, trekking across a field to reach it. The surface of the pond was frozen solid, and appeared quite stable. I carefully scooted out into the pond’s center, to see if it could be crossed on foot. Zen Master attempted to join me, but as he neared the middle the ice cracked, sending white lightning bolts racing in my direction. We were able to escape without a repeat of last time, and decided to get back on track rather than press our luck any further.

The farm consisted of a large home and several outbuildings (as most farms do), including a dairy barn and a small structure that was rumored to have been the local general store once upon a time. That building was my main reason for coming, but the house was our first priority.

The house must have been grand in its time, and could still be a nice home, though it’s currently a fixer-upper. I knew it had been occupied not too long ago, and on approaching the front door I was not 100% certain that the building was vacant. I knocked hesitantly to make sure no one was home, though I had no plan on how to handle the residents should someone actually answer.

Luckily no one came to the door, and after a moment’s hesitation we found it unlocked and proceeded inside. There was quite a bit of garbage lying around, no doubt left over from the previous tenants. I spotted a Rural Missouri magazine lying on a table from 2003, most likely the last time the place had been let out to anyone. Some vines had managed to grow through a nearby window. The walls were standard wood paneling, and some rooms, such as the kitchen, had clearly been added on at a later date, giving the house a chaotic feeling, with parts of old walls sticking out here and there.

At its center was an interesting semi-spiral staircase, which led to an attic/bedroom area on the second floor. The kid’s room was easy to spot, as most of their possessions had been left lying on the floor. The most interesting thing about the house was the fact that someone had attempted to repaint all the trim - throughout every room on both floor and even in the stairwell – using a can of spray paint. Not the best idea.

The barn was nothing special, other than featuring a hayloft with an interesting series of ropes and pulleys. Likewise, the milking shed was indicative of an ordinary, small-scale dairy operation. There was an attic that I climbed part way into, but there didn’t seem to be anything worth seeing up top. A notation in the poured concrete floor read “5-18-57.”

Finally, we headed down to the old general store, taking care not to be spotted by passing cars as it was nearest to the road. At least, I had always heard that it had been a general store, though it didn’t particularly resemble one, and appeared very nondescript. My grandmother even claimed there were dances held there once upon a time.

Entering from the back it was apparent that the building had been turned into a stable of some sort, but it was also evident from certain features, such as a flue, that this had not always been the case. Indeed, the large storefront windows – now boarded shut and visible only from the inside – proved that I was in the right place. Unfortunately it was getting dark by this time, and the general darkness of the building itself prevented any meaningful photography.

Cold, hungry, and satisfied with our discoveries, the two of us headed home.

Last weekend my friend Zen Master hit me with an idea we’d been bouncing around ever since he got his canoe – taking a float trip along a frozen river. Now, he’s had his canoe for a year or two, but we haven’t had any serious ice or snowfall since then, so up until now the idea was just a fantasy.

That is, until last week. I was lucky enough to get home from Massachusetts just before the big ice storm hit, and while I was snowed in the first day or two (which prevented me from immediately joining in on the fun in Springfield – bobsledding the old Hydra-Slide) Zen Master’s the proud owner of a Jeep Cherokee with 4-wheel drive. The next thing I knew he was sitting in my driveway with canoe strapped on top, ready to go.

We picked a section of the Sac River we were familiar with, and one we knew was shallow this time of year, in case one or both of us should fall in. When we arrived we found that – much to our surprise – we weren’t the first to have this idea. There was a truck parked nearby, and some unmistakable tracks in the snow; that of a small boat dragged to the water’s edge.

The river wasn’t quite as icy as we would have hoped, but there were still frozen areas, which we chewed through like a soviet icebreaker, and plenty of snow.

The first thing we noticed was something hanging several feet over the water. It had two spinning halves and resembled a large pinwheel. My friend commented that it appeared “otherworldly.” As we drew closer we realized it was an artificial duck suspended in mid-flight. Looking around we noticed a whole array of decoys sharing the water with us, and a camouflaged duck boat on a nearby shore. Above it we spotted a similarly camouflaged man with rifle in hand, hiding in the trees. It was at this time I wished I had remembered to wear some orange, but we decided our big red canoe would be sufficient.

There were several turbulent spots along the way; more so than usual. We reckoned it was due to the lower water levels. This wasn’t a problem going downstream, naturally, but it made for an interesting return trip.

Passing by a submerged car, we finally reached the old bridge (mentioned in a previous entry), which we decided would be our turning point. After getting out and attempting to cross it without falling we returned to the water and began our trip home.

We had no problem powering through the first set of eddies, and were forced to portage the canoe around another, more powerful current, but were finally stopped by one particularly shallow, fast-moving area. The currents spun us around and had our craft pinned against a log when I got the idea to pull myself along some roots and vines protruding from the washed-out shore. This worked for a time, and we almost made it, but something went awry at the last minute and our ship capsized, dumping us into the frigid water. In retrospect it was bound to happen.

Clambering onto the shore we bailed the water out of our boat, then proceeded to empty our boots and wring out our socks. After we felt like we had warmed up enough we carried the boat along the water’s edge until we found a safe point of re-entry. However, it wasn’t long before we hit another trouble spot, and rather than take the plunge a second time we opted to just get out and walk.

The trip back took longer than either of us imagined, and the hunter was gone by the time we returned, though we did find an errant decoy along the way. We heard several shots during the course of journey and actually passed a dead duck floating downstream, but it was only one of several frozen animals we encountered along the way.

I was intent on sitting by the fireplace the rest of the night once I got home and out of my sopping wet coveralls, but against my better judgment I was goaded into joining White Rabbit, Hiccup, Underdog, and Punctual at the Hydra-Slide after all. I had to scrounge up some dry clothes and get Zen Master to tow me out of my driveway, in which I was completely snowed in, but it was worth it in the long run.

The first thing I noticed upon my arrival in Ft. Scott, KS was a large mill, similar in design to Springfield’s own “Messiah Mills.” However, whereas Messiah Mills exist in a heavily developed area, Ft. Scott’s mill has been left more or less alone, and is surrounded by a small shanty town of outbuildings, large and small. I eagerly awaited a chance to explore the mill and its surroundings.

I was hesitant to go alone due to the potential danger involved, but was unable to find anyone to join me, so after some procrastination I took it upon myself to venture inside.

I set out on a Sunday morning, wanting daylight yet hoping to avoid prying eyes. Luckily, being in the buckle of the Bible belt most people were in church at the time, and the rest were still home in bed.

I began by scouring the building’s perimeter for a way in. Most possible entrances were securely sealed, but I eventually happened on a way into the basement area, and another that would allow me into a wooden tower running parallel to the silos, though it was a tight squeeze and the only thing inside was a ladder to the top which I was completely unwilling to climb without someone around to retrieve my body.

I then tackled the surrounding structures, all of which were accessible, in various states of decay, and utterly fascinating. They ranged from sheds to shops to a huge fan for drying grain, large enough to walk through. The biggest building, outside of the main silos, was several stories with a basement, and connected to the main tower via a series of rickety catwalks. A feeble wooden gate barred entrance, though it was easily circumvented, and a thick wooden ladder connected the various floors. The first floor seemed to be a power house of sorts. The lowest level was completely flooded, and the upper levels were rendered inaccessible due to my unwillingness to climb higher than I could reasonably walk away from falling.

Once I was satisfied, I proceeded down into the main building. I entered through the basement, which was horrible, as basements in these type buildings tend to be. The floor was covered in a layer of muck, mostly decaying grain, and the walls and ceiling sported a thick layer of cobwebs. Luckily an old conveyor belt ran throughout the length of the building, which provided a more pleasant walking surface. There were rooms and offshoots to the left and right, though all were empty and some were barred by impassible sheets of webbing.

Disappointment came when I arrived at the foot of the tower. While there was a stairway, making for an easy ascent, it was completely surrounded by what can only be described as a “moat” 6-8 feet deep and too wide to leap across. I’m normally not opposed to getting my feet wet in the name of exploration, but this was the kind of water I did NOT want to find myself submerged in. After trying everything I could think of to reach the stairs, short of actually swimming across, I was forced to admit defeat.

If ever I return I’ll bring along a raft of some sort, and hopefully a friend, though I imagine the upper floors were very much the same as every other mill I’ve been to.

The first thing I did when I got to KS was make a bee-line for West Mineral, near Joplin, MO. Why, you ask? To see Big Brutus of course!

For those who aren’t in the know, Big Brutus is an enormous shovel of some sort, and while it might not be the world’s largest, it’s probably the biggest one in Kansas. Brutus was previously used for strip-mining coal beds, but has since been retired in a pit of his own making, just outside the small town of West Mineral.

The journey there was long, made longer by a road closing and surprise detour which rendered my Mapquest directions obsolete. I was forced to navigate my way there simply by attempting to drive in the general direction. Arriving an hour or two behind schedule, I caught a glimpse of Brutus from miles away, looming over the distant horizon.

I wasn’t quite as impressed as I thought I would be upon my arrival, but that was due in part to the lackluster visitor’s center/museum greeted me. My first sight was of an American flag, tattered nearly to shreds. A 6-foot wooden cross, complete with purple robes and hot-glued crown of thorns, stood nearby.

I was soon informed that Brutus was being repainted, and its innards were closed to visitors, though I would still have to pay full admission price in order to see it. I grudgingly paid, and was then informed that, not only was I not allowed inside, but I was to maintain a certain distance on account of the paint crew. Their first rule was heeded. The second was not.

With little to do in or around Brutus, outside of standing in the mouth of its enormous shovel (large enough to drive a truck into!), I was forced to occupy myself with some of the other attractions, which included in no particular order: a cable, a mine cart, a rock, and a smaller shovel, similar in design to Brutus, yet made primarily of wood. There was also a sign, pointing out some nearby fossils. The sign specifically asked visitors not to destroy said fossils.

The smaller shovel was the most interesting exhibit, and also happened to be the only one that was open to the public. Climbing inside I inspected the engine, and then settled into the driver’s seat after removing a few cobwebs.

After milling around Brutus a while longer I headed back into the museum area, where I viewed some scale models of various types of mining equipment, and watched a short film about Brutus’ creation and ultimate defeat. I purchased a refrigerator magnet on the way out, and received a scolding from the proprietors for failing to follow their instructions.

About this time a year ago (hey, better late than never) I took some of our newer (at the time) members out and showed them around Ritter Springs Park. The park is just north of Springfield on Fantastic Caverns Rd. We met up on the northside, and after some discrepancy over where, exactly, we would be meeting, we managed to make it to the park without losing anyone (barely).

Raccoon, MJames, Colt 45, and Darkcloud of the RACCCC (the Reaching and Cooning Cave Caver’s Club – though I may have added an extra “C”), all showed up, along with Piplnr and his wife, and a few strays, mostly local high school kids.

There are three caves at Ritter Springs, two of which are normally open to the public. The third, Bat Cave, is barred and only accessible by special permission… though there may or may not be another way in. After a long walk to the lake - and a cursory search for snakes near the waterfall - we plumbed the first cave; a fairly basic, linear cave with a few crawls and tight corners, but nothing too difficult and no decorations to speak of.

I did manage to find something new in the first cave, that being an odd vertical shaft that Piplnr and I were able to completely stand up inside, though not at the same time of course. It reached almost to the surface, and the ceiling was little more than earth and roots hanging over our heads.

Two of the smaller members of our expedition were also able to squirm down a ridiculously tight side-passage I had never before noticed. I began to follow them, but thought better of it as I watched their feet disappear around a tight corner. The rest of us were left standing around for what seemed like an hour with no way of communicating with the pair. At one point we heard banging sounds coming from inside the wall, and I was afraid they were trapped, but they eventually found a place big enough to turn around and we all made it back all right.

Next I led the group out to see the Bat Cave entrance, and we were able to check out some of the new trails along the way. We eventually reached a bridge, which led me to realize we were going the wrong way, but we weren’t far from the cave, and I had no trouble finding it once I got my bearings.

Unfortunately, we weren’t so lucky when it came time to track down our third and final cave of the evening. The third cave is actually a large crack in the ground, around 20 feet deep, with cavernous offshoots. There’s not much to it once you get down there, but the climb down is worth the trouble.

The trails get pretty hairy en route to Cave #3, and we all seemed to have different recollections of the park and different ideas on how to get there. After wandering around for an extremely long time a few of the group decided to split up. We did eventually find the place, but we lost a few people along the way, and it was getting dark by the time we got there. Luckily it’s a short cave, and only a couple of people felt like braving my rope, which was barely attached to a nearby outcropping. The airflow was also pretty bad at the bottom, and quickly filled with CO2, prompting us to make a hasty retreat.

It was dark by the time we got out, and we had to use our flashlights to find our way back, which made crossing the river a lot of fun. There were only a few of us by the time we got back, but luckily one of the people we lost was waiting for us at the parking lot. Piplnr and some others had given up long before we got there.

When we got ready to leave were all horrified to find the front gates closed ahead of us, meaning we were all locked inside the park – or so we thought. I was furious at this point, after being lost in the woods for hours, and considered just ramming the fence, but I decided to check the lock first and lo and behold, some kind-hearted individual had only fake-locked the gate. I waited until everyone else was out, and then fastened the padlock behind me.

Located outside Eureka Springs, AR, I first visited Dinosaur World just prior to its unfortunate closure. Cement sculptures of cavemen, dinosaur eggs, and a giant spider once greeted visitors at the park’s entrance, a structure resembling a prehistoric fort. I’ve been sitting on some pictures of the place a while, and I decided to go ahead and cover it based on the attention it’s recently received on our Arkansas forums.

Inside was a small gift shop, where an elderly woman sold us our tickets, which was brimming with rubber dinosaurs and the like. We proceeded to drive though the gates, near which hung an odd sign about apprehended trespassers being made to pay double the regular admission fee (which was fairly inexpensive). The whole place was set up like a “Safari” style animal park, with a series of roads offering the occasional glimpse of a dinosaur.

Near the entrance stands “Kong,” a life-sized replica of the famous movie monster. Though not truly a dinosaur, he wouldn’t be the last larger than life animal I saw. Along with the aforementioned spider there are also a gigantic scorpion and landlocked octopus to be found. The park was previously known as the “Land of Kong,” and has changed hands and titles several times over the years.

Fast fact! The sculptures at Dinosaur World are supposed to have been made by the same local man who designed The Great Passion Play’s famous “Christ of the Ozarks” statue.

The park was already in an advanced state of disrepair by the time of my first visit, and it was easy to spot certain attractions - such as a miniature golf course and mysterious cave-like structure - that had been abandoned at some point in the distant past. Nearby sat an odd bench from which venomous snakes seemed to be materializing.

The park’s centerpiece, outside of Kong, is a large pond with a tree house at its center, connected to the shore on both sides by a rope bridge. I was a little uneasy crossing the bridge, but it was surprisingly sturdy. It is here the octopus dwells. Returning to the car I saw many more fantastic dinosaurs on my way back to the 21st century, some real, some seemingly imagined (see below).

I returned to Dinosaur World earlier this year with a friend, eager to show them around, but found that it had unfortunately closed its gates – perhaps forever. However, I’m aware that may not act as a deterrent to many of this site’s readers. If you do happen to be caught, simply reference the sign and offer to pay double the admission price.

Also worth mentioning, nearby once stood the infamous Shoe Tree of Beaver, AR. Sadly, the Shoe Tree is no longer with us in its original state, and has in fact been destroyed several times by acts of man and god. However, the vile weed that is the Shoe Tree remains, and seemed to be regenerating upon my last visit. It’s not as easy to spot as it once was, boasting only a dozen or so pairs at the moment, but give it time.

I previously wrote about some larger-than-life inanimate objects in Joplin which were odd, but not spectacular. Well, I recently returned from the beautiful city of Tulsa, OK, so prepare to be amazed. I had gone with my friend TD for non-exploratory purposes (a video game convention), but there were enormous eyesores afoot, and I insisted we pay them a visit.

First stop was the world’s largest McDonalds, but the less said of that, the better, as most area natives have no doubt been there countless times. In short, it’s a former hotel that spans I-44, roughly in the shape of a “golden arch.” TD was excited, having never been there, but we were both disappointed upon reaching the top and realizing neither of us actually wanted to eat at McDonalds.

Next up was the campus of Oral Roberts University, which just so happened to be next door to our destination. ORU is home to not one, but two monstrosities. The first is immediately evident – a pair of gigantic praying hands that put those in Webb City to shame. Whereas the previously blogged Web City Praying hands are made of poured concrete on a chicken wire frame and stand a measly 15 feet or so, these are highly detailed, welded together from large bronze plates, and stand a full 60 feet tall. It’s actually the largest bronze sculpture in the world, though arguably not the classiest.

The second fun feature was the Oral Roberts Prayer Tower. The prayer tower is of a similar design to Branson’s own Inspiration Tower, though on a smaller scale. The observation deck is designed to resemble a stylized crown of thorns, and an eternal flame burns brightly at the tower’s peak. Unfortunately, the tower had closed 15 minutes prior to arrival. I can only imagine what wonders would have greeted us at the top.

Also worth mentioning – though not worth photographing – is a nearby skyscraper. Once also part of ORU’s proud campus, it has since fallen into secular hands. The tower stands at a whopping 640 feet, which, according to legend, is the same size as the Jesus who appeared to Oral in a vision, commanding him to build it. I also managed to find a climbable, dome-like structure on campus, which I of course made short work of.

Our last stop, en route back to MO, was the Blue Whale of Catoosa. The Whale was originally built as a kind of anniversary present and for years functioned as a park, complete with water slide fins and a diving platform on the tail. Several other structures still stand nearby, in various states of disrepair, including a replica Noah’s Ark (not to scale), that is being consumed by the encroaching shrubbery.

This was my second visit to the whale, and I noticed a marked improvement. Someone cared enough to replace the boardwalk flooring, slap on a new coat of paint, and even add an oversized hook (with rubber chicken as bait) and ball-cap to spruce the place up. Unfortunately, swimming is still off-limits, not that I can imagine anyone wanting to. Nearby, a boat sits in a perpetually half-sunken state, along with other bits of rotting flotsam.

Just a little update going back to one of my first entries. There’s a former bridge over Stockton Lake, all of which remains are two large stone pylons about 15-20 feet tall, depending on the water level. My friend Zenmaster and I were able to accomplish one of my long term goals earlier this year by climbing the pylon closest to shore, thanks to the abnormally low lake levels at the time. However, we were unable to repeat that feat with the second tower, which was surrounded by about 100 yards of cold water at the time. Fast forward to a week ago; the tower’s still surrounded by water, but it’s now roughly the temperature of warm bathwater.

Climbing the second tower took two attempts. The first came after a full day of canoeing, and we were simply too exhausted to make the climb. The second was far more successful, but still required swimming halfway across the lake and scaling the tower with our bare hands, sans rope. Of course, we were able to set a rope at the top after the first climb. This tower proved to be an excellent diving board, with the caveat that it was actually possible to get one’s feet stuck in the two feet of mud below Stockton Lake – something that was quite terrifying the first time it happened.

See the first of the two towers here: http://undergroundozarks.com/blog/sertile/index.php/2006/05/07/bridges_of_polk_county

A long time ago, our own Underdog stumbled onto a secret under one of MSU’s many classroom buildings. While he didn’t find the fabled lost swimming pool, he was able to verify that the building had once been used as a gymnasium, and found something even better – an entire phantom floor, existing beneath the current basement/classroom level, consisting of stairways, tunnels, bleachers, a concession area (which read “Eat, Drink, and Be Merry”), and a full basketball court, complete with hardwood floors. When I heard about it I had to see it with my own eyes, and I spent a good part of my last semester trying to find a way in. Finally I did, by way of an often-locked janitor’s closet. I had to check back several times before I finally found the door open, and was forced to sneak past a particularly burly-looking custodian. Luckily he seemed more interested in air conditioning filters than overly curious students.

After slipping down a stairway inside the supply room, I made my way down a dank corridor into what had been the stadium area. I was surprised by the scope of the place, which I spent about an hour exploring in almost total silence. It was like a dead world. Many areas were large enough to stand up and walk in, while others required one to crawl through narrow passages. A kind of gutter system connected the various rooms, traveling under stairways and classroom floors, eventually leading to the “Red Room.” The Red Room was little more than a dead-end under a staircase full of discarded chairs and desks. However, it was interesting for two reasons: One, an odd “shrine” that had been built up around a large red piece of tile, and two, the walls, which tell the story of the Red Room and its cruel inhabitants, the Trolls.

Transcribed for your pleasure, the graffiti read:

“The Red Room – Where the legend of the Trolls is passed down!”

“Beware of the Trolls – They live under the campus in the dark tunnels. Trolls feed on the flesh of the living. Do not enter the tunnels in the dark or alone. Heed this warning, the Trolls do live! I have seen them and felt the sting of razor sharp claws & teeth. For I am the teller of their tale!”

“Beware also – Do not disturb anything in the Red Room. To do so is sure despair & death. Trolls love their story, if black hearts can love. IF you dare this doom will be yours!”

While I wasn’t particularly worried about the trolls, I was a little uneasy down there. The fear of being caught was ever-present, but possibly more unnerving was the almost total silence, which was so permeating that I feared to break it. There were no classes going on at the time, but I almost wish they had been, as the shuffling of footsteps overhead would have helped mask my own. The gutter may have kept going, but the Red Room was clogged with debris and I was hesitant to rearrange it. I took a break on the bleachers and perused a several-years-old copy of the Southwest Standard before deciding it was time to return to the surface.

Satisfied that I had seen all there was to see, I began to tiptoe back toward the entrance. Unfortunately, when I reached the stairwell leading up to the janitor’s area I could hear the sounds of newspaper folding and food being eaten – someone was between me and the door, and they were on their lunch break. I crouched in a darkened corner for almost half an hour, waiting for them to finish. Finally, I grew impatient and bolted for the door. It was locked - from the inside - something which cost me several valuable seconds. Luckily the custodian turned out to be in the next room, and I’m unsure if he even saw me, though I’m certain he heard me slam the door on the way out.

While looking around for places to keep myself occupied in Southeastern Kansas, I happened upon an abandoned race track, Camptown Greyhound Park; “Greyhound Park” being a euphemism for “dog track.” The place was still in decent shape, and didn’t look to be that old, but I could tell it had been closed for a while as it was already getting kind of run down.

I pulled into the oversized parking lot – now becoming overgrown with weeds – and noticed I wasn’t the only one there. A couple of truckers were there sleeping, one of whom woke up just long enough to notice my presence, and then fell back asleep.

The place was big, and would’ve been pretty nice when it was all up and running. The main building still had its lights turned on, probably to scare away potential burglars and/or drifters, and I heeded their warning, though I did peer inside. There were sections of indoor bleachers set up so that gamblers could watch the dogs through a large window, but some of them had been torn out, as if they were in the process of remodeling when they closed (or possibly still building the place).

There were also several outbuildings and viewing platforms in various states of disrepair, and the scoreboard had definitely seen better days. I walked along the track, which was totally overgrown, and noticed some official Camptown cups sitting on a fencepost. The whole place exuded a somewhat eerie feeling, probably because, while it obviously hadn’t been used for some time, it didn’t feel like the owners had really abandoned it. I decided not to do any more poking around and continued into town.

The townspeople all had different stories about the place, some conflicting, but the general consensus was that it was a stupid place to put a dog track in the first place, and everyone expected it to go belly-up. The parking lot is used for Driver’s Ed classes, according to one source, and the site hosted a large New Year’s bash not too long ago, which may be the source of the cups I found. Apparently the owners are working on getting the place turned into a full-fledged casino, but only time will tell if that pans out.

Some time ago, while home visiting from KS, forum member Anne introduced me to a newly opened building in downtown Springfield, not far from some others we had previously explored. I had known about the place for a while, but couldn’t find a way in. Luckily, some civic-minded citizen had been kind enough to break the door down. We probed inside, and found it to be in a deplorable state. The walls and ceilings were crumbling all around us, and the building looked like it was ready to collapse. While 3-4 stories, there were no stairs, only a defunct elevator and a rickety wooden ladder.

Upon entering the elevator shaft I noticed the lift itself was stuck between the first floor and the basement, with a crude “stairway” made of discarded wooden pallets leading down. What we found at the bottom was a surprise, though it probably shouldn’t have been. Someone had basically turned the entire basement level into their own personal apartment

There was a bed, made from a foam mattress and a row of pallets, a bookshelf made from stacked tires and a board, two chairs, and several books and magazines. Now, I’ve come across places like this before, but the effort put into this one was especially impressive. There were even spotlights set up throughout the level, with extension cords running up the elevator shaft. They didn’t seem to work, but I assume they had at one time. Everything looked fresh at the time, and we feared the place might still be occupied, so we didn’t stick around long. Unfortunately we had both neglected to bring our cameras. I checked one of the upper levels on the way out, but found the floor too soft for my liking, and I didn’t trust the ladder enough to continue onward.

I finally got a chance to go back the weekend of the BBQ, after which I returned with Underdog to get a visual record of the place, and see if it was still inhabited. Fortunately, it seems to have been abandoned, but everything was much the same as we had left it. We took a few minutes to look around, and noticed a few oddities, like an October 1982 issue of Natl. Geographic, and a cassette, labeled “mix tape,” that I wanted very much to listen to. However, the building appeared to be in an even worse state than the time before, with the corkboard walls buckling and disintegrating all around us. As I stepped onto the elevator to leave it shook, and debris fell down into my hair.

We managed to get in and out without incident, and it being well after 2 am at this point, Underdog headed home. I started to leave, but realizing I had dropped my Maglite somewhere, I was forced to go back. I looked for a good half hour, returning to the building alone and combing the area outside, but to no avail.

Most local residents have been there, either as a childhood field trip or of their own volition. It’s a nice cave, despite being heavily reworked. The problem is, you have to spend the whole time riding around in a little wagon towed behind a modified cave-Jeep. Now, the ride itself is one of the biggest selling points for most people, but I always found it incredibly restrictive. I always wanted to get out and explore all those nooks and crannies I could see but never reach. Of course, this is something that’s always bothered me, and one reason I seldom go on cave tours.

Well, I was finally able to live my childhood dream of exploring Fantastic Caverns on foot, and legally to boot, and I wanted to share some of the pictures I managed to get of some normally off-limits areas.

The actual Jeep trail only goes about halfway into the cave, the rest being almost totally undeveloped. Areas off the beaten path still have their natural clay flooring, which, although beaten down by human traffic, is still sticky. There’s a large stage about ¼ of the way in, which is used as an indoor classroom and for special events. The stage area continues down an offshoot, where it develops into a kind of boardwalk. The boardwalk winds down some narrow corridors, eventually degenerating into a muddy crawl.

Another area of interest is the projection area at the end of the road, normally used to show a short film about the cave. It’s possible to continue past the screen and access the rest of the cave’s main passage, which is still fairly large, but not big enough to drive through. To one side is a large room full of what could best be described as clay “dunes.”

The main passage continues down a natural staircase-like structure into an odd tunnel covered in protruding formations. As I headed down into this, the cave’s final standing area, I noticed an ancient light switch, embedded in the rock face. The switch was surrounded by an elaborate metal cover, which had rusted considerably, and the lights no longer functioned (not surprisingly), but it was still an interesting relic.

Those of you who know a little about the cave might know that there are actually two levels, the second being a long passageway with low ceilings, mostly consisting of a long, arduous crawl with a few respites provided by sinkhole-like structures connecting to the upper level. While I was tempted, my time there was limited, but there’s always next time.

So I drove down to Joplin the other day, just for the hell of it, and packed my camera, hoping to snap some pictures of the infamous Web City “praying hands,” and cheesy, semi-noteworthy roadside attraction featured in several books and websites, though by no means a tourist attraction.

Coming in from Kansas I had no idea where I was in relation to anything, and it took some driving around to orient myself. While trying to find my way back to Webb City (a suburb of Joplin), I passed an interesting restaurant with a giant bowl of noodles out front. Now, there are probably bigger noodles somewhere, but these were noticeably large. Some of the noodles were made of Christmas lights, and I’m sure they would have been sight to behold come nightfall. I did take a real picture, but I seem to have lost it.

I stopped in for lunch, and they had decent, reasonably priced Thai food, though reasonably priced by Thai standards doesn’t always equal reasonably priced by food standards. I never understood why it cost so much to throw a handful of bamboo shoots and rice on a skillet.

I eventually found my way to the hands (after asking for directions…), which are situated on a large hill in a small park. Upon closer inspection, the hill seemed to be constituted of debris from a nearby flooded quarry, which makes sense considering Joplin’s history as a mining town. The hands stand atop a monument surrounded by American flags, on which is inscribed, “Hands in prayer, world in peace.”

The hands aren’t particularly well-sculpted, considering their size, but the enormous veins more than make up for it. One might also notice a large number of footprints in the concrete sidewalk leading up to them, for whatever reason.

Upon nearing the hands I noticed a small hatch on their backside had been left open. The invitation was more than I could resist, and in I climbed. The innards of the hands were basically what I expected them to be: just a lot of wood, rebar, chicken wire, and poured concrete. It didn’t take me long to get bored in there, and after that there wasn’t much left to do in Joplin, other than go to the mall, which I did (much nicer than Battlefield, btw).

The Webb City Praying Hands’ official website is here: http://www.prayinghands.org/

A while back I paid a return visit to the Messiah Mills with some non-explorer friends who were begging for a guided tour. Other than noticing a lot of new graffiti in (and on) the main tower, we also stumbled upon something interesting in the smaller one – one of the floors, accessible only by ladder, had been turned into someone’s loft apartment. When I say someone, I mean someone who would otherwise be homeless.

Later, Underdog contacted me and asked to visit their hideaway. I told him I had never been to the Acid Tunnels (I knew their approximate location, but had just never been for whatever reason), and a deal was struck. After enjoying some frozen pizza and discussing Star Trek and Transformers for about an hour, we were on our way.

After making absolutely certain there was no one home, we headed up the ladder to find the site just as I had left it, probably abandoned. We found some makeshift furniture, a small table, and some of the other necessities of life, including a rolled-up knapsack, some blankets, and a bag of (presumably expired) groceries. Whoever was living there had gone to trouble of blacking out the window panes (with fingerpaint, no less) so as to prevent outsiders from noticing the light of their candle, and even painted one of the room’s columns. The column was additionally decorated with a fairy sticker, leading us to believe the inhabitant may have been a woman.

Also noticeable was a bag of garbage, a teddy bear, and a row of bottles along the windowsill, not all of which were empty. It wasn’t until I shined my light on them that I noticed they all contained the same yellow liquid…

Afterward, UD led me down into the Acid Tunnels. They’re nothing new to most readers of this site, no doubt, so I’ll skip the fine details. Some of the graffiti there was nice, and I recognized a few of the same taggers from Messiah Mills (there are only a finite number of vandals in Springfield. See enough graffiti and you start to recognize them).

Emerging from the other end of the tunnel, we made the brilliant decision to walk back to the car above ground, which meant playing human frogger on I-44. We tried working our way around the outer roads and overpasses; for safety reasons, and kept our headlamps on to make ourselves more noticeable. At one point we both found ourselves simultaneously falling while charging across a side-road, having tripped over an invisible curb on the unlit highway. I was furious and confused, but unharmed. UD walked away with a nice bloody gash on his leg, which I wish I had the presence of mind to photograph.

We obviously made it back. Ironically, I got conned into returning to the Acid Tunnels by some friends of mine not a week later.

That’s right, another boring post about a bridge!

I had heard rumblings about an “old military bridge” about town here in Kansas, but no one seemed to know for sure just where it was, or anything else about it, but people kept suggesting that I look for it, thinking it might be of interest to me; it was.

Recently an article surfaced in the paper, which briefly discussed the history of the bridge, local legends, and the truth behind its age and original purpose. The article offered no directions to the bridge (not surprisingly), but did offer a tantalizing black and white photograph of an old overgrown iron bridge. After some more asking around I found an older woman who remembered herding cattle across the bridge as a girl, and as luck would have it she was able to give precise directions to the bridge, which turned out to be completely accurate.

Of course, the bridge as it stands today is located in the middle of a forest, but a dead-end road leads one as close as can be expected. I was really surprised by how big it was when I finally got there. The bridge sits high in the treetops over the Marmaton River. It’s held aloft by one large, off-center stone pillar (similar to the ones at Stockton Lake), standing about 30-40 feet. It’s no larger than most modern bridges, but I expected it to be smaller, due to its age.

The so-called “Old Military Bridge” is thought by many to have been constructed by the army during the Civil War, but in actuality it was built soon afterward in the 1870’s, so that farmers could move their herds more easily across the river.

The second thing I noticed, aside from its size, was how its construction and design differed from modern-day bridges. Rather than large, thick girders, the bridge was made up of thin strips of iron, all bolted together. If I were to guess I’d say it was probably just easier to cast thin sheets of metal back then. Besides, it’s not like it ever had to support the weight of an 18-wheeler.

The Old Military Bridge was still in use until about 30 years ago, when a fire destroyed the wooden portions of the bridge. Today only a few moss-covered planks remain. There’s talk of replacing the wood and turning it into a pedestrian foot bridge. The problem is there’s no trail for it to link up to at the moment. Here’s hoping they can either restore it to a point that everyone can enjoy it, or just leave it alone.

A singular phenomenon is occurring outside rural Bolivar, MO; one so unusual that it has gone largely unnoticed. However, those of us who know WH Norton know him by his works, and we know them well.

Ask around and many will admit to having seen his oddly-painted conveyances cruising down the highway, or parked outside a local store or gas station. However, what many don’t realize is that on the Norton farm there’s plenty more where that came from.

Norton has not only painted his various automobiles from top to bottom, but has erected signs and billboards all over property, in addition to defacing a derelict car, a horse trailer, a barn, and other outbuildings. At one point even his HOUSE bore a part of his message: something along the lines of “Home sweet toxic chemical home.” That is, before being repainted.

Now, I don’t exactly know what’s gotten Mr. Norton so worked up, nor do I care to diagnose any possible conditions he may suffer, but as one townsperson put it, “He’s clearly dissatisfied… Over what, I don’t know.”

Norton’s signs tell the many tales of his battles with toxic chemicals, airplanes, eye surgeons, Oprah Winfrey, and his nemeses, the ever-present “Harassing Fruits.”

I have chosen to withhold his full name for purposes of privacy (though I’m sure he would support full disclosure), simply to avoid any harassment that may come as a result of this article. However, if one chooses to visit the Norton estate firsthand they’ll notice most signs are not only signed, but they include his phone number and street address. Yes, he really wants the public’s attention. Unfortunately (or fortunately, perhaps) he doesn’t seem to be receiving it.

On some recent trips to Bolivar I’ve managed to transcribe a good sample of Norton’s works. I was also able to obtain some photographs, though they were taken from a safe distance. For your reading pleasure, I submit the following examples:

Sign #1 – At the age of 69 I stayed in my Nissan truck seat 4’2” long from 1-10-2000 to easter Sunday 2001 200’ from my 3 BR 2 BA house and I still had the harassing fruits toxic chemicals to “dill”(sic) with. That why old glory don’t shine so bright in my chemicas burnt eyes any more. Now I have a 32 SF master suite with a porter potty on the back of my truck.

Sign #2 – I was to had eye surgery 7-17-2000 in little rock, but the harassing fruits that been trying to burn my eyes out with toxic chemicals got it cancelled so they could finish my eyes off.

Barn #1 – I wouldn’t be harassed out of my house with toxic chemicals if the department of housing was any thing other than a cancerst scabb on the US taxpayers butt.
PS: My gold is to tell it like it is on the Oprah show.

Barn #2 – A bastard put paint stripper on my house when I said no to his vinyl siding job.

Van #1 – The harassing fruits dumped more toxic chemicals in my house van and camping area by breaking and entering and air plane and presurize pistons bumbing me nightly for 16 years then have been used in the hole show-me-state. I have spent 6 nights in 7 years in my house thanks to the harassing fruits.

Van #2 – I WH Norton have been harassed with toxic chemicals in my house and van 16 years in Bolivar, MO and White County, Arkansas. I contacted the department of housing 6 times. I wrote ABC, NBC, CBS and I went to NY City NY to talk to the broadcasting centers. No luck. All the above ignored. This is the only way left.
–WH Norton

Please note, any and all spelling errors were not mine, and everything has been reproduced more or less as it was written, though capitalization errors have been corrected for clarity.

While I have seen Mr. Norton in the flesh, I’ve never had the courage to actually approach the man, nor have I worked up the nerve to actually call him. I would love to visit with him in person, but that’s almost certainly a bad idea and I feel like doing so would be taking my life in my own hands.

A while back my friend Zenmaster and I went down to the Stockton Lake area to survey some of the damage done by last year’s drought before the Spring rains completely wash it away. Our first stop was the Sac River. In particular, I wanted to check out a couple of abandoned bridges we spotted on earlier canoe trips.

The first we came to was an old iron bridge connecting Wishart and Aldrich, no longer in service. The first thing we noticed upon our arrival was just how low the water level really was – Zenmaster spotted an engine block beached on the riverbank, and upon pointing it out I noticed the rest of the car, sitting smack dab in the middle of the river. We had rowed right over it on previous occasions without ever even noticing.

The actual bridge is nice, but not terribly interesting. One side can be approached by car, while the other is inaccessible. However, about a mile of road is still mostly intact on the other side. We later found where it was supposed to connect to another road still in service, but the way had been blocked by several large boulders. The bridge itself was blocked by piles of debris, not that I would want to try and drive across it; there are holes big enough to fall through. Diving was also out of the question – the water looked to be a few feet deep, max. After wandering across the bridge a time or two we were reading to head north to Stockton.

Our second former bridge sits on the eastern end of the lake, within a waterfowl refuge, with its newer replacement within eyeshot.

A former bridge in the truest sense, all that remain are two large stone pilings, about 15-20 ft tall, normally sitting in the middle of the lake and far out of reach from the shore. I say “normally,” because it just so happened that during our last visit one of the two pilings was accessible by foot. I had waited years to climb it, and I knew this might be my only chance. We drove down a back road towards the bridge, and were able to drive almost right up to it, on what had previously been the lake bed.

I got out my trusty homemade grappling hook (which in no way compare’s to WR’s and has a nasty habit of coming apart in midair), and we started taking turns. After about 40-50 tries we got it to stick and, relatively confident that it was going to stay in one place, I started climbing. It wasn’t a difficult climb. The only troubling part was that, while the pillar was surrounded by mud on two sides and water on one, a large stone slab had fallen just below my starting point, which meant that if I fell I’d have a pretty hard spot to land on.

As often happens, I reached the top to find my rope barely hanging in a crack, not because of my hook which had once again been proven worthless, but because the knot had been too large to fit through. This was a blessing later on, however, as it made the rope easier to remove from ground level.

After hanging around for a while and taking pictures I made it down without incident. It wasn’t until we started to leave that I noticed a problem. That problem was I had parked in what was essentially the still damp lake bed. Add to that the fact that it was raining already and my truck isn’t exactly a powerhouse, and I found myself hopelessly stuck.

Being more or less out of options, we started trekking through the woods in search of help. We found what looked like an overgrown road, and followed that until we reached a proper road. As luck would have it, a car happened to pass by just in time to see us emerge from the wilderness. It just so happened he was a farmer who lived less than a half mile away, and freely offered us the use of his tractor. In fact he said not to sweat it, that this sort of thing happens all the time. When we got back to the lake he pointed out a pre-existing set of tire tracks, saying he had to pull someone else just a few weeks earlier.

Knowing that I was just one of many dumbasses didn’t really help my ego at the time, but looking back I can say I was finally able to accomplish something that had been gnawing at me for years, and at the same time I gained an interesting anecdote, and one can never have too many of those.

Those who don’t read the boards or go exploring with us may not recognize the name, but it should be familiar to anyone who reads the blogs. Anyway, I’m Sertile.

My original concept for this was to write about topics other than just urban exploration - things like local news and events, as well as Ozarks culture, history, and folklore. Of course, there will be a certain amount of general UE-style stuff here as well. I just didn’t feel like the site needed another strictly journal-style blog.

I’m primarily a caver, but I also have a fondness of climbing and a weakness for rooftops. Don’t expect to see any super high-risk stuff here. I’ll mostly be writing about places and things that interest me, but I’m hoping they can be interesting to a wider audience as well.

Now, I’m going to try and update this on a weekly basis, or at least bi-weekly, but that resolve may crumble as time goes on. Everyone just bear with me.