Tucked In: North Fork

Tuck in and drift away listening to a peaceful float down the North Fork River in southern Missouri. As John returns to a beloved childhood campground, his solo journey down the spring-fed waters is rich with natural wonder, sensory delight, and quiet memory. From the misty morning setup to a sunset return, each moment invites stillness, presence, and a tender reverence for days gone by. At its heart, this is a story of nostalgia, nature, and gentle renewal — a birthday tribute wrapped in sunlight and river songs.

Transcript

Hello and welcome to this tucked in tale on Insight Timer.

My name is Mike and I invite you to get comfortable under the covers,

Take a few deep breaths in and out and settle in as we listen to a soothing bedtime story entitled North Fork Sweet Dreams.

As the owls hoo-hooed in the trees and the first stirrings of pre-dawn life bustled into awakening,

John was already up,

Humming in the silence of the wee morning hours.

His headlights cut through the darkness with ease,

Leading him onward through the back roads of southern Missouri.

And though he had no map to guide him,

Even in the early fog-beset morn,

He had no need of one.

He knew his way to Sunburst Ranch.

Take a left here and a sharp right there.

And now turn on to the one-lane road that looked like a path to nowhere.

And then carry on for what felt like miles,

Though it was maybe one or two at the most.

Deeper into the fog that slipped from the wind-rustled grass and condensed into a great white stillness.

And at last John reached a gravel-laden dirt road,

Smiling in his side mirrors as he saw the dust trail kicked up by the taking in the familiar sights and sounds as his beloved childhood campground came into view.

His summer home away from home.

He maneuvered his vehicle to the very back of the campground's reach,

The tent site closest to the trees,

And he cut the engine.

He only had a few minutes to get ready before the next shuttle left.

With practiced ease,

John dug his tent from his back seat and had it trembling upright in the gentle summer morning breeze in a matter of moments.

The shush of the cloth over his fingertips,

The gentle clicks of the rods as they came together.

It was all music to John's ears.

He dug out his dinner cooler next,

Setting it just inside the tent along with his sleeping bag and a few other odds and ends.

The fire was next.

For that,

John climbed into the bed of his truck and tossed down a few good-sized logs as well as some bundled tinder for just this occasion.

Again,

Only moments passed before John had a perfect teepee ready to go.

A smile emblazoned on his face as he recalled the hundreds of times that he had built fires just so with his grandfather.

Blinking away such remembrances in favor of time,

John shook his head,

Locked up his truck,

And packed his keys into his floating cooler.

And then,

Said cooler in hand,

He rescued an enormous double-walled black inner tube from the bed of his truck and set out to meet the next shuttle to the North Fork put in.

For once,

Though not surprisingly given that it was a Tuesday,

John had the entire shuttle to himself.

He settled in behind the driver,

Nodding politely for the fifteen-minute ride as the man prattled on about the gorgeous day upcoming as the sun rose over the treetops.

And though John knew many people who would to fifteen minutes in a dusty old bus careening down the highway and rumbling along dirt roads toward the gravel bar put in,

John himself felt nothing but a sense of peace,

Of welcoming.

And as they pulled up to the river's edge at last,

John gave himself to one thought,

I haven't been here since I was a child.

I hope it's as good as my memories made it out to be.

And with that,

John heaved his inner tube over his shoulder and stepped off the bus.

The driver saw fit to leave John with one parting pearl of wisdom.

It's an eight-hour float with no paddles,

The man warned cheerfully.

Twelve if you dawdle.

Best keep time in mind or you'll be floating into the dusk.

John waved at the man and said back just as cheerfully,

Well wouldn't that be absolutely lovely.

With a knowing smile,

The bus driver closed the doors and rumbled off back to Sunburst Ranch,

Leaving John alone in the mist-bathed morn.

And with a quick breath born of remembrance,

John waded into the water for a dip before he began his day.

It was even colder than he thought,

Though he noted Riley to be expected of a spring-fed river.

Remnant wisps of fog rose into the air about his ankles,

Trailing off and fizzling away as the sun started to beat down on the day.

The rocks were slippery smooth beneath John's feet,

Covered in algae and other slime from years submerged in the frigid waters.

Instilling himself to the cold,

John dove under,

The splashing freeze both welcome and repellent to his skin.

Teeth chattering,

Though with a yet-growing grin,

John waded back to shore and gulped down a bottle of cold water before he began his day.

And then,

At last,

He was ready.

John set his inner tube on the water,

Tying it with a short cord to his floating cooler,

And fell back into place.

His bottom brushed the water and then submerged,

The cold swirling welcomingly around him as he pushed off from the shore and began his day's journey.

Paddling through the initial rapids,

John drank in his surroundings,

An empty expanse of river sprawling and carving its path before him.

While overhead,

Gorgeous trees offered shade,

Adorned with leaves and berries,

And cones of every size and color.

Here and there,

As the sun rose to bake the land,

John caught glimpses of red robins and brilliant bluebirds,

And even a hummingbird or three flitting from tree to tree in search of their next meal.

At the banks,

Insects of all sorts buzzed and chirped and hummed.

Singing their way through their busy days.

And beneath him,

Though far rarer,

Fish swam with a renewed sense of vigor toward the surface to breach into the air,

Flipping and twisting before splashing down again.

As John carried on down the river,

Pushed along by gentle currents and the occasional narrowing rapids,

The mist around him turned into steam and the sun's rays,

Which then beget humidity.

The air around him warmed considerably,

Even as the water on his toes and fingers stayed cool to the touch.

Still,

Though,

John dug out his sunscreen from his bag,

Lathering it on liberally to protect his skin in the encroaching mid-morn.

As the time passed and John grew warmer,

Perhaps a little too warm,

He shook the comfort of the sun's rays from his mind and dove into the water from his inner tube,

Letting his ride float on down the river.

He grinned to himself as he flashed back to many summers as a child,

Chasing his inner tubes down the river,

As he did exactly that,

Taking to the water like a fish as he swum down the rapids and caught his tube in one arm.

Panting from his challenge and yet refreshed,

John clambered back into his tube and relaxed once more.

Not long into his float,

Perhaps an hour or two,

John spotted a familiar rush of rapids,

But not in the river stream itself,

Rather flowing into the river from the side.

Paddling with his hands,

He guided his tube to the left bank and caught his hand on a rock,

Standing in the frigid waters that somehow ran colder than the North Fork itself.

As he flung his tube up onto the shore,

John grinned as he overlooked the big blue,

Or the hole,

As his grandfather had often called it.

The 12-foot deep wellspring bubbled up from beneath the ground,

Eating through the aeons at the limestone and granite that held it captive.

Here and there,

Tiny swishes of movement caught his eye,

As the few organisms who dared call this spring home flitted about the water.

Other bits of trembling greenery floated over the man-made dam and into the river.

Bits of moss and tree leaves caught up in the swirling,

Nigh-silent maelstrom.

And though John relished his memories,

He knew he had to get on with the day.

After all,

He had a long float ahead.

So,

With one last reverential nod to his childhood playground,

John fell back into his inner tube and pushed off once more into the rippling waters of the North Fork.

And now that he was beyond the big spring,

The river ran a little deeper here,

Turning from bubbling rapids into deeper sweeps of land beneath the water.

Enormous sheets of stone,

Overset by sand and smooth river rock,

Glided several feet beneath the water.

Here and there,

A few individual fish floated over the bottom of the river,

Keeping lazily abreast of the currents as they gushed in and out of the water.

Guarding their coveted real estate,

As John carried on,

He saw a few kayakers,

A handful with fishing poles,

Others with nets,

Taking advantage of the laxadaisical natures of these shimmery ichthys.

As he passed by one particularly effortful group,

He cheered with their success as they hauled in a fish the length that tails are made of.

Still smiling,

John continued on his float down the North Fork,

Leaning back on his tube and lazily guiding his path with a few intermittent splashes from his hands and feet.

And now and then he found himself brushing over rocks in the shallow rapids.

And on these occasions,

He found it prudent to rise from his tube and portage his transport over the gravel banks to either side of the river.

In these moments,

John breathed deeply,

Reveling in the beating sun on his back.

The crunching skitters of rock beneath his feet.

The way that the air smelled thick and humid and soupy,

And yet cool and refreshing with the heady waters evaporating from the spring-fed currents.

On one of these excursions over land,

Toting his big bouncing inner tube behind him and his cooler nestled under his hand,

John peered up in the brilliant blue sky and noticed that the sun was not peaked.

It had already begun its descent toward the horizon.

And marveling at his loss of time on this perfect day,

His enjoyment of the constant river noise and the leaves rustling in the trees,

John found a shady spot to rest and opened his cooler for a bite.

He dug out his sandwich,

Slathered with plenty of mayo and mustard,

And tucked a few chips between the hearty layers of meat and cheese.

And once again he smiled,

His mind flashing back to the day his grandfather had wowed his young mind with the value of adding a good crunch to every summer sandwich.

Taking a deep bite,

John reveled in this memory and the truth of his grandfather's wisdom,

Downing every bite with a refreshing drink of water.

And comfortably sleepy from his meal,

John tucked himself back into his inner tube and dozed lightly as he floated down a serene stretch of river.

He basked in the warmth of the sun's rays,

The cool water swirling around his torso,

Only awakening when the splashing of upcoming rapids nudged him to navigate this watery terrain.

Once or twice,

In fact,

John awakened to a tickling on his nose,

Only to find he drifted into a riverbank,

A few errant leaves of a low squatting bush or sapling tree caressing his face with all the gentility the wilds of nature could muster.

At last,

John shook himself awake for good when a well-meaning fish nudged his foot,

Nibbling at his toes for some semblance of an insect-like meal.

But finding only disappointment,

The fish's scales brushed along John's leg before disappearing into the watery abyss below.

Smiling at his own absurdity and realizing that over two hours had passed since his afternoon indulgence,

John opened a new water and sipped slowly,

Floating along with all the care of a sleeping infant on its mother's breast.

The world passed him by in a myriad of green and brown and blue,

Where the trees brushed the sky.

And to either side of him,

The brilliant shades and richness of green and brown of the Mark Twain National Forest slipped into his past,

Splotched through with bits of purple and red and yellow.

And as John emptied his water bottle,

His stomach rumbled about,

And he broke from his thoughts to pull his cooler close and delve into a few sweet snacks.

As evening descended upon John's shoulders,

The kayakers once behind him now passed him to paddle on ahead.

And though the words of the bus driver resounded in his mind,

John wasn't worried in the least.

Instead,

Settling back in his inner tube to enjoy the encroaching darkness,

He strapped his waterproof headlamp to his head without turning it on just yet.

Floating along in the dusky twilight,

Content to be with himself,

Where the gray of the sky met the deepening reflections of the water.

And as his visibility dimmed,

The fog rose from the surface of the river,

Coating John in a chilly blanket that belied the warmth of the daytime humidity.

Floating on and making no attempt to paddle,

John hummed contentedly,

His voice carrying over the water,

Though stopping short still in the wall of fog.

And soon,

The first nighttime lights of the sunburst ranch campground met his eyes.

Though in the distance,

He could see the flickering of campfires in the treetops,

Smell the roasted meats searing over coal-powered grills.

Here and there,

A consistent twinkling denoted an RV light,

Sometimes an outdoor lantern.

Though,

John noted,

Remarkably few.

As John grew closer to the campground,

And the mouth-watering smell of many a campground meal met his nose,

His stomach began to rumble.

And with one last,

Albeit short burst of energy,

John paddled to the takeout nearest his tent and huffed his inner tube over his shoulder.

Cooler in hand,

John walked the short dirt path to his tent,

His feet familiar with the terrain even in the deepening darkness.

He dropped his tube beside his tent and reached inside for his matches.

And with the practiced care of an experienced outdoorsman,

John lit the teepee awaiting his return and coaxed the flames until they licked the air with eager tongues.

The smoke billowed and rose into the clear night sky,

Stretching thin to kiss the stars above.

And sticking his head back into his tent,

John found his campground cooler and pulled out a simple meal,

A single soda,

And a package of hot dogs sans the bun.

With his pocket knife,

John made quick work carving a stick into a simple roasting tool,

And holding it over the flames with his left hand.

In his right,

John gripped his soda,

Popping the top before raising the can high to the sky in a solemn salute to the heavens as he whispered,

Happy Birthday,

Grandpa.