Trapped - At the Winding Stairs

MY DAUGHTER KINLEY’S FIRST CALL came in at about nine o'clock Friday morning. She was worried. “Mickey and Jordan are not back yet, and I expected them yesterday afternoon!” We talked awhile. Her husband and son, my grandson, had left for a hiking and camping trip on Wednesday, planning to walk up the Little Missouri River three miles or so to the Winding Stairs, a very scenic, remote, and rugged stretch of the river, located  three miles or so down river from the Albert Pike campground. One could walk down river to the site from Albert Pike, or walk upriver from a commonly known parking site below, hiking up a trail along the river. They chose to approach from down river, Kinley said, and she did not think they were familiar with the Albert Pike approach, or possibly didn't know about it.

     As we talked, I began to detect a bit of uncertainty on her part about how many nights they planned to stay, one night or two. “If you are not absolutely sure about how long they planned to stay, let’s give them time to hike out to a point where their cell phone can reach today before we get too excited. Call me back at 11 AM,” I said. She reluctantly agreed.

     I was headed to southeast Arkansas with another of my grandsons, Christian, for a few nights of catfishing with JD Dunnahoe, my brother in law. I knew the trail up river well. It was pretty well cut and dried. Just park the car and hike upriver along the trail. Although I knew heavy rains had fallen in that area Thursday night, the trail does not cross the river. Hard to get lost there, just follow the trail. What I did not know was that landowners had fenced off the lower approach, so they would not be able to drive the car into the parking area. And, It would be two months yet before the unspeakable tragedy occurred at Albert Pike, where the suddenly rising river drowned twenty campers, and I did not know the horrible potential of the Little Missouri River to rise very rapidly in those mountains, pushing the water far up against very steep cliffs, completely cutting off that trail out.

     At 11 AM sharp, another call. “OK,” I said. “Call the ranger headquarters at Glenwood.” She called right back.

     “All the rangers are at an in-service meeting today. Nobody is available to investigate.

     “Call the Pike County Sheriff's office,” I said. We were now at JD Dunnahoe's house. His farm is beside the levee in far southeast Arkansas, near the confluence of the Arkansas and Mississippi rivers. There was only a couple of places on that farm where a cell phone could reach, and I waited at one of them for her calls.

     Another call  came in. “They have sent deputies in to investigate.” Another call - “He found their car downriver. No sign of them. They are sending several men into the mountains to look for them.” JD, his two grown sons Kevin and Mark, and Christian and I began to prepare for a dash to Pike county, and possibly a very long night. We were five hours away, and darkness would be closing in on that cold March night before we could possibly get there.

      Another call from the Sheriff's office to Kinley – “We cannot reach Winding Stairs because of high flood waters. We've found no sign of them yet, but we have many men looking.”

     Kinley was losing it. “Send boats down from Albert Pike,” she said.

     “Ma'am, we cannot put a boat in that river unless it's life or death.”  She totally lost it.

     “My ten year old son is out there, and it is life or death! Put boats on that river!”

     Kinley called me, so distraught she was hard to understand. I told her, “Call Johnny Barksdale,”

     Johnny is Mickey's brother. He lives at Amity, only an hour away. He is an expert woodsman, is close, and knows that area like the back of his hand. He would be a major asset to the hunt. As we prepared to leave south Arkansas, I searched my mind for the best help possible, close enough to get there before dark. I got to thinking back to many years ago.

                                      

     The year was 1985. I sat beside the campfire, looking at ten young faces in the firelight. This was a winter camping trip of the Arkadelphia High School Wildlife Club, which I sponsored. We were camped deep in the mountains ten miles or so behind Albert Pike. Johnny Barksdale and Greg Latsha were my stars. They were already expert woodsmen, even in high school. I knew they were destined to spend most of their lives in areas such as this. Greg could imitate the call of almost any bird or animal in these mountains. Sitting beside the fire, he gave a loud, long wolf call. Almost immediately, he was answered by a frightening call right across the creek. Everyone grew quiet, looking at each other with wide eyes. The fast thinkers, I could see, were counting heads, verifying that we were all here, at the fire, making sure one of us was not out in the woods, playing a trick. When the count reached ten, they bolted for the van. The others were right behind, including Greg Freeman, who had earlier just walked up to and kicked a skunk, to see how it would react. He found out, and he became pretty much a loner for the rest of that trip.

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