Charlton Recreation Area (AR)

Bucket List Update: Kicked-out of a federal campground. Check!

We really had no Plan B, as there was no reason to believe we would be forced to leave the campground.  With no real good plans, we started making-up a list of options—the first being a tip about a lesser-known US Forest Service Recreation Area nearby.  We followed the directions that our camping neighbors had given us and in under 10-minutes we had arrived at the Charlton Recreation Area. 

The entry drive was big and spacious, but beyond that the roads were steep and more narrow.  We slowly proceeded down the winding, tree-laden road until we came to a hair-pin curve that crossed an even narrower bridge, continuing its steep ascent on the far side of the river.  We took that road and found ourselves stuck in a big pile of good fortune.  At the top of the incline was a small campground with about a dozen level and paved sites.  All of these sites provided full (electric/water/sewer) hook-ups, so watching tank levels would not be necessary.  As I navigated the last 90-degree turn at the top of the hill, we were greeted by refugees from the Tompkins campground.  I momentarily lost focus on driving—taking time to wave to the folks who had informed us of this place—and cut the last corner too sharp.  Glory lurched off the asphalt drive and into the branches of the nearest tree — knocking all the dust off her right side.  Another 15-minutes of putting items back in the cabinets was just added to the day.  Regardless, we were lucky to be able to find a suitable relocation site so quickly and easily; and especially lucky as this was the LAST full hook-up spot in the park.  

Future "Darwin Award" Winner?

For the past few weeks we had been battling the weather.  We outran flooding in South Texas, moved along when storms gathered again in North Texas, and were evicted due to potential lake flooding.  We had flooding on the brain.  So when we backed into our RV site—which was up on a bluff overlooking a picturesque babbling stream—it was a little unnerving to see “Flash Flood Hazard” signs posted at EVERY site marker.  Not that it mattered; we still didn’t have a Plan B.

Hidden springs run through the flora and stone to replenish Walnut Creek.

The Charlton Recreation Area is another creation of the Civilian Conservation Corps.  The park is actually a hidden gem; complete with a large swimming area, nature trails, and fishing spots.  It really reminded us of our camping excursions in the Shenandoah’s of years past; with the dense thickets of hardwoods and spring-fed streams racing to the lowest point in the valley.   The original structures are made from native stone, and are constructed to withstand both time and tourists.

"You must be at least this high to breathe during a flood"

There are three camping sections in this park.  The upper loop—which is the smaller, full hook-up RV section that sits atop a bluff; the lower loop—which is on lower ground across the stream from the bluff; and the tent loop—which sits atop an adjacent hill and is intended for tent and group camping.  When walking along the lower loop, we observed numerous camping sites that were permanently closed.  Debris was scattered amongst these sites, indicating a significant past flooding event.  To confirm that notion, there were “high water markers” in that section of the campground that indicated most of that loop had been submerged when the river broke loose from its banks.  With no end in sight to the rainy forecast, the upper loop—situated on much higher ground— was looking REALLY good right now.

No "Mad Dog 20/20" consumption?

With a new venue to explore, we set off checking out the local trails.  Being in a less crowded park, The Boys were able to go “off-leash” for longer periods of time, as well as having a much larger area to roam.  Being more remote and even more wooded; the wild animal scents kept them on a perpetual olfactory rush.  There was this one area which suggested that "dogs" were not welcome; but we weren't sure if it was all dogs or just "Mad Dog 20/20."

As with other stop-over locations, we decided to check-out the local venues.  This area is of particular interest to Kristy, as she is a bona fide “Rock Hound.”  It is not just a hobby, but a genetic trait.  She has more minerals in her body than the average person, and it would be easier for her to walk by a "Benjamin" lying on the ground, than to walk by an interesting rock without picking it up.  We have traveled across the globe, and with very few exceptions, she has some type of rock or mineral to prove it.  She has no favorite variety of minerals or rocks, although I'm partial to one: Leaverite (as in "leave 'er right there").  Thirty minutes away is the town of Mount Ida.  Mount Ida isn’t well known for much, but it is well known for the natural crystal formations that are present in the area.  You can likely guess how this story ends…but I’ll tell you anyway.

During one of our relaxation moments around the campfire, Kristy asked, “Did you know that Mount Ida has natural crystal formations, and that you can go there and dig them up yourself?”  This my friends is known as “double rhetorical question.”  We both knew that I was unaware of the geological composition of the nearby town; and we both knew that this was a greased invitation for the two of us to go dig rocks.  A few days later we’re at Wegner Crystal Mines, one of the areas largest “dig-your-own crystal mines.”  We called ahead to see if The Boys could accompany us (being occasional diggers themselves), to which they said it would be no problem.  We arrived at the property; paid our entry fee; received a safety briefing; signed an injury waiver; received a bucket and a few garden trowels; and loaded-up in the back of a modified flat-bed truck.  

A "Rock Hound" and two regular hounds canvas the red clay surface for crystal treasures

The truck suspension was as giving as a narcissistic 2-year old; while providing the comfort of a charlie horse.  We slowly made our way up the rut-festered path— bringing back memories of driving a deuce-and-a-half down washboard roads— while staying attentive to low-hanging tree branches.  This was obviously where the injury waiver came into play, and we were mindful not to get "bushwhacked."  Accompanying us to the top was a father/son team who had flown in from Florida just to dig for crystals.  They went into elaborate details about the rocks they had collected, and how they brought a couple of duffel bags with them to haul their bounty back home (as checked baggage?).  

The excitement of digging up rocks was so thick you could cut it with a pretend light saber from a geek-filled Star Wars convention.  I tried to contain my emotions, but the ride was bludgeoning my bladder —making me squirm and giving the impression of unbridled anticipation.  We reached the top of the hill where a group of weary rock hounds (rock groupies?) were waiting for the "Bruisemobile" to take them back to their cars.  With the exception of the three individuals struggling to get a 100-lb chunk of rock up the hill in a dilapidated Red Flyer wagon; everyone else looked more tired than happy.  

The Boys supervising my trenching efforts under the shade trees

We unloaded The Boys and our instruments of destruction; headed to the quarry site; and began to dig.  The father/son team had a plan to scour the entire 5-acre site in the 2-hours that we were allotted.  They started at one end and carved an erratic path that is normally seen when observing pre-adolescents during full-contact Easter egg hunts.  Kristy headed to an open area that had lots of small crystals lying exposed on top of the ground—courtesy of the prior evenings rainstorm.  Me and the boys walked to the edge of the tract and parked it under a big patch of shade trees.

A few hours later, the rumbling echoes of the contusion chariot became louder as it wound through the woods towards the dig site.  In addition to being more filthy and smelly that our two hounds combined, I had managed to dig a hole about 3-feet deep.  The father/son team commented as to how impressed they were by the size of the hole I was able to dig with a plastic garden trowel.  I told them it was my years of military experience digging foxholes.  Even more impressive than the half-grave I dug was the permanent red-clay stains on my white shirt.  With a respectable excavation yield in hand (bucket), we were unceremoniously bounced off the mountain and returned to our campsite to ogle over our daily take.  The gallons of red clay water that we generated while rinsing the crystals, was put to good use.  I soaked my severely stained shirt in it, hoping to add another "burnt orange" garment to my limited wardrobe.  I ended up with another severely stained "work shirt."  In all honesty, this was one of the funnest days of the trip.  I really enjoyed (and missed) digging in the dirt. 

Not really a "job," but Mike Rowe still might approve of the effort!

After our enjoyable time amongst the timbers, we looked to press northward.  I had asked Kristy if she could find us a location where we wouldn't be forced out due to rising water or have to look at those ominous "Flash Flood Hazard" signs.  Kristy returned with our next potential stop.  I looked at the distance—which was reasonable; then I looked at the primary route —which looked like Dick Cheney’s EKG.  I asked, “Is there a Plan B?”  I was guilty of my own “double rhetorical question.”  We both knew there was no Plan B; and we both knew she had picked out the perfect location.  We were headed to high-ground.  Much higher.

wWw